The World Turned Upside Down Part 53

But all this, again, he but half realized, for the insidious murmur was coiling again through his brain, promising, caressing, alluring, sweeter than honey; and the green eyes that held his were clear and burning like the depths of a jewel, and behind the pulsing slits of darkness he was staring into a greater dark that held all things . . . He had known-dimly he had known when he first gazed into those flat animal shallows that behind them lay this-all beauty and terror, all horror and delight, in the infinite darkness upon which her eyes opened like windows, paned with emerald gla.s.s.

Her lips moved, and in a murmur that blended indistinguishably with the silence and the sway of her body and the dreadful sway of her-her hair-she whispered-very softly, very pa.s.sionately, "I shall-speak to you now-in my own tongue-oh, beloved!"

And in her living cloak she swayed to him, the murmur swelling seductive and caressing in his innermost brain-promising, compelling, sweeter than sweet. His flesh crawled to the horror of her, but it was a perverted revulsion that clasped what it loathed. His arms slid round her under the sliding cloak, wet, wet and warm and hideously alive-and the sweet velvet body was clinging to his, her arms locked about his neck-and with a whisper and a rush the unspeakable horror closed about them both.

In nightmares until he died he remembered that moment when the living tresses of Shambleau first folded him in their embrace. A nauseous, smothering odor as the wetness shut around him-thick, pulsing worms clasping every inch of his body, sliding, writhing, their wetness and warmth striking through his garments as if he stood naked to their embrace. All this in a graven instant-and after that a tangled flash of conflicting sensation before oblivion closed over him for he remembered the dream-and knew it for nightmare reality now, and the sliding, gently moving caresses of those wet, warm worms upon his flesh was an ecstasy above words-that deeper ecstasy that strikes beyond the body and beyond the mind and tickles the very roots of soul with unnatural delight. So he stood, rigid as marble, as helplessly stony as any of Medusa's victims in ancient legends were, while the terrible pleasure of Shambleau thrilled and shuddered through every fiber of him; through every atom of his body and the intangible atoms of what men call the soul, through all that was Smith the dreadful pleasure ran. And it was truly dreadful. Dimly he knew it, even as his body answered to the root-deep ecstasy, a foul and dreadful wooing from which his very soul shuddered away-and yet in the innermost depths of that soul some grinning traitor shivered with delight. But deeply, behind all this, he knew horror and revulsion and despair beyond telling, while the intimate caresses crawled obscenely in the secret places of his soul-knew that the soul should not be handled-and shook with the perilous pleasure through it all.

And this conflict and knowledge, this mingling of rapture and revulsion all took place in the flashing of a moment while the scarlet worms coiled and crawled upon him, sending deep, obscene tremors of that infinite pleasure into every atom that made up Smith. And he could not stir in that slimy, ecstatic embrace-and a weakness was flooding that grew deeper after each succeeding wave of intense delight, and the traitor in his soul strengthened and drowned out the revulsion-and something within him ceased to struggle as he sank wholly into a blazing darkness that was oblivion to all else but that devouring rapture . . .

The young Venusian climbing the stairs to his friend's lodging-room pulled out his key absent-mindedly, a pucker forming between his fine brows. He was slim, as all Venusians are, as fair and sleek as any of them, and as with most of his countrymen the look of cherubic innocence on his face was wholly deceptive. He had the face of a fallen angel, without Lucifer's majesty to redeem it; for a black devil grinned in his eyes and there were faint lines of ruthlessness and dissipation about his mouth to tell of the long years behind him that had run the gamut of experiences and made his name, next to Smith's, the most hated and the most respected in the records of the Patrol.

He mounted the stairs now with a puzzled frown between his eyes. He had come into Lakkdarol on the noon liner-theMaid in her hold very skillfully disguised with paint and otherwise-to find in lamentable disorder the affairs he had expected to be settled. And cautious inquiry elicited the information that Smith had not been seen for three days. That was not like his friend-he had never failed before, and the two stood to lose not only a large sum of money but also their personal safety by the inexplicable lapse on the part of Smith. Yarol could think of one solution only: fate had at last caught up with his friend. Nothing but physical disability could explain it.

Still puzzling, he fitted his key in the lock and swung the door open.

In that first moment, as the door opened, he sensed something very wrong . . . The room was darkened, and for a while he could see nothing, but at the first breath he scented a strange, unnamable odor, half sickening, half sweet. And deep stirrings of ancestral memory awoke within him-ancient swamp-born memories from Venusian ancestors far away and long ago . . .

