– – –
Barbara smiled confidently, but with a slightly sour twist to her pretty lips; it led Scyth to think that there was some derision in her mind. She confirmed it by saying, "Scyth, since you are going on with your program no matter what happens, and your concern about warning the people has worked no matter what happens to Dusty Britton, why do you bother coming back for a look-see?"
Scyth squirmed uncomfortably. Despite certain jokes to the contrary, it is not acceptable to confront a desirable young lady of barely speaking acquaintance and flatly state the delicate proposition. The difficulty here was that no matter how he tried, Barbara Crandall was turning the trend of conversation right back onto the old original trail.
"You're an actress," he said. "So I'm told."
Scyth smiled. "You're popular? You are in demand here?"
"I am on my way up," she said.
"Barbara, you could be a popular actress, you know."
"Someday I shall be. But this does not come overnight, Scyth. It takes work, you know."
"I have an idea that the flavor of the foreign often helps."
"This is true."
"Then I have a suggestion. Why not come along with us back to Marandis? You have youth and beauty and ability and also the exotic flavor. It—"
"What shall I be?" she returned quietly. "The ignorant but beautiful barbarian? A clothes horse slightly incapable of holding an intelligent conversation? This seldom works, Scyth. I've studied history a bit and I recall the case of a native girl called Pocahontas who was carried from her native surroundings into the height of the civilization for the time. She was no actress—she was exhibited like a pet monkey or a rare zoological specimen. She died of what they called heartbreak. I think heartbreak in this case was a combination of loneliness, of facing the realization that she could never really belong to the culture, of the futility of asking to be returned to her people. In other words Pocahontas lost the will to live. So thank you, Scyth, but I have no desire to be a chattel, or a curiosity ... Or a museum-piece."
Scyth nodded seriously. "I see your point. But I don't agree with you. In the first place you are indulging in a conversation with me. In the second place, you—"
"In the first place," said Barbara pointedly, "this conversation is being carefully kept on my level, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't say that."
"Of course not. But look, Scyth, aren't you using that menslator of yours?"
"Of course."
"Then the menslator keeps the conversation down to my level because by its very nature it cannot convey an idea to me that is beyond my understanding. Am I correct?"
"In a sense, yes. But—"
"Scyth, can you menslate a dog, for instance?"
"A dog has so little mind that—"
Barbara interrupted this with a wave of her hand. "So how long would it be before you and your people became damned sick and tired of talking down? It would be. like drying to conduct an adult discussion in baby talk, wouldn't it?"
Scyth shook his head. "Not entirely," he said. "It might be that way at first. But this would not last. I don't know of your history, but I assume that your Pocahontas was a true savage. You had nothing like the menslator. Doubtless she never learned any real language and so lacked the ability to use a language of any kind, let alone learn the ramifications of the culture behind it. You would be on an entirely different plane. You have a language and a culture and you are quick to grasp a new idea. With a menslator you would learn the language well enough in a short time and while the deeper factors of the culture would always escape you, the superficial parts would eventually come easy."
– – –
For an answer, Barbara pointed to the wall. "Scyth, on that wall is a painting given to me by a character who calls himself an artist. Take a gander."
Scyth looked. The painting was a mess of squiggles and blots of color. It was irridescent here and drab there, soft lines elsewhere and sharp contrasts somewhere else.
"Interesting," said Scyth. "What is it?"
"I'm not sure. I think that this is the painting, but all it needs is a hole in one corner and it could be the palette that the guy used to make the painting."
"This is apropos of what?"
"Frankly, I think it is a mess. It is something that could be accomplished by a monkey turned loose in a paint store. But the artist calls it 'modern' and defends his stand by stating that anybody who criticises it is wayward, ignorant and unappreciative of the finer moods and things of life. So put me in your culture and turn me loose. If I criticise it will be because I am too primitive to understand these higher bits of culture. If I enjoy something, I am looked down upon because I can't really feel the true depth of the thing. It—"
Scyth held up a hand and his empty glass at the same time. Barbara laughed and went to give him a refill. It also gave him time to think, and when she came back with his highball he had the answer.
