The buildings grew sparser and ceased at the edge of the pale forest. Broad-leafed jungle growths sprang from moist black soil. The ricksha stopped; the native chattered in his own tongue.
"Sure," Goodenow said, tossing him a coin. "Wait here. Zan-t'kshan." His burly figure lumbered into the translucent twilight of the jungle. Vanning was at his heels.
There were footprints—many of them. The detective ignored them, moving in a straight line away from Venus Landing. Here and there were blazed mola trees, some with buckets hung to collect the dripping sap. The footprints grew fainter. At last only one set remained visible.
"A man. Pretty heavy-set, too. Wearing Earth shoes, not sandals like most of ours. Callahan, probably."
Vanning nodded. "He didn't come back by this route."
"He didn't come back," Goodenow said shortly. "This is a one-way trail."
"Well, I'm going after him."
"It's suicidal. But—I suppose I can't talk you out of it?"
"You can't."
"Well, come back to town and I'll find you an outfit. Supplies and a hack-knife. Maybe I can find some men willing to go with you."