by C. L. Moore
Something cracked in Smith’s consciousness. If Mhici reached the wall, all his struggles would be for nothing. With that nourishment the name might enter. Well, at any rate he could save himself—perhaps. He must die before that happened. And with all the strength that was in him summoned up in one last despairing surge he crowded the Thing that dwelt with him momentarily out of control, and fell upon Mhici with clawed hands clutching for his throat.
Whether the old drylander understood or not, whether he could see in the pale eyes that had been his friend’s the slow writhing of the Thing, Smith could not guess. He saw the horror and incredulity upon the leathery features of the Martian as he lunged, and then, in blessed relief, felt wiry fingers at his own neck. Yet he knew that Mhici was striving not to injure him, and he struggled in desperation to lash the old drylander into self-defensive fury. He struck and gouged and tore, and felt in overwhelming relief the old man’s strong grip tighten at last about his neck.
He relaxed then in the oncoming oblivion of those releasing fingers.
From very far away a hoarse voice calling his name dragged Smith up through layer upon layer of cloudy nothingness. He opened heavy eyes and stared. Gradually old Mhici’s anxious face swam into focus above him. Segir was burning in his mouth. He swallowed automatically, and the pain of his bruised throat as the fiery liquid went down roused him into full consciousness. He struggled to a sitting position, pressing one hand to his reeling head and blinking dazedly about.
He lay upon the dark stone floor where oblivion had overtaken him. The patterned walls looked down. His heart suddenly leaped into thick beating. He twisted round, seeking that wall which had oozed grayness through a door that opened upon Outside. And with such relief that he sank back against Mhici’s shoulder in sudden weakness, he saw that the Unnamable One no longer billowed out into the room. Instead, that wall was a cracked and charred ruin down which long streams of half-melted rock were congealing. The room was pungent and choking with the odor of a flame-gun’s blast.
He turned questioning eyes to Mhici, croaking something inarticulate in the depths of his swollen throat.
“I—I burnt it,” said Mhici in a strange half-shame.
Smith jerked his head round again and stared at the ruined wall, a hot chagrin flooding over him. Of course, if the pattern were destroyed, that door would close through which the One which bore the name was entering. Somehow that had never occurred to him. Somehow he had wholly forgotten that a flame-gun was sheathed under his arm during all the long struggle he had held with the Thing co-dwelling in his body. He realized in a moment why. The awful power which in his bodiless state had thundered about him from that infinity of might which bore the name was so measureless that the very thought of a flame-gun seemed too futile to dwell upon. But Mhici had not known. He had never felt that vast furnace-blast of force beating about him. And quite simply, with one flash of his ray-gun, he had closed the door to Outside.
His voice was beating insistently in Smith’s ears, shaking with emotion and reaction, and cracking a little now and then like the voice of an old man. For the first time old Mhici was showing his age.
“What happened? What in your own God’s name—no, don’t tell me now. Don’t try to talk. I—I—you can tell me later.” And then rapidly, in disjointed sentences, as if he were talking to drown out the sound of his own thoughts, “Perhaps I can guess—never mind. Hope I haven’t hurt you. You must have been crazy, Smith. Better now? After you—you—when I saw you on the floor, there was a—well, a fog, I guess—thick as slime, that came rolling up from you like—I can’t say what. And suddenly I was mad. That awful gray, rolling out of the wall—I don’t know what happened. First I knew I was blazing away into the depths of it, and then the wall beyond cracked and melted, and the whole fog mass was fading out. Don’t know why. Don’t know what happened then. I must have been—out—a little while myself. It’s gone now. I don’t know why, but it’s gone ...
“Here, have some more segir.”
Smith stared up at him unseeingly. A vague wonder was circling in his mind as to why the Thing that had tenanted his body surrendered. Perhaps Mhici had choked life out of that body, so that the Thing had to flee and his own consciousness could enter unopposed. Perhaps—he gave it up. He was too tired to think at all. He sighed deeply and reached for the segir bottle.
