Neither Hobbs nor Zeeth was visible. But Vanning could not repress a feeling of pleasure as he saw, several tiers down, the slim figure of Lysla, her auburn curls bare in the cool night air, a tray similar to his own held strapped to her slender neck.
Vanning’s pleasure was lost in resentment. Damn these fish-headed Swamja!
“Fool!” a croaking voice said. “Twice I have had to demand the spray. Put down your tray.”
Vanning caught himself and obeyed. The Swamja turned and leveled his gun. Again the blazing, brief agony whirled sickeningly through the detective’s body.
It passed; silently he resumed his task. From time to time, he tended to the Swamja’s wants. But he also found, time to glance at Lysla occasionally.
WHEN the ceremony began, Vanning could not tell. He sensed that the assembly had grown tenser, and noticed that the eye of every Swamja was focused on the black pool. But there was nothing else. Silence, and the deformed figures staring at the jet square in the center.
Was this all? It seemed so, after half an hour had passed. Not once had the Swamja he tended demanded attention. What the devil were the creatures seeing in that pool?
For they saw something, Vanning was certain of that. Once a shiver of pure ecstasy rippled through the Swamja’s gross body. And once Vanning thought he heard a musical note, almost above the pitch of audibility. It was gone instantly.
Zeeth had said that the Swamja possessed other senses than those of humans. Perhaps those strange senses were being used now. He did not know then, nor was he ever to know, the non-human psychology of the Swamja, or the purpose of the black pool. Yet Vanning unmistakably sensed that here was something above and beyond the limitations of his own humanity.
He grew tired, shifting from foot to foot, but it seemed the ceremony would never end. He watched Lysla. Thus he saw her bend forward with a filled goblet—and, losing her balance, spill the liquid contents into the lap of the Swamja she tended.
Instantly she shrank back, her tray clattering to the floor. Stark panic fear was in her posture as she cowered there. There was reason. The Swamja was rising, turning, and in his huge hand was a gun . . .
He was going to kill Lysla. Vanning knew that. Already he was familiar with the Swamja code that did not forgive errors. And as he saw the stubby finger tightening on the trigger-button, Vanning acted with swift, unthinking accuracy.
His hand closed over the flask on his tray, and he threw it unerringly. The fragile substance crashed into the face of the Swamja menacing Lysla, shattering into glittering shards. The being blinked and pawed at its eyes. In a moment—
Vanning jumped clear over his own Swamja and hurtled down the steps. His shoulder drove into the blinking monster beneath Lysla, and sent the creature head-over-heels into the lap of another of its race below. Vanning caught up the gun the Swamja had dropped. He turned to look into Lysla’s frightened eyes.
“Jerry—” Her voice was choked. “Oh, no!”
Abruptly a crash sounded from above. Vanning looked up to see Sanderson swinging his metal tray like a maniac. The man’s red hair was like a beacon in the strange light. He drove his weapon into the snarling face of a Swamja and yelled down at Vanning:
“Amscray! There’s an oorday on your eftlay!”
Pig-Latin! A door on the left? Vanning saw it. With one hand he caught Lysla’s arm, and with the other smashed the gun-butt viciously into the mask of a Swamja that rose up before him.
The creature did not go down. Its arms closed about Vanning. He reversed the gun and squeezed the trigger-button, but without result. Apparently the things were immune to their own weapons.
The amphitheatre was in an uproar. In a flashing glance Vanning noticed that the black pool far below was curiously disturbed. That didn’t matter. What mattered was the devil that was seeking to break his back—
Lysla tore the gun from Vanning’s hand, firing it twice. The gnarled arms relaxed. But the two humans were almost hemmed in by the aroused Swamjas.
A burly body dived into the mob, followed by another one. Hobbs yelled, “Come on, kid! Fast!”
Hobbs and Zeeth! They, too, had come to the rescue. And none too soon!
The unexpected assault broke the ranks of the Swamja for an instant, and then the Earth-people were through, racing down a slanting corridor. They emerged outside the amphitheatre. Lysla gave them no time to rest. Footsteps were thudding behind them.
“This way. They’ll kill us now if they catch us.”
