"Aw, shut up," Sanderson snapped. "You give me the leapin' creeps. Let's get some sleep. We've got to attend the festival tonight."
"What's that?" Vanning asked.
The mild-faced Hobbs answered him. "A religious ceremony. Just do what you're told, and you'll be all right."
"Just that, eh?"
"Our people have learned to bow our heads to Fate," Zeeth murmured. "We are not fighters. Pain is horrible to us. You call us cowards. From your standards, that is true. Only by bowing to the great winds have we managed to survive."
"Shut up and let me sleep," Sanderson ordered, and relaxed his heavy body on a bunk. The others followed his example, all but Vanning, who sat silently thinking as hour after hour dragged past.
The door opened at last, and a Swamja stood on the threshold. He wore the familiar costume of the race, but there was an oddly-shaped gun in a holster at his side.
"Time!" he barked in the Venusian dialect. "Hasten! You—" He pointed to Vanning. "Follow me. The others know where to go."
The detective silently rose and followed the Swamja into the huge room. It was filled now, he saw, with natives and with Earthmen, hurrying here and there like disturbed ants. There were no other Swamja, however.
One of the Venusians stumbled and fell. He was a thin, haggard specimen of his species, and how he had ever survived the trip north Vanning could not guess. Perhaps he had been in this lost city for years, and had been drained of his vitality by weeks of arduous servitude. He fell....