The Coming of the Terrans Read online

  Leigh Brackett

  The Coming of the Terrans

  Table of Contents

  The Beast-Jewel of Mars

  Mars Minus Bisha

  The Last Days of Shandakor

  Purple Priestess of the Mad Moon

  The Road to Sinharat

  The Beast-Jewel of Mars

  CHAPTER ONE

  BURK WINTERS remained in the passenger section while the Starflight made her landing at Kahora Port. He did not think that he could bear to see another man, not even one he liked as much as he did Johnny Niles, handle the controls of the ship that had been his for so long.

  He did not wish even to say goodbye to Johnny, but there was no avoiding it. The young officer was waiting for him as he came down the ramp, and the deep concern he felt was not hidden in the least by his casually hearty grin.

  Johnny held out his hand. “So long, Burk. You’ve earned this leave. Have fun with it.”

  Burk Winters looked out over the vast tarmac that spread for miles across the ochre desert. An orderly, roaring confusion of trucks and flatcars and men and ships—ore ships, freighters, tramps, sleek liners like the Starflight, bearing the colors of three planets and a dozen colonies, but still arrogantly and predominately Terran.

  Johnny followed his gaze and said softly, “It always gives you a thrill, doesn’t it?”

  Winters did not answer. Miles away, safe from the thundering rocket blasts, the glassite dome of Kahora, Trade City for Mars, rose jewel-like out of the red sand. The little sun stared wearily down and the ancient hills considered it, and the old, old wandering wind passed over it, and it seemed as though the planet bore Kahora and its spaceport with patience, as though it were a small local infection that would soon be gone.

  He had forgotten Johnny Miles. He had forgotten everything but his own dark thoughts. The young officer studied him with covert pity, and he did not know it.

  Burk Winters was a big man, and a tough man, tempered by years of deep-space flying. The same glare of naked light that had burned his skin so dark had bleached his hair until it was almost white, and just in the last few months his gray eyes seemed to have caught and held a spark of that pitiless radiance. The easy good nature was gone out of them, and the lines that laughter had shaped around his mouth had deepened now into bitter scars.

  A big man, a hard man, but a man who was no longer in control of himself. All during the voyage out from Earth he had chained-smoked the little Venusian cigarettes that have a sedative effect. He was smoking one now, and even so he could not keep his hands steady nor stop the everlasting tic in his right cheek.

  “Burk.” Johnny’s voice came to him from a great distance. “Burk, it’s none of my business, but…” He hesitated, then blurted out, “Do you think Mars is good for you, now?”

  Quite abruptly, Winters said, “Take good care of the Starflight, Johnny. Goodbye.”

  He went away, down the ramp. The pilot stared after him.

  The Second Officer came up to Johnny. “That guy has sure gone to pieces,” he said.

  Johnny nodded. He was angry, because he had come up under Winters and he loved him.

  “The damn fool,” he said. “He shouldn’t have come here.” He looked out over the mocking immensity of Mars and added, “His girl was lost out there, somewhere. They never found her body.”

  A spaceport taxi took Burk Winters into Kahora, and Mars vanished. He was back in the world of the Trade Cities, which belong to all planets, and none.

  Vhia on Venus, N’York on Earth, Sun City in Mercury’s Twilight Belt, the glassite refuges of the Outer Worlds, they were all alike. They were dedicated to the coddling of wealth and greed, little paradises where millions were made and lost in comfort, where men and women from all over the Solar System could expend their feverish energies without regard for such annoyances as weather and gravitation.

  Other things than the making of money were done in the Trade Cities. The lovely plastic buildings, the terraces and gardens and the glowing web of moving walks that spun them together, offered every pleasure and civilized vice of the known worlds.

  Winters hated the Trade Cities. He was used to the elemental honesty of space. Here the speech, the dress, even the air one breathed, were artificial.

  And he had a deeper reason than that for his hatred.

