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.

There were footprints—many of them. The detective ignored them, moving in a straight line away from Venus Landing. Here and there were blazed mola trees, some with 

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