The Virgin of Zesh & the Tower of Zanid

by L. Sprague De Camp

  In panic, Althea jumped to her feet. Gorchakov’s statements seemed mere gibberings. She could not imagine herself leading the loathsome brute on. “Oh, my God! Let me out, quickly!”

  “What is? Where you think you are going?”

  “I don’t know, but let me go!” Althea tried to twist her arm out of Gorchakov’s grasp, but the giant only clamped down more tightly.

  “Is that any way to treat your new husband?” he cried plaintively. “I love you! Amo vocé! Ya vas lyu blyu! Calm yourself down and let me show you the Russian love!”

  Gorchakov extended his other arm to pull Althea to him. With a scream of terror, Althea lashed out with her free fist and caught Gorchakov’s looming face on its button nose. An inhibited girl who had led a sheltered life and had never been much attracted by sex, even in her pre-mission days, Althea was beside herself with horror.

  “Akh!” shouted Gorchakov. He replied with a slap, which threw her back into the chair. Purple-faced, he stormed down at her, “So, that’s how you treat your husband, eh? Well, I show you I’m no spineless American, to let my woman walk on me! I, Afanasi Gorchakov, could have any woman in Novorecife, but when I actual marry you, you don’t appreciate honor! You don’t want Russian love, so you get a taste of Russian hate!”

  Gorchakov hauled Althea to her feet and dragged her to the bureau. With his free hand, he rummaged through the disorderly drawers until he came upon a whip, which he tossed on the bed.

  “Now, little one,” he continued, “you learn how to be right kind of wife.”

  He fumbled one-handed with the buttons and ties that held Althea’s black mission dress together. Then, growing impatient, he slipped his thick fingers inside the prim collar. With a terrific yank and a ripping of cloth, he tore the garment loose. Althea’s undergarments followed—rip, rip—until she stood in her shoes.

  Her missionary training had not prepared Althea for this contingency. She struggled and screamed, but no help came. By this time, Althea Merrick was in such a state of terror that nothing seemed to matter. One part of her mind stood aside and objectively wondered whether Gorchakov was going to beat her to death. It seemed more likely that he would merely beat her half to death and give her a good raping—or what would be a good raping if he were not her husband. (She was conscious of such distinctions because she was a lawyer’s daughter.) What life would be like thereafter she did not, in her confusion and terror, try to imagine.

  All this time, the iron grip on her wrist never relaxed. Although no weakling herself, Althea realized that Gorchakov could easily break her arm with a simple wrench.

  Gorchakov picked up the whip. The detached part of Althea’s mind registered a little surprise, not unmixed with pique, that the sight of her in her present state had not deflected his intentions into a more erotic channel. But then, this sub-personality told itself, no doubt he was used to the sight of naked women; or her greyhound figure did not allure him; or as a sadist he got more sexual pleasure from his whip than from more normal approaches.

  The whip whistled, and a streak of fire ran down Althea’s back. With the crack of the whip came Gorchakov’s deep “Ha!” and Althea’s scream of pain. The girl leaped convulsively and wrenched her arm loose.

  Whether Gorchakov had slackened his grip or whether the pain had lent her extra strength, Althea did not stop to ponder. Before Gorchakov could raise the whip again, her long legs carried her in a leap across the room.

  Althea fetched up against the bureau, whose top drawer lay open to reveal a chaos of personal effects. She looked frantically for a weapon. The likeliest object was the atomic-powered alarm clock on the dresser. Such clocks were made heavy by their shielding. In the course of a tomboy girlhood, Althea had once been noted among her peers as a pretty good softball pitcher.

  As Gorchakov lumbered across the room, whip raised and clutching hand outstretched, his own alarm clock struck his skull with a short, sharp thud. Gorchakov stumbled and fell forward, the whip dropping from his hand, and sprawled at Althea’s feet. His limbs twitched, like those of a beheaded reptile. The clock lay near his head, its second hand revolving serenely.

  Althea turned to the nearer window, beside the bureau. She wrenched it open, unlatched and opened the screen, and looked out.

  She was staring down from the second story into the courtyard of one of Novorecife’s several compounds. These were sturdy, graceless structures, designed primarily to repel assault. All were of hollow, rectangular form, with the outside windows small and high, like loopholes.

