At one of the twisted buildings, Zeeth paused. The structure was larger than Vanning had imagined from above, and his eyes widened as he followed the Venusian up winding ramps, past curtained arches, till at last they stepped into a luxurious chamber at the top. Seated on a low tussock was a Swamja, fat and hideous, his bulging eyes glaring at the intruders. "You are late," he said. "Why is that?" Zeeth bowed. "We came as swiftly as possible." "That may be. And this slave is new. Yet errors are not permitted. For your mistake, this--" A malformed hand rose, clutching a gun. "And this." Instinctively Vanning tensed to leap forward, but a blast of searing fire seemed to explode in his body. He dropped in a boneless huddle, gasping for breath. Beside him he saw Zeeth, similarly helpless, fat face twisted in agony. Venusians, Vanning remembered, were horribly sensitive to pain; and even through his own torture he felt anger at the Swamja for meting out such ruthless justice. But it was over in a moment, though that moment seemed to last for eternities. Zeeth stood up, bowed again, and slipped from the room, with a warning glance at Vanning, who also rose. The Swamja raised his gross body. "Carry this tray. This flask and goblet--for my thirst. This atomizer--to spray on my face when I demand it. This fan for the heat." Vanning silently picked up the heavy metal tray and followed the lumbering, monstrous figure out. He had an impulse to bring the tray down on the Swamja's head. But that wouldn't solve anything. He'd have to wait--for a while, anyway. A show of temper might cost him his life. Along the twisting avenue they went, and to a many-tiered amphitheatre, where the Swamja found a seat in a cushioned throne. Already the place was filled with the monsters. Many of them were attended by human or Venusian slaves, Vanning saw. He stood behind the Swamja, ready for anything, and looked down. In the center of the pit was a pool. It was perhaps ten feet square, and blackly opaque. That was all. "The spray." Vanning used the atomizer on the scaly face of his master. Then he looked around once more. Not far away, standing behind another Swamja, was Sanderson. The red-haired man met his eye and grinned mockingly. Neither Hobbs nor Zeeth was visible. But Vanning could not repress a feeling of pleasure as he saw, several tiers down, the slim figure of Lysla, her auburn curls bare in the cool night air, a tray similar to his own held strapped to her slender neck. Vanning's pleasure was lost in resentment. Damn these fish-headed Swamja! "Fool!" a croaking voice said. "Twice I have had to demand the spray. Put down your tray." Vanning caught himself and obeyed. The Swamja turned and leveled his gun. Again the blazing, brief agony whirled sickeningly through the detective's body. It passed; silently he resumed his task. From time to time, he tended to the Swamja's wants. But he also found time to glance at Lysla occasionally.