Planet Stories Super Pack #2. Ray Bradbury, Nelson S. Bond, Leigh Brackett

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СКАЧАТЬ corridor in which he found himself was of bare plastic, covered with a wavy bas-relief oddly reminiscent of water’s ripples, and tinted azure and gray. Here and there cold lamps, using a principle unfamiliar to the man, were set in the walls. Radioactivity, he theorized, or the Venusian equivalent. He saw a ramp, and descended it to enter a huge low-ceilinged room, with doors at intervals set in the curving walls. One of the doors was open, and Lysla’s low voice called him.

      He entered a cubicle, not large, with four crude bunks arranged here and there. The girl was fitting the metal plaque into a frame over one. She smiled at him.

      "Your dog-license, Jerry. You’re 57-R-Mel. It means something to the Swamja, I suppose."

      "Yeah?" Vanning saw a similar plaque over each of the cots. "What’s this place?"

      "One of the dormitories. Four to an apartment is the rule. You’ll be lodged with three men who arrived a little while before you did—two Earthmen and a Venusian."

      "I see. What am I supposed to do?"

      "Just wait here till you’re summoned. And Jerry—" She came toward him, placing her palms flat on his broad chest, her blue eyes looking up into his appealingly. "Jerry, please don’t do anything foolish. I know it’s hard at first. But—they —punish rebellious slaves rather awfully."

      Vanning smiled down at her. "Okay, Lysla. I’ll look around before I do anything. But, believe me, I intend to start a private little revolution around here."

      She shook her head hopelessly, auburn curls flying. "It isn’t any use. I’ve seen that already. You’ll see it, too. I must go now. And be careful, Jerry."

      He squeezed her arm reassuringly. "Sure. I’ll see you again?"

      "Yes. But now—"

      She was gone. Vanning whistled softly, and turned to examine the room. Sight of his face in a mirror startled him. Under the stubbly growth of beard, his familiar features had altered, grown haggard and strained.

      A razor lay handy—or, rather, a sharp dagger with a razor-sharp edge. There was a bar of gray substance that gave a great deal of lather when Vanning moistened it in the metal bowl that served as a wash-basin. He shaved, and felt much better.

      His weakness had almost entirely gone. The medical science of the Swamja, at least, was above reproach. Nevertheless, he tired easily.... That would pass.

      Who were his bunk-mates in this cubicle? Idly Vanning scrutinized their effects, strewn helter-skelter on the shelves. Nothing there to tell him. There was a metal comb, however, and Vanning reached for it. It slipped from his fingers and clattered to the plastic floor.

      Vanning grunted and got down on his knees to recover the object, which had skidded into a dark recess under the lowest shelf. His fumbling fingers encountered something cold and hard, and he drew it out wonderingly. It was a flat case, without ornament, and clicked open in his hands.

      It was a make-up kit. Small as it was, it contained an incredible quantity of material for disguises. Tiny pellets were there, each stamped with a number. Dyestuffs that would mix with water. There was a package of isoflex, the transparent, extraordinary thin "rigid cellophane" of the day. There were other things....

      *

      Vanning’s eyes widened. Two and two made an unmistakable four. Only one man on Venus would have reason to possess such a kit. That man was Don Callahan, whom Vanning had vainly pursued from Mars to Earth, and thence to Venus.

      Callahan here!

      But why not? He, too, had fallen victim to North-Fever. He had simply preceded Vanning in his drugged trip to this hidden kingdom.

      "Who the hell are you?"

      The harsh question brought Vanning to his feet, instinctively concealing the make-up kit in his garments. He stared at the man standing on the threshold—a husky, broad-shouldered specimen with flaming red hair and a scarred, ugly face. Squinting, keen eyes watched Vanning.

      "I’m—your new room-mate, I guess," the detective said tentatively. "Jerry Vanning’s my name."

      "Mine’s Sanderson. Kenesaw Sanderson." The other rubbed a broken nose thoughtfully. "So you’re new. Well, get this straight. Don’t try any tricks with the Swamja or get any ideas."

      Vanning tilted his head to one side. "I don’t get it."

      "New guys," Sanderson said scornfully. "They’re always figuring it’ll be easy to escape. They try it, and we all suffer. The Swamja are tough babies. Take it easy, do what you’re told, and everything’s okay. See?"

      "Not quite." There was a roughness in Vanning’s tone. "How long have you been here?"

      "A few weeks, about. I don’t recall exactly. What of it?"

      "You don’t look yellow. It just seems funny that you’d give up so easily. You look pretty tough."

      Sanderson snarled deep in his throat. "I am tough! I’m also smart. Listen, Mr. Jerry Vanning, two days after I got here I saw the Swamja punish a guy who tried to escape. They skinned him alive! You hear that? And his bunk-mates—they weren’t killed, but one of ‘em went crazy. Those Swamja—it’s crazy to try and buck them."

      "They’ve got you out-bluffed already, eh?"

      Sanderson strode forward and gripped Vanning’s shoulder in a bruising clutch. "You talk too much. Trouble-makers don’t go here. Get that through your head."

      Vanning said gently, "Let go of me, quick. Or—"

      "Let him go, Kenesaw," a new voice broke in. Sanderson grunted, but released the detective. He nodded toward the door.

      "Got off early, eh, Hobbs?"

      "A little." The man in the doorway was as big as Sanderson, but his face was benevolent, gentle, and seamed with care. White hair bristled in a ruff above his broad forehead. "A little," he repeated. "Zeeth and I must go back tonight for the festival."

      "Sta. We must go back tonight," said Zeeth, in the Venusian dialect. He appeared from behind Hobbs, a native of Venus, with the familiar soft plumpness and huge feet of the race. His dog-like eyes examined Vanning. "New?"

      The detective introduced himself. He was secretly puzzled. One of these three men, apparently, was Callahan—but which one? None of them resembled the man Vanning had seen on the micro-projector back at Venus Landing. But, still—

      III

      On impulse, Vanning took out the make-up kit and held it up. "I found this under the shelves. Yours, Hobbs? Or Sanderson?"

      Both men shook their heads, frowning. Vanning glanced at the Venusian.

      "Yours, Zeeth?"

      "Esta, it is not mine. What is it?"

      "Just a case." Vanning stowed it away, and sat down on one of the cots, wondering. As he saw it, he had two objectives to reach. First—escape. Second—bring in Callahan.

      Not merely escape, though. He thought of Lysla. A СКАЧАТЬ