"Attention! No slaves will be permitted on the streets unless accompanied by a Swamja master! No quarter is to be given to the fugitives who blinded a guard! Capture them alive if possible--they must serve as an example. But show them no quarter!" 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.