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Introduction: Forty Years of C. L. Moore

Printed in the United States of America

Published by arrangement with Ballantine Books

A Division of Random House, Inc.

201 East 5oth Street

New York, New York 10022

Acknowledgments

October 1934.

1934.

December 1936.

Fiction, July 1939.

1940.

Fiction, December 1944.

Fiction, September 1946.

Co NTE NTS

Introduction: Forty Years of C. L. Moore

Lester del Rey

Shambleau 7

Black Thirst 33

The Bright Illusion 66

Black God’s Kiss 89

Tryst in Time 114

Greater Than Gods 137

Fruit of Knowledge 169

No Woman Born 200

Daemon 243

Vintage Season 265

Afterword: Footnote to “Shambleau”. . . and Others

C. L. Moore 306

The Best of C. L. MOORE

Forty Years of C. L. Moore

by LESTER DEL REY

Back in the fall of 1933, I opened the November issue of Weird Tales to find a story with the

provocath’e but meaningless title, “Shambleau,” by an unknown writer named C. L. Moore—and life

was never quite the same afterward. Up to that time, science-fiction readers had accepted the

mechanistic and unemotional stories of other worlds and future times without question. After the

publica-tion of Moore’s story, however, the bleakness of such writing would never again be satisfactory.

Almost forty years later, I sat in the audience at a World Science Fiction Convention banquet, listening to

Forrest J. Ackerman an-nounce a special award that was about to be presented to a writer. As is

customary, Ackerman was saving the name of the recipient for the climax. But he mentioned a story

called “Shambleau” and never got to finish his speech. As one, the z,ooo people in the audience came

in-stantly to their feet in unanimous tribute—clapping, shouting, and craning to see a gracious and lovely

lady blushingly accept the applause.

Many in that audience had never read the story. But everyone knew about it. And everyone knew that

Catherine Moore was one of the finest writers of all time in the field of science fiction.

It is probably impossible to explain to modem readers how great an impact that first C. L. Moore story

had. Science fiction has learned a great deal from her many examples. But if you could go back to the old

science-fiction magazines of the time and read a few issues, and then turn to ~ShambIeau” for the first

time, you might begin to understand. The influences of that story were and are tremendous.

Here, for the first time in the field, we find mood, feeling, and color. Here is an alien who is truly

alien—far different from the crude monsters and slightly-altered humans found in other stories. Here are

rounded and well-developed characters. Northwest Smith, for in-

stance, is neither a good guy nor a bad guy—he may be slightly larger than life, but he displays all aspects

of humanity. In “Shambleau” we also experience as never before both the horror at what we may find in

space and the romance of space itself. And—certainly for the first time that I can remember in the

field—this story presents the sexual drive of humanity in some of its complexity.

“Black Thirst” was Moore’s next story, and it continued the exploits of Northwest Smith. In this story,

something new was brought to our tales of the far planets: a quality of beauty as a thing a man must strive

for, even when it is perverted to wrong ends. There were other stories of Northwest Smith, but these first

two stand out as the most moving and original.

Many of Moore’s early stories appeared in Weird Tales, thoñgh they were basically science fiction.

Apparently, some of the editors of the sf magazines of the day were afraid of such extreme deviation

from the more standard stories. But in October, 1934, Astounding Stories published her “Bright

Illusion.” Now in those days, as count-less letters to the editor indicated, the one thing readers of the

science-fiction magazines did not want was a love story. Yet here was a tale of the pure quintessence of

love that transcended all limits! Nev-ertheless, the readers raved about it arid clamored for more.

A few years ago, Larry Janifer was putting together an anthology of the favorite stories of a number of

leading writers in the field. I sent him three titles, including “Bright Illusion.” He wrote back to say that

he’d never read it before, that he was deeply grateful to me for suggesting it, and that it was an absolute

must for the book. Some-how, in spite of advances and changes in our writing, the stories of C. L.

Moore remain as fresh and powerful now as they were back when the field was groping through its

beginnings.

Meanwhile, in Weird Tales, Moore was beginning a new series of stories about Jirel, the warrior maid of

the mythical kingdom of Joiry. In those days, the sf magazines were all intensely male oriented. Most of

the readers were male, and the idea of sexual equality had never been considered—certainly not for the

protagonist of an adventure story. For such fiction, it followed axiomatically, one used a male hero. But in

“Black God’s Kiss” the intensely feminine Jirel was a woman equal in battle to any swashbuckling male

hero who ever ruled over the knights of ancient valor.