  The court was lit by one of Krishna’s three moons—big Karrim, the illumination several times that shed by Earth’s Luna at full. Nobody moved in the court. The entrance from the outside into the court lay bare and unguarded, for the Viagens was at peace with the world of Krishna.

  Althea glanced back at Gorchakov, wondering whether he was dead, dying, or merely stunned. Snoring sounds came from his throat, and his lungs visibly expanded and contracted. Althea concluded that he was merely stunned and, more ominously, might awaken at any moment. The thought filled her again with panic fear.

  Though normally a modest girl who had never patronized the nuderies found at Terran beach resorts, Althea did not now stop even to snatch a garment from Gorchakov’s supply. Instead, she slipped over the sill, lowered herself until she hung by her hands, and dropped.

  ###

  Gorchakov’s suite was in Compound Twelve, along with those of most of the other fiscais of the Viagens Interplanetarias. Bahr and Kirwan, Althea knew, shared a room in the transient quarters in Compound Eleven. Like an ivory streak in the moonlight, Althea raced out of Compound Twelve, across the street, and into Compound Eleven.

  The only persons who saw her during her flight were Oswaldo Guerra, a clerk in the Terran Embassy, and Kristina Brunius, a stenographer-typist in the Viagens offices. Senhor Guerra was kissing Jungfru Brunius goodnight in the doorway that led into the section of the quadrangle tenanted by Bahr and Kirwan, when Althea Merrick, coming up at a run, said, “Excuse me please!” and squeezed past the loving couple. She paused in the vestibule to scan the name plates beside the call buttons and disappeared into the building.

  “Did you see what I saw?” asked Oswaldo Guerra.

  “I must have,” replied Kristina Brunius. “I could almost swear it was that American girl missionary, that Senhorita Merrick.”

  “But that is, of course, impossible,” said Guerra. “Try to imagine that prim Miss Merrick . . .”

  “You’re so right, Oswaldo. It is, of course, impossible. Where were we?” And they took up where they had left off, Guerra rising on tiptoe to reach his stalwart Swedish sweetheart. Meanwhile, Althea Merrick bounded up the stairs to the second floor, found Bahr and Kirwan’s room, and burst in.

  The light was still on. The room contained two beds. In one of these, Gottfried Bahr, in pajamas decorated with dragons, roses, and sunbursts, lay with his hands behind his head, which was propped up both on his own pillow and Kirwan’s. There was a half-empty glass on the small night table between the two beds. The other bed was empty.

  Brian Kirwan sat in his underwear in one of the room’s two chairs before the little desk, writing in longhand. Two pieces of adhesive tape marked the places where Gorchakov’s fists had found his face. A half-empty glass stood on the desk beside his writing paper.

  Althea closed the door behind her and stood with her back to it, panting. Both men stared at her in stupefaction.

  “I—” began Althea, but had to halt for lack of breath.

  Kirwan at last transferred his fascinated gaze from Althea to Bahr, saying, “D’you suppose it’s a man she’ll be wanting? Whatever it is, she seems in a devil of a hurry for it.”

  “I—” began Althea again, then broke off to pant some more.

  Bahr said, “One cannot tell. When these inhibited types finally burst loose . . .”

  Althea, still unable to speak, walked over to the empty bed and slid her long form in under the top sheet. B
ahr said, “She chooses you, my friend. It must be the ubiquitous charm of the Irish.”

  “Well,” said Kirwan, “she’ll have to wait until I finish this.”

  “I—” said Althea.

  “What is that?” asked Bahr. “A poem?”

  “No, a letter to me grandmother in Dublin. Have to keep on the good side of the old hag, so when she finally kicks off she’ll leave me enough to live like a gentleman.” Kirwan looked back again at Althea, whose fists were clenched and whose eyes were filled with tears of rage and frustration. “All right now, Althea darling, pull yourself together and tell us what it’s all about.”

  “If you—if you two—if you two theophobes will stop insulting me for a minute . . .”

  Althea burst into tears. Kirwan got up, picked a handkerchief off a pile of his personalia on the bureau, and offered it to Althea, who wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “You might have given her a clean one,” said Bahr.

  “I don’t believe in germs,” said Kirwan. “Go on, Althea.”

