The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  When they were settled there and Mhici had poured himself a drink, Smith took one gulp of the red whisky and hummed the opening bars of “Starless Night,” watching the old drylander’s pointed, leathery features. One of Mhici’s eyebrows went up, which was the equivalent of a start of surprise in another man.

  “Starless Nights,” he observed, “are full of danger, Smith.”

  “And of pleasure sometimes, eh?”

  “Ur-r! Not this one.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. And where I do not understand, I keep away.”

  “You’re puzzled too, eh?”

  “Deeply. What happened?”

  Smith told him briefly. He knew that it is proverbial never to trust a drylander, but he felt that old Mhici was the exception. And by the old man’s willingness to come to the point with a minimum of fencing and circumlocution he knew that he must be very perturbed by Judai’s presence in Righa. Old Mhici missed little, and if he was puzzled by her presence Smith felt that his own queer reactions to the Venusian beauty had not been unjustified.

  “I know the box she means,” Mhici told him when he had finished. “There’s the man, over there by the wall. See?”

  Under his brows Smith studied a lean, tall canal-dweller with a deeply scarred face and an air of restless uneasiness. He was drinking some poisonously green concoction and smoking nuari so heavily that the clouds of it veiled his face. Smith grunted contemptuously.

  “If the box is valuable he’s not putting himself into any shape to guard it,” he said. “He’ll be dead asleep in half an hour if he keeps that up.”

  “Look again,” murmured Mhici. And Smith, wondering a little at the dryness of the old man’s voice, turned his head and studied the canal-dweller more carefully.

  This time he saw what had escaped him before. The man was frightened, so frightened that the nuari pouring in and out of his lungs was having little effect. His restless eyes were hot with anxiety, and he had maneuvered his back to the wall so that he could command the whole room as he drank. That in itself, here in Mhici’s place, was flagrant. Mhici’s iron fist and ready gun had established order in The Spaceman’s Rest long ago, and no man in years had dared break it. Mhici commanded not only physical but also moral respect, for his influence with the powers of Righa was exerted not only to furnish immunity to his guests but also to punish peace-breakers. The Spaceman’s Rest was sanctuary. No, for a man to sit with his back to the wall here bespoke terror of something more deadly than guns.

  “They’re following him, you know,” Mhici murmured over the rim of his glass. “He stole that box somewhere along the canals, and now he’s afraid of his shadow. I don’t know what’s in the box, but it’s damn valuable to someone and they’re out to get it at any cost. Do you still want to relieve him of it?”

  Smith squinted at the drylander through narrowed eyes. How old Mhici learned the secrets he knew, no one could guess, but he had never been caught in error. And Smith had little desire to call down upon himself the enmity of whatever perils it was which kindled the fear of death in the canal-dweller’s eyes. Yet curiosity rode him still. The puzzle of Judai was a tantalizing mystery which he felt he must solve.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ve got to know.”

  “I’ll get you the box,” said Mhici suddenly. “I know where he hides it, and there’s a way between here and the house next door that will let me at it in five minutes. Wait here.”

  “No,” said Smith quickly. “That’s not fair to you. I’ll get it.”

  Mhici’s wide mouth curved.

  “I’m in little danger,” he said. “Here in Righa no one would dare—and besides, that way is secret. Wait.”

  Smith shrugged. After all, Mhici knew how to take care of himself. He sat there gulping down segir as he waited, and watching the canal-dweller across the room. Terror played in changing patterns across the scarred face.

  When Mhici reappeared he carried a small wooden crate labeled conspicuously in Venusian characters. Smith translated,

  “Six Pints Segir, Vanda Distilleries, Ednes, Venus.”

  “It’s in this,” murmured Mhici, setting down the box. “You’d better stay here tonight. You know, the back room that opens on the alley.”

  “Thanks,” said Smith in some embarrassment. He was wondering why the old drylander had taken such pains in his behalf. He had expected no more than a few words of warning. “I’ll split the money, you know.”

