Assignment Moon Girl

Chapter One

SHE smelled the tiger before she saw him. His male-cat odor
filled the darkened cave. She scrambled alongside the rough sandstone
walls that scratched her thighs and flanks, and then saw the cub’s eyes,
glowing a phosphorescent green as he padded from his den. The cat grumbled,
warning her away from his cool retreat. But she could not remain in the pit,
now that the sun was up. Not for another day. She had to find relief, or
die.

“Please,” she whispered to the beast. “I beg of you. Let me
be.”

The cub was half-grown, but almost as heavy as she, with the
distinctive stripes of the rare
Hyrcanian
tigers once
hunted by the
Sassanids
of ancient times. He was not
hungry. Food had been thrown into the pit for both of them. But he would not
leave her in peace. He was like some strange watchdog, trained to observe her
every move, ready to leap upon her in half-anger, half-sexual play, whenever
she tried to penetrate the shadows of the cave. He paused and watched her with
eyes like living emeralds.

“Please,” she whispered again. “Just let me get out of the
sun.”

She shrank back, and this satisfied him, although his
musky tomcat smell was stronger as he watched her. Fortunately, the blood had
dried on her thigh where he had clawed her yesterday. Or was it the day
before?
 
She did not know. She had lost
all sense of time here.

She did not know where she was, or how she had gotten here,
or why she was kept a prisoner.

Her thoughts had been broiled by the sun, shattered like
crystals in the cold nights, numbed by the incomprehensible situation in which
she found herself. At first, she had tried to apply rational,
scientific thought to the problem. But there was no beginning or end to
it. She thought she might be mad, and clung only to the fact that she was
undoubtedly alive, somehow, and had survived some completely impossible phenomenon
that had deposited her in this place.

She clung to a phrase that rolled over and over in her mind.

“
Mynameistanyaourpanayaandlhavebeenanthemoon
.

Mynameistanyaouspanayaandlhavebeenonthemoon
.”

The cat growled and padded toward her, head swinging from
right to left, left to right. She backed out of the cave that was his jealously
guarded domain.

And found herself in the pit again.

It was ten paces in diameter, with smoothly bored walls
rising thirty feet overhead to a circle of harsh white sky in which nothing
moved, nothing lived. She had never seen a sky of such venom before. Toward
noon of each day, when the sun was at its height, the heat struck down like the
blow of an axe, incredible, choking the breath from her struggling lungs,
boiling the blood in her veins, flaying the skin from her naked body.

Already a long, obscene pseudopod of white light dipped into
the shaft along one wall, reaching for her. The girl whimpered and cowered
back, hugging her bruised knees in a
foetal
position
and staring at the cave entrance through the straggled screen of her
white-blonde hair.

How long had she been naked like this, living an animal
existence worse than the cat’s? There was no beginning and no end. Only visions
and fragments of nightmare madness drifted in her mind. She bit absently at her
knee with strong white teeth, tasted the salt of her blood, and began to weep.

She was a tall girl, when she stood erect; but lately she
had begun to crawl about on hands and knees, reverting inevitably to a savagery
equal to the animal she lived with. Her skin was the color of ivory, her eyes
were very faintly almond-shaped, betraying her Chinese mother, and her face was
a fortuitous blend of Siberian beauty and the delicacy of her mother’s
features. She had blue eyes, an athletic body, with proud breasts and flat
stomach and full flanks and hips. Dimly, she remembered how her exotic
beauty had been an irritant in early years, when men troubled her and
distracted her from her dedication to her work. She had been bred and trained
and used for but one goal. Nothing else had mattered. She was like an exquisite
tool, machined to the ultimate micro-millimeter of perfection. And she had been
successful. This much she knew.

"
Mynameistanyaouspanayaandlhavebeenonthemoon
.”

And a mocking voice answered from above:

“Have you now, my pomegranate?”

She lifted her eyes slowly. The voice always inspired fear
in her. It had a mad hilarity, a giggling of perverted amusement.

“Mahmoud?” she whispered.

“It is I.”

“I am thirsty.”

“My poor little beast!”

“And hungry.”

“You will be fed, my darling.”

“And so very warm!”

“Naturally.”

