THE DRAGON-SLAYERS BY FRANK BANTA Got any dragons to kill? Here's the fastest--and wildest--way! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In a gleaming chrome and glass federal building located at the center of Venusport, Division Chief Carl Wattles wearily arose from his office couch. He had been taking his usual two-hour, after-lunch nap, but today it had brought him little refreshment. Earlier he had received an unexpected report that made sleep impossible. "John?" he mumbled. John Claxson, the generously padded assistant division chief, stopped drilling out his earwax but did not remove his feet from the blotter of his desk. "Yeah, Chief?" "I've heard from the Kentons again." "I thought something was deviling you, the way you was carrying on in your sleep." He raised thick eyebrows. "Is their production down again?" "Worse than that, John. Kenton has had the gall to request time off to build a new house!" "No! I can't believe it." "I can't either, John. They know it's not in the Manual." "Certainly it's not, Chief. The nerve of those people wanting to do something that's not in the Manual!" "People like us wrote the Manual, John," the Chief added with simple modesty. "That is why it is so good, good, good." "I know," said John, accepting the weight. Then he complained bitterly, "Wanting to build a new house! They are supposed to do personal stuff at night, or when it's raining." The Chief allowed his rage to climb. "They've got nothing to do but go out into the jungle and pick a little old bale of pretzins every day, but do you think they are going to do it? No. They want _me_ to go and do it for them!" "You can't _do_ it, Chief!" protested John. "You know I can't, John," agreed Wattles as he stretched. "I got all I can manage right here. More." "What you got to do, Chief?" John asked curiously, forgetting caution for a moment. "Plenty!" retorted the Chief. "I guess you have at that," John admitted, getting back aboard. "Time was," brooded the Chief, "when that Kenton was a fair pretzin finder. But all he can think of to do now is to find excuses to goldbrick. Wait until he sees the stiff memorandum I'm sending him...." * * * * * Bliss Kenton had not gone far from their Venusian jungle cabin that morning before the vacuum snake hung one on her. The thick, two-foot-long pest lay very still on the ground, and she only got a glimpse of it before it jumped. Out it whipped to its full, slim, six-foot length and wrapped around her throat. Fangs struck, and in three seconds--with a loud _slurp_--it had withdrawn a quart of her blood. Then it unwrapped just as swiftly as it had come, and leaped into the cover of the jungle.