by C. L. Moore
“Better — in a moment,” she gasped. “It took — nearly all my strength to — to get us through — wait. . . .”
So they halted there in the darkness and the dead salt air, until the trembling abated a little and she said, “Come,” in her little whimpering voice. And again the journey began. It was only a short way, now, to the barrier of black blankness that guarded the door into the room where they had first seen the Alendar. When they reached the place she shivered a little and paused, then resolutely held out her hands. And as he took them he felt once more the hideous slimy waves course through him, and plunged again into the heaving hell. And as before the clean darkness flashed over them in a breath, and then she dropped his hands and they were standing in the archway looking into the velvet-hung room they had left — it seemed eons ago.
He watched as waves of blinding weakness flooded over her from that supreme effort. Death was visible in her face as she turned to him at last.
“Come — oh, come quickly,” she whispered, and staggered forward.
At her heels he followed, across the room, past the great iron gateway, down the hall to the foot of the silver stairs. And here his heart sank, for he felt sure she could never climb the long spiral distances to the top. But she set her foot on the step and went upward resolutely, and as he followed he heard her murmuring to herself,
“Wait — oh, wait — let me reach the end — let me undo this much — and then — no, no! Please Shar, not the black slime again. . . . Earthman, Earthman!”
She paused on the stair and turned to face him, and her haggard face was frantic with desperation and despair.
“Earthman, promise — do not let me die like this! When we reach the end, ray me! Burn me clean, or shall I go down for eternity into the black sinks from which I dragged you free. Oh, promise!”
“I will,” Smith's voice said quietly. “I will.”
And they went on. Endlessly the stairs spiraled upward and endlessly they climbed. Smith's legs began to ache intolerably, and his heart was pounding like a wild thing, but Vaudir seemed not to notice weariness. She climbed steadily and no more unsurely than she had come along the halls. And after eternities they reached the top.
And there the girl fell. She dropped like a dead woman at the head of the silver spiral. Smith thought for a sick instant that he had failed her and let her die uncleansed, but in a rnoment or two she stirred and lifted her head and very slowly dragged herself to her feet.
“I will go on — I will, I will,” she whispered to herself. “ — come this far — must finish—” and she reeled off down the lovely, rosily-lit hallway paneled in pearl.
He could see how perilously near she was to her strength's end, and he marveled at the tenacity with which she clung to life though it ebbed away with every breath and the pulse of darkness flowed in after it. So with bulldog stubbornness she made her wavering way past door after door of carven shell, under rosy lights that flushed her face with a ghastly mockery of health, until they reached the silver gateway at the end. The lock had been removed from it by now, and the bar drawn.
She tugged open the gate and stumbled through.
And the nightmare journey went on. It must be very near morning, Smith thought, for the halls were deserted, but did he not sense a breath of danger in the still air?
The girl's gasping voice answered that half-formed query as if, like the Alendar, she held the secret of reading men's minds.
“The — Guardians — still rove the halls, and unleashed now — so keep your ray-gun ready, Earthman. . . .”
After that he kept his eyes alert as they retraced, stumbling and slow, the steps he had taken on his way in. And once he heard distinctly the soft slither of — something — scraping over the marble pavement, and twice he smelt with shocking suddenness in this scented air a whiff of salt, and his mind flashed back to a rolling black sea. . . .
But nothing molested them.
Step by faltering step the hallways fell behind them, and he began to recognize landmarks, and the girl's footsteps staggered and hesitated and went on gallantly, incredibly, beating back oblivion, fighting the dark surges rolling over her, clinging with tenacious fingers to the tiny spark of life that drove her on.
And at long last, after what seemed hours of desperate effort, they reached the blue-lit hallway at whose end the outer door opened. Vaudir's progress down it was a series of dizzy staggers, interspersed with pauses while she hung to the carven doors with tense fingers and drove her teeth into a bloodless lip and gripped that last flicker of life. He saw the shudders sweep over her, and knew what waves of washing dark must be rising all about her, and how the worm-thoughts writhed through her brain. . . . But she went on. Every step now was a little tripping, as if she fell from one foot to the other, and at each step he expected that knee to give way and pitch her down into the black deeps that yawned for her. But she went on.'
