by C. L. Moore
“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 spaceship’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 space ways. 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 spaceship 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.
“It’s a road!” gasped Yarol. “Black Pharol can have me for dinner if there isn’t a road just outside here!”
The pilot reached for a noxious Martian cigarette and stretched luxuriously, quite uninterested. But Smith had reached the Venusian’s side before he finished speaking, and in silence the two stared out upon the surprising scene the stern port framed. A broad roadway stretched arrowstraight into the dimness of the jungle. At its edges the hungry green things ceased abruptly, not encroaching by so much as a tendril or a leaf into the clearness of the path. Even overhead the branches had been forbidden to intrude, their vein-looped greenery forming an arch above the road. It was as if a destroying beam had played through the jungle, killing all life in its path. Even the oozing mud was firmed here into a smooth pavement. Empty, enigmatic, the clear way slanted across their line of vision and on into the writhing jungle.
“Well,” Yarol broke the silence at last, “here’s a good start. All we’ve got to do is follow the road. It’s a safe bet there won’t be any lovely ladies wandering around through this jungle. From the looks of the road there must be some civilized people on the moon after all.”
“I’d be happier if I knew what made it,” said Smith. “There are some damned queer things on some of the moons and asteroids.”
Yarol’s cat-eyes were shining.
“That’s what I like about this life,” he grinned. “You don’t get bored. Well, what do the readings say?”
From his seat at the control panel the pilot glanced at the gauges which gave automatic report on air and gravity outside.
“O.K.,” he grunted. “Better take blast-guns.”
Smith shrugged off his sudden uneasiness and turned to the weapon rack.
“Plenty of charges, too,” he said. “No telling what we’ll run into.”
The pilot rolled his poisonous cigarette between thick lips and said, “Luck. You’ll need it,” as the two turned to the outer lock. He had all the indifference of his class to anything but his own comfort and the completion of his allotted tasks with a minimum of effort, and he scarcely troubled to turn his head as the lock swung open upon an almost overwhelming gush of thick, hot air, redolent of green growing things and the stench of swift decay.
A vine-tip lashed violently into the opened door as Smith and Yarol stood staring. Yarol snapped a Venusian oath and dodged bac
k, drawing his blast-gun. An instant later the eye-destroying blaze of it sheered a path of destruction through the lush vegetable carnivora straight toward the slanting roadway a dozen feet away. There was an immense hissing and sizzling of annihilated green stuff, and an empty path stretched before them across the little space which parted the ship’s outer lock from the road. Yarol stepped down into reeking mud that bubbled up around his boots with a stench of fertility and decay. He swore again as he sank knee-deep into its blackness. Smith, grinning, joined him. Side by side they floundered through the ooze toward the road.
Short though the distance was, it took them all of ten minutes to cover it. Green things whipped out toward them from the walls of sheared forest where the blast-gun had burned, and both were bleeding from a dozen small scratches and thorn-flicks, breathless and angry and very muddy indeed before they reached their goal and dragged themselves onto the firmness of the roadway.
“Whew!” gasped Yarol, stamping the mud from his caked boots. “Pharol can have me if I stir a step off this road after this. There isn’t a siren alive who could lure me back into that hell again. Poor Cembre!”
“Come on,” said Smith. “Which way?”
Yarol slatted sweat from his forehead and drew a deep breath, his nostrils wrinkling distastefully.
“Into the breeze, if you ask me. Did you ever smell such a stench? And hot! Gods! I’m soaked through already.”
Without words Smith nodded and turned to the right, from where a faint breeze stirred the heavy, moisture-laden air. His own lean body was impervious to a great variation in climate, but even Yarol, native of the Hot Planet, dripped with sweat already and Smith’s own leather-tanned face glistened and his shirt clung in wet patches to his shoulders.
The cool breeze struck gratefully upon their faces as they turned into the wind. In a gasping silence they plodded muddily up the road, their wonder deepening as they advanced. What had made the roadway became more of a mystery at every step. No vehicle tracks marked the firm ground, no footprints. And nowhere by so much as a hair’s breadth did the forest encroach upon the path.
On both sides, beyond the rigid limits of the road, the lush and cannibalistic life of the vegetation went on. Vines dangled great sucking disks and thorn-toothed creepers in the thick air, ready for a deadly cast at anything that wandered within reach. Small reptilian things scuttled through the reeking swamp mud, squeaking now and then in the toils of some thorny trap, and twice they heard the hollow bellowing of some invisible monster. It was raw primeval life booming and thrashing and devouring all about them, a planet in the first throes of animate life.
But here on the roadway that could have been made by nothing less than a well-advanced civilization that ravening jungle seemed very far away, like some unreal world enacting its primitive dramas upon a stage. Before they had gone far they were paying little heed to it, and the bellowing and the lashing, hungry vines and the ravenous forest growths faded into half-heard oblivion. Nothing out of that world entered upon the roadway.
As they advanced the sweltering heat abated in the steady breeze that was blowing down the road. There was a faint perfume upon it, sweet and light and utterly alien to the fetor of the reeking swamps which bordered their way. The scented gusts of it fanned their hot faces gently.
Smith was glancing over his shoulder at regular intervals, and a pucker of uneasiness drew his brows together.
“If we don’t have trouble with that crew of ours before we’re through,” he said, “I’ll buy you a case of segir.”
“It’s a bet,” agreed Yarol cheerfully, turning up to Smith his sidelong cat-eyes as insouciantly savage as the ravening jungle around them. “Though they were a pretty tough trio, at that.”