She sped into an alleyway that gaped nearby. Vanning saw Hobbs and Sanderson racing in pursuit. So Sanderson had got through, too. Good!
Zeeth?
The Venusian reeled against Vanning, his fat face contorted. “I’m—hit. Go on—don’t mind me—”
“Nuts,” the detective growled, and hoisted the flabby body to his shoulder. Zeeth had more courage than any of them, he thought. Weak of physique, hating pain, yet he had not hesitated to join his companions in a hopeless battle . . .
IV
VANNING sped after the others, who had waited for him. After that it was a desperate hare-and-hounds chase, with Lysla leading them through the labyrinth of the city, her slender legs flying.
“You okay?” Vanning gasped as he ran shoulder to shoulder with the girl for a moment.
Her white teeth were fixed in her lower lip. “I . . . I shot at that Swamja’s eyes. Blinded him. It’s the only way . . . ugh!”
“Where now?” Hobbs panted, his white hair rippling with the wind of his racing. Sanderson echoed the question.
“Lysla? Can we—”
“I don’t know. We’ve been heading north. Never been there before. Can’t go south—gates are always guarded.” Hobbs panted, “There are only two ways out. The way we came in—guarded, eh?—and another gate at the north.”
“We’ll try it,” Vanning said. “Unless we can get to that space-ship—”
Zeeth wriggled free. “Put me down. I’m all right now. The space-ship—that’s guarded too. But there aren’t any soldiers at the north gate. I don’t know why.” Through the city a rising tumult was growing. Lights were blazing here and there, but the party kept to the shadows. Twice they flattened themselves against walls as Swamja hurried past. Luck was with them; but how long it would last there was no way of knowing.
Suddenly a great voice boomed out, carrying to every corner of the city. It seemed to come from the dome high above.
“Attention! No slaves will be permitted on the streets unless accompanied by a Swamja master! No quarter is to be given to the fugitives who blinded a guard! Capture them alive if possible—they must serve as an example. But show them no quarter!”
Lysla’s face had paled. Vanning glanced at her, but said nothing. Things were bad enough as they were. Only Sanderson chuckled sardonically.
“Nice going, Vanning. How about Callahan now?”
The detective grunted. Zeeth panted, “I would—have preferred a—peaceful death. I do not—like torture.”
Vanning felt a pang of sympathy for the fat little native. But he couldn’t help him. Escape was the only chance.
“Here,” Lysla gasped, pausing in the shadow of a tall building. “These outer houses are all deserted. There’s the gate.” Across a dim expanse of bare soil it loomed, a wall of metal rising high above their heads. Vanning stared.
“No guards. Maybe it’s locked. Still . . . I’m going out there. If there are any Swamja, they’ll jump me. Then run like hell. Don’t try to help.”
Without waiting for an answer he sprinted across the clearing. At the door he paused, staring around. Nothing stirred. He heard nothing but the distant tumult from within the city. Looking back, he could see the faint elfin-lights glowing here and there, and the shining tube rising to the dome—the tube that was pouring out the North-Fever virus into the atmosphere of tortured, enslaved Venus.
And these were the gods of Venus, Vanning thought bitterly. Devils, rather!
He turned to the door. The l
ocks were in plain sight, and yielded after a minute or two to his trained hands. The door swung open automatically.
Beyond was an empty, lighted tunnel, stretching bare and silent for perhaps fifty yards. At its end was another door.
Vanning held up his hand. “Wait a bit!” he called softly. “I’ll open the other one. Then come running!”
“Right!” Sanderson’s voice called back.
An eternity later the second door swung open. Vanning gave the signal, and heard the thud of racing feet. He didn’t turn. He was staring out across the threshold, a sick hopelessness tugging at his stomach.
THE door to freedom had opened—mockingly. Ahead of him was the floor of a canyon, widening as it ran on. But the solid ground existed for only a quarter of a mile beyond the threshold. Beyond that was flame.
Red, crawling fire carpeted the valley from unscalable wall to granite scarp. Lava, restless, seething, boiled hotly down the slope, reddening the low-hanging fog into scarlet, twisting veils. Nothing alive could pass that terrible barrier. That was obvious.