She reached the bronze door, and with a last spurt of effort she lifted the bar and swung it open. Then that tiny spark flickered out like a lamp. Smith caught one flash of the rock room within — and something horrible on the floor — before he saw her pitch forward as the rising tide of slimy oblivion closed at last over her head. She was dying as she fell, and he whipped the ray-gun up and felt the recoil against his palm as a blue blaze flashed forth and transfixed her in midair. And he could have sworn her eyes lighted for a flickering instant and the gallant girl he had known looked forth, cleansed and whole, before death — clean death — glazed them.
She slumped down in a huddle at his feet, and he felt a sting of tears beneath his eyelids as he looked down on her, a huddle of white and bronze on the rug. And as he watched, a film of defilement veiled the shining whiteness of her — decay set in before his eyes and progressed with horrible swiftness, and in less time than it takes to tell he was staring with horrified eyes at a pool of black sliine across which green velvet lay bedraggled.
Northwest Smith closed his pale eyes, and for a moment struggled with memory, striving to wrest from it the long-forgotten words of a prayer learned a score of years ago on another planet. Then he stepped over the pitiful, horrible heap on the carpet and went on.
In the little rock room of the outer wall he saw what he had glimpsed when Vaudir opened the door. Retribution had overtaken the eunuch. The body must have been his, for tatters of scarlet velvet lay about the floor, but there was no way to recognize what its original form had been. The smell of salt was heavy in the air, and a trail of black slime snaked across the floor toward the wall. The wall was solid, but it ended there. . . .
Smith laid his hand on the outer door, drew the bar, swung it open. He stepped out under the hanging vines and filled his lungs with pure air, clear, untainted with scent or salt. A pearly dawn was breaking over Ednes.
Dust of the Gods
Published in Weird Tales, Vol. 24, No. 2 (August 1934).
I
“Pass the whisky, N.W.,” said Yarol the Venusian persuasively.
Northwest Smith shook the black bottle of Venusian segir whisky tentatively, evoked a slight gurgle, and reached for his friend's glass. Under the Venusian's jealous dark gaze he measured out exactly half of the red liquid. It was not very much.
Yarol regarded his share of the drink disconsolately.
“Broke again,” he murmured. “And me so thirsty.” His glance of cherubic innocence flashed along the temptingly laden counters of the Martian saloon wherein they sat. His face with its look of holy innocence turned to Smith's, the wise black gaze meeting the Earthman's pale-steel look questioningly. Yarol lifted an arched brow.
“How about it?” he suggested delicately. “Mars owes us a drink anyhow, and I just had my heat-gun recharged this morning. I think we could get away with it.” Under the table he laid a hopeful hand on his gun. Smith grinned and shook his head.
“Too many customers,” he said. “And you ought to know better than to start anything here. It isn't healthful.”
Yar
ol shrugged resigned shoulders and drained his glass with a gulp.
“Now what?” he demanded.
“Well, look around. See anyone here you know? We're open for business — any kind.” Yarol twirled his glass wistfully and studied the crowded room from under his lashes. With those lashes lowered he might have passed for a choir boy in any of Earth's cathedrals. But too dark a knowledge looked out when they rose for that illusion to continue long.
It was a motley crowd the weary black gaze scrutinized — hard-faced Earthmen in space-sailors' leather, sleek Venusians with their sidelong, dangerous eyes, Martian drylanders muttering the blasphemous gutturals of their language, a sprinkling of outlanders and half-brutes from the wide-flung borders of civilization. Yarol's eyes returned to the dark, scarred face across the table. He met the pallor of Smith's no-colored gaze and shrugged.
