"We'll just amble around. Hi!" The consul hailed a ricksha, drawn by a native—the usual type of vehicle in Venus Landing's muddy streets. "Hop in, Vanning."
The detective obeyed. His headache was getting worse.
They couldn't find Callahan. A few men said that they had seen him earlier that day. Someone had glimpsed him on the outskirts of the settlement.
"Heading for the jungle?" Goodenow asked quickly.
"He—yeah. He looked ... very bad."
The consul sucked in his breath. "I wonder. Let's go out that way, Vanning."
"All right. What do you figure—"
"The fever, maybe," Goodenow grunted. "It strikes fast. Especially to non-natives. If your friend Callahan's caught North-Fever, he just started walking into the swamp and forgot to stop. You can mark the case closed."
"Not till I get that treaty back," Vanning growled.
Goodenow shook his head doubtfully.