Crypt-City of the Deathless One A grimly-stirring novel of weird adventure on an alien world By Henry Kuttner Only once could a man defy the deathless guardians of the Ancient's tomb-city deep in Ganymede's hell-forest and expect to live. Yet Ed Garth had to return, had to lead men to certain doom--to keep a promise to a girl he would never see again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Icy water splashed into Ed Garth's face and dripped down his tattered, grimy shirt. It was a tremendous effort to open his eyes. Fumes of the native Ganymedean rotgut liquor were swimming in his brain. Someone was shaking him roughly. Garth's stocky body jerked convulsively. He struck out, his drink-swollen face twisted with frightened fury, and gasped, "_Ylgana! Vo m'trana al-khron_--" The hand on his shoulder fell away. Someone said, "That's it, Paula! The Ancient Tongue!" And a girl's voice, doubtful, a little disgusted. "You're sure? But how in the System did this--this--" "Bum. Tramp," Garth muttered, peering blearily at the pale ovals of unfocused faces above him. "Don't mind me, sister. Beachcomber is the word--drunk, right now. So please get the hell out and let me finish my bottle." More water was sluiced on Garth. He shook his head, groaning, and saw Tolomo, the Ganymedean trader, scowling down at him. The native's three-pupiled eyes were angry. English hissed, oddly accented, on his tongue. "You wake up, Garth! Hear me? This is a job for you. You owe me too much already. These people come looking for you, say they want a guide. Now you do what they want, and pay me for all that liquor you buy on credit." "Sure," Garth said wearily. "Tomorrow. Not now." Tolomo snorted. "I get you native guides, Captain Brown. They know way to Chahnn." The man's voice said stubbornly, "I don't want natives. I want Ed Garth." "Well, you won't get him," Garth growled, pillowing his head on his arms. "This joint smells already, but you make it worse. Beat it." He did not see Captain Brown slip Tolomo a folded credit-current. The trader deftly pocketed the money, nodded, and gripped Garth by the hair, lifting his head. The bluish, inhuman face was thrust into the Earthman's. "Listen to me, Garth," Tolomo said, fairly spitting the words. "I let you come in here and get drunk all the time on the cuff. You pay me a little, not much, whenever you gather enough alka-roots to sell. But you owe plenty. People ask me why I let a bum like you come to my _Moonflower-Ritz Bar_--" "That's a laugh," Garth mouthed. "A ramshackle plastic flophouse full of cockroaches and bad liquor. _Moonflower-Ritz_, hogwash!"