  Mhici shook his head.

  “I don’t think you’ll get it,” he said candidly. “And I don’t think she really wants the box. Not half so much as she wants you, anyhow. There were any number of men who could have got the box for her. And you remember how she said she’d been looking a long time for someone like yourself. No, it’s the man she wants, I think. And I can’t figure out why.”

  Smith wrinkled his brows and traced a design on the tabletop in spilt segir.

  “I’ve got to know,” he said stubbornly.

  “I’ve passed her in the street. I’ve felt that same revulsion, and I don’t know why. I don’t like this, Smith. But if you feel you have to go through with it, that’s your affair. I’ll help if I can. Let’s drop it, eh? What are you doing tonight? I hear there’s a new dancer at the Lakktal now.”

  Much later, in the shifting light of Mars’ hurrying moons, Smith stumbled up the little alley behind The Spaceman’s Rest and entered the door in the rear of the bar. His head was a bit light with much segir, and the music and the laughter and the sound of dancing feet in the Lakktal’s halls made an echoing beat through his head. He undressed clumsily in the dark and stretched himself with a heavy sigh on the leather couch which is the Martian bed.

  Just before sleep overtook him he found himself remembering Judai’s queer little quirking smile when she said, “I left New York because something called—stronger than love ...” And he thought drowsily, “What is stronger than love? ...” The answer came to him just as he sank into oblivion. “Death.”

  Smith slept late the next day. The tri-time steel watch on his wrist pointed to Martian noon when old Mhici himself pushed open the door and carried in a tray of breakfast.

  “There’s been excitement this morning,” he observed as he set down his burden.

  Smith sat up and stretched luxuriously.

  “What?”

  “The canal man shot himself.”

  Smith’s pale eyes sought out the case labeled “Six Pints Segir” where it stood in the corner of the room. His brows went up in surprise.

  “Is it so valuable as that?” he murmured. “Let’s look at it.”

  Mhici shot the bolts on the two doors as Smith rose from the leather couch and dragged the box into the center of the floor. He pried up the thin board that Mhici had nailed down the night before over the twice-stolen box, and pulled out an object wrapped in brown canvas. With the old drylander bending over his shoulder he unwound the wrappings. For a full minute thereafter he squatted on his heels staring in perplexity at the thing in his hands. It was not large, this little ivory box, perhaps ten inches by four, and four deep. Its intricate drylander carving struck him as remotely familiar, but he had been staring at it for several seconds before it dawned upon him where he had seen those odd spirals and queer twisted characters before. Then he remembered. No wonder they looked familiar, for they had stared down upon him bafflingly from the walls of countless Martian dwellings. He lifted his eyes and saw a band of them circling the walls above him now. But they were large, and these on the box intricately tiny, so that at first glance they looked like the merest waving lines incised delicately all over the box’s surface.

  Not until then, following those crawling lines, did he see that the box had no opening. To all appearances it was not a box at all, but a block of carved ivory. He shook it, and something within shifted slightly, as if it were packed in loose wrappings. But there was no opening anywhere. He turned it over and over, peering and prying, but to no avail. Finally he shr
ugged and wrapped the canvas back about the enigma.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  Mhici shook his head.

  “Great Shar alone can tell,” he murmured half in derision, for Shar is the Venusian god, a friendly deity whose name rises constantly to the lips of the Hot Planet’s dwellers. The god whom Mars worships, openly or in secret, is never named aloud.

  They discussed the puzzle of it off and on the rest of the afternoon. Smith spent the hours restlessly, for he dared not smoke nuari nor drink much, with the interview so close ahead. When the shadows were lengthening along the Lakklan he got into his deerhide coat again and tucked the ivory box into an inner pocket. It was bulky, but not betrayingly so. And he made sure his flame-gun was charged and ready.

  In the late afternoon sun that sparkled blindingly upon the snow crystals blowing along the wind, he went down the Lakklan again with his right hand in his pocket and his eyes raking the street warily under the shadow of his cap. Evidently the pursuers of that box had not traced it, for he was not followed.