Jirel of Joiry was no imperturbable battler, however. She loved and hated, feared desperately to the core

of her superstitious heart—and yet dared to take risks that no man had ever faced. Every male reader

loved the story, forgot his chauvinism, and demanded more stories

about Jirel. More were quickly forthcoming, though to my mind, the first one remained marginally the best

and most original. “Black God’s Kiss” was simply too good to be surpassed in later episodes of the

series.

“Tryst in Time” was another love story that greatly pleased the readers of Astounding Stories. Once

again Moore captured the ul-timate sense of romance that could be accepted only in a world of fan-tasy.

Here was a love that swept through time—roving among the ages and building slowly to a climax of full

realization. Yet “Tryst in Time” was more than a love story—it was also an exposition of both the

fallibility and the glory of man.

During these early years, C. L. Moore had been a fairly prolific writer of stories which dealt almost

exclusively with the most emo-tional elements of fiction. But after 1938, changes came about that may or

may not have been caused by a change in her personal life. Her biographers disagree, and she makes few

comments that provide us with any real answer. My own suspicion is that the changes oc-curred because

of greater maturity on the part of the writer. Certainly, however, the alteration of her fictional interests

coincide with a major event in her life.

When her first story was published, she was just twenty-two years old and was employed as a secretary

in a bank in Indianapolis. By all accounts, she was a lovely and very popular young lady. But there had

been many years of ill health before, during which she had turned to fiction as an escape. She says that

she had been writing for fifteen years before submitting anything for publication. That would explain the

“escapist” nature of her early fiction, though hardly the vigor of the stories.

In 1938, Catherine Moore met Henry Kuttner, a young writer of great promise, who was then just

becoming recognized. She gave up her job in Indianapolis and moved to New York, where she and

Kuttner were married in 1940. From then until 19~8, when Kuttner died of a heart attack, after

becoming one of the leading writers of science fiction, her interests were strongly focused on writing as a

way of life.

Kuttner and Moore were an unusual mating of talents. Her fiction was noted for its sensitivity and

emotional coloration. His was essen-tially intellectual in its creation, based upon a firm understanding of

plot structure and, initially, often more clever than moving in its de-velopments. Somehow, the couple

managed to merge their talents, so that a story by either one would display both an intellectual base and a

richly colored background.

They often worked together upon a single story; indeed, few stories produced during their marriage seem

to be the work of either one alone. They used a great number of pseudonyms, some of which they

seemed to share or exchange. And generally, the authorship of many of the stories is something of a

puzzle, even today. A tale credited to Kuttner in one compiler’s list may be ascribed to Moore in another

list. Internal evidence isn’t always much help, either. I’m told that the novel Fury was written by Kuttner,

based upon a novelette entitled “Clash by Night,” by Moore; yet of the two, the novel seems to have

more of the richness of emotional tone one might expect from Moore.

The change in Moore’s fiction began before her marriage, however. “Greater Than Gods” appeared in

the July, 1939 issue of Astounding Science Fiction (the magazine having changed its title slightly). In this

story, love again plays a key role—but hardly in its old, romantic fashion. Here love is no longer some

unbreakable tie between man and woman that can defy time and the gods. Now the conflict lies in a

choice between duty and a man’s desire for love. The problem and the resolution of the story are clearly

intellectual in their development. Only the power of the writing remains unchanged from the preceding

“Tryst in Time.”

Moore’s next story also must have been written before her marriage, though it appeared afterward, in the

October, 1940 issue of Un-known. “Fruit of Knowledge” is straight fantasy with ‘none of the trappings

of science fiction. And here it is difficult to determine whether emotion or intellect is the stronger element.

The basic idea

—the ancient myth of Lilith—is one that almost forces a writer to fall back on the emotionalism usually

associated with this strangely un-dying bit of folklore. Moore’s refusal to accept the obvious in telling of

this conflict of love and Divine Power indicates clearly the deeper insight she was gaining in the handling

of the elements of fiction.

Unfortunately, the years of marriage resulted in very few stories that can be credited with any certainty to

C. L. Moore alone. As time went on, her stories became increasingly more rare in the magazines. Yet

when one did appear, it was generally so outstanding that the quality of this later work almost makes up

for the lack in number.

Of these later stories, my favorite is “No Woman Born,” which ap-peared in the December issue of

Astounding Science Fiction. This is a nearly perfect blend of emotion and intellect. The conflict of the

story lies in the problem of discovering what the basis of true human-ity may really be—a problem that

has baffled philosophers for cen-turies. Quite rightly, Moore sees the problem also as encompassing the

need to know the basis and nature of human emotions. The

resulting portrait of a great artist and marvelously feminine woman struggling to be true to her inner self is

unforgettable.

