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 spaceship—”
Zeeth wriggled free. “Put me down. I’m all right now. The spaceship—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 locks 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 spaceship.”
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 makeup 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 makeup 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 spaceship 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 spaceship. Vanning didn’t see him. His shoulder caromed into the middle of the second guard, and the two went down together, slugging, clawing, kicking.
The Swamja was incredibly strong. His mouth gaped at Vanning’s throat. With an agile twist, the detective wrenched himself away, but by that time there was a gun leveled at his head. A wave of blazing agony blasted through Vanning’s body—and was instantly gone. The weapon had not been turned up to the killing power.
The Swamja twisted the barrel with one finger, making the necessary adjustment. But Vanning hadn’t been idle. His hands crossed over the gun, wrenched savagely. There was a crack of breaking bone, and the Swamja croaked in agony, his fingers broken.
He wasn’t conquered—no! Ignoring what must have been sickening pain, he threw his arms around Vanning and squeezed till the breath rushed from the human’s lungs. The detective felt himself losing consciousness. It was impossible to break that steel grip—
Once more the fangs gaped at his throat. Vanning summoned his waning strength. His left hand gripped the monster’s lower jaw, his right hand the upper. Sharp teeth ripped his fingers. He did not feel them, nor the foul, gusting breath that blew hot on his sweating face.
He wrenched viciously, dragging the creature’s mouth wide open—and wider yet!
A hoarse roar bubbled from the Swamja’s throat. There was a sharp crack, and the malformed body twisted convulsively. The mighty arms tightened, nearly breaking Vanning’s back. Then—they relaxed.
The Swamja lay still, his spine snapped.
Vanning staggered up, hearing a roaring in his ears. It wasn’t imagination. Across the square, monstrous figures came racing, shouting harshly—Swamja, dozens of them!
“Vanning!” Hobbs’ voice croaked.
On the ground, three figures were wrestling in a contorted mass—Zeeth and Hobbs and the remaining Swamja. The monster was conquering. His bulging eyes glared with mad fury. Great muscles stood out on his gnarled arms as he tore at his opponents.
With a choking curse Vanning snatched up the gun his late enemy had dropped and sprang forward. His aim was good. The Swamja’s eyes went dull as the destroying charge short-circuited his nerves.
The racing Swamja were dangerously close as Vanning bent, tearing at the monster’s mighty hands. Useless!
He pressed his gun-muzzle into the Swamja’s armpit and fired and fired again. Presently one arm writhed free. Vanning seized the two men, literally tore them from the creature’s grip.
“The port!” Vanning gasped. “Get into—the ship!”
Hobbs lifted Zeeth and staggered around the bow. As Vanning turned to follow, he saw the slim body of Lysla lying motionless on the ground, in the path of the racing Swamja.
He sprinted forward, scooped up the girl in one motion, and swerved back, running as though all hell were at his heels. A croaking yell went up. Sickening pain lanced through Vanning, and he nearly fell. But the shock, though agonizing, wasn’t permanent. Legs afire, the detective rounded the ship’s bow and saw a circular hole gaping in the corroded hull.
He flung himself toward it. Through a crimson mist the masked face of Callahan swam into view. The man leaped out of the ship, caught up Lysla from Vanning’s arms, and scrambled with her back through the port.
As Vanning tried to follow, he saw Callahan crouching on the threshold of the valve, an odd hesitancy in his manner. One of Callahan’s hands was on the lever that would close and seal the ship. For a brief eternity the eyes of the two men met and clashed.
Vanning read what was clear to read. If Callahan closed the port now, leaving Vanning outside—he would be safe from the law. No doubt the man knew how to pilot a spaceship—
A shout roared out from behind Vanning. Callahan snarled an oath, seized the detective’s hand, and yanked him into the ship. As a Swamja tried to scramble through the valve, Callahan’s foot drove viciously into the monster’s hideous face, sending him reeling back among his fellows.
Then the port clanged shut!
The port clanged shut, and the sudden silence of the ship was nerve-shattering in its instant cessation of sound.
Vanning managed to get to his feet. He didn’t look at Callahan. Lysla, he saw, was still motionless. Hobbs was kneeling beside her.
“Lysla—she all right?” the detective rasped.
“Yes.” Hobbs managed a weak grin. “She got in the way of a paralyzing charge—but she’ll be all right.”
“Okay.” Vanning turned to the controls. They were archaic—in fact, the whole design of the ship was strange to him. It had been built a century ago, and rust and yellow corrosion was everywhere.
“Think it’ll blast off?” Callahan asked as Vanning dropped into the pilot’s seat.
“We’ll pray! Let’s see how much fuel—” He touched a button, his gaze riveted on a gauge.
The needle quivered slightly—that was all.
Callahan didn’t say anything. Vanning’s face went gray.
“No fuel,” he got out.
There was a clanging tumult at the port, resounding from the outer hull.
“They can’t get in,” Callahan said slowly.
“We can’t raise the ship,” Vanning countered. “When we’ve used up all the air in here, we’ll suffocate. Unless we surrender to the Swamja.”
Hobbs gave a croaking laugh. “Not likely. There aren’t any weapons here. The ship’s been stripped clean.”
Callahan said, “If we could break through the dome—”
“There might be enough fuel for that—if it hasn’t deteriorated. But then what? We’d crash. Certain death. You know that.”
Vanning clicked another button into its socket. “Let’s see if the visiplate works.”
It did. On a panel before him a dim light glowed. It gave place to a picture, clouded and cracked across the middle. They could see the square, with the Swamja swarming into it in ever-increasing numbers, with the twisted buildings rising in the background, and the tower-tube shining far away.
Vanning caught his breath. “Listen,” he said. “There’s still a chance. A damned slim one—”
“What?”
The detective hesitated. If he took time to weigh this mad scheme, he knew it would seem utterly impossible. Instead, he snapped, “Brace yourselves! We’re taking off for a crash landing!”
Callahan looked at Vanning’s set, haggard face, and whirled. He picked up Lysla’s limp body and braced himself in a corner. Zeeth and Hobbs did the same. Before any of them could speak, Vanning had swung the power switch.
He was praying silently that there was still a little fuel left in the chambers, just a little, and that it would still work. His prayer was answered instantly. With a roaring thunder of rocket-tubes the lifeboat bulleted up from the ground!
The bellow died. There was no more fuel.
Vanning stared at the visiplate. Beneath him the city of the Swamja was spread, the elfin lights glimmering, the coral palaces twisted like strange fungus growths. Automatically his hands worked at the corroded guide-levers that controlled the wind-vanes on the ship’s hull.
The space-boat circles—swept around—
The shining tower-tube loomed directly ahead. Jaws aching, teeth clenched, Vanning held steady on his course. The ship thundered down with wind screaming madly in its wake.
The tube loomed larger—larger still. It blotted out the city. One glimpse Vanning had of the metal surface rising like a wall before him—
And the ship struck!
Rending, ripping, tearing, the space-boat crashed through the tube, bringing it down in thundering ruin. Briefly the visiplate was a maelstrom of whirling shards. Then the glare of an elf-light raced up to meet the ship.
It exploded in flaming suns within Vanning’s brain. He never knew when the ship struck.