Hodge touched the man. "It wasn't liquor," he rumbled. "Alcohol will kill a native quick enough, but it won't do that. D'loo says a snake came through the bulkhead while they were getting dressed for their watch, and wrapped itself around Twahna. It was between D'loo and the door, so he had to stay until the thing went back through the bulkhead. And he's too scared to be lying." There was a clatter of footsteps on the ladder. Kort looked up into the flushed face of Pratt, and knew there was more trouble. Nothing less could have induced him to leave the comfort of the wheelhouse. "Well, mister?" asked Hodge. "A--a net tender's been killed," the third mate stuttered. "They say--they say he's the second." "The third, mister," said Hodge harshly. "Anything queer about the net tender?" "Yes--yes, he was frozen. Frozen blue. I thought I'd better call you." * * * * * They went up together, leaving behind them a sorely frightened group of Venusians. The moment they reached the deck Kort knew that something else had happened since Pratt had left. It had stopped raining, although the last of the water was still sluicing from the scuppers. But not a man was in sight. Winch house, stern deck, and sorting platforms were deserted. Yet not utterly, for just forward of the main net locker swayed the creature from the depths, a sinuous tapering trunk, its snout uplifted like a hound's nose scenting game. "Two of them!" gasped Pratt, pointing to a second one atop the pilot house. "And one makes three!" muttered Hodge, for still another had appeared magically beside the first. Pratt pulled his electro-gun from its holster. Its heavy bullet splintered a hatch cover just behind the thing, but the creature showed no harm. Kort drew his own weapon and joined Pratt in pumping bullets. Wood splintered and metal clanged where the projectiles struck, but the sea slugs remained unharmed. It seemed to Kort that the things flickered, faded from view, at the very instant he fired, only to reappear so quickly as to make him doubt his senses. Pratt was reloading furiously. He went down on all fours, crawled along one of the conveyor belts until he was no more than twelve feet from one of the things. Prone on the deck, he fired at point blank range. The soft nosed bullet smashed into planking directly behind the swaying trunk. Kort saw splinters fly at the impact, but again the sea slug had seemed to vanish for an instant, like a candle flame almost blown out by a sudden draft. In drunken anger, Pratt seized a trident from the rail, sprang to his feet, leaped at the thing. Kort shouted a warning to which the man paid no heed. Spear-like he hurled the trident; the prongs sank a full inch into the wooden deck. The swaying trunk reared, became ominously still. Kort cried out again as Pratt, howling drunken defiance, emptied his gun at it.