The Science Fiction Megapack

by Bova, Ben; Brown, Frederic

“Then you haven’t had anything for — why, more than twenty-four hours! You must be starved.”

  “Not hungry,” she denied.

  “What can I find for you to eat, then? There’s time yet if I hurry. You’ve got to eat, child.”

  “I shall — eat,” she said softly. “Before long — I shall — feed. I — have no worry.”

  She turned away, then, and stood at the window looking out over the moonlit landscape as if to end the conversation. Smith cast her a puzzled glance as he opened the can of roast beef. There had been an odd undernote in that assurance that, indefinably, he did not like. And the girl had teeth and tongue and presumably a fairly human digestive system, to judge from her form. It was nonsense for her to pretend that he could find nothing that she could eat. She must have had some of the food concentrate after all, he decided, prying up the thermos lid of the inner container to release the long-sealed savor of the hot meat inside.

  “Well, if you won’t eat, you won’t,” he observed philosophically as he poured hot broth and diced beef into the dishlike lid of the thermos can and extracted the spoon from its hiding-place between the inner and outer receptacles. She turned a little to watch him as he pulled up a rickety chair and sat down to the food, and after a while the realization that her green gaze was fixed so unwinkingly upon him made the man nervous, and he said between bites of creamy canal-apple, “Why don’t you try a little of this? It’s good.”

  “The food — I eat is — better,” her soft voice told him in its hesitant murmur, and again he felt rather than heard a faint undernote of unpleasantness in the words. A sudden suspicion struck him as he pondered on that last remark — some vague memory of horror-tales told about campfires in the past — and he swung round in the chair to look at her, a tiny, creeping fear unaccountably arising. There had been that in her words — in her unspoken words — that menaced.

  She stood up beneath his gaze demurely, wide green eyes with their pulsing pupils meeting his without a falter. But her mouth was scarlet and her teeth were sharp. . . .

  “What food do you eat?” he demanded. And then, after a pause, very softly, “Blood?”

  She stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending; then something like amusement curled her lips, and she said scornfully, “You think me — vampire, eh? No — I am Shambleau!”

  Unmistakably, there were scorn and amusement in her voice at the suggestion, but as unmistakably she knew what he meant — accepted it as a logical suspicion — vampires! Fairy-tales — but fairy-tales this unhuman, outland creature was most familiar with. Smith was not a credulous man, nor a superstitious one, but he had seen too many strange things himself to doubt that the wildest legend might have a basis of fact. And there was something namelessly strange about her . . .

  He puzzled over it for a while between deep bites of the canal-apple. And though he wanted to question her about a great many things, he did not, for he knew how futile it would be.

  He said nothing more until the meat was finished, and another canal-apple had followed the first, and he had cleared away the meal by the simple expedient of tossing the empty can out of the window. Then he lay back in the chair and surveyed her from half closed eyes, colorless in a face tanned like saddle-leather. And again he was conscious of the brown, soft curves of her, velvety-subtle arcs and planes of smooth flesh under the tatters of scarlet leather. Vampire she might be, unhuman she certainly was, but desirable beyond words as she sat, submissive beneath his low regard, her red-turbaned head bent, her clawed fingers lying in her lap. They sat very still for a while, and the silence throbbed between them.

  She was so like a woman — an Earth woman — sweet and submissive and demure, and softer than soft fur, if he could forget the three-fingered claws and the pulsing eyes — and that deeper strangeness beyond words. . . . Had he dreamed that red lock of hair that moved? Had it been segir that woke the wild revulsion he knew when he held her in his arms? Why had the mob so thirsted for her?

  He sat and stared, and despite the mystery of her and the half suspicions that thronged his mind — for she was so beautifully soft and curved under those revealing tatters — he slowly realized that his pulses were mounting, became aware of a kindling within . . . brown girl-creature with downcast eyes . . . and then the lids lifted, and the green flatness of a cat’s gaze met his, and last night’s revulsion woke swiftly again like a warning bell that clanged as their eyes met — animal, after all, too sleek and soft for humanity, and that inner strangeness . . .

