"There isn't much more. The victims fall into the pits, and stay there
till the fever has run its course. The Swamja run no risks of being
infected themselves. After the sickness has passed, it's easy to find
the way out of the pits--and all the tunnels lead to this place."
"God!" Vanning whispered. "And you say this has been going on for
centuries?"
"Very many centuries. First the natives, and now the Earthpeople as
well. The Swamja need slaves--none live long here. But there is always
a supply trickling in from outside."
Thousands of helpless victims, through the ages, drawn into this
horrible net, dragged northward to be the slaves of an inhuman race....
Vanning licked dry lips.
"Many die," the girl said. "The Swamja want only the strongest. And
only the strongest survive the trip north."
"You--" Vanning looked at Lysla questioningly.
She smiled sadly. "I'm stronger than I look, Jerry. But I almost
died.... I still haven't completely recovered. I--was much prettier
than I am now."
Vanning found that difficult to believe. He couldn't help grinning at
the girl's very feminine admission. She flushed a little.
"Well," he said at last, "you're not Venusian, I can see that. How did
you come to get sucked into this?"
"Just bad luck," Lysla told him. "A few months ago I was on top of the
world, in New York. I've no parents. My father left me a trust fund,
but it ran out unexpectedly. Bad investments, I suppose. So I found
myself broke and needed a job. There weren't any jobs for unskilled
labor, except a secretarial position in Venus Landing. I was lucky to
get that."
"You've got nerve," Vanning said.
"It didn't help. The North-Fever hit me, and the next thing I knew, I
was ... here. A slave."
"How many Earthmen are there here?"
"About a hundred. Not many are strong enough to reach the pass. And
about the same number of Venusian natives."
"How many Swamja?"
"A thousand, more or less," Lysla explained. "Only the highest classes
have slaves. Most of the Swamja are trained for the military."
"So? Who the devil do they fight?"
"Nobody. It's a tradition with them--part of their religion. They
believe they're gods, and the soldiers serve as the Valkyries did in
the Norse Valhalla."
"Two hundred slaves.... What weapons do the Swamja have?"
Lysla shook her head. "Not many. A paralysis hand-projector, a few
others. But they're invulnerable, or nearly so. Their muscles are much
tougher than ours. A different cellular construction."
Vanning pondered. He could understand that. The human heart-muscle is
much stronger and tougher than--say--the biceps.
The girl broke into his thoughts. "Rebellion is quite useless. You
won't believe that now, but you'll understand soon."
"Maybe," Vanning said tonelessly. "Anyhow--what's next on the program?"
"Slavery." Her voice was bitter. "Here are your clothes. When you're
dressed, you'll find a ramp leading down outside the door. I'll be
waiting." She detached a metal plaque from the wall and went out.
Vanning, after a scowling pause, dressed and followed.
* * * * *
The corridor in which he found himself was of bare plastic, covered
with a wavy bas-relief oddly reminiscent of water's ripples, and tinted
azure and gray. Here and there cold lamps, using a principle unfamiliar
to the man, were set in the walls. Radioactivity, he theorized, or the
Venusian equivalent. He saw a ramp, and descended it to enter a huge
low-ceilinged room, with doors at intervals set in the curving walls.
One of the doors was open, and Lysla's low voice called him.
He entered a cubicle, not large, with four crude bunks arranged here
and there. The girl was fitting the metal plaque into a frame over one.
She smiled at him.
"Your dog-license, Jerry. You're 57-R-Mel. It means something to the
Swamja, I suppose."
"Yeah?" Vanning saw a similar plaque over each of the cots. "What's
this place?"
"One of the dormitories. Four to an apartment is the rule. You'll be
lodged with three men who arrived a little while before you did--two
Earthmen and a Venusian."
"I see. What am I supposed to do?"
"Just wait here till you're summoned. And Jerry--" She came toward
him, placing her palms flat on his broad chest, her blue eyes looking
up into his appealingly. "Jerry, please don't do anything foolish. I
know it's hard at first. But--_they_--punish rebellious slaves rather
awfully."
Vanning smiled down at her. "Okay, Lysla. I'll look around before
I do anything. But, believe me, I intend to start a private little
revolution around here."
She shook her head hopelessly, auburn curls flying. "It isn't any use.
I've seen that already. You'll see it, too. I must go now. And be
careful, Jerry."