"That may be. And this slave is new. Yet errors are not permitted. For
your mistake, this--" A malformed hand rose, clutching a gun. "And
this."
Instinctively Vanning tensed to leap forward, but a blast of searing
fire seemed to explode in his body. He dropped in a boneless huddle,
gasping for breath. Beside him he saw Zeeth, similarly helpless, fat
face twisted in agony. Venusians, Vanning remembered, were horribly
sensitive to pain; and even through his own torture he felt anger at
the Swamja for meting out such ruthless justice.
But it was over in a moment, though that moment seemed to last for
eternities. Zeeth stood up, bowed again, and slipped from the room,
with a warning glance at Vanning, who also rose.
The Swamja raised his gross body. "Carry this tray. This flask and
goblet--for my thirst. This atomizer--to spray on my face when I demand
it. This fan for the heat."
Vanning silently picked up the heavy metal tray and followed the
lumbering, monstrous figure out. He had an impulse to bring the tray
down on the Swamja's head. But that wouldn't solve anything. He'd have
to wait--for a while, anyway. A show of temper might cost him his life.
Along the twisting avenue they went, and to a many-tiered amphitheatre,
where the Swamja found a seat in a cushioned throne. Already the place
was filled with the monsters. Many of them were attended by human or
Venusian slaves, Vanning saw. He stood behind the Swamja, ready for
anything, and looked down.
In the center of the pit was a pool. It was perhaps ten feet square,
and blackly opaque. That was all.
"The spray."
Vanning used the atomizer on the scaly face of his master. Then he
looked around once more.
Not far away, standing behind another Swamja, was Sanderson. The
red-haired man met his eye and grinned mockingly.
Neither Hobbs nor Zeeth was visible. But Vanning could not repress a
feeling of pleasure as he saw, several tiers down, the slim figure of
Lysla, her auburn curls bare in the cool night air, a tray similar to
his own held strapped to her slender neck.
Vanning's pleasure was lost in resentment. Damn these fish-headed
Swamja!
"Fool!" a croaking voice said. "Twice I have had to demand the spray.
Put down your tray."
Vanning caught himself and obeyed. The Swamja turned and leveled his
gun. Again the blazing, brief agony whirled sickeningly through the
detective's body.
It passed; silently he resumed his task. From time to time, he tended
to the Swamja's wants. But he also found time to glance at Lysla
occasionally.
* * * * *
When the ceremony began, Vanning could not tell. He sensed that the
assembly had grown tenser, and noticed that the eye of every Swamja was
focused on the black pool. But there was nothing else. Silence, and the
deformed figures staring at the jet square in the center.
Was this all? It seemed so, after half an hour had passed. Not once
had the Swamja he tended demanded attention. What the devil were the
creatures seeing in that pool?
For they saw something, Vanning was certain of that. Once a shiver of
pure ecstasy rippled through the Swamja's gross body. And once Vanning
thought he heard a musical note, almost above the pitch of audibility.
It was gone instantly.
Zeeth had said that the Swamja possessed other senses than those of
humans. Perhaps those strange senses were being used now. He did not
know then, nor was he ever to know, the non-human psychology of the
Swamja, or the purpose of the black pool. Yet Vanning unmistakably
sensed that here was something above and beyond the limitations of his
own humanity.
He grew tired, shifting from foot to foot, but it seemed the ceremony
would never end. He watched Lysla. Thus he saw her bend forward with a
filled goblet--and, losing her balance, spill the liquid contents into
the lap of the Swamja she tended.
Instantly she shrank back, her tray clattering to the floor. Stark
panic fear was in her posture as she cowered there. There was reason.
The Swamja was rising, turning, and in his huge hand was a gun....
He was going to kill Lysla. Vanning knew that. Already he was familiar
with the Swamja code that did not forgive errors. And as he saw the
stubby finger tightening on the trigger-button, Vanning acted with
swift, unthinking accuracy.
His hand closed over the flask on his tray, and he threw it unerringly.
The fragile substance crashed into the face of the Swamja menacing
Lysla, shattering into glittering shards. The being blinked and pawed
at its eyes. In a moment--
Vanning jumped clear over his own Swamja and hurtled down the steps.
His shoulder drove into the blinking monster beneath Lysla, and sent
the creature head-over-heels into the lap of another of its race below.
Vanning caught up the gun the Swamja had dropped. He turned to look
into Lysla's frightened eyes.
"Jerry--" Her voice was choked. "Oh, no!"
Abruptly a crash sounded from above. Vanning looked up to see Sanderson
swinging his metal tray like a maniac. The man's red hair was like a
beacon in the strange light. He drove his weapon into the snarling face
of a Swamja and yelled down at Vanning:
"Amscray! There's an oorday on your eftlay!"
Pig-Latin! A door on the left? Vanning saw it. With one hand he caught
Lysla's arm, and with the other smashed the gun-butt viciously into the
mask of a Swamja that rose up before him.
The creature did not go down. Its arms closed about Vanning. He
reversed the gun and squeezed the trigger-button, but without result.
Apparently the things were immune to their own weapons.
The amphitheatre was in an uproar. In a flashing glance Vanning noticed
that the black pool far below was curiously disturbed. That didn't
matter. What mattered was the devil that was seeking to break his back--
Lysla tore the gun from Vanning's hand, firing it twice. The gnarled
arms relaxed. But the two humans were almost hemmed in by the aroused
Swamjas.
A burly body dived into the mob, followed by another one. Hobbs yelled,
"Come on, kid! Fast!"
Hobbs and Zeeth! They, too, had come to the rescue. And none too soon!
The unexpected assault broke the ranks of the Swamja for an instant,
and then the Earth-people were through, racing down a slanting
corridor. They emerged outside the amphitheatre. Lysla gave them no
time to rest. Footsteps were thudding behind them.
"This way. They'll kill us now if they catch us."
She sped into an alleyway that gaped nearby. Vanning saw Hobbs and
Sanderson racing in pursuit. So Sanderson had got through, too. Good!
Zeeth?
The Venusian reeled against Vanning, his fat face contorted. "I'm--hit.
Go on--don't mind me--"
"Nuts," the detective growled, and hoisted the flabby body to his
shoulder. Zeeth had more courage than any of them, he thought. Weak of
physique, hating pain, yet he had not hesitated to join his companions
in a hopeless battle....