  Smith shrugged and sat up. His failings were legion, but weakness of the flesh was not among the major ones. He motioned the girl to her pallet of blankets in the corner and turned to his own bed.

  * * *

  From deeps of sound sleep, he awoke much later. He awoke suddenly and completely and with that inner excitement that presages something momentous.

  He awoke to brilliant moonlight, turning the room so bright that he could see the scarlet of the girl’s rags as she sat up on her pallet. She was awake, she was sitting with her shoulder half turned to him and her head bent, and some warning instinct crawled coldly up his spine as he watched what she was doing. And yet it was a very ordinary thing for a girl to do — any girl, anywhere. She was unbinding her turban. . . .

  He watched, not breathing, a presentiment of something horrible stirring in his brain, inexplicably. . . . The red folds loosened, and — he knew then that he had not dreamed — again a scarlet lock swung down against her cheek. . . a hair, was it? A lock of hair? Thick as a worm it fell, plumply, against that smooth cheek, more scarlet than blood and thick as a crawling worm . . . and, like a worm, it crawled.

  Smith rose on an elbow, not realizing the motion, and fixed an unwinking stare, with a sort of sick, fascinated incredulity, on that — that lock of — hair. He had not dreamed. Until now he had taken it for granted that it was the segir which had made it seem to move on that evening before. But now . . . it was lengthening, stretching, moving of itself. It must be hair, but it crawled; with a sickening life of its own, it squirmed down against her cheek, caressingly, revoltingly, impossibly. . . . Wet, it was, and round and thick and shining. . . .

  She unfastened the last fold and whipped the turban off. From what he saw then, Smith would have turned his eyes away — and he had looked on dreadful things before, without flinching — but he could not stir. He could only lie there on his elbow staring at the mass of scarlet, squirming — worms, hairs, what? — that writhed over her head in a dreadful mockery of ringlets. And it was lengthening, falling, somehow growing before his eyes, down over her shoulders in a spilling cascade, a mass that even at the beginning could never have been hidden under the skull-tight turban she had worn. He was beyond wondering, but he realized that. And still it squirmed and lengthened and fell, and she shook it out in a horrible travesty of a woman shaking out her unbound hair until the unspeakable tangle of it — twisting, writhing, obscenely scarlet — hung to her waist and beyond, and still lengthened, an endless mass of crawling horror that until now, somehow, impossibly, had been hidden under the tight-bound turban. It was like a nest of blind, restless red worms . . . it was — it was like naked entrails endowed with an unnatural aliveness, terrible beyond words.

  Smith lay in the shadows, frozen without and within in a sick numbness that came of utter shock and revulsion.

  She shook out the obscene, unspeakable tangle over her shoulders, and somehow he knew that she was going to turn in a moment and that he must meet her eyes. The thought of that meeting stopped his heart with dread more awfully than anything else in this nightmare horror, for nightmare it must surely be. But he knew without trying that he could not wrench his eyes away — the sickened fascination of that sight held him motionless, and somehow there was a certain beauty. . . .

  Her head was turning. The crawling awfulnesses rippled and squirmed at the motion, writhing thick and wet and shining over the soft brown shoulders about which they fell now in obscene cascades that all but hid her
body, Her head was turning. Smith lay numb. And very slowly, he saw the round of her cheek foreshorten and her profile come into view, all the scarlet horrors twisting ominously, and the profile shortened in turn and her full face came slowly round toward the bed — moonlight shining brilliantly as day on the pretty girl face, demure and sweet, framed in tangled obscenity that crawled. . . .

  The green eyes met his. He felt a perceptible shock, and a shudder rippled down his paralyzed spine, leaving an icy numbness in its wake. He felt the gooseflesh rising. But that numbness and cold horror he scarcely realized, for the green eyes were locked with his in a long, long look that somehow presaged nameless things — not altogether unpleasant things — the voiceless voice of her mind assailing him with little murmurous promises. . . .

  For a moment, he went down into a blind abyss of submission; and then somehow the very sight of that obscenity, in eyes that did not then realize they saw it, was dreadful enough to draw him out of the seductive darkness . . . the sight of her crawling and alive with unnamable horror.

