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,

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Eleanor Arnason - The Warlord of Saturn's Moons

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