Eleanor Arnason - The Warlord of Saturn's Moons

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THE WARLORD OF

SATURN’S MOONS

ELEANOR ARNASON

Here I am, a silver-haired maiden lady of thirty-five, a feeder of stray

cats, a window-ledge gardener, well on my way to the African violet and

antimacassar stage. I can see myself at fifty, fat and a little crazy, making

cucumber sandwiches for tea, and I view my future with mixed feelings.

Whatever became of my childhood ambitions: joining the space patrol;

winning a gold medal at the Olympics; climbing Mount Everest alone in

my bathing suit, sustained only by my indomitable will and strange

psychic arts learned from Hindu mystics? The saddest words of tongue or

pen are something-or-other what might have been, I think. I light up a

cigar and settle down to write another chapter of The Warlord of Saturn’s

Moons. A filthy habit you say, though I’m not sure if you’re referring to

smoking cigars or writing science fiction. True, I reply, but both activities

are pleasurable, and we maiden ladies lead lives that are notoriously short

on pleasure.

So back I go to the domes of Titan and my redheaded heroine

deathraying down the warlord’s minions. Ah, the smell of burning flesh,

the spectacle of blackened bodies collapsing. Even on paper it gets a lot of

hostility out of you, so that your nights aren’t troubled by dreams of

murder. Terribly unrestful, those midnight slaughters and waking shaking

in the darkness, your hands still feeling pressure from grabbing the victim

or fighting off the murderer.

Another escape! In a power-sledge, my heroine races across Titan’s

methane snow, and I go and make myself tea. There’s a paper on the

kitchen table, waiting to tell me all about yesterday’s arsons, rapes and

bloody murders. Quickly I stuff it into the garbage pail. Outside, the sky is

hazy. Another high-pollution day, I think. I can see incinerator smoke

rising from the apartment building across the street, which means there’s

no air alert yet. Unless, of course, they’re breaking the law over there. I

fling open a cabinet and survey the array of teas. Earl Grey? I ponder, or

Assam? Gunpowder? Jasmine? Gen Mai Cha? Or possibly an herb tea:

sassafras, mint, Irish moss or mu. Deciding on Assam, I put water on,

then go back to write an exciting chase through the icy Titanian

mountains. A pursuer’s sledge goes over a precipice and, as my heroine

hears his long shriek on her radio, my tea kettle starts shrieking. I hurry

into the kitchen. Now I go through the tea-making ceremony: pouring

boiling water into the pot, sloshing the water around and pouring it out,

measuring the tea in, pouring more boiling water on top of the tea. All the

while my mind is with my heroine, smiling grimly as she pilots the

power-sledge between bare cliffs. Above her in the dark sky is the huge

crescent of Saturn, a shining white line slashing across it—the famous

Rings. While the tea steeps, I wipe off a counter and wash a couple of

mugs. I resist a sudden impulse to pull the newspaper out from among the

used tea leaves and orange peelings. I already know what’s in it. The

Detroit murder count will exceed 1,000 again this year; the war in

Thailand is going strong; most of Europe is out on strike. I’m far better off

on Titan with my heroine, who is better able to deal with her problems

than I am to deal with mine. A deadly shot, she has also learned strange

psychic arts from Hindu mystics, which give her great strength,

endurance, mental alertness and a naturally pleasant body odor. I wipe my

hands and look at them, noticing the bitten fingernails, the torn cuticles.

My heroine’s long, slender, strong hands have two-inch nails filed to a

point and covered with a plastic paint that makes them virtually

unbreakable. When necessary, she uses them as claws. Her cuticles, of

course, are in perfect condition.

I pour myself a cup of tea and return to the story.

Now my heroine is heading for the mountain hideout where her partner

waits: a tall, thin, dour fellow with one shining steel prosthetic hand. She

doesn’t know his name and she suspects he himself may have forgotten it.

He insists on being called 409, his number on the prison asteroid from

which he has escaped. She drives as quickly as she dares, thinking of his

long face, burned almost black by years of strong radiation on Mars and in

space, so the white webbing of scars on its right side shows up clearly. His

eyes are grey, so pale they seem almost colorless. As I write about 409, I

find myself stirred by the same passion that stirs my heroine. I begin to

feel uneasy, so I stop and drink some tea. I can see I’m going to have

trouble with 409. It’s never wise to get too involved with one’s characters.

Besides, I’m not his type. I imagine the way he’d look at me, indifference

evident on his dark, scarred face. I could, of course, kill him off. My

heroine would then spend the rest of the story avenging him, though she’d

never get to the real murderer—me. But this solution, while popular

among writers, is unfair.

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摘要：

THEWARLORDOFSATURN’SMOONSELEANORARNASONHereIam,asilver-hairedmaidenladyofthirty-five,afeederofstraycats,awindow-ledgegardener,wellonmywaytotheAfricanvioletandantimacassarstage.Icanseemyselfatfifty,fatandalittlecrazy,makingcucumbersandwichesfortea,andIviewmyfuturewithmixedfeelings.Whateverbecameofmyc...

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Eleanor Arnason - The Warlord of Saturn's Moons

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