Yarol laid his hand on his gun, lightly, and opened the door wider. In the dimness all he could see at first was a curious mound in the far corner . . . Then his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he saw it more clearly, a mound that somehow heaved and stirred within itself . . . A mound of-he caught his breath sharply-a mound like a ma.s.s of entrails, living, moving, writhing with an unspeakable aliveness.Then a hot Venusian oath broke from his lips and he cleared the door-sill in a swift stride, slammed the door and set his back against it, gun ready in his hand, although his flesh crawled-for heknew . . .

"Smith!" he said softly, in a voice thick with horror.

The moving ma.s.s stirred-shuddered-sank back into crawling quiescence again.

"Smith! Smith!" The Venusian's voice was gentle and insistent, and it quivered a little with terror.

An impatient ripple went over the whole ma.s.s of aliveness in the corner. It stirred again, reluctantly, and then tendril by writhing tendril it began to part itself and fall aside, and very slowly the brown of a s.p.a.ceman's leather appeared beneath it, all slimed and shining.

"Smith! Northwest!" Yarol's persistent whisper came again, urgently, and with a dream-like slowness the leather garments moved . . . a man sat up in the midst of the writhing worms, a man who once, long ago, might have been Northwest Smith. From head to foot he was slimy from the embrace of the crawling horror about him. His face was that of some creature beyond humanity-dead-alive, fixed in a gray stare, and the look of terrible ecstasy that overspread it seemed to come from somewhere far within, a faint reflection from immeasurable distances beyond the flesh. And as there is mystery and magic in the moonlight which is after all but a reflection of the everyday sun, so in that gray face turned to the door was a terror unnamable and sweet, a reflection of ecstasy beyond the understanding of any who had known only earthly ecstasy themselves. And as he sat there turning a blank, eyeless face to Yarol the red worms writhed ceaselessly about him, very gently, with a soft, caressive motion that never slacked.

"Smith . . . come here! Smith . . . get up . . . Smith, Smith!" Yarol's whisper hissed in the silence, commanding, urgent-but he made no move to leave the door.

And with a dreadful slowness, like a dead man rising, Smith stood up in the nest of slimy scarlet. He swayed drunkenly on his feet, and two or three crimson tendrils came writhing up his legs to the knees and wound themselves there, supportingly, moving with a ceaseless caress that seemed to give him some hidden strength, for he said then, without inflection.

"Go away. Go away. Leave me alone." And the dead ecstatic face never changed.

"Smith!" Yarol's voice was desperate. "Smith, listen! Smith, can't you hear me?"

"Go away," the monotonous voice said. "Go away. Go away. Go-"

"Not unless you come too. Can't you hear? Smith! Smith! I'll-"

He hushed in mid-phrase, and once more the ancestral p.r.i.c.kle of race-memory shivered down his back, for the scarlet ma.s.s was moving again, violently, rising . . .

Yarol pressed back against the door and gripped his gun, and the name of a G.o.d he had forgotten years ago rose to his lips unbidden. For he knew what was coming next, and the knowledge was more dreadful than any ignorance could have been.

The red, writhing ma.s.s rose higher, and the tendrils parted and a human face looked out-no, half human, with green cat-eyes that shone in that dimness like lighted jewels, compellingly . . .

Yarol breathed "Shar!" again, and flung up an arm across his face, and the tingle of meeting that greengaze for even an instant went thrilling through him perilously.

"Smith!" he called in despair. "Smith, can't you hear me?"

"Go away," said that voice that was not Smith's. "Go away."

And somehow, although he dared not look, Yarol knew that the-the other-had parted those worm-thick tresses and stood there in all the human sweetness of the brown, curved woman's body, cloaked in living horror. And he felt the eyes upon him, and something was crying insistently in his brain to lower that shielding arm . . . He was lost-he knew it, and the knowledge gave him that courage which comes from despair. The voice in his brain was growing, swelling, deafening him with a roaring command that all but swept him before it-command to lower that arm-to meet the eyes that opened upon darkness-to submit-and a promise, murmurous and sweet and evil beyond words, of pleasure to come . . .

But somehow he kept his head-somehow, dizzily, he was gripping his gun in his upflung hand-somehow, incredibly, crossing the narrow room with averted face, groping for Smith's shoulder.

There was a moment of blind fumbling in emptiness, and then he found it, and gripped the leather that was slimy and dreadful and wet-and simultaneously he felt something loop gently about his ankle and a shock of repulsive pleasure went through him, and then another coil, and another, wound about his feet . .

Yarol set his teeth and gripped the shoulder hard, and his hand shuddered of itself, for the feel of that leather was slimy as the worms about his ankles, and a faint tingle of obscene delight went through him from the contact.

