Vanning grunted, remembering. "Keep talking. I'm beginning—"
"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?"