"I didn’t forget," Lysla said in a low voice. "There wasn’t any other way."
"But we haven’t a chance in the world to get through."
"I know that, too," the girl whispered. "But—" Abruptly she collapsed in a heap, her auburn curls shrouding her face. Under the red tunic her slim shoulders shook convulsively.
Sanderson took a deep breath. A wry smile twisted his mouth.
"Okay, Vanning," he said. "Let’s have that make-up kit."
*
The detective stared. Curiously, he felt no exultation. Instead, there was a sick depression at the thought that Sanderson—the man who had fought at his side—was Callahan.
"I don’t—"
Sanderson—or Callahan—shrugged impatiently. "Let’s have it. This is the only way left. I wouldn’t have given myself away if it hadn’t been necessary. You’d never have suspected me ... let’s have it!"
Silently Vanning handed over the make-up kit. Lysla had lifted her head to watch Callahan out of wondering eyes. Hobbs was chewing his lip, scowling in amazement. Zeeth was the only one who did not look surprised.
But even he lost his impassivity when Callahan began to use the make-up kit. It was a Pandora’s box, and it seemed incredible that a complete disguise could issue from that small container. And yet—
Callahan used the polished back of it as a mirror. He sent Lysla for water and containers, easily procurable elsewhere in the building, and mixed a greenish paste which he applied to his skin. Tiny wire gadgets expanded his mouth to a gaping slit. Artificial tissue built up his face till his nose had vanished. Isoflex was cut and moulded into duplicates of the Swamja’s bulging, glassy eyes. Callahan’s fingers flew. He mixed, painted, worked unerringly. He even altered the color of his garments by dousing them in a dye-solution, till they had lost the betraying red tint that betokened a slave.
In the end—a Swamja stood facing Vanning!
"All right," Callahan said tiredly. "I’ll pass—if we keep out of bright lights. Now go out and help Lysla do guard duty. I’m going to disguise you all. That’ll help."
Vanning didn’t move as the others left. Callahan took an oilskin packet from his belt and held it out. "Here’s the treaty. I suppose you came after that."
The detective opened the bundle and checked its contents. He nodded. It was the vital treaty, which would have caused revolution on Callisto. Slowly Vanning tore it into tiny shreds, his eyes on Callahan. It was difficult, somehow, for him to find words.
The other man shrugged. "That’s that. And I suppose you’ll be taking me back to Earth—if we get out of this alive."
"Yeah," Vanning said tonelessly.
"Okay." Callahan’s voice was tired. "Let’s go. We haven’t time to disguise everybody—that was just an excuse to give you the treaty. A private matter—"
He shuffled to the door, with the lumbering tread of the Swamja, and Vanning followed close at his heels.
The others were waiting.
Vanning said, "Okay. Let’s start. No time to disguise ourselves. Stay behind—"
*
In a close group the five moved along the avenue, Callahan in the lead.
The outlaw’s disguise was almost perfect, but nevertheless he did not trust to it entirely. When possible, he moved along dimly-lighted streets, the four others keeping close to his heels. Once a patrol of Swamja guards passed, but at a distance.
"I’m worried," Callahan whispered to Vanning. "Those creatures have—different senses from ours. I’ve a hunch they communicate partly by telepathy. If they try that on me—"
"Hurry," the detective urged, with a sidewise glance at Lysla. "And for God’s sake don’t get lost."
"I won’t. I’m heading for the left of the tube-tower. That’s right, isn’t it?"
Zeeth nodded. "That’s it. I’ll tell you if I go wrong. Careful!"
A Swamja was waddling toward them. Callahan hastily turned into a side street, making a detour to avoid the monster. For a while they were safe....
Lysla pressed close to Vanning, and he squeezed her arm reassuringly, with a confidence he could not feel. Not until now had he realized the vital importance of environment. On Mars or barren Callisto he had never felt this helplessness in the face of tremendous, inhuman powers—against which it was impossible to fight. Hopeless odds!
But luck incredibly favored them. They reached their destination without an alarm being raised. Crouching in the shadows by the square where the space-ship lay, they peered at the three guards who paced about, armed and ready.
"Only three," Lysla said.
Vanning chewed at his lip. "Callahan, you know more about locks than I do. When we rush, get around to the other side of the ship and unlock the port. It may not be easy. The rest of us—we’ll keep the Swamja busy."
Callahan nodded. "I suppose that’s best. We’ve only one gun."
"Well—that can’t be helped. Lysla, you go with Callahan."
The blue eyes blazed. "No! It’ll take all of us to manage the guards. I’m fighting with you."
Vanning grunted. "Well—here. Take the gun. Use it when you get a chance, but be careful. Zeeth? Hobbs? Ready?"
The two men nodded silently. With a hard grin on his tired face, Vanning gave the signal and followed the disguised Callahan as he walked toward the ship. Maybe the guards wouldn’t take alarm at sight of one of their own race, as they thought. But the masquerade couldn’t keep up indefinitely.
The sentries looked toward the newcomers, but made no hostile move. One of them barked a question. Callahan didn’t answer. He kept lumbering toward the ship, his masked face hideous and impassive. Vanning, at his heels, was tense as wire. Beside him, he heard Zeeth breathing in little gasps.
Twenty paces separated the two parties—fifteen—ten. A guard croaked warning. His hand lifted, a gun gripped in the malformed fingers.
Simultaneously Lysla whipped up her weapon and fired. Once—twice—and the Swamja cried out and dropped his gun, pawing at his eyes. Then—
"Let ‘em have it!" Vanning snarled—and sprang forward. "Callahan! Get that port open!"
*
The masked figure hesitated, gave a whispered sound that might have been a curse, and then sprinted around the side of the space-ship. Vanning didn’t see him. His shoulder caromed into the middle of the second guard, and the two went down together, slugging, clawing, kicking.
The Swamja was incredibly strong. His mouth gaped at Vanning’s throat. With an agile twist, the detective wrenched himself away, but by that time there was a gun leveled at his head. A wave of blazing agony blasted through Vanning’s body—and was instantly gone. The weapon had not been turned up to the killing power.
The Swamja twisted the barrel with one finger, making the necessary adjustment. But Vanning hadn’t been idle. His hands crossed over the gun, wrenched savagely. There was a crack of breaking bone, and the Swamja croaked in agony, his fingers broken.
He wasn’t conquered—no! Ignoring what must have been sickening pain, he threw his arms around Vanning and squeezed till the breath rushed from the human’s lungs. The detective felt himself losing consciousness. It was impossible to break that steel grip—
Once more the fangs gaped at his throat. Vanning summoned his waning strength. His left hand gripped the monster’s lower jaw, his right hand the upper. Sharp teeth ripped his fingers. He did not feel them, nor the foul, gusting breath that blew hot on his sweating face.
He wrenched viciously, dragging