"Barbara," he said sincerely, "a lot of what you say is true. But look at it this way. You will be a celebrity. You will, to all intents and purposes, be among your own kind. That helps. So you can't follow the deeper arguments nor appreciate the complexities of society as we know them. But think of what you can see and enjoy which will be forever denied you if you refuse my offer."
"For instance?"
"Imagine the beauty of a planet under a double sun. Imagine if you can the beauty of a night sky with a ringed moon glowing soft over the landscape. Coalestis is a planet where most of the minerals and rocks combine into black stuff. Imagine the beauty of a city of polished ebony. There is the twinworlds we call Venago One and Two. The Venagos are separated only by about a hundred thousand miles and in the night sky you can look up and see the other world glowing over a quarter of the heaven, and on the dark side are the winking beauties of the cities glowing like jewels. You will see worlds where the vegetation grows lush; riotous colors to hundreds of feet tall and there are cold planets where the ice and snow are always dazzling white. You will wear sheer shimmering cloth so soft that you have no word to describe it. You will wear jewels that glow with their own internal light. Money and luxury will be yours, to travel as you see fit; to spend the rest of your life flitting from star to star, seeing the varied wonders of the universe. That is the fate of an actress in our culture, Barbara, for Lord knows we have few enough of them."
Barbara looked at Scyth seriously. A number of things occurred to her, and one of them was simple. If Scyth had returned to earth to see her, it was obvious that she measured up well against the women of Marandis. Another factor was the yearning to travel. Barbara would not have recognized the train of thought if it had been labelled and explained, but it was there none the less. This was her one chance to see the greener grass on the other side of the galaxy, the chance to realize a human dream of countless centuries.
She smiled wanly.
"You see what I mean?" asked Scyth.
"I think I do."
"Doubts?"
"Yes. I feel as though I'll be abandoning my own kind."
Scyth had been leaning forward on the loveseat. Now he came forward to cross the room. He leaned down, took her hands, and lifted her out of her chair.
"You'll come?"
"You make it very attractive."
"You can do nothing by staying, Barbara."
"But—"
Scyth freed one hand and fished in his jacket pocket. He came up with a small box, deftly flipping the cover up with his thumbnail.
– – –
Coiled inside the box was a chain of tiny-linked metal that glowed gently with a pale green light. Against the dark cloth of the box lining was a scrollwork of dark metal, the setting for a stone about a half inch in diameter. The stone itself was cut in many facets each of which glowed- in a dazzle of a different color. Scyth moved the box gently and the facets changed color and sent flecks of polychrome dancing against the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Flecks of light caressed his face and sparkled in
to her eyes.
Barbara took a deep breath, then held it, completely entranced by the bauble for which she had no words to describe. It was sheer beauty and she knew that anything that she said would be completely inadequate.
Scyth freed his other hand and took the pendant by the chain. Holding it by both ends, he held it up to her throat.
Barbara stood immobile as Scyth put his hands to the back of her neck and fastened the clasp. Deliberately he let the tiny links slide down across her shoulders, let the chill of the cold jewel-stone thrill her as it slipped down her chest towards the hollow between her breasts.
Then, gently, Scyth took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror on the door. She turned under his hands as though she had no will of her own, to look into the mirror and gasp at the rich beauty of the gem.
Scyth drew her back against him and she leaned gently with her forehead against his chin. He put his hands on her waist and she covered them with hers, squeezing them as she drew his arms close around her. She tilted her head back and turned her face to offer her lips and he found them warm and soft. His hands caressed her. Barbara turned in his arms to face him and he held her close.
Chapter VII
The snick of a key in the lock did not break through their preoccupation with one another, but the cynical voice of Dusty Britton came as the shock of a bucket of cold water:
"Very pleasant scene," he drawled. "I hope I've interrupted something."