That caressive pressure on his legs was all he could feel, and the voice in his brain drowned out all other sounds, and his body obeyed him reluctantly-but somehow he gave one heave of tremendous effort and swung Smith, stumbling, out of that nest of horror. The twining tendrils ripped loose with a little sucking sound, and the whole ma.s.s quivered and reached after, and then Yarol forgot his friend utterly and turned his whole being to the hopeless task of freeing himself. For only a part of him was fighting, now-only a part of him struggled against the twining obscenities, and in his innermost brain the sweet, seductive murmur sounded, and his body clamored to surrender . . .

"Shar! Shar y'danis . . . Shar mor'la-rol-" prayed Yarol, gasping and half unconscious that he spoke, boy's prayers that he had forgotten years ago, and with his back half turned to the central ma.s.s he kicked desperately with his heavy boots at the red, writhing worms about him. They gave back before him, quivering and curling themselves out of reach, and though he knew that more were reaching for his throat from behind, at least he could go on struggling until he was forced to meet those eyes . . .

He stamped and kicked and stamped again, and for one instant he was free of the slimy grip as the bruised worms curled back from his heavy feet, and he lurched away dizzily, sick with revulsion and despair as he fought off the coils, and then he lifted his eyes and saw the cracked mirror on the wall.

Dimly in its reflection he could see the writhing scarlet horror behind him, cat face peering out with its demure girl-smile, dreadfully human, and all the red tendrils reaching after him. And remembrance of something he had read long ago swept incongruously over him, and the gasp of relief and hope that he gave shook for a moment the grip of the command in his brain.

Without pausing for a breath he swung the gun over his shoulder, the reflected barrel in line with the reflected horror in the mirror, and flicked the catch. In the mirror he saw its blue flame leap in a dazzling spate across the dimness, full into the midst of that squirming, reaching ma.s.s behind him. There was a hiss and a blaze and a high, thin scream of inhuman malice and despair-the flame cut a wide arc and went out as the gun fell from his hand, and Yarol pitched forward to the floor.

Northwest Smith opened his eyes to Martian sunlight streaming thinly through the dingy window.

Something wet and cold was slapping his face, and the familiar fiery sting ofsegir -whiskey burnt his throat.

"Smith!" Yarol's voice was saying from far away. "N.W.! Wake up, d.a.m.n you! Wake up!"

"I'm-awake," Smith managed to articulate thickly. "Wha's matter?"

Then a cup-rim was thrust against his teeth and Yarol said irritably, "Drink it, you fool!"

Smith swallowed obediently and more of the fire-hotsegir flowed down his grateful throat. It spread a warmth through his body that awakened him from the numbness that had gripped him until now, and helped a little toward driving out the all-devouring weakness he was becoming aware of slowly. He lay still for a few minutes while the warmth of the whisky went through him, and memory sluggishly began to permeate his brain with the spread of thesegir . Nightmare memories . . . sweet and terrible . . .

memories of- "G.o.d!" gasped Smith suddenly, and tried to sit up. Weakness smote him like a blow, and for an instant the room wheeled as he fell back against something firm and warm-Yarol's shoulder. The Venusian's arm supported him while the room steadied, and after a while he twisted a little and stared into the other's black gaze.

Yarol was holding him with one arm and finishing the mug ofsegir himself, and the black eyes met his over the rim and crinkled into sudden laughter, half hysterical after that terror that was pa.s.sed.

"ByPharol !" gasped Yarol, choking into his mug. "ByPharol , N.W.! I'm never gonna let you forget this! Next time you have to drag me out of a mess I'll say-"

"Let it go," said Smith. "What's been going on? How-"

"Shambleau," Yarol's laughter died. "Shambleau! What were you doing with a thing like that?"

"What was it?" Smith asked soberly.

"Mean to say you didn't know? But where'd you find it? How-"

"Suppose you tell me first what you know," said Smith firmly. "And another swig of thatsegir , too. I need it."

"Can you hold the mug now? Feel better?"

"Yeah-some. I can hold it-thanks. Now go on."

"Well-I don't know just where to start. They call them Shambleau-" "Good G.o.d, is there more than one?"

"It's a-a sort of race, I think, one of the very oldest. Where they come from n.o.body knows. The name sounds a little French, doesn't it? But it goes back beyond the start of history. There have always been Shambleau."

"I never heard of 'em."

"Not many people have. And those who know don't care to talk about it much."

"Well, half this town knows. I hadn't any idea what they were talking about, then. And I still don't understand-"

"Yes, it happens like this, sometimes. They'll appear, and the news will spread and the town will get together and hunt them down, and after that-well, the story doesn't get around very far. It's too-too unbelievable."