  Judai’s house squatted dark and low at the edge of the Lakklan. Smith fought down a rising revulsion as he lifted his hand to knock, but the door swung open before his knuckles had touched the panel. That same shadowy servant beckoned him in. This time he did not put his gun away when he shifted it from his coat pocket. He took the canvas-wrapped box in one hand and the flame-pistol in the other, and the servant opened the door he had passed last night upon the room where Judai was waiting.

  She stood exactly as he had left her in the center of the floor, white and scarlet against the queer traceries on the wall beyond. He had the curious notion that she had not stirred since he left her last night. She moved a little sluggishly as she turned her head and saw him, but it was a lethargy which she quickly overcame. She motioned him toward the divan, taking her seat at his side with the flowing, feline ease of every true Venusian. And as before, he shrank involuntarily from the contact of that fragrant, velvet-sheathed body, with an inner revulsion he could not understand.

  She said nothing, but she held out her two hands cupped up in entreaty, and she did not lift her eyes to his face as she did so. He laid the box in her upturned palm. At that moment for the first time it occurred to him that not once had he met her eyes. She had never lifted those veiling lashes and looked into his. Wondering, he watched.

  She was unwrapping the canvas with quick, delicate motions of her pink-stained fingers. When the box lay bare in her hands she sat quite motionless for a while, her lowered eyes fixed upon the carven block of the thing which had cost at least one life. And her quiet was unnatural, trance-like. He thought she must have ceased to breathe. Not a lash fluttered, not a pulse stirred in her round white wrists as she held the little symbol-traced box up. There was something indescribably horrid in her quiet as she sat and stared, all her being centered in one vast, still concentration upon the ivory box.

  Then he heard such a deep breath rush out through her nostrils that it might have been life itself escaping, a breath that thinned into a high, shuddering hum like the whine of wind through wires. It was not a sound that any human creature could make.

  Without realizing that he had moved, Smith leaped. Of their own volition his muscles tensed into a spring of animal terror away from that high-whining thing on the couch. He found himself half crouched a dozen paces away, his gun steady in a lifted hand and his hair stiffening at the roots as he faced her. For by the thin, high, shuddering noise he knew surely that she was not human.

  For a long instant he crouched there, taut, feeling his scalp crawl with a prickling terror as his pale eyes searched for some reason in this madness which had come over them both. She still sat rigid, with lowered eyes, but though she had not stirred, something told him unerringly that his first instinct had been right, his first intuitive flinching from her hand on his arm—she was not human. Warm white flesh and fragrant hair and subtle, curving roundness of her under velvet, all this was camouflage to conceal—to conceal—he could not guess what, but he knew that loveliness for a lie, and all down his back the nerves tingled with man’s involuntary shudder from the unknown.

  She rose. Cradling the ivory box against the sweet high curve of her bosom, she moved slowly forward, her lashes making two dim crescents on her exquisitely tinted cheeks. He had never seen her lovelier, or more hideously repulsive. For in some obscure part of his brain he knew that the humanity which she had clutched like a cloak about her was being dropped. In another instant ...

  She paused before him, very near, so near that the muzzle of his half-forgotten gun was pressed against the velvet that sheathed her body, and the fragrance of her rose in a vague cloud to his nostrils. For one tense instant they stood so, she with lowered lashes, cradling her ivory box, he rigid with prickling revulsion, gun nosing her side, pale eyes set in a narrow-lidded stare as he waited shudderingly for what must come next. In the split second before her eyelids rose, he wanted overwhelmingly to fling up a hand and shut out the sight of what lay behind them, to run blindly out of the room and out of the house and never stop until the doors of The Spaceman’s Rest closed shelteringly upon him. He could not stir. Caught in a frozen trance, he stared. The lashes fluttered. Slowly, very slowly, her lids rose.

