C. L. Moore - No Woman Born

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No Woman Born

C. L. Moore

She had been the loveliest creature whose image ever moved along the airways. John Harris, who was

once her manager, remembered dog.gedly how beautiful she had been as he rose in the silent elevator

to-ward the room where Deirdre sat waiting for him.

Since the theater fire that had destroyed her a year ago, he had never been quite able to let himself

remember her beauty clearly, ex-cept when some old poster, half in tatters, flaunted her face at him, or a

maudlin memorial program flashed her image unexpectedly across the television screen. But now he had

to remember.

The elevator came to a sighing stop and the door slid open. John Harris hesitated. He knew in his mind

that he had to go on, but his reluctant muscles almost refused him. He was thinking helplessly, as he had

not allowed himself to think until this moment, of the fabu-lous grace that had poured through her

wonderfuldaticer’s body, remembering her soft and husky voice with the little burr in it that had

fascinated the audiences of the whole world.

There had never been anyone so beautiful.

In times before her, other actresses had been lovely and adulated, but never before Deirdre’s day had

the entire world been able to take one woman so wholly to its heart.So few outside the capitals had ever

seen Bernhardt or the fabulous Jersey Lily. And the beauties of the movie screen had had to limit their

audiences to those who could reach the theaters. But Deirdre’s image had once moved glowingly across

the television screens of every home in the civilized world.And in many outside the bounds of civilization.

Her soft, husky songs had sounded in the depths ofjungles, her lovely, languorous body had woven its

patterns of rhythm in desert tents and polar huts. The whole worldknew every smooth motion of her

body and every cadence of her voice, and the way a subtle radiance had seemed to go on behind her

features when she smiled.

And the whole world had mourned her when she died in the the-ater fire.

Harris could not quite think of her as other than dead, though he knew what sat waiting him in the room

ahead. He kept remembering the old words James Stephens wrote long ago for another Deirdre, also

lovely and beloved and unforgotten after two thousand years.

The time comes when our hearts sink utterly,

When we remember Deirdre and her tale,

And that her lips are dust.-

There has been again no woman born

Who was so beautiful; not one so beautiful

Of all the women born—That wasn’t quite true, of course—there had been one. Or maybe,

afterall, this Deirdre who died only a year ago had not been beautiful in the sense of perfection. He

thought the other one might not have been either, for there are always women with perfection of feature in

the world, and they are not the ones that legend remembers. It was the light within, shining through her

charming, imperfectfeatures, that had made this Deirdre’s face so lovely. No one else he had ever seen

had anything like the magic of the lost Deirdre.

Let all men go apart and mourn together— No man can ever love her. Not a man

Can dream to be her lover. . . . No man say—What could one say to her? There are no words

That one could say to her.

No, no words at all. And it was going to be impossible to go through with this. Harris knew it

overwhelmingly just as his finger touched the buzzer. But the door opened almost instantly, and then it

was too late.

Maltzerstood just inside, peering out through his heavy spectacles. You could see how tensely he had

been waiting. Harris was a little shocked to see that the man was trembling. It was hard to think of the

confident and imperturbableMaltzer , whom he had known briefly a year ago, as shaken like this. He

wondered if Deirdre herself were as tremulous with sheer nerves—but it was not time yet to let himself

think of that.

“Come in, come in,”Maltzer said irritably. There was no reason for irritation. The year’s work, so much

of it in secrecy and solitude, must have tried him physically and mentally to the very breaking point.

“She all right?”Harris asked inanely, stepping inside.

“Oh yes -. .yes ,she’s all right.”Maltzer bit his thumbnail and glanced over his shoulder at an inner door,

where Harris guessed she would be waiting.

“No,”Maltzer said, as he took an involuntary step toward it. “We’d better have a talk first. Come over

and sit down.Drink?”

Harris nodded, and watchedMaltzer’s hands tremble as he tilted the decanter. The man was clearly on

the very verge of collapse, and Harris felt a sudden cold uncertainty open up in him in the one place

where until now he had been oddly confident.

“Sheis all right?” he demanded, taking the glass.

“Oh yes, she’s perfect. She’s so confident it scares me.”Maltzer gulped his drink and poured another

before he sat down.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“Nothing, I guess. Or . . . well, I don’t know. I’m not sure any more. I’ve worked toward this meeting

for nearly a year, but now— well, I’m not sure it’s time yet. I’m just not sure.”

He stared at Harris, his eyes large and indistinguishable behind the lenses. He was a thin, wire-taut man

with all the bone and sinew showing plainly beneath the dark skin of his face.Thinner, now, than he had

been a year ago when Harris saw him last.