"But-my G.o.d, Yarol!-what was it? Where'd it come from? How-"

"n.o.body knows just where they come from. Another planet-maybe some undiscovered one. Some say Venus-I know there are some rather awful legends of them handed down in our family-that's how I've heard about it. And the minute I opened that door, awhile back-I-I think I knew that smell . . ."

"But-whatare they?"

"G.o.d knows. Not human, though they have the human form. Or that may be only an illusion . . . or maybe I'm crazy. I don't know. They're a species of the vampire-or maybe the vampire is a species of-of them. Their normal form must be that-that ma.s.s, and in that form they draw nourishment from the-I suppose the life-forces of men. And they take some form-usually a woman form, I think, and key you up to the highest pitch of emotion before they-begin. That's to work the life-force up to intensity so it'll be easier . . . And they give, always, that horrible, foul pleasure as they-feed. There are some men who, if they survive the first experience, take to it like a drug-can't give it up-keep the thing with them all their lives-which isn't long-feeding it for that ghastly satisfaction. Worse than smoking ming or-or 'praying toPharol .'"

"Yes," said Smith. "I'm beginning to understand why that crowd was so surprised and-and disgusted when I said-well, never mind. Go on."

"Did you get to talk to-to it?" asked Yarol.

"I tried to. It couldn't speak very well. I asked it where it came from and it said-'from far away and long ago'-something like that."

"I wonder. Possibly some unknown planet-but I think not. You know there are so many wild stories with some basis of fact to start from, that I've sometimes wondered-mightn't there be a lot more of even worse and wilder superst.i.tions we've never even heard of? Things like this, blasphemous and foul, that those who know have to keep still about? Awful, fantastic things running around loose that we never hear rumors of at all!

"These things-they've been in existence for countless ages. No one knows when or where they firstappeared. Those who've seen them, as we saw this one, don't talk about it. It's just one of those vague, misty rumors you find half hinted at in old books sometimes . . . I believe they are an older race than man, sp.a.w.ned from ancient seed in times before ours, perhaps on planets that have gone to dust, and so horrible to man that when they are discovered the discoverers keep still about it-forget them again as quickly as they can.

"And they go back to time immemorial. I suppose you recognized the legend of Medusa? There isn't any question that the ancient Greeks knew of them. Does it mean that there have been civilizations before yours that set out from Earth and explored other planets? Or did one of the Shambleau somehow make its way into Greece three thousand years ago? If you think about it long enough you'll go off your head! I wonder how many other legends are based on things like this-things we don't suspect, things we'll never know.

"The Gorgon, Medusa, a beautiful woman with-with snakes for hair, and a gaze that turned men to stone, and Perseus finally killed her-I remembered this just by accident, N.W., and it saved your life and mine-Perseus killed her by using a mirror as he fought to reflect what he dared not look at directly.

I wonder what the old Greek who first started that legend would have thought if he'd known that three thousand years later his story would save the lives of two men on another planet. I wonder what that Greek's own story was, and how he met the thing, and what happened . . .

"Well, there's a lot we'll never know. Wouldn't the records of that race of-ofthings , whatever they are, be worth reading! Records of other planets and other ages and all the beginnings of mankind! But I don't suppose they've kept any records. I don't suppose they've even any place to keep them-from what little I know, or anyone knows about it, they're like the Wandering Jew, just bobbing up here and there at long intervals, and where they stay in the meantime I'd give my eyes to know! But I don't believe that terribly hypnotic power they have indicates any superhuman intelligence. It's their means of getting food-just like a frog's long tongue or a carnivorous flower's odor. Those are physical because the frog and the flower eat physical food. The Shambleau uses a-a mental reach to get mental food. I don't quite know how to put it. And just as a beast that eats the bodies of other animals acquires with each meal greater power over the bodies of the rest, so the Shambleau, stoking itself up with the life-forces of men, increases its power over the minds and souls of other men. But I'm talking about things I can't define-things I'm not sure exist.

