The Best of C. L. Moore

by C. L. Moore

  Her voice faded for a moment, and Harris had a quick and appalling vision of her experimenting in the solitude of her farm, testing the range of her voice, testing her eyesight—could she see microscopically and telescopically?—and was her hearing as abnormally flexible as her voice?

  “You were afraid I had lost feeling and scent and taste,” she went on, still pacing with that powerful, tigerish tread. “Hearing and sight would not be enough, you think? But why do you think sight is the last of the senses? It may be the latest, Maltzer—Harris—but why do you think it’s the last?”

  She may not have whispered that. Perhaps it was only their hearing that made it seem thin and distant, as the brain contracted and would not let the thought come through in its stunning entirety.

  “No,” Deirdre said, “I haven’t lost contact with the human race. I never will, unless I want to. It’s too easy. . - too easy.”

  She was watching her shining feet as she paced, and her masked face was averted. Sorrow sounded in her soft voice now.

  “I didn’t mean to let you know,” she said. “I never would have, if this hadn’t happened. But I couldn’t let you go believing you’d failed. You made a perfect machine, Maltzer. More perfect than you knew.”

  “But Deirdre—” breathed Maltzer, his eyes fascinated and still incredulous upon her, “but Deirdre, if we did succeed—what’s wrong? I can feel it now—I’ve felt it all along. You’re so unhappy—you still are. Why, Deirdre?”

  She lifted her head and looked at him, eyelessly, but with a piercing stare.

  “Why are you so sure of that?” she asked gently.

  “You think I could be mistaken, knowing you as I do? But I’m not Frankenstein. . . you say my creation’s flawless. Then what—”

  “Could you ever duplicate this body?” she asked.

  Maltzer glanced down at his shaking hands. “I don’t know. I doubt it. I—”

  “Could anyone else?”

  He was silent. Deirdre answered for him. “I don’t believe anyone could. I think I was an accident. A sort of mutation halfway between flesh and metal. Something accidental and . . . and unnatural, turning off on a wrong course of evolution that never reaches a dead end. Another brain in a body like this might die or go mad, as you thought I would. The synapses are too delicate. You were—call it lucky—with me. From what I know now, I don’t think a . . . a baroque like me could happen again.” She paused a moment. “What you did was kindle the fire for the Phoenix, in a way. And the Phoenix rises perfect and renewed from its own ashes. Do you remember why it had to reproduce itself that way?”

  Maltzer shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said. “It was because there was only one Phoenix. Only one in the whole world.”

  They looked at each other in silence. Then Deirdre shrugged a little.

  “He always came out of the fire perfect, of course. I’m not weak, Maltzer. You needn’t let that thought bother you any more. I’m not

  vulnerable and helpless. I’m not sub-human.” She laughed dryly. “I suppose,” she said, “that I’m—superhuman.”

  “But—not happy.”

  “I’m afraid. It isn’t unhappiness, Maltzer—it’s fear. I don’t want to draw so far away from the human race. I wish I needn’t. That’s why I’m going back on the stage—to keep in touch with them while I can. But I wish there could be others like me. I’m . - . I’m lonely, Maltzer.”

  Silence again. Then Maltzer said, in a voice as distant as when he had spoken to them through glass, over gulfs as deep as oblivion:

  “Then I am Frankenstein, after all.”

  “Perhaps you are,” Deirdre said very softly. “I don’t know. Perhaps you are.”

  She turned away and moved smoothly, powerfully, down the room to the window. Now that Harris knew, he could almost hear the sheer power purring along her limbs as she walked. She leaned the golden forehead against the glass—it clinked faintly, with a musical sound—and looked down into the depths Maltzer had hung above. Her voice was reflective as she looked into those dizzy spaces which had offered oblivion to her creator.

