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?"