  He had left N’York in feverish haste to reach Kahora, and yet, now that he was here he felt that he could not endure even the delay caused by the necessity of crossing the city. He sat tensely on the edge of the seat, and his nervous twitching grew worse by the minute.

  When finally he reached his destination, he could not hold the money for his fare. He dropped the plastic tokens on the floor and left the driver to scramble for them.

  He stood for a moment, looking up at the ivory façade before him. It was perfectly plain, the epitome of expensive unpretentiousness. Above the door, in small letters of greenish silver, was the one Martian word: Shanga.

  “The return,” he translated. “The going-back.” A strange and rather terrible smile crossed his face, very briefly. Then he opened the door and went inside.

  Subdued lighting, comfortable lounges, soft music, the perfect waiting room. There were half a dozen men and women there, all Terrans. They wore the fashionably simple white tunic of the Trade Cities, which set off the magnificent blaze of their jewelry and the exotic styles in which they dressed their hair.

  Their faces were pallid and effeminate, scored with the haggard marks of life lived under the driving tension of a super-modern age.

  A Martian woman sat in an alcove, behind a glassite desk. She was dark, sophisticatedly lovely. Her costume was the artfully adapted short robe of ancient Mars, and she wore no ornament. Her slanting topaz eyes regarded Burk Winters with professional pleasantness, but deep in them he could see the scorn and the pride of a race so old that the Terran exquisites of the Trade Cities were only crude children beside it.

  “Captain Winters,” she said. “How nice to see you again.”

  He was in no mood for conventional pleasantries. “I want to see Kor Hal,” he said. “Now.”

  “I’m afraid…” she began. Then she took another look at Winters’ face and turned to the intercom. Presently she said, “You may go in.”

  He pushed open the door that led into the interior of the building, which consisted almost entirely of a huge solarium. Glassite walls enclosed it. Around the sides were many small cells, containing only a padded table. The roofs of the cells were quartz, and acted as mammoth lenses.

  Skirting the solarium on the way to Kor Hal’s office, Winters’ mouth twisted with contempt as he looked through the transparent wall.

  An exotic forest blossomed there. Trees, ferns, brilliant flowers, soft green sward, a myriad of birds. And through this mock-primitive playground wandered the men and women who were devotees of Shanga.

  They lay first on the padded tables and let the radiation play with them. Winters knew. Neuro-psychic therapy, the doctors called it. Heritage of the lost wisdom of old Mars. Specific for the jangled nerves and overwrought emotions of modern man, who lived too fast in too complex an environment.

  You lie there and the radiation tingles through you. Your glandular balance tips a little. Your brain slows down. All sorts of strange and pleasant things happen inside of you, while the radiation tinkers with nerves and reflexes and metabolism. And pretty soon you’re a child again, in an evolutionary sort of way.

  Shanga, the going-back. Mentally, and just a tiny bit physically, back to the primitive, until the effect wore off and the normal balance restored itself. And even then, for a while, you felt better and happier, because you’d had one hell of a rest, from everything.


  Their pampered white bodies incongruously clad in skins and bits of colored cloth, the Earthlings of Kahora played and fought among the trees, and their worries were simple ones concerning food and love and strings of gaudy beads.

  Hidden away out of sight were watchful men with shock guns. Sometimes someone went a little bit too far down the road. Winters knew. He had been knocked cold himself, on his last visit here. He remembered that he had tried to kill a man.

  Or rather, he had been told that he had tried to kill a man. One did not remember much of the interludes of Shanga. That was one reason people liked it. One was free of inhibitions.

  Fashionable vice, made respectable by the cloak of science. It was a new kind of excitement, a new kind of escape from the glittering complexities of life. The Terrans were mad for it.

  But only the Terrans. The barbaric Venusians were still too close to the savage to have any need for it, and the Martians were too old and wise in sin to use it. Besides, thought Winters, they made Shanga. They know.

  A deep shudder ran through him as he thrust his way into the office of Kor Hal, the director.

