disguised so well his own mother wouldn't know him—best make-up artist in the System. But I've studied his records till I nearly went blind and deaf. I don't make mistakes about Callahan any more."

Goodenow blinked. "I'll be blowed. I've seen the man a dozen times, and I'd have sworn ... well! If you're sure—"

"I'm sure." Vanning referred to the records. "Staying at the Star Palace, eh? Okay, I'll be pushing off."

"I'll go with you," the consul offered, and lifted his bulky body from behind the gleaming desk. Together the two men went out into the muggy Venusian day, which was now fading to a slow, blue dusk.

Venus did not revolve; it librated. There was no such thing as sunrise and sunset. But there was a very regular thickening and fading of the eternal cloudbanks that writhed overhead, approximating day and night. Despite the continual frantic disturbance of the atmosphere, the clouds were so thick that it was never possible to see the Sun.

Only the ragged, eye-straining movement of the grayness overhead, and the warm, humid wind that gusted against your sweating skin. And the sulphurous smells that drifted in from the jungle—odors of stagnant water and rottenness and things that grew unhealthily white.

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 

 Prev. P 3/35 next