“No one who'd buy us a drink,” he sighed. “I've seen one or two of 'em before, though. Take those two space-rats at the next table: the little rat-faced Earthman — the one looking over his shoulder — and the drylander with an eye gone. See? I've heard they're hunters.”
“What for?”
Yarol lifted his shoulders in the expressive Venusian shrug. His brows rose too, quizzically.
“No one knows what they hunt — but they run together.”
“Hm-m.” Smith turned a speculative stare toward the neighboring table. “They look more hunted than hunting, if you ask me.”
Yarol nodded. The two seemed to share one fear between them, if over-the-shoulder glances and restless eyes spoke truly. They huddled together above their segir glasses, and though they had the faces of hard men, inured to the space-way dangers, the look on those faces was curiously compounded of many unpleasant things underlying a frank, unreasoning alarm. It was a look Smith could not quite fathom — a haunted, uneasy dread with nameless things behind it.
“They do look as if Black Pharol were one jump behind,” said Yarol. “Funny, too. I've always heard they were pretty tough, both of 'em. You have to be in their profession.” Said a husky half-whisper in their very ears,
“Perhaps they found what they were hunting.”
It produced an electric stillness. Smith moved almost imperceptibly sidewise in his chair, the better to clear his gun, and Yarol's slim fingers hovered above his hip. They turned expressionless faces toward the speaker.
A little man sitting alone at the next table had bent forward to fix them with a particularly bright stare. They met his in silence, hostile and waiting, until the husky half-whisper spoke again.
“May I join you? I couldn't help overhearing that — that you were open for business.” Without expression Smith's colorless eyes summed up the speaker, and a puzzlement clouded their paleness, as he looked. Rarely does one meet a man whose origin and race are not apparent even upon close scrutiny. Yet here was one whom he could not classify: Under the deep burn of the man's skin might be concealed a fair Venusian pallor or an Earthman bronze, canal-Martian rosiness or even a leathery dryland hide. His dark eyes could have belonged to any race, and his husky whisper, fluent in the jargon of the spaceman, effectively disguised its origin. Little and unobtrusive, he might have passed for native on any of the three planets.
Smith's scarred, impassive face did not change as he looked, but after a long moment of scrutiny he said, “Pull up,” and then bit off the words as if he had said too much.
The brevity must have pleased the little man, for he smiled as he complied, meeting the passively hostile stare of the two without embarrassment. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. The husky voice began without preamble,
“I can offer you employment — if you're not afraid. It's dangerous work, but the pay's good enough to make up for it — if you're not afraid.”
“What is it?”
“Work they — those two — failed at. They were — hunters — until they found what they hunted. Look at them now.”
Smith's no-colored eyes did not swerve from the speaker's face, but he nodded. No need to look again upon the fear-ridden faces of the neighboring pair. He understood.
“What's the job?” he asked.
The little man hitched his chair closer and sent a glance round the room from under lowered lids. He scanned the faces of his two companions half doubtfully. He said, “There have been many gods since time's beginning,” then paused and peered dubiously into Smith's face.
Northwest nodded briefly. “Go on,” he said.
Reassured, the little man took up his tale, and before he had gone far enthusiasm drowned out the doubtfulness in his husky voice, and a tinge of fanaticism crept in.
“There were gods who were old when Mars was a green planet, and a verdant moon circled an Earth blue with steaming seas, and Venus, molten-hot, swung round a younger sun.
Another world circled in space then, between Mars and Jupiter where its fragments, the planetoids, now are. You will have heard rumors of it — they persist in the legends of every planet. It was a mighty, world, rich and beautiful, peopled by the ancestors in mankind. And on that world dwelt a mighty Three in a temple of crystal, served by strange slaves and worshipped by a world. They were not wholly abstract, as most modern gods have become.
Some say they were from beyond, and real, in their way, as flesh and blood.
“Those three gods were the origin and beginning of all other gods that mankind has known.