  She rose, and down about her in a cascade fell the squirming scarlet of — of what grew upon her head. It fell in a long, alive cloak to her bare feet on the floor, hiding her in a wave of dreadful, wet, writhing life. She put up her hands and, like a swimmer, she parted the waterfall of it, tossing the masses back over her shoulders to reveal her own brown body, sweetly curved. She smiled exquisitely, and in waves from her forehead and down about her in a hideous background writhed the snaky wetness of her living tresses. And Smith knew that he looked upon Medusa.

  The knowledge of that — the realization of vast backgrounds reaching into misted history — shook him out of his frozen horror for a moment, and in that moment he met her eyes again, smiling, green as glass in the moonlight, half hooded under drooping lids. Through the twisting scarlet she held out her arms. And there was something soul-shakingly desirable about her, so that all the blood surged to his head suddenly, and he stumbled to his feet like a sleeper in a dream as she swayed toward him, infinitely graceful, infinitely sweet in her cloak of living horror.

  And somehow there was beauty in it — the wet scarlet writhings, with moonlight sliding and shining along the thick, worm-round tresses and losing itself in the masses only to glint again and move silvery along writhing tendrils — an awful, shuddering beauty more dreadful than any ugliness could be.

  But all this, again, he but half realized, for the insidious murmur was coiling again through his brain, promising, caressing, alluring, sweeter than honey; and the green eyes that held his were clear and burning like the depths of a jewel, and behind the pulsing slits of darkness, he was staring into a greater dark that held all things. . . . He had known — dimly he had known when he first gazed into those flat animal shallows — that behind them lay this — all beauty and terror, all horror and delight — in the infinite darkness upon which her eyes opened like windows, paned with emerald glass.

  Her lips moved, and in a murmur that blended indistinguishably with the silence and the sway of her body and the dreadful sway of her — her hair — she whispered — very softly, very passionately, “I shall — speak to you now — in my own tongue — oh, beloved!”

  And, in her living cloak, she swayed to him, the murmur swelling seductive and caressing in his innermost brain — promising, compelling, sweeter than sweet. His flesh crawled to the horror of her, but it was a perverted revulsion that clasped what it loathed. His arms slid round her under the sliding cloak, wet, wet and warm and hideously alive — and the sweet, velvet body was clinging to his, her arms locked about his neck — and with a whisper and a rush, the unspeakable horror closed about them both.

  * * *

  In nightmare until he died, he remembered that moment when the living tresses of Shambleau first folded him in their embrace. A nauseous, smothering odor as the wetness shut around him — thick, pulsing worms clasping every inch of his body, sliding, writhing, their wetness and warmth striking through his garments as if he stood naked to their embrace.

  All this in a graven instant — and after that a tangled flash of conflicting sensation before oblivion closed over him. For he remembered the dream — and knew it for nightmare reality now, and the sliding, gently moving caresses of those wet, warm worms upon his flesh was an ecstasy above words — that deeper ecstasy that strikes beyond the body and beyond the mind and tickles the very roots of the soul with unnatural delight. So he stood, rigid as marble, as helplessly stony as any of Medusa’s victims in ancient legends were, while the terrible pleasure of Shambleau thrilled and shuddered through every fiber of him; through every atom of his body and the intangible atoms of what men call the soul, through all that was Smith the dreadful pleasure ran. And it was truly dreadful. Dimly he knew it, even as his body answered to the root-deep ecstasy, a foul and dreadful wooing from which his very soul shuddered away — and yet in the innermost depths of that soul some grinning traitor shivered with delight. But deeply, behind all this, he knew horror and revulsion and despair beyond telling, while the intimate caresses crawled obscenely in the secret places of his soul — knew that the soul should not be handled — and shook with perilous pleasure through it all.

  And this conflict and knowledge, this mingling of rapture and revulsion, all took place in the flashing of a moment, while the scarlet worms coiled and crawled upon him, sending deep, obscene tremors of that infinite pleasure into every atom that made up Smith. And he could not stir in that slimy, ecstatic embrace — and a weakness was flooding that grew deeper after each succeeding wave of intense delight, and the traitor in his soul strengthened and drowned out the revulsion — and something within him ceased to struggle as he sank wholly into a blazing darkness that was oblivion to all else but that devouring rapture.