  “There’s one limit I can think of,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Only one. My brain will wear out in another forty years or so. Between now and then I’ll learn . . . I’ll change . . - I’ll know more than I can guess today. I’ll change— That’s frightening. I don’t like to think about that.” She laid a curved golden hand on the latch and pushed the window open a little, very easily. Wind whined around its edge. “I could put a stop to it now, if I wanted,” she said. “If I wanted. But I can’t, really. There’s so much still untried. My brain’s human, and no human brain could leave such possibilities untested. I wonder, though. . . I do wonder—”

  Her voice was soft and familiar in Harris’ ears, the voice Deirdre had spoken and sung with, sweetly enough to enchant a world. But as preoccupation came over her a certain flatness crept into the sound. When she was not listening to her own voice, it did not keep quite to the pitch of trueness. It sounded as if she spoke in a room of brass, and echoes from the walls resounded in the tones that spoke there.

  “I wonder,” she repeated, the distant taint of metal already in her voice.

  * * *

  Shambleau

  Man has conquered space before. You may be sure of that. Somewhere beyond the Egyptians, in that dimness out of which come echoes of half-mythical names—Atlantis, Mu—somewhere back of history’s first beginnings there must have been an age when mankind, like us today, built cities of steel to house its star.roving ships and knew the names of the planets in their own native tongues—heard Venus’ people call their wet world “Sha-ardol” in that soft, sweet, slurring speech and mimicked Mars’ guttural ~‘Lakkdiz” from the harsh tongues of Mars’ thyland dwellers. You may be sure of it. Man has conquered Space before, and out of that conquest faint, faint echoes run Still through a world that has forgotten the very fact of a civilization which must have been as mighty as our own. There have been too many myths and legends for us to doubt it. The myth of the Medusa, for instance, can never have had its roots in the soil of Earth. That tale of the snake-haired Gorgon whose gaze turned the gazer to stone never originated about any creature that Earth nourished. And those ancient Greeks who told the story must have remembered, dimly and half believing, a tale of antiquity about some strange being from one of the outlying planets their remotest ancestors once trod.

  “Shambleaul Ha . . . Shambleaul” The wild hysteria of the mob rocketed from wall to wall of Lakkdarol’s narrow streets and the storming of heavy boots over the slag.red pavement made an ominous undernote to that swelling bay, “Shambleaul Shambleaul”

  Northwest Smith heard it coining and stepped into the nearest doorway, laying a wary hand on his heat-gun’s grip, and his colorless eyes narrowed. Strange sounds were common enough in the streets of Earth’s latest colony on Mars—a raw, red little town where anything might happen, and very often did. But Northwest Smith, whose name is known and respected in every dive and wild outpost on a dozen wild planets, was a cautious man, despite his reputation. He set his

  back against the wall and gripped his pistol, and heard the rising shout come nearer and nearer.

  Then into his range of vision flashed a red running figure, dodging like a hunted hare from shelter to shelter in the narrow street. It was a girl—a berry-brown girl in a single tattered garment whose scarlet burnt the eyes with its brilliance. She ran wearily, and he could hear her gasping breath from where he stood. As she came into view he saw her hesitate and lean one hand against the wall for support, and glance wildly around for shelter. She must not have seen him in the depths of the doorway, for as the bay of the mob grew louder and the pounding of feet sounded almost at the corner she gave a despairing little moan and dodged into the recess at his very side.

  When she saw him standing there, tall and leather-brown, hand~on his heat-gun, she sobbed once, inarticulately, and collapsed at his feet, a huddle of burning scarl
et and bare, brown limbs.

  Smith had not seen her face, but she was a girl, and sweetly made and in danger; and though he had not the reputation of a chivalrous man, something in her hopeless huddle at his feet touched that chord of sympathy for the underdog that stirs in every Earthman, and he pushed her gently into the corner behind him and jerked out his gun, just as the first of the running mob rounded the corner.

  It was a motley crowd, Earthmen and Martians and a sprinkling of Venusian swampmen and strange, nameless denizens of unnamed planets—a typical Lakkdarol mob. When the first of them turned the corner and saw the empty street before them there was a faltering in the rush and the foremost spread out and began to search the doorways on both sides of the street.