Zeeth said softly, “It will be a quicker death than the Swamja will give us.”
“No!” Vanning’s response was instinctive. “Damned if I’ll go out that way. Or let—” He stopped, glancing at Lysla. Her blue eyes were curiously calm.
“The cliffs?” she suggested.
Vanning scanned them. “No use. They can’t be climbed. No wonder the Swamja left this door unguarded!”
“Wonder why they had it in the first place?” Hobbs asked.
“Maybe there was a way out here once. Then the lava burst through . . . I’ve seen lava pits like this on Venus,” Sanderson grunted. “They’re pure hell. This isn’t an exit—except for a salamander.”
“Then there’s no way?” Lysla asked. Vanning’s jaw set. “There’s a way. A crazy way—but I can’t see any other, unless we can get out by the south gate.”
“Impossible,” Hobbs said flatly.
“Yeah. They’ll have plenty of guards there now . . . I mean the space-ship.” There was a momentary silence. Zeeth shook his head.
“No ship can live in the air of Venus.”
“I said it was a crazy way. But we might get through. We just might. And it’s the only chance we have.”
Sanderson scratched his red head. “I’m for it. I don’t want to be skinned alive . . . I’m with you, Vanning. You a pilot?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll have to be the best damned pilot in the System to get us through alive.”
Lysla said, “Okay. What are we waiting for?” An indomitable grin flashed in her grimy, lovely face.
“Good girl,” Hobbs encouraged. “We’d better get out of here, anyway. Back to the city.”
They returned through the valve, without troubling to close the doors. “The Swamja might think we tried to get through the lava,” Vanning explained. “We need all the false trails we can lay. Now—we’d better hide out for a bit till the riot dies down.”
“Good idea,” Sanderson nodded.
“These outer buildings are deserted—I told you that. We can find a hiding-place—”
Lysla led them into one of the structures, and into a room below the level of the street. “They’ll search, but it’ll take a while. Now I suppose we just wait.” Since there were no windows, the light Lysla turned on would not attract attention. Nevertheless, Vanning subconsciously felt the urge to remain in darkness.
He grinned mirthlessly. “I’m beginning to know how you feel, Callahan. Being a fugitive must be pretty tough.” Nobody answered.
The silence ran on and on interminably. Finally Sanderson broke it.
“We forgot one thing. No slaves are allowed on the streets tonight without a Swamja along.”
“I didn’t forget,” Lysla said in a low voice. “There wasn’t any other way.”
“But we haven’t a chance in the world to get through.”
“I know that, too,” the girl whispered. “But—” Abruptly she collapsed in a heap, her auburn curls shrouding her face. Under the red tunic her slim shoulders shook convulsively.
Sanderson took a deep breath. A wry smile twisted his mouth.
“Okay, Vanning,” he said. “Let’s have that make-up kit.”
THE detective stared. Curiously, he felt no exultation. Instead, there was a sick depression at the thought that Sanderson—the man who had fought at his side—was Callahan.
“I don’t—”
Sanderson—or Callahan—shrugged impatiently. “Let’s have it. This is the only way left. I wouldn’t have given myself away if it hadn’t been necessary. You’d never have suspected me . . . let’s have it!”
Silently Vanning handed over the makeup kit. Lysla had lifted her head to watch Callahan out of wondering eyes. Hobbs was chewing his lip, scowling in amazement. Zeeth was the only one who did not look surprised.
But even he lost his impassivity when Callahan began to use the make-up kit. It was a Pandora’s box, and it seemed incredible that a complete disguise could issue from that small container. And yet—
Callahan used the polished back of it as a mirror. He sent Lysla for water and containers, easily procurable elsewhere in the building, and mixed a greenish paste which he applied to his skin. Tiny wire gadgets expanded his mouth to a gaping slit. Artificial tissue built up his face till his nose had vanished. Isoflex was cut and moulded into duplicates of the Swamja’s bulging, glassy eyes. Callahan’s fingers flew. He mixed, painted, worked unerringly. He even altered the color of his garments by dousing them in a dye-solution, till they had lost the betraying red tint that betokened a slave.
In the end—a Swamja stood facing Vanning!