All modern gods are echoes of them, in a world that has forgotten the very name of the Lost Planet. Saig they called one, and Lsa was the second. You will never have heard of them —
they died before your world's hot seas had cooled. No man knows how they vanished, or why, and no trace of them is left anywhere in the universe we know. But there was a Third — a mighty Third set above these two and ruling the Lost Planet; so mighty a Third that even today, unthinkably long afterward, his name has not died from the lips of man. It has become a byword now — his name; that once no living man dared utter! I heard you call upon him not ten minutes past — Black Pharol!”
His husky voice sank to a quiver as it spoke the hackneyed name. Yarol gave a sudden snort of laughter, quickly hushed, and said, “Pharol! Why—”
“Yes, I know. Pharol, today, means unmentionable rites to an ancient no-god of utter darkness. Pharol has tunk so low that his very name denotes nothingness. But in other days — ah, in other days! Black Pharol has not always been a blur of dark worshipped with obscenity. In other days men knew what things that darkness hid, nor dared pronounce the name you laugh at, lest unwittingly they stumble upon that secret twist of its inflection which opens the door upon the dark that is Pharol. Men have been engulfed before now in that utter blackness of the god, and in that dark have seen fearful things. I know” — the raw voice trailed away into a murmur — “such fearful things that a man might scream his throat hoarse and never speak again above a whisper. . . .”
Smith's eyes flicked Yarol's. The husky murmur went on after a moment.
“So you see the old gods have not died utterly. They can never die as we know death: they come from too far Beyond to know either death or life as we do. They came from so very far that to touch us at all they had to take a visible form among mankind — to incarnate themselves in a material body through which, as through a door, they might reach out and touch the bodies and minds of men. The form they chose does not matter now — I do not know it. It was a material thing, and it has gone to dust so long ago that the very memory of its shape has vanished from the minds of men. But that dust still exists. Do you hear me? That dust which was once the first and the greatest of all gods, still exists! It was that which those men hunted. It was that they found, and fled in deadly terror of what they saw there. You look to be made of firmer stuff. Will you take up the search where they left it?” Smith's pale stare met Yarol's black one across the table. Silence hung between them for a moment. Then Smith said,
“Any objection to us having a little talk with those two over there?
”
“None at all,” answered the hoarse whisper promptly. “Go now, if you like.” Smith rose without further words. Yarol pushed back his chair noiselessly and followed him.
They crossed the floor with the spaceman's peculiar, shifting walk and slid into opposite chairs between the huddling two.
The effect was startling. The Earthman jerked convulsively and turned a pasty face, eloquent with alarm, toward the interruption. The drylander stared from Smith's face to Yarol's in dumb terror. Neither spoke.
“Know that fellow over there?” inquired Smith abruptly, jerking his head toward the table they had quitted..
After a moment's hesitation the two heads turned as one. When they faced around again the terror on the Earthman's face was giving way to a dawning comprehension. He said from a dry throat, “He — he's hiring you, eh?”
Smith nodded. The Earthman's face crumpled into terror again and he cried,
“Don't do it. For God's sake, you don't know!”
“Know what?”
The man glanced furtively round the room and licked his lips uncertainly. A curious play of conflicting emotions flickered across his face.
“Dangerous—” he mumbled. “Better leave well enough alone. We found that out.”
“What happened?”
The Earthman stretched out a shaking hand for the segir bottle and poured a brimming glass.
He drained it before he spoke, and the incoherence of his speech may have been due to the glasses that had preceded it.
“We went up toward the polar mountains, where he said. Weeks . . . it was cold. The nights get dark up there . . . dark. Went into the cave that goes through the mountain — a long way. . . . Then our lights went out — full-charged batteries in new super-Tomlinson tubes, but they went out like candles, and in the dark — in the dark the white thing came. . . .” A shudder went over him strongly. He reached out shaking hands for the segir bottle and poured another glass, the rim clicking against his teeth as he drank. Then he set down the glass hard and said violently,