Jinx Ship To The Rescue By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. Stand by for _T.R.S. Aphrodite_, butt of the Space Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of the Tellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in the viscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with a jaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusport for two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now a miasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling across the mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility was dropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to find the way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealth of feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and together they sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship _Aphrodite_ loomed unhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached the ventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of the fat spaceship. "It looks," he commented bitterly, "like a pregnant carp." Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley--"Cob" to his friends--nodded in agreement. "That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The ship with the poison personality." Cob was the _Aphrodite's_ Executive, and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execs on the _Aphrodite_. She generally sent them Earthside with nervous breakdowns in half that time. "Tell me, Captain," continued Cob curiously, "how does it happen that you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? I thought...." "You know Gorman?" queried Strykalski. Cob nodded. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman?" "The same." "Well," Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, "I know Gorman's a prize stinker ... but you were in command of the _Ganymede_. And, after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How come this?" He indicated the monitor expressively. Strike sighed. "Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing with me and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that you wouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharp operators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy with tradition.