“Let me out of here. Please. I will do anything you say!”

Truly?

“I promise.”

“Then tell me something,” said the voice.

“Whatever you ask.”

“Have you truly been on the moon?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Ah, you are mad.”

“I am going mad, yes.”

“On the moon? Truly? What was it like there?”

She hesitated. “Different.”

“How, different?”

‘ “Hot and cold, light and dark.”

“All these things are here.”

“But different ” she said.

How long were you there?”

“I don’t know, Mahmoud.”

“When did you get back?”

I don’t know.”

“How did you manage it?"

“I cannot remember.”

“You see? You are not willing to tell all. The master is
still annoyed. It is too bad.”

A head like a round melon swathed in a dirty rag appeared
above the edge of the pit. The face was blackened by the sun, the open mouth
gaped toothlessly, there was an ulcer on one cheek, and one eye was almost shut
by a disease whose name she should have remembered, but could not. A skeletal
hand began to lower a rope holding a covered bucket in which water splashed.

“Mahmoud, what is up there?” she moaned.

“The world.”

“What else?”

“Life, my lovely beast.”

“When will your master speak to me?”

“When you come to your senses.”

“But I am going mad here!” she cried.

Mahmoud’s giggle spiraled down to her in thin, venomous
echoes. She clapped her hands over her ears. Something rubbed against her naked
side, and she saw it was the eat. His breath was foul. The male odor that
enveloped him stirred her in curious ways. She found it repulsive, but she was
growing used to it. The cat growled and moved to the water bucket that Mahmoud
manipulated down and tipped into a small concrete depression on the floor of
the pit. The tiger drank first, with a huge delicacy, his glowing eyes
always on her. He was always first. Later, there would be raw meat for
him, rice for her. The cat allowed her the rice. Sometimes, when she ate,
sitting on her haunches, he would be playful, and yesterday he had tried to
mount her, his vast weight thrusting her down under his iron body. He would try
again, she knew. And Mahmoud would watch it happen and giggle. . . .

Hatred was a good thing. It scoured the mind like a clean
fire. And she hated Mahmoud. She concentrated on this now, huddled
against the wall, making herself look patient while the cat drank his
fill of the brackish water. The rope still dangled from the top of the
pit.

The rope . . .

The cat, the cave, and the rope. Somehow she must put them
together, and escape. But how? She had no real plan in mind when she suddenly
summoned her strength and leaped for the rope that Mahmoud dangled so
tantalizingly from high above.

There came a howl of alarm and outrage from the man above.
For an instant, as her weight pulled on the line, Mahmoud’s head and shoulders
surged over the edge of the pit. She got her naked feet against the wall and
clambered rapidly up—five, eight, ten feet, a third of the way to the
dazzling disc of blinding sunlight. Then Mahmoud screamed and gave up trying to
pull the rope from her. He let it go, to save himself. She fell back with a
thud onto the pit floor. The shock of her fall almost knocked her
senseless. She heard Mahmoud’s hissing curses, and a darkness washed over her.
But she was given no respite. Her sudden effort had alarmed and angered the
tiger. Growling, he leaped upon her, claws unsheathed.

The pain that slashed her back revived her. Mahmoud had run
away. The big cub continued to cuff and maul her. She rolled into a ball to
shield her stomach and lay still. The cat’s fetid breath choked her. His sleek,
lethal muscularity slid over her flanks and buttocks, and his rough
tongue seemed to cauterize the cuts he had inflicted on her back. Finally
his growling subsided into uncertain rumbles.

Cautiously, filled with a feral cunning, she tightened
her fingers on the rough rope. The tiger was doubtful about her, pacing
about, his tail twitching. His great whiskered head lifted to stare up the
walls of the pit. All at once, she seized the rope and whipped it about his
massive neck, took quick loops about both her wrists, and hauled it tight in a
strangling noose.

The beast screamed. His great body convulsed into a thousand
steel springs as he tried to bound into his cave. She did not let go. But his
strength was something satanic as he dragged her with him across the pit.

“
Mynameistanyauuspanayaandlhavebeenonthemoon
.”

