She prayed that a God would come from the skies
and carry her away to bright adventures. But
when he came in a metal globe, she knew only
disappointment--for his godliness was oddly strange!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories March 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was twilight on Venus--the rusty red that the eyes notice when
their closed lids are raised to light. Against the glow, fantastically
twisted trees spread claws of spiky leaves, and a group of clay huts
thrust up sharp edges of shadow, like the abandoned toy blocks of a
gigantic child. There was no sign of clear sky and stars--the heavens
were roofed by a perpetual ceiling of dust-clouds.
A light glimmered in one of the huts. Feminine voices rippled across
the clearing and into the jungle. There was laughter, then someone's
faint and wistful sigh. One of the voices mourned, in the twittering
Venusian speech, "How I envy you, Koroby! I wish I were being married
tonight, like you!"
Koroby stared defiantly at the laughing faces of her bridesmaids. She
shrugged hopelessly. "I don't care," she said slowly. "It will be nice
to have Yasak for a husband--yes. And perhaps I do love him. I don't
know." She tightened her lips as she reflected on it.
She left them, moving gracefully to the door. Venus-girls were
generally of truly elfin proportions, so delicately slim that they
seemed incapable of the slightest exertion. But Koroby's body
was--compared to her friends'--voluptuous.
She rested against the door-frame, watching the red of the afterglow
deepen to purple. "I want romance," she said, so softly that the girls
had to strain forward to hear her. "I wish that there were other worlds
than this--and that someone would drop out of the skies and claim
me ... and take me away from here, away from all this--this monotony!"
She turned back to her friends, went to them, one of her hands, patting
the head of the kneeling one. She eyed herself in the mirror.
"Well--heigh-ho! There don't seem to be any other worlds, and nobody is
going to steal me away from Yasak, so I might as well get on with my
preparations. The men with the litter will be here soon to carry me to
the Stone City."
She ran slim hands down her sides, smoothing the blue sarong; she
fondled her dark braids. "Trossa, how about some flowers at my ears--or
do you think that it would look a little too much--?" Her eyes sought
the mirror, and her lips parted in an irreprehensible smile. She
trilled softly to herself, "Yes, I am beautiful tonight--the loveliest
woman Yasak will ever see!" And then, regretfully, sullenly, "But oh,
if only _He_ would come ... the man of my dreams!"
There was a rap at the doorway; they turned. One of the litter-bearers
loomed darker than the gloomy sky. "Are you ready?" he asked.
Koroby twirled before the mirror, criticizing her appearance. "Yes,
ready," she said.
"Ready!" the girls cried. Then there was a little silence.
"Shall we go now?" Koroby asked, and the litter-carrier nodded. Koroby
kissed the girls, one after another. "Here, Shonka--you can have this
bracelet you've always liked. And this is for you, Lolla. And here,
Trossa--and you, Shia. Goodbye, darlings, goodbye--come and see me
whenever you can!"
"Goodbye, Koroby!"
"Goodbye! Goodbye!" They crowded around her, embracing, babbling
farewells, shreds of advice. Trossa began to cry. Finally Koroby broke
away from them, went to the door. She took a last look at the interior
of the little hut, dim in the lamplight--at the hard bed of laced
_gnau_-hide strips, the crude but beautifully-carved charts and chests.
Then she turned and stepped out into the night.
"This way," the litter-carrier announced, touching the girl's arm. They
stumbled over the rutted clearing toward the twinkling sparks that were
the lights of the other litter-bearers, colored sparks as befitted
a wedding-conveyance. The winking lights were enclosed in shells of
colored glass for another reason--the danger of their firing the papery
jungle verdure.
* * * * *
It was not a new litter, built especially for the occasion--Yasak was
too practical a man to sanction any kind of waste. It was the same
old litter that Koroby had been watching come and go ever since she
was a little girl, a canopied framework of gaudily-painted carvings.
She had wondered, watching it pass, whether its cushioned floor was
soft, and now, as she stepped into the litter, she patted the padding
experimentally. Yes, it was soft .... And fragrant, too--a shade too
fragrant. It smelled stale, hinting of other occupants, other brides
being borne to other weddings....
Garlands of flowers occupied a good deal of space in it. Settled among
them, she felt like a bird in a strange nest. She leaned back among
them; they rustled dryly. Too bad--it had been such a dry year--
"You're comfortable?" the litter bearer asked. Koroby nodded, and the
litter was lifted, was carried along the path.
The procession filed into the jungle, into a tunnel of arched branches,
of elephant-eared leaves. Above the monotonous music came the hiss of
the torches, the occasional startled cry of a wakened bird. The glow of
the flames, in the dusty air, hung around the party, sharply defined,
like a cloak of light. At times a breeze would shake the ceiling of
foliage, producing the sound of rolling surf.
Koroby fingered the flowers around her throat, her eyes rapt on the
passing trees. Her lips moved in the barest murmur: "If only--!"
and again, "Oh, if only--!" But the music trickled on, and nothing
happened; the litter seemed to float along--none of the bearers even
stumbled.
They came to a cleared space of waist-high grass. It was like a canyon
steeply walled by cliffs of verdure. The litter jerked as it glided
along, and Koroby heard one of the bearers exclaim gruffly, "Listen!"
Then the litter resumed its dream-like floating on the backs of the men.
"What was it?" another bearer asked.
"Thought I heard something," the other replied. "Shrill and high--like
something screaming--"
Koroby peered out. "A _gnau_?" she asked.
"I don't know," the bearer volunteered.
Koroby lifted a hand. "Stop the litter," she said.
* * * * *
The conveyance halted. Koroby leaning out, the men peering around them,
they listened. One of the bearers shouted at the musicians; the music
ceased. There was nothing to be heard except the whisper of the breeze
in the grass.
Then the girl heard it--a shrill, distant whine, dying away, then
growing louder--and louder--it seemed to be approaching--from the sky--
All the faces were lifted up now, worriedly. The whine grew
louder--Koroby's hands clenched nervously on the wreaths at her throat--
Then, far ahead, a series of bright flashes, like the lightning of the
dust-storms, but brilliantly green. A silence, then staccatto reports,
certainly not thunder--unlike any sound that Koroby had ever heard.
There was a babble of voices as the musicians crowded together, asking
what had it been, and where--just exactly--could one suppose it had
happened, that thunder--was it going to storm!
They waited, but nothing further happened--there were no more stabs of
green light nor detonations. The bearers stooped to lift the litter's
poles to their shoulders. "Shall we go on?" one of them asked Koroby.