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."