-
YVALA
Northwest Smith 08
Weird Tales – February 1936
with Amaryllis Ackerman
NORTHWEST SMITH LEANED against a pile of hemp-wrapped bales from the Martian drylands and stared with expressionless eyes, paler than pale steel, over the confusion of the Lakkdarol spaceport before him. In the clear Martian day the tatters of his leather spaceman’s garb were pitilessly plain, the ray-burns and the rents of a hundred casual brawls. It was evident at a glance that Smith had fallen upon evil days. One might have guessed by the shabbiness of his clothing that his pockets were empty, the charge in his ray-gun low.
Squatting on his heels beside the lounging Earthman, Yarol the Venusian bent his yellow head absently over the thin-bladed dagger which he was juggling in one of the queer, interminable Venusian games so pointless to outsiders. Upon him too the weight of ill fortune seemed to have pressed heavily. It was eloquent in his own shabby garments, his empty holster. But the insouciant face he lifted to Smith was as careless as ever, and no more of weariness and wisdom and pure cat-savagery looked out from his sidelong black eyes than Smith was accustomed to see there. Yarol’s face was the face of a seraph, as so many Venusian faces are likely to be, but the set of his mouth told a tale of dissoluteness and reckless violence which belied his features’ racial good looks.
“Another half-hour and we eat,” he grinned up at his tall companion.
Smith glanced at the tri-time watch on his wrist.
“If you haven’t been having another dope dream,” he grunted. “Luck’s been against us so long I can’t quite believe in a change now.”
“By Pharol I swear it,” smiled Yarol. “The man came up to me in the New Chicago last night and told me in so many words how much money was waiting if we’d meet him here at noon.”
Smith grunted again and deliberately took up another notch in the belt that circled his lean waist. Yarol laughed softly, a murmur of true Venusian sweetness, as he bent again to the juggling of his knife. Above his bent blond head Smith looked out again across the busy port.
Lakkdarol is an Earthman’s town upon Martian soil, blending all the more violent elements of both worlds in its lawless heart, and the scene he watched had under-currents that only a ranger of the spaceways could fully appreciate. A semblance of discipline is maintained there, but only the space-rangers know how superficial that likeness is. Smith grinned a little to himself, knowing that the bales being trundled down the gangplank from the Martian liner Inghti carried a core of that precious Martian “lamb’s-wool” on which the duties run so high. And a whisper had run through the New Chicago last night as they sat over their segir-whisky glasses that the shipment of grain from Denver expected in at noon on the Friedland would have a copious leavening of opium in its heart. By devious ways, in whispers running from mouth to mouth covertly through the spaceman’s rendezvous, the outlaws of the spaceways glean more knowledge than the Patrol ever knows.
Smith watched a little air-freight vessel, scarcely a quarter the size of the monstrous ships of the Lines, rolling sluggishly out from the municipal hangar far across the square, and a little frown puckered his brows. The ship bore only the noncommercial numerals which all the freighters carry by way of identification, but that particular sequence was notorious among the initiate. The ship was a slaver.
This dealing in human freight had received a great impetus at the stimulation of space-travel, when the temptation presented by the savage tribes on alien planets was too great to be ignored by unscrupulous Earthmen who saw vast fields opening up before them. For even upon Earth slaving has never died ent
irely, and Mars and Venus knew a small and legitimate traffic in it before John Willard and his gang of outlaws made the very word “slaving” anathema on three worlds. The Willards still ran their pirate convoys along the spaceways three generations later, and Smith knew he was looking at one now, smuggling a cargo of misery out of Lakkdarol for distribution among the secret markets of Mars.
Further meditations on the subject were cut short by Yarol’s abrupt rise to his feet. Smith turned his head slowly and saw a little man at their elbow, his rotundity cloaked in a long mantle like those affected by the lower class of Martian shopkeepers in their walks abroad. But the face that peered up into his was frankly Celtic. Smith’s expressionless features broke reluctantly into a grin as he met the irrepressible good-humor on that fat Irish face from home. He had not set foot upon Earth’s soil for over a year now—the price on his liberty was too high in his native land—and curious pricks of homesickness came over him at the oddest moments. Even the toughest of space-rangers know them sometimes. The ties with the home planet are strong.
