The Coming of the Terrans

by Leigh Brackett

  In the time-eaten streets of rock you see tall Keshi hillmen, nomads from the high plains of Upper Shun, lean dark men from the south who barter away the loot of forgotten tombs and temples, cosmopolitan sophisticates up from Kahora and the trade cities, where there are spaceports and all the appurtenances of modern civilization.

  The red-cloaked stranger was none of these.

  A glimpse of a face—I am a planetary anthropologist. I was supposed to be charting Martian ethnology and I was doing it on a fellowship grant I had wangled from a Terran university too ignorant to know that the vastness of Martian history makes such a project hopeless.

  I was in Barrakesh, gathering an outfit preparatory to a year’s study of the tribes of Upper Shun. And suddenly there had passed close by me a man with golden skin and un-Martian black eyes and a facial structure that belonged to no race I knew. I have seen the carven faces of fauns that were a little like it.

  Kardak said again, “It is time to go, JonRoss!”

  I looked at the stranger, drinking his wine in silence and alone. “Very well, I’ll ask him.”

  Kardak sighed. “Earthmen,” he said, “are not given much to wisdom.” He turned and left me.

  I crossed the room and stood beside the stranger. In the old courteous High Martian they speak in all the Low-Canal towns I asked permission to sit.

  Those raging, suffering eyes met mine. There was hatred in them, and scorn, and shame. “What breed of human are you?”

  “I am an Earthman.”

  He said the name over as though he had heard it before and was trying to remember. “Earthman. Then it is as the winds have said, blowing across the desert—that Mars is dead and men from other worlds defile her dust.” He looked out over the wineshop and all the people who would not admit his presence. “Change,” he whispered. “Death and change and the passing away of things.”

  The muscles of his face drew tight. He drank and I could see now that he had been drinking for a long time, for days, perhaps for weeks. There was a quiet madness on him.

  “Why do the people shun you?”

  “Only a man of Earth would need to ask,” he said and made a sound of laughter, very dry and bitter.

  I was thinking, A new race, an unknown race! I was thinking of the fame that sometimes comes to men who discover a new thing, and of a Chair I might sit in at the University if I added one bright unheard-of piece of the shadowy mosaic of Martian history. I had had my share of wine and a bit more. That Chair looked a mile high and made of gold.

  The stranger said softly, “I go from place to place in this wallow of Barrakesh and everywhere it is the same. I have ceased to be.” His white teeth glittered for an instant in the shadow of the cowl. “They were wiser than I, my people. When Shandakor is dead, we are dead also, whether our bodies live or not.”

  “Shandakor?” I said. It had a sound of distant bells.

  “How should an Earthman know? Yes, Shandakor! Ask of the men of Kesh and the men of Shun! Ask the kings of Mekh, who are half around the world! Ask of all the men of Mars—they have not forgotten Shandakor! But they will not tell you. It is a bitter shame to them, the memory and the name.”

  He stared out across the turbulent throng that filled the room and flowed over to the noisy street outside. “And I am here among them—lost.”

  “Shandakor is dead?”

  “Dying. There were three of us who did not want to die. We came south across the desert—one turned back, one perished in the sand, I am here in Barrakesh.” The metal of the wine-cup bent between his hands.

  I said, “And you regret your coming.”

  “I should have stayed and died with Shandakor. I know that now. But I cannot go back.”

  “Why not?” I was thinking how the name John Ross would look, inscribed in golden letters on the scroll of the discoverers.

  “The desert is wide, Earthman. Too wide for one alone.”

  And I said, “I have a caravan. I am going north tonight.”

  A light came into his eyes, so strange and deadly that I was afraid. “No,” he whispered. “No!”

  I sat in silence, looking out across the crowd that had forgotten me as well, because I sat with the stranger. A new race, an unknown city. And I was drunk.

  After a long while the stranger asked me, “What does an Earthman want in Shandakor?”

  I told him. He laughed. “You study men,” he said and laughed again, so that the red cloak rippled.

  “If you want to go back I’ll take you. If you don’t, tell me where the city lies and I’ll find it. Your race, your city, should have their place in history.”

  He said nothing but the wine had made me very shrewd and I could guess at what was going on in the stranger’s mind. I got up.

  “Consider it,” I told him. “You can find me at the serai by the northern gate until the lesser moon is up. Then I’ll be gone.”

  “Wait.” His fingers fastened on my wrist. They hurt. I looked into his face and I did not like what I saw there. But, as Kardak had mentioned, I was not given much to wisdom.

  The stranger said, “Your men will not go beyond the Wells of Karthedon.”

  “Then we’ll go without them.”

  A long long silence. Then he said, “So be it.”

  I knew what he was thinking as plainly as though he had spoken the words. He was thinking that I was only an Earthman and that he would kill me when we came in sight of Shandakor.

  2

  THE CARAVAN TRACKS branch off at the Wells of Karthedon. One goes westward into Shun and one goes north through the passes of Outer Kesh. But there is a third one, more ancient than the others. It goes toward the east and it is never used. The deep rock wells are dry and the stone-built shelters have vanished under the rolling dunes. It is not until the track begins to climb the mountains that there are even memories.