"I only know that when I felt-when those tentacles closed around my legs-I didn't want to pull loose, I felt sensations that-that-oh, I'm fouled and filthy to the very deepest part of me by that-pleasure-and yet-"

"I know," said Smith slowly. The effect of thesegir was beginning to wear off, and weakness was washing back over him in waves, and when he spoke he was half meditating in a lower voice, scarcely realizing that Yarol listened. "I know it-much better than you do-and there's something so indescribably awful that the thing emanates, something so utterly at odds with everything human-there aren't any words to say it. For a while I was a part of it, literally, sharing its thoughts and memories and emotions and hungers, and-well, it's over now and I don't remember very clearly, but the only part left free was that part of me that was all but insane from the-the obscenity of the thing. And yet it was a pleasure so sweet-I think there must be some nucleus of utter evil in me-in everyone-that needs only the proper stimulus to get complete control; because even while I was sick all through from the touch of those-things-there was something in me that was-was simply gibbering with delight . . . Because of that I saw things-and knew things-horrible, wild things I can't quite remember-visited unbelievable places, looked backward through the memory of that-creature-I was one with, and saw-G.o.d, I wish I could remember!" "You ought to thank your G.o.d you can't," said Yarol soberly.

His voice roused Smith from the half-trance he had fallen into, and he rose on his elbow, swaying a little from weakness. The room was wavering before him, and he closed his eyes, not to see it, but he asked, "You say they-they don't turn up again? No way of finding-another?"

Yarol did not answer for a moment. He laid his hands on the other man's shoulders and pressed him back, and then sat staring down into the dark, ravaged face with a new, strange, undefinable look upon it that he had never seen there before-whose meaning he knew, too well.

"Smith," he said finally, and his black eyes for once were steady and serious, and the little grinning devil had vanished from behind them, "Smith, I've never asked your word on anything before, but I've-I've earned the right to do it now, and I'm asking you to promise me one thing."

Smith's colorless eyes met the black gaze unsteadily. Irresolution was in them, and a little fear of what that promise might be. And for just a moment Yarol was looking, not into his friend's familiar eyes, but into a wide gray blankness that held all horror and delight-a pale sea with unspeakable pleasures sunk beneath it. Then the wide stare focused again and Smith's eyes met his squarely and Smith's voice said, "Go ahead. I'll promise."

"That if you ever should meet a Shambleau again-ever, anywhere-you'll draw your gun and burn it to h.e.l.l the instant you realize what it is. Will you promise me that?"

There was a long silence. Yarol's somber black eyes bored relentlessly into the colorless ones of Smith, not wavering. And the veins stood out on Smith's tanned forehead. He never broke his word-he had given it perhaps half a dozen times in his life, but once he had given it, he was incapable of breaking it.

And once more the gray seas flooded in a dim tide of memories, sweet and horrible beyond dreams.

Once more Yarol was staring into blankness that hid nameless things. The room was very still.

The gray tide ebbed. Smith's eyes, pale and resolute as steel, met Yarol's levelly.

"I'll-try," he said. And his voice wavered.

Turning Point

by Poul Anderson

Preface by Eric Flint Poul Anderson had a career that lasted as long as Robert Heinlein's, and overlapped it a great deal, allowing for a ten-year difference when they got started. The parallels are rather striking: Heinlein's first story was published in 1939, Anderson's in 1948. ("Life-Line" and "Genius," respectively.) Within a very short time, especially by the standards of the day, they were both published novelists.

Heinlein's first novels,Methusaleh's Children andBeyond This Horizon ,came out in 1941 and1942-although the first, initially, only as a magazine serial. Anderson's first novels,Vault of the Ages andBrain Wave, came out just as quickly in his career-1952 and 1954.

Their careers continued to parallel each other. Both men worked just as easily in short form and long form, publishing novels and short fiction constantly in the decades that followed. By the time they died, they'd each produced a ma.s.sive body of work. Both of them also created their own vast future histories, in which a mult.i.tude of stories and novels fit like tiles in a mozaic. In the case of Heinlein, his famous "Future History"; in the case of Anderson, the "Technic History," which encompa.s.sed his many Nicholas Van Rijn and Dominic Flandry stories.

Robert Heinlein died in 1988, after an immensely successful career that lasted half a century. He was still writing until the end-his last novel,To Sail Beyond the Sunset, came out in 1987. Poul Anderson died in 2001, after an immensely successful career that lasted half a century. He was still writing until the end-his last two original novels,Genesis andMother of Kings, came out in 2000 and 2001.

Both men won a mult.i.tude of awards: Both received the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America's Grand Master Award: Heinlein in 1975, the first year the award was given; Anderson in 1998. Both are in the Science Fiction Hall of Fame. Robert Heinlein won a Hugo award four times; Anderson, seven times. Heinlein never won a Nebula award, although he was nominated four times; Anderson did win an award, three times.

And yet . . .

Somehow people never look at them quite the same way. For all the great respect that Anderson had all his life, and continues to have since his death, he never occupied the central stature than Heinlein did. No one ever thought of Anderson as "the dean of science fiction."