"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."