Perhaps the least typical Moore story included here is “Daemon,” which appeared in the October, 1946

issue of Famous Fantastic Fic-tion. This is a straight fantasy about a “simpleton” with a strange gift.

The idea seems slight, and it could easily lead to an excess of senti-mentality. Yet the story is told simply

and calmly—but very effec-tively. It’s an excellent example of Moore’s developed craftsmanship as a

writer.

At about the same time, in the September, 1946 issue of Astound-ing Science Fiction, “Vintage Season”

appeared. This is the story which most seem to consider Moore’s masterpiece. Certainly it has been

included in more of the great anthologies than her other stories. C. L. Moore seems to have posed a

problem for most anthologists; her stories are never less than io,ooo words in length, and most are much

longer. The editor of an anthology is usually compelled to include as many stories as possible, which

means that novelettes tend to be passed up in favor of shorter stories. But “Vintage Season” proved to

be so good that it could hardly be left out!

Certainly the story is a showpiece for all the talents of C. L. Moore. It blends the disparate elements of

horror and beauty, alien culture and human feelings, and progress and decadence. And it has the sense of

inevitability needed for great fiction, skillfully combined with the uncertainty of a fine suspense story. I

refuse to describe the story fur-ther, since it must be read to be truly appreciated.

During the following years, C. L. Moore wrote a few stories and a novel, Doomsday Morning. But most

of her time seems to have been spent in collaborating with her husband and in finishing her college

education, which was interrupted by financial difficulties during the Depression.

After the tragic death of Henry Kuttner, she remained in Califor-nia, where she turned to the lucrative

field of television writing. She has married again, this time to Thomas Reggie, who is not a writer.

There have been no new science-fiction or fantasy stories from C. L. Moore for almost twenty years

now. But her reputation among readers and editors has never diminished. She remains preeminent in the

field. And recently she has begun to talk about trying her hand again at science fiction. ‘Tis a

consummation devoutly to be wished!

—Lester del Rey

New York

19~

Shambleau

Man has conquered space before. You may be sure of that. Some-where 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 undemote 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 scarlet 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 door-ways 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 leathem 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 over-spreading

the savage exultation of the chase. Then he let loose a deep-throated 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 Pa-trol 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~iot 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’noddecl 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!”

Swith 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 daiming 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 unknow-ing 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 to-ward

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 some-where? 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, swif fly, 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 segir-steeped 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.

Smith struck it aside contemptuously.

“On your way, drylander,” he advised.

The man drew back and stared, blear-eyed.

“Yours, eh?” he croaked. “Zut! You’re welcome to it!” And like the ex-Patrolman before him he spat

on the pavement and turned away, muttering harshly in the blasphemous tongue of the drylands.

Smith watched him shuffle off, and there was a crease between his colorless eyes, a nameless unease

rising within him.

“Come on,” he said abruptly to the girl. “If this sort of thing is going to happen we’d better get indoors.

Where shall I take you?”

“With—you,” she murmured.

He stared down into the flat green eyes. Those ceaselessly pulsing pupils disturbed him, but it seemed to

him, vaguely, that behind the animal shallows of her gaze was a shutter—a closed barrier that might at

any moment open to reveal the very deeps of that dark knowledge he sensed there.

Roughly he said again, “Come on, then,” and stepped down into the street.

She pattered along a pace or two behind him, making no effort to keep up with his long strides, and

though Smith—as men know from Venus to Jupiter’s moons—walks as softly as a cat, even in

spacemen’s boots, the girl at his heels slid like a shadow over the rough pavement, making so little sound

that even the lightness of his footsteps was loud in the empty street.

Smith chose the less frequented ways of Lakkdarol, and somewhat shamefacedly thanked his nameless

gods that his lodgings were not

far away, for the few pedestrians he met turned and stared after the two with that by now familiar

mingling of horror and contempt which he was as far as ever from understanding.

The room he had engaged was a single cubicle in a lodging-house on the edge of the city. Lakkdarol, raw

camp-town that it was in those days, could have furnished little better anywhere within its limits, and

Smith’s errand there was not one he wished to advertise. He had slept in worse places than this before,

and knew that he would do so again.

There was no one in sight when he entered, and the girl slipped up the stairs at his heels and vanished

through the door, shadowy, unseen by anyone in the house. Smith closed the door and leaned his broad

shoulders against the panels, regarding her speculatively.

She took in what little the room had to offer in a glance—frowsy bed, rickety table, mirror hanging

unevenly and cracked against the wall, unpainted chairs—a typical camp-town room in an Earth

settle-ment abroad. She accepted its poverty in that single glance, dismissed it, then crossed to the

window and leaned out for a moment, gazing across the low roof-tops toward the barren countryside

beyond, red slag under the late afternoon sun.