  Kardak refused politely to go beyond the Wells. He would wait for me, he said, a certain length of time, and if I came back we would go on into Shun. If I didn’t—well, his full pay was left in charge of the local headman. He would collect it and go home. He had not liked having the stranger with us. He had doubled his price.

  In all that long march up from Barrakesh I had not been able to get a word out of Kardak or the men concerning Shandakor. The stranger had not spoken either. He had told me his name—Corin—and nothing more. Cloaked and cowled he rode alone and brooded. His private devils were still with him and he had a new one now—impatience. He would have ridden us all to death if I had let him.

  So Corin and I went east alone from Karthedon, with two led animals and all the water we could carry. And now I could not hold him back.

  “There is no time to stop,” he said. “The days are running out. There is no time!”

  When we reached the mountains we had only three animals left and when we crossed the first ridge we were afoot and leading the one remaining beast which carried the dwindling water skins.

  We were following a road now. Partly hewn and partly worn it led up and over the mountains, those naked leaning mountains that were full of silence and peopled only with the shapes of red rock that the wind had carved.

  “Armies used to come this way,” said Corin. “Kings and caravans and beggars and human slaves, singers and dancing girls and the embassies of princes. This was the road to Shandakor.”

  And we went along it at a madman’s pace.

  The beast fell in a slide of rock and broke its neck and we carried the last water skin between us. It was not a heavy burden. It grew lighter and then was almost gone.

  One afternoon, long before sunset, Corin said abruptly, “We will stop here.”

  The road went steeply up before us. There was nothing to be seen or heard. Corin sat down in the drifted dust. I crouched down too, a little distance from him. I watched him. His face was hidden and he did not speak.

  The shadows thickened in that deep and narrow way. Overhead the strip of sky flared saffron and then red—and then the bright cru
el stars came out. The wind worked at its cutting and polishing of stone, muttering to itself, an old and senile wind full of dissatisfaction and complaint. There was the dry faint click of falling pebbles.

  The gun felt cold in my hand, covered with my cloak. I did not want to use it. But I did not want to die here on this silent pathway of vanished armies and caravans and kings.

  A shaft of greenish moonlight crept down between the walls. Corin stood up.

  “Twice now I have followed lies. Here I am met at last by truth.”

  I said, “I don’t understand you.”

  “I thought I could escape the destruction. That was a lie. Then I thought I could return to share it. That too was a lie. Now I see the truth. Shandakor is dying. I fled from that dying, which is the end of the city and the end of my race. The shame of flight is on me and I can never go back.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I will die here.”

  “And I?”

  “Did you think,” asked Corin softly, “that I would bring an alien creature in to watch the end of Shandakor?”

  I moved first. I didn’t know what weapons he might have, hidden under that dark red cloak. I threw myself over on the dusty rock. Something went past my head with a hiss and a rattle and a flame of light and then I cut the legs from under him and he fell down forward and I got on top of him, very fast.

  He had vitality. I had to hit his head twice against the rock before I could take out of his hands the vicious little instrument of metal rods. I threw it far away. I could not feel any other weapons on him except a knife and I took that, too. Then I got up.

  I said, “I will carry you to Shandakor.”

  He lay still, draped in the tumbled folds of his cloak. His breath made a harsh sighing in his throat. “So be it.” And then he asked for water.

  I went to where the skin lay and picked it up, thinking that there was perhaps a cupful left. I didn’t hear him move. What he did was done very silently with a sharp-edged ornament. I brought him the water and it was already over. I tried to lift him up. His eyes looked at me with a curiously brilliant look. Then he whispered three words, in a language I didn’t know, and died. I let him down again.

  His blood had poured out across the dust. And even in the moonlight I could see that it was not the color of human blood.

  I crouched there for a long while, overcome with a strange sickness. Then I reached out and pushed that red cowl back to bare his head. It was a beautiful head. I had never seen it. If I had, I would not have gone alone with Corin into the mountains. I would have understood many things if I had seen it and not for fame nor money would I have gone to Shandakor.

  His skull was narrow and arched and the shaping of the bones was very fine. On that skull was a covering of short curling fibers that had an almost metallic luster in the moonlight, silvery and bright. They stirred under my hand, soft silken wires responding of themselves to an alien touch. And even as I took my hand away the luster faded from them and the texture changed.

  When I touched them again they did not stir. Corin’s ears were pointed and there were silvery tufts on the tips of them. On them and on his forearms and his breast were the faint, faint memories of scales, a powdering of shining dust across the golden skin. I looked at his teeth and they were not human either.

  I knew now why Corin had laughed when I told him that I studied men.

  It was very still. I could hear the falling of pebbles and the little stones that rolled all lonely down the cliffs and the shift and whisper of dust in the settling cracks. The Wells of Karthedon were far away. Too far by several lifetimes for one man on foot with a cup of water.

  I looked at the road that went steep and narrow on ahead. I looked at Corin. The wind was cold and the shaft of moonlight was growing thin. I did not want to stay alone in the dark with Corin.

