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

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      But what could he do? Conquer the Swamja? The thought was melodramatically crazy. Perhaps alone he might contrive to escape, and bring a troop of Space Patrolmen to wipe out the Swamja. An army, if necessary.

      The others, he saw, had seated themselves on the cots. Hobbs kicked off his sandals and sighed. "Wish I had a smoke. Oh, well."

      Vanning said sharply, "Callahan!" His eyes flicked from one to another, and found nothing but surprise in the faces turned to him. Sanderson rumbled,

      "What the devil are you jabbering about?"

      Vanning sighed. "I’m wondering something. When did you boys get here?"

      It was the mild-faced Hobbs who answered. "A couple of weeks ago, I believe. Within a few days of each other. Just before you arrived, in fact. But we recovered long before you did. It was only a miracle that saved your life, Vanning."

      "And before you three got here—any others come from outside? Lately, I mean."

      "Not for months," Hobbs answered. "So I heard. Why?"

      "Why? It proves that one of you is the man I’m after—Don Callahan. I’m a detective; I came to Venus to find Callahan, and—by accident—I followed him here. It stands to reason that one of you is the man I want."

      Sanderson grinned. "Don’t you know what the guy looks like?"

      "No," Vanning admitted. "I’ve recognized him before by certain tricks he’s got—the way he walks, the way he jerks his head around suddenly. Before he came to Venus, I found out, he went to an anthro-surgeon and got remodeled. A complete new chassis, face and body complete. Even got skin-grafts on his finger-tips. In time the old prints will grow back, but not for months. Meantime, Callahan’s pretty well disguised."

      "Good Lord!" Hobbs said. "One of us—"

      Vanning nodded. "When he came to Venus, he put a disguise over his new, remodeled face. That’s gone now, of course. One of you three is Callahan."

      Zeeth, the Venusian native, said softly, "I do not think the usual laws hold good here."

      Sanderson roared with laughter. "Damn right! You expect to arrest your man and ask the Swamja to imprison him for you?"

      Vanning shook his head, smiling crookedly. "Scarcely. I’m getting out of this place sooner or later, and Callahan’s going with me. Later, I’ll bring back troops and clean out the Swamja. But I’m not forgetting about Callahan."

      Hobbs shrugged. "It isn’t me."

      "Nor me," Zeeth said. Sanderson only grinned.

      Vanning grunted. "It’s one of you. I’m pretty sure of that. And I’m talking to you now, Callahan. You’ll be able to disguise your walk and your mannerisms, and I can’t recognize your new face or fingerprints. But sooner or later you’ll forget and betray yourself. Then I’ll have to take you back to Earth."

      "You will forget," Zeeth said. "In a year—five, if you live, you will forget. Our people have legends of this land, where the gods live. Our priests taught that the North-Fever is sent by the gods. We did not know how true that teaching was...." His bulbous face was grotesque in its solemnity.

      *

      Vanning didn’t answer. His hope of tricking an admission from Callahan had failed. Well, there would be time enough. Yet obviously one of these three was the fugitive. Hobbs? Sanderson? Certainly not Zeeth—

      Wait a bit! Suppose Callahan had disguised himself as a Venusian native? That would be a perfect masquerade. And the diabolical skill of the anthro-surgeon could have transformed Callahan into a Venusian.

      Vanning looked at Zeeth with new interest. The native met his glance with stolid calm.

      "One cannot argue with fate. Those who died on the way here are luckier. We must live and serve."

      "I’ve got other ideas," the detective growled.

      Zeeth gestured vividly. "Your race does not accept destiny, as ours does. We have from birth a struggle for existence. Venus is a hard mistress. But some of us live. Yet even then there is the shadow of the North-Fever. At any time, we know, the sickness may fall upon us. If it does, and we are not kept close prisoners, we go into the jungle and either die or—come here. My brother was very lucky. He had the fever three years ago, but I held him and called for help. My tribesmen came running and tied Gharza tightly, so that he could not escape. For ten days and nights the fever made him mad. Then it passed. The threat had left him forever. The North-Fever only strikes once, so Gharza was immune. I, too, am immune—but I consider myself dead, of course."

      "Aw, shut up," Sanderson snapped. "You give me the leapin’ creeps. Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got to attend the festival tonight."

      "What’s that?" Vanning asked.

      The mild-faced Hobbs answered him. "A religious ceremony. Just do what you’re told, and you’ll be all right."

      "Just that, eh?"

      "Our people have learned to bow our heads to Fate," Zeeth murmured. "We are not fighters. Pain is horrible to us. You call us cowards. From your standards, that is true. Only by bowing to the great winds have we managed to survive."

      "Shut up and let me sleep," Sanderson ordered, and relaxed his heavy body on a bunk. The others followed his example, all but Vanning, who sat silently thinking as hour after hour dragged past.

      The door opened at last, and a Swamja stood on the threshold. He wore the familiar costume of the race, but there was an oddly-shaped gun in a holster at his side.

      "Time!" he barked in the Venusian dialect. "Hasten! You—" He pointed to Vanning. "Follow me. The others know where to go."

      The detective silently rose and followed the Swamja into the huge room. It was filled now, he saw, with natives and with Earthmen, hurrying here and there like disturbed ants. There were no other Swamja, however.

      One of the Venusians stumbled and fell. He was a thin, haggard specimen of his species, and how he had ever survived the trip north Vanning could not guess. Perhaps he had been in this lost city for years, and had been drained of his vitality by weeks of arduous servitude. He fell....

      The Swamja barked a harsh command. The native gasped a response, tried to rise—and failed.

      Instantly the Swamja drew his gun and fired. The Venusian collapsed and lay still. Vanning took a step forward, hot with fury, to find himself drawn back by Hobbs’ restraining hand.

      "Easy!" the other whispered. "He’s dead. No use—"

      "Dead? I didn’t hear any explosion."

      "You wouldn’t. That gun fires a charge of pure force that disrupts the nervous system. It was set to kill just now."

      The Swamja turned. "I must attend to this carcass. My report must be made. You, Zeeth—take the new slave to Ombara."

      "I obey." The native bowed and touched Vanning’s arm. "Come with me."

      *

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