The consul mopped his sweating, beefy face and cursed Venusian air-conditioning units. "Who is this guy Callahan, anyway?" he asked. "I've heard a little—but we don't get much news on the frontier."
"Political refugee," Vanning said, busy with the projector. "Potentially, one of the most dangerous men in the System. Callahan started his career as a diplomat, but there wasn't enough excitement for him."
The consul fumbled with a cigar. "Can you tell me any more?"
"Well—Callahan got hold of a certain secret treaty that must be destroyed. If he shows it in the right places, he might start a revolution, particularly on Callisto. My idea is that he's hiding out till the excitement dies down—and then he'll head for Callisto."
Goodenow pursed his lips. "I see. But you won't find him here."
Vanning jerked his thumb toward a window. "The jungle—"
"Hell, no!" the consul said decidedly. "Venus, Mr. Vanning, is not Earth. We've got about two hundred settlements scattered here and there; the rest is swamp and mountains. When a man gets lost, we wait a few days and then write out a death certificate. Because once an Earthman leaves a settlement, his number's up."
"So?"
"So Callahan isn't here. Nobody comes here," Goodenow said bitterly.
"Settlers do," Vanning remarked.