“All right,” Callahan said tiredly. “I’ll pass—if we keep out of bright lights. Now go out and help Lysla do guard duty. I’m going to disguise you all. That’ll help.”
Vanning didn’t move as the others left. Callahan took an oilskin packet from his belt and held it out. Here’s the treaty. I suppose you came after that.”
The detective opened the bundle and checked its contents. He nodded. It was the vital treaty, which would have caused revolution on Callisto. Slowly Vanning tore it into tiny shreds, his eyes on Callahan. It was difficult, somehow, for him to find words.
The other man shrugged. “That’s that. And I suppose you’ll be taking me back to Earth—if we get out of this alive.”
“Yeah,” Vanning said tonelessly. “Okay.” Callahan’s voice was tired. “Let’s go. We haven’t time to disguise everybody—that was just an excuse to give you the treaty. A private matter—” He shuffled to the door, with the lumbering tread of the Swamja, and Vanning followed close at his heels.
The others were waiting.
Vanning said, “Okay. Let’s start. No time to disguise ourselves. Stay behind—”
IN a close group the five moved along the avenue, Callahan in the lead.
The outlaw’s disguise was almost perfect, but nevertheless he did not trust to it entirely. When possible, he moved along dimly-lighted streets, the four others keeping close to his heels. Once a patrol of Swamja guards passed, but at a distance.
“I’m worried,” Callahan whispered to Vanning. “Those creatures have—different senses from ours. I’ve a hunch they communicate partly by telepathy. If they try that on me—”
“Hurry,” the detective urged, with a sidewise glance at Lysla. “And for God’s sake don’t get lost.”
“I won’t. I’m heading for the left of the tube-tower. That’s right, isn’t it?” Zeeth nodded. “That’s it. I’ll tell you if I go wrong. Careful!”
A Swamja was waddling toward them. Callahan hastily turned into a side street, making a detour to avoid the monster. For a while they were safe . . .
Lysla pressed close to Vanning, and he squeezed her arm reassuringly, with a confidence he could not feel. Not until now had he realized the vital importance of environment. On Mars or barren Callisto he had never felt this helplessness in the face
of tremendous, inhuman powers—against which it was impossible to fight. Hopeless odds!
But luck incredibly favored them. They reached their destination without an alarm being raised. Crouching in the shadows by the square where the space-ship lay, they peered at the three guards who paced about, armed and ready.
“Only three,” Lysla said.
Vanning chewed at his lip. “Callahan, you know more about locks than I do. When we rush, get around to the other side of the ship and unlock the port. It may not be easy. The rest of us—we’ll keep the Swamja busy.”
Callahan nodded. “I suppose that’s best. We’ve only one gun.”
“Well—that can’t be helped. Lysla, you go with Callahan.”
The blue eyes blazed. “No! It’ll take all of us to manage the guards. I’m fighting with you.”
Vanning grunted. “Well—here. Take the gun. Use it when you get a chance, but be careful. Zeeth? Hobbs? Ready?” The two men nodded silently. With a hard grin on his tired face, Vanning gave the signal and followed the disguised Callahan as he walked toward the ship. Maybe the guards wouldn’t take alarm at sight of one of their own race, as they thought. But the masquerade couldn’t keep up indefinitely.
The sentries looked toward the newcomers, but made no hostile move. One of them barked a question. Callahan didn’t answer. He kept lumbering toward the ship, his masked face hideous and impassive. Vanning, at his heels, was tense as wire. Beside him, he heard Zeeth breathing in little gasps.
Twenty paces separated the two parties—fifteen—ten. A guard croaked warning. His hand lifted, a gun gripped in the malformed fingers.
Simultaneously Lysla whipped up her weapon and fired. Once—twice—and the Swamja cried out and dropped his gun, pawing at his eyes. Then—
“Let ’em have it!” Vanning snarled—and sprang forward. “Callahan! Get that port open!”
THE masked figure hesitated, gave a whispered sound that might have been a curse, and then sprinted around the side of the space-ship. Vanning didn’t see him. His shoulder caromed into the middle of the second guard, and the two went down together, slugging, clawing, kicking.
Collected Fiction Page 284