“I’ve been too close to her,” he said now. “I have no perspective any more. All I can see is my own

work. And I’m just not sure that’s ready yet for you or anyone to see.”

“She thinks so?”

“I never saw a woman so confident.”Maltzer drank, the glass click-ing on his teeth. He looked up

suddenly through the distorting lenses. “Of course a failure now would mean—well, absolute collapse,”

he said.

Harris nodded. He was thinking of the year of incredibly pains-taking work that lay behind this meeting,

the immense fund of knowl-edge, of infinite patience, the secret collaboration of artists, sculptors,

designers, scientists, and the genius ofMaltzer governing them all as an orchestra conductor governs his

players.

He was thinking too, with a certain unreasoning jealousy, of the strange, cold, passionless intimacy

betweenMaltzer and Deirdre in that year, a closer intimacy than any two humans can ever have shared

before. In a sense the Deirdre whom he saw in a few minutes

wouldbeMaltzer, just as he thought he detected inMaltzer now and then small mannerisms of inflection

and motion that had been Deirdre’s own. There had been between them a sort of unimaginable marriage

stranger than anything that could ever have taken place before.

“—so many complications,”Maltzer was saying in his worried voice with its faintest possible echo of

Deirdre’s lovely, cadenced rhythm. (The sweet, soft huskiness he would never hear again.) “There was

shock, of course.Terrible shock. And a great fear of fire. We had to conquer that before we could take

the first steps. But we did it. When you go in you’ll probably find her sitting before the fire.” He caught

the startled question in Harris’ eyes and smiled. “No, she can’t feel the warmth now, of course. But she

likes to watch the flames. She’s mastered any abnormal fear of them quite beautifully.”

“She can—” Harris hesitated. “Her eyesight’s normal now?”

“Perfect,”Maltzer said. “Perfect vision was fairly simple to provide. After all, that sort of thing has

already been worked out, in other con-nections. I might even say hervision’s a little better than perfect,

from our own standpoint.” He shook his head irritably. “I’m not worried about the mechanics of the

thing. Luckily they got to her before the brain was touched at all. Shock was the only danger to her

sensory centers, and we took care of all that first of all, as soon as com-munication could be established.

Even so, it needed great courage on her part.Great courage.” He was silent for a moment, staring into his

empty glass.

“Harris,” he said suddenly, without looking up, “have I made a mis-take? Should we have let her die?”

Harris shook his head helplessly. It was an unanswerable question. It had tormented the whole world for

a year now. There had been hundreds of answers and thousands of words written on the subject. Has

anyone the right to preserve a brain alive when its body is de-stroyed?Even if a new body can be

provided, necessarily so very unlike the old?

“It’s not that she’s—ugly—now,”Maltzer went on hurriedly, as if afraid of an answer. “Metal isn’t ugly.

AndDeirdre. . . well, you’ll see. I tell you, I can’t see myself. I know the whole mechanism so well

—it’s just mechanics to me. Maybe she’s—grotesque. I don’t know. Often I’ve wished I hadn’t been

on the spot, with all my ideas, just when the fire broke out. Or that it could have been anyone but

Deirdre. She was so beautiful—Still , if it had been someone else I think the whole thing might have failed

completely. It takes more than just an uninjured brain. It takes strength and courage beyond

common, and—well, something more.Something—unquenchable. Deirdre has it. She’s still Deirdre. In a

way she’s still beautiful. But I’m not sure anybody butmyself could see that. And you know what she

plans?”

“No—what?”

“She’s going back on the air-screen.”

Harris looked at him in stunned disbelief.

“Sheis still beautiful,”Maltzer told him fiercely. “She’s got courage, and a serenity that amazes me. And

she isn’t in the least worried or resentful about what’s happened. Or afraid what the ver-dict of the public

will be. But I am, Harris. I’m terrified.”

They looked at each other for a moment more, neither speaking. ThenMaltzer shrugged and stood up.

“She’s in there,” he said, gesturing with his glass.

Harris turned without a word, not giving himself time to hesitate. He crossed toward the inner door.

The room was full of a soft, clear, indirect light that climaxed in the fire crackling on a white tiled hearth.

Harris paused inside the door, his heart beating thickly. He did not see her for a moment. It was a

perfectly commonplace room, bright, light, with pleasant furni-ture, and flowers on the tables. Their

perfume was sweet on the clear air. He did not see Deirdre.