“They may have the idea they can leave us here and collect our share of the money back home,” said Smith. “Or once we get the girls they may want to dump us and take them on alone. And if they haven’t thought of anything yet, they will.”
“Up to no good, the whole bunch of ’em,” grinned Yarol. “They—they— ”
His voice faltered and faded into silence. There was a sound upon the breeze. Smith had stopped dead-still, his ears straining to recapture the echo of that murmur which had come blowing toward them on the breeze. Such a sound as that might have come drifting over the walls of Paradise.
In the silence as they stood with caught breath it came again—a lilt of the loveliest, most exquisitely elusive laughter. From very far away it came floating to their ears, the lovely ghost of a woman’s laughing. There was in it a caress of kissing sweetness. It brushed over Smith’s nerves like the brush of lingering fingers and died away into throbbing silence that seemed reluctant to let the exquisite sound of it fade into echoes and cease.
The two men faced each other in rapt bewilderment. Finally Yarol found his voice.
“Sirens!” he breathed. “They don’t have to sing if they can laugh like that! Come on!”
At a swifter pace they went on up the road. The breeze blew fragrantly against their faces. After a while its perfumed breath carried to their ears another faint, far-away echo of that heavenly laughter, sweeter than honey, drifting on the wind in fading cadences that died away by imperceptible degrees until they could no longer be sure if it was the lovely laughter they heard or the quickened beating of their own hearts.
Yet before them the road stretched emptily, very still in the green twilight under the low-arching trees. There seemed to be a sort of haze here, so that though the road ran straight the green dimness veiled what lay ahead and they walked in a queer silence along the roadway through ravening jungles whose sights and sounds might almost have been on another world for all the heed they paid them. Their ears were straining for a repetition of that low and lovely laughter, and the expectation if it gripped them in an unheeding spell which wiped out all other things but its own delicious echoes.
When they first became aware of a pale glimmer in the twilight greenness ahead, neither could have told. But somehow they were not surprised that a girl was pacing slowly down the roadway toward them, half veiled in the jungle dimness under the trees.
To Smith she was a figure walking straight out of a dream. Even at that distance her beauty had a still enchantment that swallowed up all his wondering in a strange and magical peace. Beauty flowed along the long, curved lines of her body, alternately cloaked and revealed by the drifting garment of her hair, and the slow, swinging grace of her as she walked was a potent enchantment that gripped him helpless in its spell.
Then another glimmer in the dimness caught his eyes away from the bewitchment that approached, and in bewilderment he saw that another girl was pacing forward under the low-hanging trees, her hair swinging about her in slow drifts that veiled and unveiled the loveliness of a body as exquisite as the first. That first was nearer now, so that he could see the enchantment of her face, pale golden and lovelier than a dream with its subtly molded smoothness and delicately tilted planes of cheek-bone and cheek smoothing deliciously upward into a broad, low forehead when the richly colored hair sprang back in tendrils like licking flames. There was a subtly Slavic tilting to those honey-colored features, hinted in the breadth of the cheeks and the sweet straightness with which their planes slanted downward to a mouth colored like hot embers, curving now in a smile that promised—heaven.
She was very near. He could see the peach-like bloom upon her pale gold limbs and the very throb of the pulse beating in her round throat, and the veiled eyes sought his. But behind her that second girl was nearing, every whit as lovely as the first, and her beauty drew his gaze magnetlike to its own delicate flow and ripple of enchantment. And beyond her—yes, another was coming, and beyond her a fourth; and in the green twilight behind these first, pale blurs bespoke the presence of yet more.
And they were identical. Smith’s bewildered eyes flew from face to face, seeking and finding what his brain could still not quite believe. Feature by feature, curve by curve, they were identical. Five,
six, seven honey-colored bodies, half veiled in richly tinted hair, swayed toward him. Seven, eight, nine exquisite faces smiled their promise of ecstasy. Dizzy and incredulous, he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Yarol’s voice, bemused, half whispered, murmured,
“Is this paradise—or are we both mad?”
The sound of it brought Smith out of his tranced bewitchment. He shook his head sharply, like a man half awake and striving for clarity, and said,
“Do they all look alike to you?”
“Every one. Exquisite—exquisite—did you ever see such satin-black hair?”
“Black—black?” Smith muttered that over stupidly, wondering what was so wrong with the word. When realization broke upon him at last, the shock of it was strong enough to jerk his eyes away from the enchantment before him and turn them sharply around to the little Venusian’s rapt face.
Its stainless clarity was set in a mask of almost holy wonder. Even the wisdom and weariness and savagery of its black eyes was lost in the glamor of what they gazed on. His voice murmured, almost to itself, “And white—so white—like lilies, aren’t they?—blacker and whiter than—“
“Are you crazy?” Smith’s voice broke harshly upon the Venusian’s rapture. That trance-like mask broke before the impact of his exclamation. Like a man awaking from a dream, Yarol turned blinking to his friend.
“Crazy? Why—why—aren’t we both? How else could we be seeing a sight like this?”
“One of us is,” said Smith grimly. “I’m looking at red-haired girls colored like—peaches.”
Yarol blinked again. His eyes sought the bevy of bewildering loveliness in the roadway. He said,
“It’s you, then. They’ve got black hair, every one of them, shiny and smooth and black as so many lengths of satin, and nothing in creation is whiter than their bodies.”