“You can stay here,” said Smith abruptly, “until I leave town. I’m waiting here for a friend to come in

from Venus. Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” said the girl quickly. “I shall—need no—food for—a while.”

“Well—” Smith glanced around the room. “I’ll be in sometime to-night. You can go or stay just as you

please. Better lock the door behind me.”

With no more formality than that he left her. The door closed and he heard the key turn, and smiled to

himself. He did not expect, then, ever to see her again.

He went down the steps and out into the late-slanting sunlight with a mind so full of other matters that the

brown girl receded very quickly into the background. Smith’s errand in Lakkdarol, like most of his

errands, is better not spoken of. Man lives as he must, and Smith’s living was a perilous affair outside the

law and ruled by the ray-gun only. It is enough to say that the shipping-port and its cargoes outbound

interested him deeply just now, and that the friend he awaited was Yarol the Venusian, in that swift little

Edsel ship the Maid that can flash from world to world with a derisive speed that laughs at Patrol boats

and leaves pursuers floundering in the ether far behind. Smith and Yarol and the Maid were a trinity that

had caused the Patrol leaders much worry and many gray hairs in the past, and the future looked very

bright to Smith himself that evening as he left his lodging-house.

Lakkdarol roars by night, as Earthmen’s camp-towns have a way of doing on every planet where Earth’s

outposts are, and it was begin-fling lustily as Smith went down among the awakening lights toward the

center of town. His business there does not concern us. He mingled with the crowds where the lights

were brightest, and there was the click of ivory counters and the jingle of silver, and red segir gurgled

invitingly from black Venusian bottles, and much later Smith strolled homeward under the moving moons

of Mars, and if the street wavered a little under his feet now and then—why, that is only under-standable.

Not even Smith could drink red segir at every bar from the Martian Lamb to the New Chicago and

remain entirely steady on his feet. But he found his way back with very little difficulty—considering

—and spent a good five minutes hunting for his key before he remem-bered he had left it in the inner lock

for the girl.

He knocked then, and there was no sound of footsteps from within, but in a few moments the latch

clicked and the door swung open. She retreated soundlessly before him as he entered, and took up her

favor-ite place against the window, leaning back on the sill and outlined against the starry sky beyond.

The room was in darkness.

Smith flipped the switch by the door and then leaned back against the panels, steadying himself. The cool

night air had sobered him a little, and his head was clear enough—liquor went to Smith’s feet, not his

head, or he would never have come this far along the lawless way he had chosen. Hç lounged against the

door now and regarded the girl in the sudden glare of the bulbs, blinding a little as much at the scarlet of

her clothing as at the light.

“So you stayed,” he said.

“I—waited,” she answered softly, leaning farther back against the sill and clasping the rough wood with

slim, three-fingered hands, pale brown against the darkness.

“Why?”

She did not answer that, but her mouth curved into a slow smile. On a woman it would have been reply

enough—provocative, daring. On Shambleau there was something pitiful and horrible in it—so human on

the face of one half-animal. And yet. . . that sweet brown body curving so softly from the tatters of

scarlet leather—the velvety texture of that brownness—the white-flashing smile. . . . Smith was aware of

a stirring excitement within him. After all—time would be hanging heavy now until Yarol came. - . .

Speculatively he allowed the steel-pale eyes to wander over her, with a slow regard that missed nothing.

And when he spoke he was aware that his voice had deepened a little. . .

“Come here,” he said.

She came forward slowly, on bare clawed feet that made no sound on the floor, and stood before him

with downcast eyes and mouth trembling in that pitifully human smile. He took her by the shoulders

—velvety soft shoulders, of a creamy smoothness that was not the tex-ture of human flesh. A little tremor

went over her, perceptibly, at the contact of his hands. Northwest Smith caught his breath suddenly and

dragged her to him . . . sweet yielding brownness in the circle of his arms - . . heard her own breath catch

and quicken as her velvety arms closed about his neck. And then he was looking down into her face,

very near, and the green animal eyes met his with the pulsing pupils and the flicker of—something—deep

behind their shallows— and through the rising clamor of his blood, even as he stooped his lips to hers,

Smith felt something deep within him shudder away— inexplicable, instinctive, revolted. What it might be

he had no words to tell, but the very touch of her was suddenly loathsome—so soft and velvet and

unhuman—and it might have been an animal’s face that lifted itself to his mouth—the dark knowledge

looked hungrily from the darkness of those slit pupils—and for a mad instant he knew that same wild,

feverish revulsion he had seen in the faces of the mob.

