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."

"Sta. We must go back tonight," said Zeeth, in the Venusian dialect. He appeared from behind Hobbs, a native of Venus, with the familiar soft plumpness and huge feet of the race. His dog-like eyes examined Vanning. "New?"

The detective introduced himself. He was secretly puzzled. One of these three men, apparently, was Callahan—but which one? None of them resembled the man Vanning had seen on the micro-projector back at Venus Landing. But, still—

III

On impulse, Vanning took out the make-up kit and held it up. "I found this under the shelves. Yours, Hobbs? Or Sanderson?"

Both men shook their heads, frowning. Vanning glanced at the Venusian.

"Yours, Zeeth?"

"Esta, it is not mine. What is it?"

"Just a case." Vanning stowed it away, and sat down on one of the cots, wondering. As he saw it, he had two objectives to reach. First—escape. Second—bring in Callahan.

Not merely escape, though. He thought of Lysla. A slave ... damn! And the other two hundred slaves of the Swamja ... He couldn't leave them here.

But what could he do? Conquer the Swamja? The thought was melodramatically crazy. Perhaps alone he might contrive to escape, and bring a troop of Space Patrolmen to wipe out the Swamja. An army, if necessary.

The others, he saw, had seated themselves on the cots. Hobbs kicked off his sandals and sighed. "Wish I had a smoke. Oh, well."

Vanning said sharply, "Callahan!" His eyes flicked from one to another, 

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