  I rose and went on along the road that led to Shandakor.

  It was a long climb but not a long way. The road came out between two pinnacles of rock. Below that gateway, far below in the light of the little low moons that pass so swiftly over Mars, there was a mountain valley.

  Once around that valley there were great peaks crowned with snow and crags of black and crimson where the flying lizards nested, the hawk-lizards with the red eyes. Below the crags there were forests, purple and green and gold, and a black tarn deep on the valley floor. But when I saw it it was dead. The peaks had fallen away and the forests were gone and the tarn was only a pit in the naked rock.

  In the midst of that desolation stood a fortress city.

  There were lights in it, soft lights of many colors. The outer walls stood up, black and massive, a barrier against the creeping dust, and within them was an island of life. The high towers were not ruined. The lights burned among them and there was movement in the streets.

  A living city—and Corin had said that Shandakor was almost dead.

  A rich and living city. I did not understand. But I knew one thing. Those who moved along the distant streets of Shandakor were not human.

  I stood shivering in that windy pass. The bright towers of the city beckoned and there was something unnatural about all light-life in the deathly valley. And then I thought that human or not the people of Shandakor might sell me water and a beast to carry it and I could get away out of these mountains, back to the Wells.

  The road broadened, winding down the slope. I walked in the middle of it, not expecting anything. And suddenly two men came out of nowhere and barred the way.

  I yelled. I jumped backward with my heart pounding and the sweat pouring off me. I saw their broadswords glitter in the moonlight. And they laughed.

  They were human. One was a tall red barbarian from Mekh, which lay to the east half around Mars. The other was a leaner browner man from Taarak, which was farther still. I was scared and angry and astonished and I asked a foolish question.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We wait,” said the man of Taarak. He made a circle with his arm to take in all the darkling slopes around the valley. “From Kesh and Shun, from all the countries of the Norlands and the Marches men have come, to wait. And you?”

  “I’m lost,” I said. “I’m an Earthman and I have no quarrel with anyone.” I was still shaking but now it was with relief. I would not have to go to Shandakor. If there was a barbarian army gathered here it must have supplies and I could deal with them.

  I told them what I needed. “I can pay for them, pay well.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Very well. Come and you can bargain with the chief.”

  They fell in on either side of me. We walked three paces and then I was on my face in the dirt and they were all over me like two great wildcats. When they were finished they had everything I owned except the few articles of clothing for which they had no use. I got up again, wiping the blood from my mouth.

  “For an outlander,” said the man of Mekh, “you fight well.” He chinked my money-bag up and down in his palm, feeling the weight of it, and then he handed me the leather bottle that hung at his side. “Drink,” he told me. “That much I can’t deny you. But our water must be carried a long way across these mountains and we have none to waste on Earthmen.”

  I was not proud. I emptied his bottle for him. And the man of Taarak said, smiling, “Go on to Shandakor. Perhaps they will give you water.”

  “But you’ve taken all my money!”

  “They are rich in Shandakor. They don’t need money. Go ask them for water.”

  They stood there, laughing at some secret joke of their own, and I did not like the sound of it. I could have killed them both and danced on their bodies but they had left me nothing but my bare hands to fight with. So presently I turned and went on and left them grinning in the dark behind me.

  The road led down and out across the plain. I could feel eyes watching me, the eyes of the sentinels on the rounding slopes, piercing the dim moonlight. The walls of the city began to rise higher and higher. They
hid everything but the top of one tall tower that had a queer squat globe on top of it. Rods of crystal projected from the globe. It revolved slowly and the rods sparkled with a sort of white fire that was just on the edge of seeing.

  A causeway lifted toward the Western Gate. I mounted it, going very slowly, not wanting to go at all. And now I could see that the gate was open. Open—and this was a city under siege!

  I stood still for some time, trying to puzzle out what meaning this might have—an army that did not attack and a city with open gates. I could not find a meaning. There were soldiers on the walls but they were lounging at their ease under the bright banners. Beyond the gate many people moved about but they were intent on their own affairs. I could not hear their voices.

  I crept closer, closer still. Nothing happened. The sentries did not challenge me and no one spoke.

  You know how necessity can force a man against his judgment and against his will?

  I entered Shandakor.

  3

  THERE WAS an open space beyond the gate, a square large enough to hold an army. Around its edges were the stalls of merchants. Their canopies were of rich woven stuffs and the wares they sold were such things as have not been seen on Mars for more centuries than men can remember.

  There were fruits and rare furs, the long-lost dyes that never fade, furnishings carved from vanished woods. There were spices and wines and exquisite cloths. In one place a merchant from the far south offered a ceremonial rug woven from the long bright hair of virgins. And it was new.

  These merchants were all human. The nationalities of some of them I knew. Others I could guess at from traditional accounts. Some were utterly unknown.

  Of the throngs that moved about among the stalls, quite a number were human also. There were merchant princes come to barter and there were companies of slaves on their way to the auction block. But the others…

  I stayed where I was, pressed into a shadowy corner by the gate, and the chill that was on me was not all from the night wind.