Then a chair by the fire creaked as she shifted herwei~ht in it. The high back hid her, but she spoke.

And for one dreadful moment it was the voice of an automaton that sounded in the room, metallic,

without inflection.

“Hel-lo—” said the voice. Then she laughed and tried again. And it was the old, familiar, sweet

huskiness he had not hoped to hear again as long as he lived.

In spite of himself he said, “Deirdre!” and her image rose before him as if she herself had risen

unchanged from the chair, tall, golden, swaying a little with her wonderful dancer’s poise, the lovely,

imper-fect features lighted by the glow that made them beautiful. It was the cruelest thing his memory

could have done to him. And yet the voice

—after that one lapse, the voice was perfect.

“Come and look at me, John,” she said.

He crossed the floor slowly, forcing himself to move. That instant’s flash of vivid recollection had nearly

wrecked his hard-won poise. He tried to keep his mind perfectly blank as he came at last to the verge of

seeing what no one butMaltzer had so far seen or known about in its entirety. No one at all had known

what shape would be forged to

clothethe most beautiful woman on Earth, now that her beauty was gone.

He had envisioned many shapes.Great, lurching robot forms, cylindrical, with hinged arms and legs.A

glass case with the brain floating in it and appendages to serve its needs. Grotesque visions, like

nightmares come nearly true. And each more inadequate than the last, for what metal shape could

possibly do more than house ungraciously the mind and brain that had once enchanted a whole world?

Then he came around the wing of the chair, and saw her.

The human brain is often too complicated a mechanism to func-tion perfectly. Harris’ brain was called

upon now to perform a very elaborate series of shifting impressions. First, incongruously, he remembered

a curious inhuman figure he had once glimpsed leaning over the fence rail outside a farmhouse. For an

instant the shape had stood up integrated, ungainly, impossibly human, before the glancing eye resolved it

into an arrangement of brooms and buckets. What the eye had found only roughly humanoid, the

suggestible brain had ac-cepted fully formed. It was thus now, with Deirdre.

The first impression that his eyes and mind took from sight of her was shocked and incredulous, for his

brain said to him unbelievingly,“This is Deirdre! She hasn’t changed at all!”

Then the shift of perspective took over, and even more shockingly, eye and brain said, “No, not

Deirdre—not human. Nothing but metal coils. Not Deirdre at all—” And that was the worst. It was like

walk-ing from a dream of someone beloved and lost, and facing anew, after that heartbreaking

reassurance of sleep, the inflexible fact that noth-ing can bring the lost to life again. Deirdre was gone,

and this was only machinery heaped in a flowered chair.

Then the machinery moved, exquisitely, smoothly, with a grace as familiar as the swaying poise he

remembered. The sweet, husky voice of Deirdre said,

“It’s me, John darling. It really is, you know.”

And it was.

That was the third metamorphosis, and the final one. Illusion steadied and became factual, real. It was

Deirdre.

He sat downbonelessly . He had no muscles. He looked at her speechless and unthinking, letting his

senses take in the sight of her without trying to rationalize what he saw.

She was golden still. They had kept that much of her, the first im-pression of warmth and color which

had once belonged to her sleek hair and the apricot tints of her skin. But they had had the good sense

togo no farther. They had not tried to make a wax image of the lost Deirdre. (Nowoman born who was

so beautiful— Not one so beauti-ful, of all the women born—)

And so she had no face. She had only a smooth, delicately modeled ovoid for her head, with a . . . a

sort of crescent-shaped mask across the frontal area where her eyes would have been if she had needed

eyes. A narrow, curved quarter-moon, with the horns turned upward. It was filled in with something

translucent, like cloudy crystal, and tinted the aquamarine of the eyes Deirdre used to have. Through that,

then, she saw the world. Through that she looked without eyes, and behind it, as behind the eyes of a

human—she was.

Except for that, she had no features. And it had been wise of those who designed her, he realized now.

Subconsciously he had been dread-ing some clumsy attempt at human features that might creak like a

marionette’s in parodies of animation. The eyes, perhaps, had had to open in the same place upon her

head, and at the same distance apart, to make easy for her an adjustment to the stereoscopic vision she

used to have. But he was glad they had not given her two eye-shaped open-ings with glass marbles inside

them. The mask was better.

(Oddly enough, he did not once think of the naked brain that must lie inside the metal. The mask was

symbol enough for the woman within. It was enigmatic; you did not know if her gaze was on you

searchingly, or wholly withdrawn. And it had no variations of brilliance such as once had played across

the incomparable mobility of Deirdre’s face. But eyes, even human eyes, are as a matter of fact enigmatic

enough. They have no expression except what the lids im-part; they take all animation from the features.