  * * *

  The young Venusian climbing the stairs to his friend’s lodging-room pulled out his key absentmindedly, a pucker forming between his fine brows. He was slim, as all Venusians are, as fair and sleek as any of them, and as with most of his countrymen, the look of cherubic innocence on his face was wholly deceptive. He had the face of a fallen angel, without Lucifer’s majesty to redeem it; for a black devil grinned in his eyes, and there were faint lines of ruthlessness and dissipation about his mouth to tell of the long years behind him that had run the gamut of experiences and made his name, next to Smith’s, the most hated and the most respected in the records of the Patrol.

  He mounted the stairs now with a puzzled frown between his eyes. He had come into Lakkdarol on the noon liner — the Maid in the hold very skillfully disguised with paint and otherwise — to find in lamentable disorder the affairs he had expected to be settled. And cautious inquiry elicited the information that Smith had not been seen for three days. That was not like his friend — he had never failed before, and the two stood to lose not only a large sum of money, but also their personal safety by the inexplicable lapse on the part of Smith. Yarol could think of one solution only: fate had at last caught up with his friend. Nothing but physical disability could explain it.

  Still puzzling, he fitted his key in the lock and swung the door open.

  In that first moment, as the door opened, he sensed something very wrong. . . . The room was darkened, and for a while he could see nothing, but at the first breath he scented a strange unnamable odor, half sickening, half sweet. And deep stirrings of ancestral memory awoke within him — ancient swamp-born memories from Venusian ancestors far away and long ago. . . .

  Yarol laid his hand on his gun lightly and opened the door wider. In the dimness, all he could see at first was a curious mound in the far corner. . . . Then his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he saw it more clearly, a mound that somehow heaved and stirred within itself. . . . A mound of — he caught his breath sharply — a mound like a mass of entrails, living, moving, writhing with an unspeakable aliveness. Then a hot Venusian oath broke from his lips, and he cleared the door-sill in a swift stride, slammed the door and set his back against it, gun ready in
his hand, although his flesh crawled — for he knew. . . .

  “Smith!” he said softly, in a voice thick with horror. “Northwest!”

  The moving mass stirred — shuddered — sank back into crawling quiescence again.

  “Smith! Smith!” The Venusian’s voice was gentle and insistent, and it quivered a little with terror.

  An impatient ripple went over the whole mass of aliveness in the corner. It stirred again, reluctantly, and then tendril by writhing tendril it began to part itself and fall aside, and very slowly the brown of a spaceman’s leather appeared beneath it, all slimed and shining.

  “Smith! Northwest!” Yarol’s persistent whisper came again, urgently, and with a dreamlike slowness the leather garments moved . . . a man sat up in the midst of the writhing worms, a man who once, long ago, might have been Northwest Smith. From head to foot, he was slimy from the embrace of the crawling horror about him. His face was that of some creature beyond humanity — dead-alive, fixed in a gray stare, and the look of terrible ecstasy that overspread it seemed to come from somewhere far within, a faint reflection from immeasurable distances beyond the flesh. And as there is mystery and magic in the moonlight which is, after all, but a reflection of the everyday sun, so in that gray face turned to the door was a terror unnamable and sweet, a reflection of ecstasy beyond the understanding of any who have known only Earthly ecstasy themselves. And as he sat there turning a blank, eyeless face to Yarol, the red worms writhed ceaselessly about him, very gently, with a soft, caressive motion that never slacked.

  “Smith . . . come here! Smith . . . get up. . . Smith! Smith!”

  Yarol’s whisper hissed in the silence, commanding, urgent — but he made no move to leave the door.

  And with a dreadful slowness, like a dead man rising, Smith stood up in the nest of slimy scarlet. He swayed drunkenly on his feet, and two or three crimson tendrils came writhing up his legs to the knees and wound themselves there, supportingly, moving with a ceaseless caress that seemed to give him some hidden strength, for he said then, without inflection: