* * * * *
The woman never heard me approach. Her eyes were toward the flaming
circle and the dancers within, and, too, I suppose, to her small son
who was somewhere in that circle with them, whistling. She leaned
against the bole of a _belu_ tree with her arms down and slightly
curled backward around it.
"That's considered bad luck," I said.
Her head jerked around with my words, reflected flames from the circle
fire still flickering in her eyes.
"That's a _belu_ tree," I said. "Embracing it like that is like looking
for a ladder to walk under. Or didn't you know?"
"Would it make any difference?" She spoke softly, but the words came to
me above the drums and the shouts of the dancers. "How much bad luck
can you have in one lifetime, anyway?"
I ignored that. "Why did you pull out of that shack? I told you you had
nothing to fear from me."
She didn't answer.
"I'm looking for the man you saw me talking with this morning," I went
on. "Lady, he's wanted. And this thing, on my lapel is an Authority
Card. Assuming you know what it means, I'm asking you where he is."
"What man?" Her words were flat.
"His name is Harry Smythe."
If that meant anything to her, I couldn't tell. In the flickering light
from the fires, subtle changes in expression weren't easily detected.
"Why should I care about an Earthman? My husband was a Martian. And
he's dead, see? Dead. Just a Martian. Not fit for anything, like all
Martians. Just a bum who fell in love with an Earthwoman and had the
guts to marry her. Do you understand? So somebody murdered him for it.
Ain't that pretty? Ain't that something to make you throw back your
head and be proud about? Well, ain't it? And let me tell you, Mister,
whoever it was, I'll get him. _I'll get him!_"
I could see her face now, all right. It was a twisted, tortured thing
that writhed at me in its agony. It was small yellow teeth that bared
at me in viciousness. It was eyes that brimmed with boiling, bubbling
hate like a ladle of molten steel splashing down on bare, white flesh.
Or, simply, it was the face of a woman who wanted to kill the killer of
her man.
And then, suddenly, it wasn't. Even though the noise of the dance and
the dancers was loud enough to command the attention and the senses. I
could still hear her quiet sobbing, and I could see the heaving of the
small, thin shoulders.
And I knew then the reason for old Wahanhk's bitterness when he had
said to me, "But not for the murder of a Martian, eh? Martians are not
that important any more."
What I said then probably sounded as weak as it really was: "I'm sorry,
kid. But look, just staking out in that old shack of yours and trying
to pry information out of the type of men who drifted your way--well, I
mean there wasn't much sense in that, now was there?"
I put an arm around her shoulders. "He must have been a pretty nice
guy," I said. "I don't think you'd have married him if he wasn't."
I stopped. Even in my own ears, my words sounded comfortless. I looked
up, over at the flaming circle and at the sweat-laved dancers within
it. The sound of the drums was a wild cacophonous tattoo now, a rattle
of speed and savagery combined; and those who moved to its frenetic
jabberings were not dancers any more, but only frenzied, jerking
figurines on the strings of a puppeteer gone mad.
I looked down again at the woman. "Your little boy and his butterfly
net," I said softly. "In a season when no butterflies can be found.
What was that for? Was he part of the plan, too, and the net just the
alibi that gave him a passport to wander where he chose? So that he
could listen, pick up a little information here, a little there?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to answer. My guesses can be as good
as anybody's.
After a long while she looked up into my eyes. "His name was Tahily,"
she said. "He had the secret. He knew where the gold vein was. And
soon, in a couple of years maybe, when all the prospectors were gone
and he knew it would be safe, he was going to stake a claim and go
after it. For us. For the three of us."
I sighed. There wasn't, isn't, never will be any gold on this planet.
But who in the name of God could have the heart to ruin a dream like
that?
* * * * *
Next day I followed the little boy. He left the reservation in a cheery
frame of mind, his whistle sounding loud and clear on the thin morning
air. He didn't go in the direction of town, but the other way--toward
the ruins of the ancient Temple City of the Moons. I watched his chubby
arm and the swinging of the big butterfly net on the end of that arm.
Then I followed along in his sandy tracks.
It was desert country, of course. There wasn't any chance of tailing
him without his knowledge and I knew it. I also knew that before long
he'd know it, too. And he did--but he didn't let me know he did until
we came to the rag-cliffs, those filigree walls of stone that hide the
entrance to the valley of the two moons.
Once there, he paused and placed his butterfly net on a rock ledge and
then calmly sat down and took off his shoes to dump the sand while he
waited for me.
"Well," I said. "Good morning."
He looked up at me. He nodded politely. Then he put on his shoes again
and got to his feet.
"You've been following me," he said, and his brown eyes stared
accusingly into mine.
"I have?"
"That isn't an honorable thing to do," he said very gravely. "A
gentleman doesn't do that to another gentleman."