  Kor Hal was lean and dark and of no particular age. His national origin was lost in the anonymity of the conventional white tunic. He was Martian, and his courtesy was only a velvet sheath over chilled steel, but beyond that he was quantity X.

  “Captain Winters,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  Winters sat.

  Kor Hal studied him. “You’re nervous, Captain Winters. But I am afraid to treat you anymore. Atavism lies too close to the surface in you.” He shrugged. “You remember the last time.”

  Winters nodded. “The same thing happened in N’York.” He leaned forward. “I don’t want you to treat me anymore. What you have here isn’t enough now. Sar Kree told me that, in N’York. He told me to come to Mars.”

  Kor Hal said quietly, “He communicated with me.”

  “Then you will…” Winters broke off, because there were no words with which to finish his question.

  Kor Hal did not answer. He reclined at ease against the cushions of his lounge chair, handsome, unconcerned. Only his eyes, which were green and feral, held a buried spark of amusement. The cruel amusement of a cat which has a crippled mouse under its paw.

  “Are you sure,” he asked finally, “that you know what you’re doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “People differ, Captain Winters. Those mannikins out there”—he indicated the solarium—“have neither blood nor heart. They are artificial products of an artificial environment. But men like you, Winters, are playing with fire when they play with Shanga,”

  “Listen,” said Winters. “The girl I was going to marry took her flier out over the desert one day and never came back. God only knows what happened to her. You know better than I do the things that can happen to people in the dead sea bottoms. I hunted for her. I found her flier, where it had crashed. I never found her. After that nothing mattered much to me. Nothing but forgetting.”

  Kor Hal inclined his dark, narrow head. “I remember. A tragedy, Captain Winters. I knew Miss Leland, a lovely young woman. She used to come here.”

  “I know,” said Winters. “She wasn’t Trade City, really, but she had too much money and too much time. Anyway, I’m not worried about playing with your fire, Kor Hal. I’ve been burned too deep with it already. Like you say, people differ. Those lily-whites in their toy jungle, they have no desire to go back any farther. They haven’t the guts or the passions to want to. I have.”

  Winters’ eyes blazed with a peculiarly animal light. “I want to go back, Kor Hal. Back as far as Shanga will take me.”

  “Sometimes,” said the Martian, “that’s a long way.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Kor Hal gave him an intent look. “For some, there is no return.”

  “I have nothing to return to.”

  “It is not easy, Winters. Shanga—the real Shanga, of which these solariums and quartz lenses are only a weak copy, was forbidden centuries ago by the City-States of Mars. There are risks, and discomforts, which means that the process is expensive.”

  “I have money.” Winters leaped up suddenly, his control breaking. “Be damned to your arguments! They’re all hypocrisy, anyway. You know perfectly well which ones are going to take to Shanga. You keep them coming until they’re addicts, half crazy to feel the real thing, and you know damn well you’re going to give them what they want as soon as they cross your dirty palm with silver.”

  He tossed a checkbook on Kor Hal’s desk. The top one was blank, but signed.

  “There,” he said. “Anything up to a hundred-thousand Universal Credits.”

  “I would prefer,” said Kor Hal, “that you draw your own check to cash.” He handed the checkbook back to Winters. “The full amount, in advance.”

  Burk Winters said one word. “When?”

  “Tonight, if you wish. Where are you staying?”

  “The Tri-Planet.”

  “Have dinner there as usual. Then remain in the bar. Sometime during the evening your guide will join you.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Winters said, and went out.

  Kor Hal smiled. His teeth were very white, very sharp. They had the hungry look of fangs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BURK WINTERS got his bearings finally when Phobos rose, and he could guess where they were heading.

  They had slipped quietly out of Kahora, he and the slender young Martian who had joined him unobtrusively in the Tri-Planet bar. A flier waited for them on a private field. Kor Hal waited also. They took off, with a fourth man, who looked to be one of the big barbarians from the northern hills of Kesh. Kor Hal took the controls.

