Vanning shrugged, and his voice was tired. "The only way, Zeeth. I
broke the tube that shot the North-Fever virus into the upper air. The
virus was released within the city, in tremendous quantity. You know
how fast it works. And in this strength--"
"Yes. It strikes quickly."
"Once you've had the fever, you're immune to it ever afterward. So the
slaves won't suffer. Only the Swamja. They're getting a dose of their
own medicine."
"They go north," Zeeth said. "Out of the city."
It was true. Far in the distance, the Swamja were pouring toward the
north gate, and vanishing through the open valves there. Nothing could
halt them. The deadly virus they had created was flaming in their
veins, and--they went north.
The did not walk; they ran, as though anxious to meet their doom.
Through the city they raced, grotesque, hideous figures, unconscious
of anything but the terrible, resistless drive that drew them blindly
north. Through the north gate, into the pass--
Through the pass--to the lava pits!