Vanning shrugged, and his voice was tired. "The only way, Zeeth. I broke the tube that shot the North-Fever virus into the upper air. The virus was released within the city, in tremendous quantity. You know how fast it works. And in this strength—"
"Yes. It strikes quickly."
"Once you've had the fever, you're immune to it ever afterward. So the slaves won't suffer. Only the Swamja. They're getting a dose of their own medicine."
"They go north," Zeeth said. "Out of the city."
It was true. Far in the distance, the Swamja were pouring toward the north gate, and vanishing through the open valves there. Nothing could halt them. The deadly virus they had created was flaming in their veins, and—they went north.
The did not walk; they ran, as though anxious to meet their doom. Through the city they raced, grotesque, hideous figures, unconscious of anything but the terrible, resistless drive that drew them blindly north. Through the north gate, into the pass—
Through the pass—to the lava pits!
Vanning's shoulders slumped. "It's nasty. But—I suppose—"
"Even the gods must die," Zeeth said.
"Yeah.... Well, we've work to do. We'll get food, water, and supplies, and head south for Venus Landing to get help. A small party will do. Then we can commandeer troops and swamp-cats to rescue the slaves from this corner of hell. We can get through to Venus Landing all right—"