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
