Since there were no windows, the light Lysla turned on would not attract attention. Nevertheless, Vanning subconsciously felt the urge to remain in darkness. He grinned mirthlessly. "I'm beginning to know how you feel, Callahan. Being a fugitive must be pretty tough." Nobody answered. The silence ran on and on interminably. Finally Sanderson broke it. "We forgot one thing. No slaves are allowed on the streets tonight without a Swamja along." "I didn't forget," Lysla said in a low voice. "There wasn't any other way." "But we haven't a chance in the world to get through." "I know that, too," the girl whispered. "But—" Abruptly she collapsed in a heap, her auburn curls shrouding her face. Under the red tunic her slim shoulders shook convulsively. Sanderson took a deep breath. A wry smile twisted his mouth. "Okay, Vanning," he said. "Let's have that make-up kit." The detective stared. Curiously, he felt no exultation. Instead, there was a sick depression at the thought that Sanderson—the man who had fought at his side—was Callahan. "I don't—" Sanderson—or Callahan—shrugged impatiently. "Let's have it. This is the only way left. I wouldn't have given myself away if it hadn't been necessary. You'd never have suspected me ... let's have it!" Silently Vanning handed over the make-up kit. Lysla had lifted her head to watch Callahan out of wondering eyes. Hobbs was chewing his lip, scowling in amazement. Zeeth was the only one who did not look surprised. But even he lost his impassivity when Callahan began to use the make-up kit. It was a Pandora's box, and it seemed incredible that a complete disguise could issue from that small container. And yet— Callahan used the polished back of it as a mirror. He sent Lysla for water and containers, easily procurable elsewhere in the building, and mixed a greenish paste which he applied to his skin. Tiny wire gadgets expanded his mouth to a gaping slit. Artificial tissue built up his face till his nose had vanished. Isoflex was cut and moulded into duplicates of the
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