She struck her head on the floor and her grip relaxed
for a moment. The tiger cub halted, bared huge fangs. She twisted and slid onto
his back. He rolled over, and his enormous, stinking weight crushed her breasts
and belly. His tail whipped in a frenzy as he began to wheeze, She dared not
let go. He would kill her now, if he escaped the noose. But her strength was
ebbing fast. The cat dragged her into the cave. Desperate, she managed another
loop of rope about her wrist and tightened the noose even more. The tiger fell,
and one claw raked her leg.

It was a living nightmare, a recurring dream she had
suffered as a child in Peking. She had felt strange there, knowing she looked
far more Russian than Chinese. Sometimes, at night, she dreamed of a tiger
prowling the barren, concrete apartment house, padding closer and closer to her
room. Always, as the beast burst in to devour her, she awoke screaming, to
find Papa at her side, cradling her, soothing her with lullabies.

But now the nightmare was real.

She could not kill the cat. It was useless. Her hatred ebbed
into despair, and she slackened her grip on the rope she’d wound about the
beast’s neck. She started to run.

Out of nowhere, it seemed, a man’s hands touched her. A boot
grated on the floor of the cave. The man spoke gently in a language she
did not understand. Then he said in Russian: “Tanya? Tanya Ouspanaya?”

She whimpered and kept her eyes closed.

“Can you hear me, Tanya? It’s all right. The cat can’t hurt
you now. You knocked him out. I’ll get you away from here.”

She felt his hands on her naked, bloodied body, lifting her.
She opened her eyes. They were inside the cave. The man was tall, his head
outlined against the outer light.

“How—how did you get in?”

“There is a back gate, into these caves," he said. “I
came looking for you, to help you.”

“You speak Russian—with an accent—”

“I’m not Russian,” the man said.

“I don’t know where I am,” she moaned. “I don’t know how I
got here. My name is Tanya Ouspanaya and I have been on the moon.”

“So I’ve heard. Can you walk a bit?”

“I think so.”

He set her down gently, and took a canteen of water hooked
to his leather belt and gave her a sip. Somehow, she trusted him. He was very
tall, with a solid, comforting muscularity. The cat lay on its side, flanks
heaving. The man had strange, dark blue eyes. His face was badly burned by the
sun, and he wore desert clothes and a gun belted next to his water canteen. He

would have seemed cruel, and terribly dangerous, except for
the way he smiled at her. His revolver was an American make. She recognized
that much, from her past training, and suspicion flooded her all at once.

“Who are you?” she whispered. “What do you want with me?”

“I’ve come to get you out of this place.”

“But who are you?”

“My name is Sam Durell,” the man said.

Chapter Two

DURELL had flown from Geneva Central to Teheran four
days earlier. He’d had thirty minutes’ notice, and a promise of briefing
in Istanbul en route, before he caught his Pan Am flight. It did not
trouble him. He was accustomed to emergency procedure. His work as sub-chief in
field operations for K Section of the Central Intelligence Agency did not
allow for the normal amenities. He phoned Deirdre Padgett, who was on rest
period at St. Moritz, packed a single grip, took the passport and diplomatic
pouch that described him as an attaché in State‘s legal department—he had a
qualifying degree from Yale—and caught the designated flight with ten
minutes to spare.

It was high summer, and he did not look forward to the
smothering heat in Teheran. He spoke enough Farsi to get by in Iran, and some
Arabic and Kurdish, which might also help. He gave the other passengers a
careful scanning when he got aboard—he was always a careful man—and decided
there was no one to worry about. Some American tourists, two pompous West
German industrialists, five intense Swiss, a murmuring family of Indians,
a smug Hong Kong merchant, a nervous Frenchman and his wife, an equally nervous
Englishwoman traveling alone, and no Turks. Just the same, he did not sleep.

Durell had been in the business a long time. He could no
longer conceive of any other way of life. The norms by which most men lived
were not for him. Indeed, they had grown alien and uncomfortable. When General
Dickinson McFee, that gray, unpredictable man back at No. 20 Annapolis Street,
suggested a desk job, Durell had refused, and renewed his standard annual
contract, ignoring the fact that Analysis and Synthesis had noted in his
dossier that his survival factor had just about run out.