Scyth and Barbara parted in a whirl.
Scyth felt a sinking sensation in his middle as he realized that the facts were far too clear; that the sensible course was a hasty retreat, but the only path was barred by Dusty Britton.
Barbara took the woman's course. "Don't you ever use the doorbell?" she asked icily.
Dusty smiled sourly. "I always have," he said. "Up to now. But this time I want words with the gentleman in question instead of losing him out through the back door."
"I think I should explain," said Scyth uncertainly.
Dusty chuckled. "What sort of explanation do you think I'll accept?" he asked the Marandanian.
"But I—"
"Stow it, Scyth. You couldn't explain a thing and you know it."
Barbara snorted angrily. "See here, Dusty, you can't come in here and start—"
"I'm not starting anything. I'm just seeking a conference with Scyth."
"How did you know?" asked the Marandanian uncertainly.
"By being just smart enough to find a tomcat by knowing where the tomcat is likely to prowl."
"Meaning?" demanded Barbara icily.
Dusty ignored her. To Scyth he said, "I don't know beans about barytrine fields or generators, but I guessed that you'd set it up on earth somewhere, start it cooking, and wetnurse it until it came to a boil. That would leave you on Earth with time to kill. Since time hangs heavy, you'd probably look up one of the only two people you know. The more attractive one, Scyth. So I've been haunting the front door like a private eye."
Barbara coughed. "You took that right out of The Space Patrol Fights The Overlords of Delgon."
"So I've got good writers," grinned Dusty.
"What do you intend to do?" asked Scyth nervously.
Dusty faced Scyth. Dusty topped the Marandanian by perhaps an inch or two and covered him by a good twenty pounds. He guessed that if it came to roughhouse he would probably win. He poised himself on the balls of his feet, just in case. He had no way of guessing the speed or power of the wiry-looking Scyth Radnor and so he was taking no chances.
"I became a professional bum because of you and your phanobands and your menslators and your barytrine fields," he said bluntly. "I was laughed out of everything I had. So now you're going to go with me and tell 'em all that I was right. We'll have the big domes out to take a look at your spacecraft, have 'em inspect your barytrine doodad, take a gander at whatever it is you call phanobands, and so on."
Scyth understood all too well. He was trapped, faced by a man who could take him apart bit by bit without much trouble, and if he came out of it alive, he would end up by being a bigger bum than Dusty Britton had become. Scyth had fumbled badly by taking time off for fun and games with Barbara and he knew it. The only thing to do was to clear out of here no matter what happened afterwards. For once the barytrine field snapped on, any evidence of Scyth Radnor's attempt at dalliance could not come to light for a thousand years.
His hand lifted slowly to the inside pocket of his jacket as he said, "I'll be glad to help you, Dusty. Naturally, none of us have any notion of making things tough for anybody. So—"
Scyth went into whirlwind motion. His hand came out from inside the coat carrying a fluted-barrelled weapon. As the end of the thing cleared the lapel of Scyth's jacket he was fingering the trigger and a pale emanence seared out and cut down and over in a slashing arc.
– – –
But at the whirl of action, Dusty's hand arrowed into the space between the lower two buttons of his dress shirt and came out with a snub-nosed automatic.
The pale slash of Scyth's weapon was blotted out by the flash and racket of a shot.
Scyth whirled, flinging his weapon against the wall from an outstretched hand. The thing hit with a crunching sound and Scyth continued to turn on rubbery legs, sinking and sinking and turning until he sat heavily on the floor. He sat, stunned, just long enough to fold his hands over his belly. Then he folded forward over them and rolled around sidewise as if falling out of his own lap. He half-rolled and fell a-sprawl on his face. A spread of blood stained the white carpet.
Dusty looked down at Scyth. He looked from Scyth to the snub-nosed gun in his hand and swallowed heavily. The gun dropped to the floor with a muffled thud from nerveless fingers; Dusty looked at Barbara out of far-away eyes and said, "He—er—I—"
Then he slid to the floor in a dead faint.