“You Smith?” demanded the little man in a rich Celtic voice.
Smith looked down at him a moment in cold-eyed silence. There was much more in that query than met the ear. Northwest Smith’s name was one too well known in the annals of the Patrol for him to acknowledge it incautiously. The little Irishman’s direct question implied what he had been expecting—if he acknowledged the name he met the man on the grounds of outlawry, which would mean that the employment in prospect was to be as illegal as he had thought it would be.
The merry blue eyes twinkled up at him. The man was laughing to himself at the Celtic subtlety with which he had introduced his subject. And again, involuntarily, Smith’s straight mouth relaxed into a reluctant grin.
“I am,” he said.
“I’ve been looking for you. There’s a job to be done that’ll pay you well, if you want to risk it.”
Smith’s pale eyes glanced about them warily. No one was within earshot. The place seemed as good as any other for the discussion of extra-legal bargains.
“What is it?” he demanded.
The little man glanced down at Yarol, who had dropped to one knee again and was flicking his knife tirelessly in the intricacies of his queer game. He had apparently lost interest in the whole proceeding.
“It’ll take the both of you,” said the Irishman in his merry, rich voice. “Do you see that air freighter loading over there?” and he nodded toward the slaver.
Smith’s head jerked in mute acknowledgment.
“It’s a Willard ship, as I suppose you know. But the business is running pretty low these days. Cargoes too hot to ship. The Patrol is shutting down hard, and receipts have slackened like the devil in the last year. I suppose you’ve heard that too.”
Smith nodded again without words. He had.
“Well, what we lose in quantity we have to make up in quality. Remember the prices Minga girls used to bring?”
Smith’s face was expressionless. He remembered very well indeed, but he said nothing.
“Along toward the last, kings could hardly pay the price they were asking for those girls. That’s really the best market, if you want to get into the ‘ivory’ trade. Women. And there you come in. Did you ever hear of Cembre?”
Blank-eyed, Smith shook his head. For once he had run across a name whose rumors he had never encountered before in all the tavern gossip.
“Well, on one of Jupiter’s moons—which one I’ll tell you later, if you decide to accept—a Venusian named Cembre was wrecked years ago. By a miracle he survived and managed to escape; but the hardships he’d undergone unsettled his mind, and he couldn’t do much but rave about the beautiful sirens he’d seen while he was wandering through the jungles there. Nobody paid any attention to him until the same thing happened again, this time only about a month ago. Another man came back half-cracked from struggling through the jungles, babbling about women so beautiful a man could go mad just looking at them.
“Well, the Willards heard of it. The whole thing may sound like a pipe-dream, but they’ve got the idea it’s worth investigating. And they can afford to indulge their whims, you know. So they’re outfitting a small expedition to see what basis there may be for the myth of Cembre’s sirens. If you want to try it, you’re hired.”
Smith slanted a non-committal glance downward into Yarol’s uplifted black gaze. Neither spoke.
“You’ll want to talk it over,” said the little Irishman comprehendingly. “Suppose you meet me in the New Chicago at sundown and tell me what you’ve decided.”
“Good enough,” grunted Smith. The fat Celt grinned again and was gone in a swirl of black cloak and a flash of Irish merriment.
“Cold-blooded little devil,” murmured Smith, looking after the departing Earthman. “It’s a dirty business, Yarol.”
“Money’s clean,” observed Yarol lightly. “And I’m not a man to let my scruples stand in the way of my meals. I say take it. Someone’ll go, and it might as well be us.”
Smith shrugged.
“We’ve got to eat,” he admitted.
“This,” murmured Yarol, staring downward on hands and knees at the edge of space-ship’s floor-port, “is the prettiest little hell I ever expect to see.”