We automatically watch the eyes of the friend we speak with, but if he happens to be lying down so that

he speaks across his shoulder and his face is upside-down to us, quite as automatically we watch the

mouth. The gaze keeps shifting nervously between mouth and eyes in their reversed order, for it is the

position in the face, not the feature itself, which we are accustomed to accept as the seat of the soul.

Deirdre’s mask was in that proper place; it was easy to accept it as a mask over eyes.)

She had, Harris realized as the first shock quieted, a very beautifully shaped head—a bare, golden skull.

She turned it a little, gracefully upon her neck of metal, and he saw that the artist who shaped it had given

her the most delicate suggestion of cheekbones, narrowing in the blankness below the mask to the hint of

a human face. Not too much. Just enough so that when the head turned you saw by its mod-eling that it

had moved, lending perspective and foreshortening to the expressionless golden helmet. Light did not slip

uninterrupted as if

overthe surface of a golden egg.Brancusi himself had never made anythingmore simple or more subtle

than the modeling of Deirdre’s head.

But all expression, of course, was gone. All expression had gone up in the smoke of the theater fire, with

the lovely, mobile, radiant fea-tures which had meant Deirdre.

As for her body, he could not see its shape. A garment hid her. But they had made no incongruous

attempt to give her back the clothing that once had made her famous. Even the softness of cloth would

have called the mind too sharply to the remembrance that no human body lay beneath the folds, nor does

metal need the incongruity of cloth for its protection. Yet without garments, he realized, she would have

looked oddly naked, since her new body was humanoid, not an-gular machinery.

The designer had solved his paradox by giving her a robe of very fine metal mesh. It hung from the gentle

slope of her shoulders in straight, pliant folds like a longer Grecianchlamys , flexible, yet with weight

enough of its own not to cling too revealingly to whatever metal shape lay beneath.

The arms they had given her were left bare, and the feet and ankles. AndMaltzer had performed his

greatest miracle in the limbs of the new Deirdre. It was a mechanical miracle basically, but the eye

appre-ciated first that he had also showed supreme artistry and under-standing.

Her arms were pale shining gold, tapered smoothly, without model-ing, and flexible their whole length in

diminishing metal bracelets fitting one inside the other clear down to the slim, round wrists. The hands

were more nearly human than any other feature about her, though they, too, were fitted together in

delicate, small sections that slid upon one another with the flexibility almost of flesh. The fingers’ bases

were solider than human, and the fingers themselves tapered to longer tips.

Her feet, too, beneath the tapering broader rings of the metal ankles, had been constructed upon the

model of human feet. Their finely tooled sliding segments gave her an arch and a heel and a flexi-ble

forward section formed almost like thesollerets of medieval armor.

She looked, indeed, very much like a creature in armor, with her delicately plated limbs and her

featureless head like a helmet with a visor of glass, and her robe of chain-mail. But no knight in armor

ever moved as Deirdre moved, or wore his armor upon a body of such

inhumanlyfine proportions. Only a knight from another world, or a knight of Oberon’s court, might have

shared that delicate likeness.

Briefly he had been surprised at the smallness and exquisite propor-tions of her. He had been expecting

the ponderous mass of such robots as he had seen, wholly automatons. And then he realized that for

them, much of the space had to be devoted to the inadequate mechanical brains that guided them about

their duties. Deirdre’s brain still preserved and proved the craftsmanship of an artisan far defter than man.

Only the body was of metal, and it did not seem complex, though he had not yet been told how it was

motivated.

Harris had no idea how long he sat staring at the figure in the cushioned chair. She was still

lovely—indeed, she was still Deirdre— and as he looked he let the careful schooling of his face relax.

There was no need to hide his thoughts from her.

She stirred upon the cushions, the long, flexible arms moving with a litheness that was not quite human.

The motion disturbed him as the body itself had not, and in spite of himself his face froze a little. He had

the feeling that from behind the crescent mask she was watching him very closely.

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摘要：

NoWomanBornC.L.Moore Shehadbeentheloveliestcreaturewhoseimageevermovedalongtheairways.JohnHarris,whowasoncehermanager,remembereddog.gedlyhowbeautifulshehadbeenasheroseinthesilentelevatortowardtheroomwhereDeirdresatwaitingforhim.Sincethetheaterfirethathaddestroyedherayearago,hehadneverbeenquite...

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