“God!” he gasped, a far more ancient invocation against evil than he realized, then or ever, and he ripped

her arms from his neck, swung her away with such a force that she reeled half across the room. Smith fell

back against the door, breathing heavily, and stared at her while the wild revolt died slowly within him.

She had fallen to the floor beneath the window, and as she lay there against the wall with bent head he

saw, curiously, that her turban had slipped—the turban that he had been so sure covered baldness—and

a lock of scarlet hair fell below the binding leather, hair as scarlet as her garment, as unhumanly red as her

eyes were unhumanly green. He stared, and shook his head dizzily and stared again, for it seemed to him

that the thick lock of crimson had move, squirmed of itself against her cheek.

At the contact of it her hands flew up and she tucked it away with a very human gesture and then

dropped her head again into her hands. And from the deep shadow of her fingers he thought she was

staring up at him covertly.

Smith drew a deep breath and passed a hand across his forehead. The inexplicable moment had gone as

quickly as it came—too swiftly for him to understand or analyze it. “Got to lay off the segir,” he told

himself unsteadily. Had he imagined that scarlet hair? After all, she was no more than a pretty brown

girl-creature from one of the many half-human races peopling the planets. No more than that, after all. A

pretty little thing, but animal. - . . He laughed a little shakily.

“No more of that,” he said. “God knows I’m no angel, but there’s got to be a limit somewhere. Here.”

He crossed to the bed and sorted out a pair of blankets from the untidy heap, tossing them to the far

corner of the room. “You can sleep there.”

Wordlessly she rose from the floor and began to rearrange the blankets, the uncomprehending resignation

of the animal eloquent in every line of her.

Smith had a strange dream that night. He thought he had awakened to a room full of darkness and

moonlight and moving shad-ows, for the nearer moon of Mars was racing through the sky and

ev-erything on the planet below her was endued with a restless life in the dark. And something. . . some

nameless, unthinkable thing. . . was coiled about his throat . . . something like a soft snake, wet and

warm. It lay loose and light about his neck. . - and it was moving gently, very gently, with a soft,

caressive pressure that sent little thrills of delight through every nerve and fiber of him, a peri’ous

delight— beyond physical pleasure, deeper than joy of the mind. That warm softness was caressing the

very roots of his soul with a terrible in-timacy. The ecstasy of it left him weak, and yet he knew—in a

flash of knowledge born of this impossible dream—that the soul should not be handled. . . . And with that

knowledge a horror broke upon him, turning the pleasure into a rapture of revulsion, hateful,

horrible—but still most foully sweet. He tried to lift his hands and tear the dream-monstrosity from his

throat—tried but haif-heartedly; for though his soul was revolted to its very deeps, yet the delight of his

body was so great that his hands all but refused the attempt. But when at last he tried to lift his arms a

cold shock went over him and he found that he could not stir. . - his body lay stony as marble beneath

the blankets, a living marble that shuddered with a dreadful delight through every rigid vein.

The revulsion grew strong upon him as he struggled against the paralyzing dream—a struggle of soul

against sluggish body—ti-tanically, until the moving dark was streaked with blankness that clouded and

closed about him at last and he sank back into the oblivion from which he had awakened.

Next morning, when the bright sunlight shining through Mars’ clear thin air awakened him, Smith lay for a

while trying to remember. The dream had been more vivid than reality, but he could not now quite recall.

- . only that it had been more sweet and horri-ble than anything else in life. He lay puzzling for a while,

until a soft sound from the corner aroused him from his thoughts and he sat up to see the girl lying in a

catlike coil on her blankets, watching him with round, grave eyes. He regarded her somewhat ruefully.

“Morning,” he said. “I’ve just had the devil of a dream. . . . Well, hungry?”

She shook her head silently, and he could have sworn there was a covert gleam of strange amusement in

her eyes.

He stretched and yawned, dismissing the nightmare temporarily from his mind.

“What am I going to do with you?” he inquired, turning to more immediate matters. “I’m leaving here in a

day or two and I can’t take you along, you know. ‘Where’d you come from in the first place?”

Again she shook her head.

“Not telling? Well, it’s your own business. You can stay here until I give up the room. From then on

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COPYRIGHT©1975BYC.L.MOOREIntroduction:FortyYearsofC.L.MooreCOPYRIGHT©1975BYLESTERDELREYPrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmericaPublishedbyarrangementwithBallantineBooksADivisionofRandomHouse,Inc.201East5othStreetNewYork,NewYork10022Acknowledgments“Shambleau,”copyright©1933byPopularFictionPublishingCo.,forW...

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