It was an unusually bright night on Venus, with Sol's rays reflecting off the Earth, turning it into a second sun. The temperature had been rising steadily for several decades, causing the oceans to evaporate and become large, vaporous clouds of steam floating in the sky, filling the air with a constant humidity.
    Treepol marvelled at these clouds as he lay on the brown, withered grass that was once his beautiful, lush garden. It was difficult to imagine that they were hot enough to melt metal and boil anything that got within five hundred metres. Glowing with all the colours of the spectrum, coupled with the serene calm of the night, they formed a blissful and relaxing sight.
    The silence was broken by the sound of an airliner passing overhead. Treepol turned his attention to the plane. A few years ago he would have been annoyed to have his peace shattered by the noise, but now it was a rare event, and one to be cherished.
    Long distance travel had become extremely difficult on Venus; aircraft could only fly at certain times and on certain routes due to the presence of the steam clouds. Likewise, land travel was equally difficult because of the large, muddy bogs that now stood where the oceans used to be.
    Treepol was an inventor. He had been working on several projects over the past few years, one of which was designed to cut through the static interference in the atmosphere caused by the heat, allowing them to regain control of the various communications and weather satellites that were orbiting the planet. Thinking of communications reminded him that he had to call his mother. He hadn't spoken to her for almost three weeks. She lived abroad, and there was a shortage of outgoing telephone lines, so it was difficult to keep in touch.
    Just then, he felt a sharp burning sensation on his face, and then another on his hand, and then another. It was beginning to rain. He got up and made a quick dash for cover; round about, several of his neighbours were doing the same.
    The shower would be over in a few minutes. It never rained for long, but prolonged exposure could be very painful, and sometimes fatal.
    Standing in the doorway of his garden shed, he wondered if he could make it to the house before it got too heavy, then thought better of it; he'd been scalded by the rain before and had the scars to prove it.
    The shed was full of old tools and broken-down appliances, many of which had been blended together to form some bizarre new invention. In the corner stood his lawn mower. No use for that anymore, he thought. He began contemplating what he could turn it into, then something else caught his attention.
    In a box, beneath his workbench, was a rain predictor. Picking it up, he brushed away the dust and cobwebs. This was one of his first inventions. He made it when he was just a child, though his father did most of the work. The memory brought a tear to his eye.
    It had been twenty years since his father had left, and eighteen years since his last message. Treepol remembered little about his father; only that he was very tall; or maybe he just seemed tall because Treepol was so little at the time. He was one of four men who had volunteered for the first manned flight to Earth. Their mission was to discover whether or not the planet could support venusian life. Even the most powerful telescopes of the time could barely penetrate Earth's thick, smoky cloud layer. They knew, though, that it had an abundance of water.
    There was a lot of speculation at the time. Many people believed the shuttle crash-landed, and that the crew are still living on Earth to this very day. Others suggested that the planet was inhabited by tribes of hairy savages and giant reptiles, and that the astronauts had been eaten. Some theories were even wilder, but nothing was ever known for certain.
    He put the device back in the box and glanced at his wristwatch. Ten minutes had passed and it was still raining outside. A frown passed over Treepol's face.
    It hadn't rained for more than six minutes at a time in almost four years. Ten minutes! Something was wrong.....very wrong.
    The rain grew heavier. Very soon large droplets began to find their way through the cracks of the roof timber. As the cracks expanded, the drops grew larger and more frequent.
    This was a bad sign, he thought. He would be boiled alive before he reached the house; but, if the rain kept up for much longer, the shed would collapse and he'd be crushed. Either way, the prospects were grim.
    There was a crash as part of the roof caved in, missing him by inches. Treepol winced with pain as a raindrop fell on his hand. He searched frantically amongst the clutter for something he could use to protect himself, but to no avail. All he could find was a polythene sheet.
    He looked outside again. The rain was getting heavier with every passing second. Another piece of the roof came crashing down; he had to get out of there while he still could.