  “Looking for something?” Smith’s sardonic call sounded clear above the clamor of the mob.

  They turned. The shouting died for a moment as they took in the scene before them—tall Earthman in the space-explorer’s leathern garb, all one color from the burning of savage suns save for the sinister pallor of his no-colored eyes in a scarred and resolute face, gun in his steady hand and the scarlet girl crouched behind him, panting.

  The foremost of the crowd—a burly Earthman in tattered leather from which the Patrol insignia had been ripped away—stared for a moment with a strange expression of incredulity on his face overspreading the savage exultation of the chase. Then he let loose a deepthroated bellow, “Shambleau!” and lunged forward. Behind him the mob took up the cry again, “Shambleau! Shambleaul Shambleaul” and surged after.

  Smith, lounging negligently against the wall, arms folded and gun-

  hand draped over his left forearm, looked incapable of swift motion, but at the leader’s first forward step the pistol swept in a practiced half-circle and the dazzle of blue-white heat leaping from its muzzle seared an arc in the slag pavement at his feet. It was an old gesture, and not a man in the crowd but understood it. The foremost recoiled swiftly against the surge of those in the rear, and for a moment there was confusion as the two tides met and struggled. Smith’s mouth curled into a grim curve as he watched. The man in the mutilated Patrol uniform lifted a threatening fist and stepped to the very edge of the deadline, while the crowd rocked to and fro behind him.

  “Are you crossing that line?” queried Smith in an ominously gentle voice.

  “We want that girl!”

  “Come and get her!” Recklessly Smith grinned into his face. He saw danger there, but his defiance was not the foolhardy gesture it seemed. An expert psychologist of mobs from long experience, he sensed no murder here. Not a gun had appeared in any hand in the crowd. They desired the girl with an inexplicable bloodthirstiness he was at a loss to understand, but toward himself he sensed no such fury. A mauling he might expect, but his life was in no danger. Guns would have appeared before now if they were coming out at all. So he grinned in the man’s angry face and leaned lazily against the wall.

  Behind their self-appointed leader the crowd milled impatiently, and threatening voices began to rise again. Smith heard the girl moan at his feet.

  “What do you want with her?” he demanded.

  “She’s Shambleau! Shambleau, you fool! Kick her out of there— we’ll take care of her!”

  “I’m taking care of her,” drawled Smith.

  “She’s Shambleau, I tell you! Damn your hide, man, we never let those things live! Kick her out here!”

  The repeated name had no meaning to him, but Smith’s innate stubbornness rose defiantly as the crowd surged forward to the very edge of the are, their clamor growing louder. “Shambleaul Kick her out here! Give us Shambleau! Shambleau!”

  Smith dropped his indolent pose like a cloak and planted both feet wide, swinging up his gun threateningly. “Keep back!” he yelled. “She’s mine! Keep back!”

  He had no intention of using that heat-beam. He knew by now that they would not kill him unless he started the gunplay himself, and he did not mean to give up his life for any girl alive. But a severe mauling

  he expected, and he braced himself instinctively as the mob heaved within itself.

  To his astonishment a thing happened then that he had never known to happen before. At his shouted defiance the foremost .of the mob—those who had heard him clearly—drew back a little bit in alarm but evidently surprised. The ex-Patrolman said, “Yours! She’s yours?” in a voice from which puzzlement crowded out the anger.

  Smith spread his booted legs wide before the crouching figure and flourished his gun.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I’m keeping her! Stand back there!”

  The man stared at him wordlessly, and horror, disgust and incredulity mingled on his weather-beaten face. The incredulity triumphed for a moment and he said again, -

  “Yours!”

  Smith nodded defiance.

  The man stepped back suddenly, unutterable contempt in his very pose. He waved an arm to the crowd and said loudly, “It’s—his!” and the press melted away, gone silent, too, and the look of contempt spread from face to face.

  The ex-Patrolman spat on the slag-paved street and turned his back indifferently. “Keep her, then,” he advised briefly over one shoulder. “But don’t let her out again in this town!”

