Frontier town, Vanning thought, as he glanced around. Chicago must have looked like this, in the old days, when streets were unpaved and business was the town's only reason for existence. But Venus Landing would never grow into another Chicago. A few thousand souls, working under terrible handicaps, always fearing the North-Fever that meant death.... Muddy streets, wooden sidewalks already rotting, metal buildings, of two stories at most, long, low hydroponic sheds, a dull, hot apathy that hung over everything--that was Venus Landing. A few natives shuffled past on their snowshoe feet, looking fat and wet, as though made out of wax that had begun to run. The Star Palace was a down-at-the-heels plastic building, stained and discolored by the damp molds. Goodenow jerked his head at the clerk. "Where's Leester?" "North-Fever," the man said, worrying his lower lip. "This morning ... we couldn't stop him." "Oh, hell," the consul said hopelessly, turning to Vanning. "That's the way it is. Once the fever hits you, you go crazy. Do everything and anything to get away and head north. Leester was a nice kid. He was going back to Earth, next Christmas." Vanning looked at the clerk. "A man named Jerome Bentley's staying here." "He's somewhere around town. Dunno where." "Okay," the consul said. "If he comes in, phone my office. But don't tell him we were asking." "Yup." The clerk resumed his vague scrutiny of the ceiling. Vanning and Goodenow went out. * * * * * "Where now?" "We'll just amble around. Hi!" The consul hailed a ricksha, drawn by a native--the usual type of vehicle in Venus Landing's muddy streets. "Hop in, Vanning." The detective obeyed. His headache was getting worse. They couldn't find Callahan. A few men said that they had seen him earlier that day. Someone had glimpsed him on the outskirts of the settlement. "Heading for the jungle?" Goodenow asked quickly. "He--yeah. He looked ... very bad." The consul sucked in his breath. "I wonder. Let's go out that way, Vanning." "All right. What do you figure--" "The fever, maybe," Goodenow grunted. "It strikes fast. Especially to non-natives. If your friend Callahan's caught North-Fever, he just started walking into the swamp and forgot to stop. You can mark the case closed." "Not till I get that treaty back," Vanning growled. Goodenow shook his head doubtfully. The buildings grew sparser and ceased at the edge of the pale forest. Broad-leafed jungle growths sprang from moist black soil. The ricksha stopped; the native chattered in his own tongue. "Sure," Goodenow said, tossing him a coin. "Wait here. _Zan-t'kshan._" His burly figure lumbered into the translucent twilight of the jungle. Vanning was at his heels.