The vessel was arching in a long curve around the Jovian moon as its pilot braked slowly for descent, and a panorama of ravening jungle slipped by in an unchanging wilderness below the floor-port.
Their presence here, skimming through the upper atmosphere of the wild little satellite, was the end of a long series of the smoothest journeying either had ever known. The Willard network was perfect over the three planets and the colonized satellites beyond, and over the ships that ply the spaceways. This neat little exploring vessel, with its crew of three coarse-faced, sullen slavers, had awaited them at the end of their journey outward from Lakkdarol, fully fitted with supplies and every accessory the most modern adventurer could desire. It even had a silken prison room for the hypothetical sirens whom they were to carry back for the Willard approval and the Willard markets if the journey proved successful.
“It’s been easy so far,” observed Smith, squinting downward over the little Venusian’s shoulder. “Can’t expect everything, you know. But that is a bad-looking place.”
The dull-faced pilot at the controls grunted in fervent agreement as he craned his neck to watch the little world spinning below them.
“Damn’ glad I’m not goin’ out with you,” he articulated thickly over a mouthful of tobacco.
Yarol flung him a cheerful Venusian anathema in reply, but Smith did not speak. He had little liking and less trust in this sullen and silent crew. If he was not mistaken—and he rarely made mistakes in his appraisal of men—there was going to be trouble with the three before they completed their journey back into civilization. Now he turned his broad back to the pilot and stared downward.
From above, the moon seemed covered with the worst type of semi-animate, ravenous super-tropical jungle, reeking with fertility and sudden death, hot under lurid Jupiter’s blaze. They saw no signs of human life anywhere below as their ship swept in its long curve over the jungle. The tree-tops spread in an unbroken blanket over the whole sphere of the satellite. Yarol, peering downward, murmured,
“No water. Somehow I always expect sirens to have fishtails.”
Out of his queer, heterogeneous past Smith dragged a fragment of ancient verse, “—gulfs enchanted, where the sirens sing ...” and said aloud,
“They’re supposed to sing, too. Oh, it’ll probably turn out to be a pack of ugly savages, if there’s anything but delirium behind the story.”
The ship was spiraling down now, and the jungle rushed up to meet them at express-train speed. Once again the little moon spun under their searching eyes, flower-garlanded, green with fertile life, massed solid in tangles of ravening growth. Then the pilot’s hands closed hard on the controls and with a shriek of protesting atmosphere the little space-shi
p slid in a long dive toward the unbroken jungle below.
In a great crashing and crackling they sank groundward through smothers of foliage that masked the ports and plunged the interior of the ship into a green twilight. With scarcely an impact the jungle floor received them. The pilot leaned back in his seat and heaved a tobacco-redolent sigh. His work was done. Incuriously he glanced at the forward port.
Yarol was scrambling up from the floor-glass that now showed nothing but crushed vines and branches and the reeking mud of the moon’s surface. He joined Smith and the pilot at the forward port.
They were submerged in jungle. Great serpentine branches and vines like cables looped downward in broken lengths from the shattered trees which had given way at their entrance. It was an animate jungle, full of hungry, reaching things that sprang in one wild, prolific tangle from the rich mud. Raw-colored flowers, yards across, turned sucking mouths blindly against the glass here and there, trickles of green juice slavering down the clear surface from their insensate hunger. A thorn-fanged vine lashed out as they stood staring and slid harmlessly along the glass, lashed again and again blindly until the prongs were dulled and green juice bled from its bruised surfaces.
“Well, we’ll have blasting to do after all,” murmured Smith as he looked out into the ravenous jungle. “No wonder those poor devils came back a little cracked. I don’t see how they got through at all. It’s—”
“Well—Pharol take me!” breathed Yarol in so reverent a whisper that Smith’s voice broke off in mid-sentence and he spun around with a hand dropping to his gun to front the little Venusian, who had sought the stern port in his exploration.