"Nobody knows," Goodenow said, shrugging hopelessly. "A virus. A
filterable virus, presumably. Scientists have been working on it ever
since Venus was colonized. It hits the natives, too. Some get it,
some don't. It works the same way with Earthmen. You feel like you're
cracking up--and then, suddenly--you go North. Into the swamp. You
never come back. That's the end of you."
"Funny!"
"Sure it is. But--ever heard of the lemmings? Little animals that used
to make mass pilgrimages, millions of them. They'd head west till they
reached the ocean, and then keep going. Nobody knew the cause of that,
either."
"What lies north?"
"Swamp, I suppose. How should I know? We've got no facilities for
finding out. We can't fly, and expeditions say there's nothing there
but the usual Venusian hell. I wish--"
* * * * *
"Oh-oh!" Vanning sat up, peering into the projector. "Wait a minute,
Goodenow. I think--"
"Callahan? No!"
"He's disguised, but ... Lucky this is a three-dimensional movie. Let's
hear his voice." Vanning touched a button on the box. A low, musical
voice said:
"My name is Jerome Bentley, New York City, Earth. I'm an importer, and
am on Venus to investigate the possibilities of buying a steady supply
of herbs--"
"Yeah," Vanning said tonelessly. "That's it. Jerome Bentley--nuts!
That's Don Callahan! He's 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 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 buckets hung to collect the dripping sap. The
footprints grew fainter. At last only one set remained visible.
"A man. Pretty heavy-set, too. Wearing Earth shoes, not sandals like
most of ours. Callahan, probably."