  Smith stared in perplexity almost open-mouthed as the suddenly scornful mob began to break up. His mind was in a whirl. That such bloodthirsty animosity should vanish in a breath he could not believe. And the curious mingling of contempt and disgust on the faces he saw baffled him even more. Lakkdarol was anything but a puritan town—it did not enter his head for a moment that his claiming the brown girl as his own had caused that strangely shocked revulsion to spread through the crowd. No, it was something more deeply-rooted than that. Instinctive, instant disgust had been in the faces he saw— they would have looked less so if he had admitted cannibalism or Pharol-worship.

  And they were leaving his vicinity as swiftly as if whatever unknowing sin he had committed were contagious. The street was emptying as rapidly as it had filled. He saw a sleek Venusian glance back over his shoulder as he turned the corner and sneer, “Shambleau!” and the word awoke a new line of speculation in Smith’s mind. Shambleaul Vaguely of French origin, it must be. And strange enough to hear it from the lips of Venusians and Martian drylanders, but it was their

  use of it that puzzled him more. ‘We never let those things live,” the ex-Patrolman had said. It reminded him dimly of something. . . an ancient line from some writing in his own tongue. . . “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” He smiled to himself at the similarity, and simultaneously was aware of the girl at his elbow.

  She had risen soundlessly. He turned to face her, sheathing his gun, and stared at first with curiosity and then in the entirely frank openness with which men regard that which is not wholly human. For she was not. He knew it at a glance, though the brown, sweet body was shaped like a woman’s and she wore the garment of scarlet—he saw it was leather—with an ease that few unhurnan beings achieve toward clothing. He knew it from the moment he looked into her eyes, and a shiver of unrest went over him as he met them. They were frankly green as young grass, with slit-like, feline pupils that pulsed unceasingly, and there was a look of dark, animal wisdom in their depths—that look of the beast which sees more than man.

  There was no hair upon her face—neither brows nor lashes, and he would have sworn that the tight scarlet turban bound around her head covered baldness. She had three fingers and a thumb, and her feet had four digits apiece too, and all sixteen of them were tipped with round claws that sheathed back into the flesh like a cat’s. She ran her tongue over her lips—a thin, pink, flat tongue as feline as her eyes

  —and spoke with difficulty. He felt that that throat and tongue had never been shaped for human speech. -

  “Not—afraid now,” she said softly, and her little teeth were white and pointed as a kitten’s.

  “What did they want you for?” he asked her curiously. “What had you done? Shambleau. . . is that your name?
”

  “I—not talk your—speech,” she demurred hesitantly.

  “Well, try to—I want to know. Why were they chasing you? Will you be safe on the street now, or hadn’t you better get indoors somewhere? They looked dangerous.”

  “I—go with you.” She brought it out with difficulty.

  “Say you!” Smith grinned. “What are you, anyhow? You look like~a kitten to me.”

  “Shambleau?’ She said it somberly.

  “Where d’you live? Are you a Martian?”

  “I come from—from far—from long ago—far country—”

  “Wait!” laughed Smith. “You’re getting your wires crossed. You’re not a Martian?”

  She drew herself up very straight beside him, lifting the turbaned head, and there was something queenly in the poise of her.

  “Martian?” she said scornfully. “My people—are—are—you have no word. Your speech—hard for me.”

  “What’s yours? I might know it—try me.”

  She lifted her head and met his eyes squarely, and there was in hers a subtle amusement—he could have sworn it.

  “Some day I—speak to you in—my own language,” she promised, and the pink tongue flicked out over her lips, swiftly, hungrily.

  Approaching footsteps on the red pavement interrupted Smith’s reply. A dryland Martian came past, reeling a little and exuding an aroma of segir-whisky, the Venusian brand. When he caught the red flash of the girl’s tatters he turned his head sharply, and as his segirsteeped brain took in the fact of her presence he lurched toward the recess unsteadily, bawling, “Shambleau, by Pharol! Shambleau!” and reached out a clutching hand.