CHIMERA WORLD By WILBUR S. PEACOCK Don Denton had walked into the weirdest enigma he had ever encountered. Dead men lived, and ships vanished without sound. And to top everything, when he tried to unravel the puzzle—he found that he had been dead for more than a week. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Don Denton, trouble shooter for the Inter-World Mining Corporation, watched the sailors stowing the supplies aboard his small scout rocket, checking the items from the manifest sheet as they were packed in the storage compartments. "That takes care of that," he said finally, signing the sheet with his thumbprint. "Now, I'll be on my way." The Skipper nodded, scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose so," he agreed. "Are you sure you won't stay to dinner? I've got a cargo of Martian panyanox that should taste plenty good to you after two months of spacing on vitamins." Don Denton grinned, scrubbed a heavy hand through the reddish, curly mop of hair that flamed above his craggy face. He shrugged, the leather jacket growing taut across his deceptively wide shoulders. "Nothing I'd like better," he said, "but I've got orders to get to Venus and find out why the Lanka shipments haven't been coming through on schedule." "Trouble?" Interest flared in the Skipper's eyes. Don Denton laughed. "I doubt it," he said. "Probably some space tramp landed and sold the men some Martian Ganto seeds. They're probably nursing such large hangovers that they can't work. I'll just take the supplies on, give the boys a pep talk, then head back for Earth." "All loaded, Captain," a sailor's voice came from the televisor screen. Don Denton lounged to his feet. "So long, Captain," he said, "I'll remember that Panyanox invitation, the next time I run into you on Mars." "Sure, sure, of course!" The Skipper flushed. "Er, ah—, Denton?" "Yes?" Don Denton turned from the door.
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