Barbara stifled a scream. The whole thing had been lightning-fast, but she had caught most of it. Scyth had shot first but now he was bleeding on her carpet. Dusty had shot second and was lying in a dead faint. Hysteria choked up in her but she drove it back. She wanted to laugh hysterically. She wanted to let go and slide to the floor and go to sleep while someone else came in and cleaned up the mess.
Realizing that she could only hold off the rising hysteria until someone did make a rational move, Barbara reached for and drained the highball on the bar. She augmented this slug with a muscle-sized hooker from the bottle. The liquor burned down and helped to iron out her jittery nerves.
She grabbed the ice-pitcher which was filled now with melted cubes and a slosh of water. Unceremoniously she poured the cold mess over Dusty's white face.
Dusty's eyes fluttered and his voice made spluttering noises. "Wha—?" he fumbled.
"Come off it!" snapped Barbara.
Dusty sat up weakly. He looked around for a moment as if he weren't quite sure of where he was. Then he caught sight of Scyth and it all came back to him. He scrambled to his feet and took the bottle from Barbara's hand. He took a healthy slug himself and then said, "He tried to—tried to—"
Barbara laughed hysterically. Between gales of half-mad laughter, she said, "Tried to beat the fastest man—in The Space Patrol—to the draw!"
Dusty slapped her across the face with the flat of his hand. "Shut up!" he roared. "Shut up and make sense!"
She came out of the hysteria instantly, shrinking back from Dusty with a hand against the growing redness on her face. "Dusty—don't—"
He shook his head hard. "Sorry. You needed it."
"I know. But he—? Look, Dusty, what do we do now?"
Dusty looked down at the bleeding man. "Cops," he said thickly. "I've just shot a—" He could not finish; his face was turning green again.
"Cops nothing," snapped Barbara.
"But shooting—"
"Come off it, Dusty. The cops will only delay and investigate and generally botch things up until it will be two months and a thousand years from here."
"C
ops aren't that stupid."
"Cops aren't stupid at all," she snapped. "They're just smart enough to insist on knowing all the answers. So tell you what. You go to the phone and call Lieutenant Yonkers and explain carefully that you've just shot a Marandanian Marauder in my living room. Tell him you've collected one of your Great Galactics, only he's defunct. See how far you'll get!"
Dusty looked at her blankly.
"The first stop will be the bull pen," she went on hotly. "The second stop is the nut-locker. And the third stop is some unknown star a thousand years from now while the F.B.I, try to match the guy's fingerprints. Then you call on me for a witness and that gets us the front page in big black letters saying: 'Former Hero Shoots Rival In Leading Lady's Boudoir!' Start thinking right. Dusty Britton. Or," she-added scathingly, "call up one of your writers."
Dusty considered. "I could slope out of here and—"
"Like hell you will!" she screamed. "You're not leaving me here with a body to explain."
"But defending your—"
Barbara's scorn was high. "Look, Dusty, ever since we were sighted offshore in the Buccaneer I haven't had a shred of virtue and everybody knows it."
"Trouble is that we can't even run," grumbled Dusty. "This is your apartment."
Barbara looked down at Scyth. "Damned nuisance," she said.
The damned nuisance groaned. The sound was hollow and weak but it seemed to ring through the room like the cry of a wailing ghost.
Barbara cried: "He's alive—"
"—not dead!" blurted Dusty. "Get water and stuff."
– – –
Slowly they stretched Scyth out on his back, and Barbara went for her first aid kit while Dusty slid off Scyth's jacket and ripped the shirt free. The wound looked frightful, but some sponging with hot water and alcohol reduced the horror to a weeping hole that tried to breathe blood in and out. It was low on one side, somewhere near the floating ribs on the right.
"Flesh wound?" asked Dusty hopefully.
Troubled Star Page 6