[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science
Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _"I'll give you the cure for the most horrible disease,"
Songeen said. "The sickness of life itself." Newlin replied, "Fine. But
first, give me a couple of minutes to kill your husband. Then we'll go
on from there."_]
In Venusport, on payday-night, it is difficult to tell for certain where
the town leaves off and the pink elephants begin. It is difficult to
tell about other things, too. Spud Newlin had heard that a man could
sometimes get rich overnight just tending bar on such occasions, and he
was putting the rumor to the test. Not many bartenders had lasted long
enough to find out.
The night had had a good start. Clock hands over the bar in the
Spacebell registered 1:18 Venus-time, and considering, things were
almost dull at the moment. The place had been jumping earlier, but
hilarity had worn itself out, the dead had been removed and excitement
dulled. No relatives or widows of the dead sportsmen had yet appeared;
all corpses-elect had died clean, with the minimum of messy violence
and, surprisingly, only three more or less innocent bystanders had been
burned down in the proceedings. After shattering uproar, such calm was
disturbing. Newlin was actually getting bored. Then _she_ came in--and
he was no longer bored. But, perversely, he resented the surge of
interest that ran through him at sight of this out-of-place girl.
At a casual glance, she might seem ordinary, but Newlin was never
superficial. Her kind of beauty was something to be sensed, not
catalogued. It was part of the odd grace of movement, of the fine,
angular features, of the curious emotion which dwelt upon them, sad and
subdued. Even her costume was as out of place in the Spacebell as her
mood; the dress was simply cut and expensive, but drab for the time and
place. It clung about a slight, well-formed body in smoothly curved
lines that seemed almost a part of her. Only her hands and eyes showed
nervous tension.
At first he thought her eyes were cold, but it was something racial
rather than personal. He noticed that they were large and luminous--like
moonstones--with a pearly opaque glimmer as if only upper layers colored
and reflected light. In their depths was an odd effect, like metalflakes
drifting through ribboned moonlight with abysses of deepest shadow
beyond. There was pain, trouble, and sadness in them, and behind that,
fear--a desperate fear. You thought of wailing, haunted moonlight, and
of dreadful things fled from in dreams.
Newlin's first thought was that she was one of the new-made widows, and
was likely to be all too human about it. Later, when he had begun to
doubt that she was all-human, her physical charms still went inside him
and turned like a dull knife. He was no more immune to animal attraction
than the next man, but in this particular woman there was something else
even more intriguing and unpredictable. He felt a powerful impulse to do
something to relieve her of that paralyzing supernatural dread.
A situation pregnant with violence was working up at one of the gaming
tables but Newlin wilfully tore his attention from the mounting tension
between the fat Martian gambler and an ugly character from Ganymede.
"Anything I can do for you, sister?"
Her smile was strange, thoughtful, preoccupied. "Yes," she told him.
"There is something you can do for me. Unless your question was purely
professional. If so, forget it. I need something stronger than the--the
liquors you serve here."
Newlin grinned sourly. "You don't know our drinks. One sip and a mouse
snarls at a snow-leopard. The question was not purely professional. Not
my profession, anyhow. I don't know about yours. Or do I?"
* * * * *
Her head jerked on its slender stalk of neck. Pale eyes stared into his;
her lips twisted in cold scorn.
"I don't think you do. And I'll do without your help. Perhaps you'd
better go back to polishing glassware."
The rebuke failed to impress Newlin. He waited while her glance swung
about the room, evaluating the place and its occupants in one quick
sweep. Dissatisfied, she turned back to Newlin and again the moonstruck
eyes probed and assessed him.
"Take your pick," he said sharply. "But don't judge them by their
clothes. On Venus, a man in ragged space-leather may have heavy pockets.
Now, take me--"
"I was told I could find Spud Newlin here. Point him out and I'll pay
your fee--"
Newlin was suddenly cautious. "Yes, he's here--but what would a woman
like you want with such a notorious--"
"I'm asking questions, not answering," she said calmly. "And I'm well
aware of his failings. I selected him because of his ... his reputation.
It's revolting, but even such a man may have uses. My requirements of
him, and my reasons for the choice, I will discuss with him. No one
else."
"Free advice, sister. Forget it, and get out of here. He's no good.
Particularly bad, for a choice morsel like you."
"I'm used to making up my own mind. Where is he?"