"Yes. But now--"
She was gone. Vanning whistled softly, and turned to examine the room.
Sight of his face in a mirror startled him. Under the stubbly growth of
beard, his familiar features had altered, grown haggard and strained.
A razor lay handy--or, rather, a sharp dagger with a razor-sharp edge.
There was a bar of gray substance that gave a great deal of lather when
Vanning moistened it in the metal bowl that served as a wash-basin. He
shaved, and felt much better.
His weakness had almost entirely gone. The medical science of the
Swamja, at least, was above reproach. Nevertheless, he tired easily....
That would pass.
Who were his bunk-mates in this cubicle? Idly Vanning scrutinized their
effects, strewn helter-skelter on the shelves. Nothing there to tell
him. There was a metal comb, however, and Vanning reached for it. It
slipped from his fingers and clattered to the plastic floor.
Vanning grunted and got down on his knees to recover the object, which
had skidded into a dark recess under the lowest shelf. His fumbling
fingers encountered something cold and hard, and he drew it out
wonderingly. It was a flat case, without ornament, and clicked open in
his hands.
It was a make-up kit. Small as it was, it contained an incredible
quantity of material for disguises. Tiny pellets were there, each
stamped with a number. Dyestuffs that would mix with water. There was
a package of _isoflex_, the transparent, extraordinary thin "rigid
cellophane" of the day. There were other things....
* * * * *
Vanning's eyes widened. Two and two made an unmistakable four. Only
one man on Venus would have reason to possess such a kit. That man was
Don Callahan, whom Vanning had vainly pursued from Mars to Earth, and
thence to Venus.
Callahan here!
But why not? He, too, had fallen victim to North-Fever. He had simply
preceded Vanning in his drugged trip to this hidden kingdom.
"Who the hell are you?"
The harsh question brought Vanning to his feet, instinctively
concealing the make-up kit in his garments. He stared at the man
standing on the threshold--a husky, broad-shouldered specimen with
flaming red hair and a scarred, ugly face. Squinting, keen eyes watched
Vanning.
"I'm--your new room-mate, I guess," the detective said tentatively.
"Jerry Vanning's my name."
"Mine's Sanderson. Kenesaw Sanderson." The other rubbed a broken nose
thoughtfully. "So you're new. Well, get this straight. Don't try any
tricks with the Swamja or get any ideas."