  The cold shock that jolted him into incredulity then made every detail of the picture so clear that he was never to forget, no matter how hard he tried, the vividness of that first glimpse into Judai’s eyes. Yet for a full minute he did not realize what he saw. It was too incredible for the brain to grasp. With thickly beating heart he stood rigid, staring into the weird face turned to his.

  From under those deep-curved lashes looked out no such luminous depths of darkness as he had expected. There were no eyes behind Judai’s creamy lids. Instead he was looking into two lash-fringed, almond-shaped pits of gray smoke, smoke that seethed and shifted and boiled within itself, unresting as smoke from the fires of hell. He knew then that there dwelt in the curved and milk-white body which had been Judai’s a thing more evil than any devil hells fire ever spawned. How it came into that body he never knew, but he did know that the real Judai was gone. Looking into that restlessly seething smoky blindness, he was sure of that, and revulsion surged through him as he strained at his own body for the will to blast this hell-tenanted beauty into nothingness, and could not stir. Helpless in the frozen grip of his own horror, he watched.

  She—it stood straight before him, staring blankly. And he was aware of a slow seepage from the gray pits of the eyes. Smoke was curling out into the room in delicate whirls and plumes. Sickness came over him as he realized it, and an extravagant terror, for it was not the sweet-smelling, clean smoke of fire. There was no physically perceptible odor to it, but from the unspeakably evil stench his very soul shuddered away. He could smell evil, taste it, perceive it with more senses than he knew he possessed, despite the intangibility of the swirling stuff that billowed now in deepening waves from under the lash-fringed lids that once had been Judai’s. Once before he had been dimly aware of this, when he had looked back as he left, the night before, to see that vague gray veiling a woman’s milk-whiteness in obscurity that was somehow—unpleasant. Even that remote hinting at what he saw now in full strength had been enough to send a warning shudder through him. But now—now it billowed about him in thickening deeps through which he could scarcely make out the pale shape of the figure before him, and the grayness was seeping through his body and mind and soul with a touch more dreadful than the touch of every ugly thing in creation. It was not tangible, but it was slimmer and more unclean than anything he could have named. Not upon his flesh but upon his soul that wet slime crawled.

  Dimly through the swirl of it he saw the lips of Judai’s body move. A ghost of a voice fluted into the grayness, a sweet, rich, throbbing thread of sound. So lovely had been Judai’s voice that even the horror which stirred it now into speech could not evoke discords from a throat that had never uttered any sound but music.


  “I am ready to take you now, Northwest Smith. The time has come to discard this body and these ways of seduction and put on a man’s strength and straightforwardness, so that I may complete what I came to do. I shall not need it long, but your force and vitality I must have before I surrender them up to mighty—. And then I may go forth in my true form to bring the worlds under great—’s reign.”

  Smith blinked. There had been a gap in her words where he should have heard a name, but it had not been a gap of silence. Her lips had moved, though no sound came forth, and the air shook with a wordless cadence so deeply stirring that he felt involuntary awe—if it were possible to feel awe at the utterance of a word without sound.

  That sweetly murmurous voice was whispering through the fog that had thickened now until he could scarcely see the outlines of the figure before him.

  “I have waited so long for you, Northwest Smith—for a man with a body and a brain like yours, to serve my needs. I take you now, in great—’s name. In that name, I bid you surrender your body. Go!”

  The last word cracked through the mist, and abruptly blindness swept over him. His feet no longer pressed the floor. He was wallowing in a fog of such revolting horror that his very soul writhed within him for escape. Slimily the gray stuff seeped through his being, crawling and sliding and oozing, and the touch of it upon his brain was a formless madness, so that the soul which shuddered from such indescribable dreadfulness would have fled into hell itself to escape.

  Dimly he knew what was happening. His body was being made untenable to force his consciousness to leave it. And knowing this, realizing what its portent was, yet he found himself struggling desperately for release. The crawling ooze was a slime upon his very soul. There could be no alternative so frightful as this sickening reality. Madness was in the frightened writhing of self to escape the horror that enfolded him. Frantically he fought for release.