    Grabbing the polythene, he moved to the doorway. The scalding water would melt through the sheet in seconds, but it was his only chance - probable death by boiling, or certain death by shed - what a choice!.
    He said a short prayer, and then, pulling the sheet over his head and taking one last look at the interior of the crumbling shed, he rushed out into the rain.
    Running faster than he'd ever run before, Treepol headed for the house. It was only fifty yards away, but the polythene had already begun to melt and the rain started to burn his skin. Tears welled up in his eyes and then he stumbled and slipped on the muddy ground.
    Writhing in agony, he saw his life flash before him, and then his prayers were answered. Without warning, the rain stopped. Seizing the opportunity, he pulled himself up and sprinted toward his back door.
    A clap of thunder signalled the start of another downpour just as he reached the house. Rushing inside, he looked back at his garden shed, just in time to see it disappear in a cloud of dust.
    Something unusual was happening! he thought, as he removed an ice pack from his freezer. He began rubbing the pack over his skin which was now covered with bright red patches. The coldness of the ice numbed his pain.
    What was wrong with the weather? Where was all this rain coming from? The questions tumbled through his mind. Why hadn't the weather stations seen this coming and put out a warning?
    Treepol switched on his radio and was greeted by a hiss of static; he then switched on the electro-static filter that he'd designed a few years earlier. It wasn't perfect - working better if you were closer to the broadcasting transmitter - but it sold millions when it first hit the market. There was a low buzzing sound as the filter kicked-in. He turned the radio dial, listening carefully until he picked up a station, and then adjusted some knobs on the filter to clean up the signal.
    There was still a lot of background interference, but he'd managed to find a news broadcast - something about the steam clouds evaporating and mass evacuations. He turned up the volume.
    After several minutes he'd got the general gist of the story. Several of the higher steam clouds seemed to be evaporating; this was the cause of the unusual rainfall; the government was organising the evacuation of the affected areas. Experts were predicting that the downpour could last for up to two weeks in some places, but more would follow. The outlook was grim.
    Two weeks! thought Treepol. This would be catastrophic! There was already a food and water shortage, now the world was going to be buried in boiling mud. Where would all the evacuees go? The steam clouds were moving all the time.
    On the radio the announcer was introducing a government official.
    'These are dark times,' said the official, 'but rest assured that we are doing all we can to evacuate the stricken areas and arrange emergency shelter for all those concerned.
    'It is now time,' he continued, 'for us to unveil our plans for the future survival of our race. For many years now, our top scientists and engineers have been building a fleet of rocket ships; coupled with the use of cryogenic technology, we will begin transporting the population to our nearest celestial neighbour, Earth, where we will create a new society.'
    Treepol listened intently while the official went into details.
    It will never work! he thought. It would take too long!
    They'll probably save their own necks and a few thousand of the more productive members of society, but transporting the entire population would take centuries.....the world doesn't have that long.
    'Over the past twenty years,' the official was still speaking, 'we have secretly launched over a dozen missions to Earth where engineers and agricultural experts have been laying the foundations for our arrival.....'
    Treepol didn't hear any more; his thoughts turned back to his father. Perhaps he wasn't dead afterall. Maybe he was involved in this secret space project-
    His thinking was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He walked through to the hallway and picked up the receiver.
    'Hello?' he said.
    'Am I speaking to Treepol Gwaadzik?' said a formal sounding voice.
    'Yes,' he replied, cautiously.
    'Have you been listening to the news?' the caller asked.
    'Yes, I have,' said Treepol, with a touch of annoyance. 'Who is this?'
    'My name is Qwabik Nibbergak, I'm head of the Earth Colonisation Committee. Your name is well known in scientific circles, and we would like you to be amongst the first wave of colonists to populate the new planet.'
    Lowering the phone from his ear, Treepol pondered for a moment.
    This is it! he thought. The end of the world has finally begun.
 

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