  Althea pulled herself together. These two might be even less trustworthy than most men, but they were the nearest thing to friends that she had. She told the story of her alleged marriage to Afanasi Gorchakov, concluding, “So, since you’re leaving tomorrow, I thought maybe—perhaps you could arrange to get me away from Novorecife.”

  “You mean you want to dance on the beaches with grapes in your hair after all?” said Kirwan. “I see. You’re getting in a bit of early practice.”

  Althea shot a look of scorn at the fleshy poet. “Not exactly, but I don’t dare stay around here until Bishop Raman gets back, since Gorchakov’s so powerful . . .”

  “What she means, my friend,” said Bahr, “is that she wishes with us to go, and when she gets to Zesh she will decide between your cult and my science. Is that it, Althea?”

  Althea gave Bahr a grateful look. At least he could talk sense. “Well, I have to live, and I can’t live here. If you could give me some work . . .”

  Bahr pulled his lip. “Mmm. That is not easy. I am not authorized to pay a full-time assistant in World Federation dollars.”

  Kirwan said, “Oh, hell, man, you could pay her expenses and swindle the cost out of your expense account.”

  “Ye-es; but I am not sure that she is qualified a real assistant to be. Besides, it would cause trouble for me here if it were found out that I had Gorchakov’s bride abducted.”

  “Where’s your gallantry, you damned poltroon?” shouted Kirwan. “Are you a man or a microscope on two legs?”

  “Oh, I will do it, I will do it,” said Bahr unhappily. “But how are we to get her out of Novorecife?” The scientist turned to Althea. “Are your papers signed for exit?”

  “No. I didn’t intend to leave until I’d received my assignment.”

  “That complicates matters,” said Bahr with hope in his voice, “as you cannot get out unless your exit permit is signed by the security officer.”

  “I know!” said Kirwan. “We’ll call up that little twerp Castanhoso—”

  He reached for the telephone, but Bahr gave a squeak of alarm. “Auf! Wait a minute, my friend; what are you doing? He is assistant to Gorchakov!”

  “I know, I know, but he hates the big Russky’s guts.”

  “Why?” said Bahr.

  Kirwan explained. “Castanhoso was assistant security officer under Gorchakov’s predecessor, Cristȏv&aTilde;o Abreu, when Gorchakov—may the teeth rot in the head of him—was head customs inspector. When Kennedy and Abreu retired as Comandante and security officer respectively, Castanhoso expected to step into Abreu’s shoes. But Boris Glumelin arrived here as Comandante and, being full of mystical notions about the noble Slavic soul, jumped Gorchakov over Castanhoso’s head. Ever since, Castanhoso’s been grinding his teeth behind Gorchakov’s back and looking for a chance to get even. You know these Dagoes.”

  “Why does Glumelin let Gorchakov get away with things like this? Hasn’t anybody complained?” Althea asked.

  “Glumelin’s just a big bowl of mush where his fellow Russian is concerned,” said Kirwan.

  “I have met him,” said Bahr. “He is personally pleasant but has with his drinking a problem. He shuts himself up and is not seen by the others here for a ten-day at a time. Appointments with him have to go through Gorchakov, so you see why Glumelin is unlikely to be of assistance to us.”

  “Herculeu Castanhoso seems a nice fellow,” said Althea.

  “Nice fellow or not, he’s the lad who can get you out of this.” Kirwan pressed buttons and spoke. “Senhor Dom Herculeu? This is Brian Kirwan, the Irish Homer. It’s sorry I am to drag you from bed at such an hour, but it’s a matter of life and death. Can you stagger over to this little crack in the wall you call a transient room? Yes, 2-F, Compound Eleven . . . yes, you’re damned right it’s important. Oh, wait a minute. Althea, have you got your key with you? Foolish question. Herculeu, bring a pass key that’ll open Miss Merrick’s room. Which is that, Althea? One-Q? Sure, sure. And none of your Brazilian procrastination, me lad. Fire all jets.”

  Kirwan hung up and turned back to the other two. “Well, comrades, the evening’s turning out a bit different from what I had in mind when the lassie burst in here like Deirdre running away from Conchobar. Though I can’t say I’m sorry, for I’m thinking the man who breaks this filly in has got his work cut out for him.”