  Winters was sure now that they were bound for the Low Canals, the ancient waterways and the ancient wicked towns—Jekkara, Valkis, Barrakesh—outside the laws of the scattered City-States. Thieves’ market, slave market, vice market of a world. Earthmen were warned to keep away from them.

  Miles reeled behind them. The utter desolation of the landscape below got on Winters’ nerves. The silence in the flier became unendurable. There was something menacing about it. Kor Hal and the big Keshi and the slim young man seemed to be nursing some common inner thought that gave them a peculiarly vicious pleasure. Its shadow showed on their faces.

  Winters spoke finally. “Are your headquarters out here?”

  No answer.

  Winters said rather petulantly. “There’s no need to be so secretive. After all, I’m one of you now.”

  The slim young man said sharply, “Do the beasts lie down with the masters?”

  Winters started to bristle, and the barbarian put his hand on the wicked little sap he carried at his belt. Then Kor Hal spoke coolly.

  “You wished to practice Shanga in its true form, Captain Winters. That is what you have paid for. That is what you will receive. All else is irrelevant.”

  Winters shrugged sulkily. He sat smoking his sedative tobacco, and he did not speak again.

  After a long, long time the seemingly endless desert began to change. Low ridges rose naked from the sand and grew into a mountain range, of which nothing was left now but the barren rock.

  Beyond the mountains lay a dead sea bottom. It stretched away under the moonlight, dropping, always dropping, until at last it became only a vast pit of darkness. Ribs of chalk and coral gleamed here and there, pushing through the lichens like bones through the dried skin of a man long dead.

  Winters saw that there was a city between the foothills and the sea.

  It had followed the receding water down the slopes. From this height, Winters could see the outlines of five harbors, abandoned one by one as the sea drew back, the great stone docks still standing. Houses had been built to fill their emptiness, and then abandoned in their turn for a lower level.

  Now the straggling town had coalesced along the bank of the canal that drew what feeble life was left from the buried springs of the bottom. There was something infinitely sad
about that thin dark line—all that was left of a blue and rolling ocean.

  The flier circled and came down. The Keshi said something rapidly in his own dialect, from which Winters caught the one word, Valkis. Kor Hal answered him. Then he turned to Winters and said:

  “We have not far to go. Stay close by me.”

  The four men left the flier. Winters knew that he was under guard, and felt that it was not entirely for the sake of protecting him.

  The wind blew thin and dry. Dust rose in clouds around their feet. Valkis lay ahead, a stony darkness sprawling upward toward the cliffs, cold in the eerie light of the twin moons. Winters saw, high up on the crest, the broken towers of a palace.

  They walked beside still black water, on paving stones worn hollow by the sandaled feet of countless generations. Even at this late hour, Valkis did not sleep. Torches burned yellow against the night. Somewhere a double-banked harp made strange music. The streets, the alley mouths, the doorways and the flat roofs of the houses rustled with life.

  Lithe men and catlike women watched the strangers, hot-eyed and silent. And over all, Winters heard the particular sound of the Low Canal towns—the whispering and chiming of the wanton little bells that the women wear, braided into their dark hair, hanging from their ears, chained around their ankles.

  Evil, that town. Ancient, and very evil, but not tired. Winters could feel the pulse of life that beat there, strong and hot. He was afraid. His own civilian garb and the white tunics of his companions were terribly conspicuous in this place of bare breasts and bright kilts and jeweled girdles.

  No one molested them. Kor Hal led the way into a large house and shut the door of beaten bronze behind them, and Winters felt a great relief. He turned to Kor Hal.

  “How soon?” he asked, and tried to conceal the trembling of his hands.

  “Everything is ready, Winters. Halk, show him the way.”

  The Keshi nodded and went off, with Winters at his heels.

  This was very different from the Hall of Shanga in Kahora. Within these walls of quarried stone, men and women had lived and loved and died in violence. The blood and tears of centuries had dried in the cracks between the flags. The rugs, the tapestries, and the furnishings were worth a fortune as antiques. Their beauty was worn, but still bright.