  “Don’t you think of anything but sex?” said Althea vehemently.

  “Sometimes I think of whiskey,” said Kirwan. “If you’d like a drop, now . . .”

  Bahr, with a worried frown, said, “What do you plan to do, Brian?”

  “With the key, we’ll get Althea’s papers and necessaries from her room. We’ll get this pocket Hercules to forge Gorchakov’s signature on the exit permit—”

  “Hei! How do you know he will?”

  “I don’t, but I can only find out by asking. And if worse comes to worst, we should be able to raise a small bribe between us. Then we’ll shake that coachman of ours out of bed, make him hitch up his ayas, and be off down the river road before Roqir shows its ugly nose above the horizon.”

  “A fine plan,” said Bahr, “if you can execute it.”

  “What, the great Brian Kirwan not able to carry out a plan? What nonsense you’re talking. Althea, do you have any rough traveling clothes—none of these sad black nunnery-novice things your heretical so-called church makes you wear, but plain shirt and trousers?”

  “No; I was told to bring only my uniforms from Earth, and to buy whatever else I needed at Novorecife.”

  Kirwan glanced at himself and at Bahr. “Gottfried, everything of yours’ll be too long and everything of mine’ll be too big around. But with yours, she has only to roll up the legs and sleeves.”

  He untied the barracks-bag containing Bahr’s gear, dumped the contents out on the floor, picked a khaki shirt and a pair of slacks out of the mess, and tossed them to Althea.

  “Now,” he said, “leap out of that bed and put these on; no nonsense. You, too, Gottfried.” And Kirwan began pulling on his own outer clothing. Bahr, wearing a martyred expression, got out of bed and began repacking his bag.

  “Turn your backs,” said Althea. “I won’t get out of bed until you do.”

  When Castanhoso knocked on the door a few minutes later, the augmented expedition to Zesh was combing its collective hair and stacking its luggage for departure.

  III

  The barouche slowed through the Hamda’ east of Novorecife, a little settlement where beings from a dozen planets dwelt in picturesque squalor. The driver swerved to avoid a trio of drunks—an Earthman, a Krishnan, and a reptile-man from Osiris—swinging down the street with arms around each other’s necks. They were singing a song about an English King who lived long years ago.

  The carriage reached open country, and the driver whipped his team to a gallop. The barouche raced along the river road, its wheels rattling and the twelve hooves of its two ayas drumming. Overhead K
arrim, looking twice as big and four times as bright as the earthly moon, lit up the flat Krishnan landscape. Smaller Golnaz, half-full, had just risen, and little Sheb lay below the horizon.

  The driver, a gnarled and taciturn Gozashtandu, was human-looking but for his greenish hair, large pointed ears, and external organs of smell. These last were a pair of feathery antennae, like those of a moth, sprouting from between his brows. He gripped his reins tautly, leaning to right and left as the road curved. The road followed the bend of the Pichidé River, as it wound across the Gazashtandu plain toward the Sadabao Sea. In the body of the vehicle sat Althea Merrick, Gottfried Bahr, and Brian Kirwan. Now and then, one or another looked apprehensively back along the road.

  Kirwan spoke above the noise. “I told you it would be easy. When the great Brian Kirwan turns on the blarney, neither man nor woman can resist him. Damned if I don’t make a poem about this rescue; something in heroic heptameters.”

  “I used to consider myself well-read, Mr. Kirwan, but I don’t remember coming across any of your poems. What have you had published?” asked Althea Merrick.

  “No crass best-sellers, if that’s what you’re thinking of,” said Kirwan. “My poems are published in five small volumes of limited editions. The first volume was put out in 2119 under the title The Seven Square Serpents, bound in limp lavender leather and limited to ninety-nine copies. That, my girl, is art—none of your swinish Boeotian commercialism.”

  “Then how do you live?” asked Althea.

  “Oh, various worthless ancestors of mine have conveniently crossed the Stygian ferry, and Ireland’s the one country left where a man can get a bit of a legacy without its all being taken away by taxes.”

  Gottfried Bahr spoke up. “Very interesting, but we had better give thought to Miss Merrick’s future. Do you wish all the way to Zesh to go?”

  “What else can I do?” she said. “I don’t know how I could make my living in Majbur.”