E.E. 'Doc' Smith SF Gateway Omnibus: The Skylark of Space, Skylark Three, Skylark of Valeron, Skylark DuQuesne (106 page)

She returned his smile as warmly. Neither of them was paying any attention at all to anyone else in the room. ‘And mine call me Senny. You may indeed, friend Vance, and I accept your invitation with joyous thanks. We go out that archway there and turn left.’

They walked slowly toward the indicated exit; side by side and so close together that hip touched hip at almost every step. In the corridor, however, Sennlloy put her hand on DuQuesne’s arm and stopped. ‘But hold, friend Vance,’ she said. ‘We should, don’t you think, make this, our first meal together, one of full formality?’

‘I do indeed. I would not have suggested it but I’m very much in favor of it.’

‘Splendid! We’ll go to my room first, then. This way,’ and she steered him into and along a corridor whose blankly featureless walls were opaque instead of transparent.

Was this his cue? DuQuesne wondered. No, he decided. She wasn’t the type to rush things. She was civilized … more so than he was. If he didn’t play it just about right with this girl who was very evidently a big wheel, she could and very probably would queer his whole deal.

As they strolled along DuQuesne saw that the walls were not quite featureless. At about head height, every twenty-five feet or so, there was inset a disk of optical plastic perhaps an inch in diameter. Stopping, and turning to face one of these disks, Sennlloy pressed her right forefinger
against it, explaining as she did so, ‘It opens to my fingerprints only.’

There was an almost inaudible hiss of compressed air and a micrometrically fitted door – a good seven feet high and three feet wide – moved an inch out into the hall and slid smoothly aside upon tracks that certainly had not been there an instant before. DuQuesne never did find out how the thing worked. He was too busy staring into the room and watching and hearing what the girl was doing and saying.

She stepped back a half-step, bowed gracefully from the waist, and with a sweeping gesture of both hands invited him to precede her into the room. She started to say something in her own language – Allondaxian – but after a couple of words changed effortlessly to English. ‘Friend Seeker Sevance, it is in earnest of our friendship that I welcome you into the privacy of my home’ – and her manner made it perfectly clear that, while the phraseology was conventionally formal, in this case it was really meant.

And DuQuesne felt it; felt it so strongly that he did not bluff or coin a responsive phrase. Instead: ‘Thank you, Lady Sennlloy. We of Xylmny do not have anything comparable, but I appreciate your welcome and thank you immensely.’

Inside the room, DuQuesne stared. He had wondered what this girl’s private quarters would be like. She was a master scientist, true. But she was warmly human, not bookishly aloof. And what would seventy thousand years of evolution do to feminine vanity? Especially to a vanity that apparently had never been afflicted by false modesty? Or by any sexual taboos?

The furniture – heavy, solid, plain, and built of what looked like golden oak – looked ordinary and utilitarian enough. Much of it was designed for, and was completely filled with and devoted to, the tools and equipment and tapes and scanners of the top-bracket biologist which Sennlloy of Allondax in fact was. The floor was of mathematically figured, vari-colored, plastic tile. The ceiling was one vast sheet of softly glowing white light.

Three of the walls were ordinary enough. DuQuesne scarcely glanced at them because of the fourth, which was a single canvas eight feet high and over thirty feet long. One painting. What a painting! A painting of life itself; a painting that seemed actually to writhe and to crawl and to vibrate with the very essence of life itself!

One-celled life, striving fiercely upward in the primordial sea toward
the light
. Fiercely striving young fishes, walking determinedly ashore on their fins. Striving young mammals developing tails and climbing up into trees – losing tails, with the development of true thumbs, and coming down to earth again out of the trees – the ever-enlarging brain resulting in the appearance of true man. And finally, the development and the progress and the history of man himself.

And every being, from unicell to man, was striving
with all its might upward; toward THE LIGHT. Upward!
Upward!!
UPWARD!!!

At almost the end of that heart-stopping painting there was a portrait of Sennlloy herself in the arms of a man; a yellow-haired, smooth-shaven Hercules so fantastically well-drawn, so incredibly alive-seeming, that DuQuesne stared in awe.

Beyond those two climactic figures the painting became a pure abstract of form and of line and color; an abstract, however, that was crammed full of invisible but very apparent question marks. It asked – more, it demanded and it yelled – ‘
What is coming next?
’

DuQuesne, who had been holding his breath, let it out and breathed deeply. ‘And you painted
that
yourself,’ he marveled. ‘Milady Sennlloy, if you never do anything else as long as you live, you will have achieved immortality.’

She blushed to the breasts. ‘Thanks, friend Vance. I’m very glad you like it: I was sure you would.’

‘It’s so terrific that words fail,’ he said, and meant it. Then, nodding at the portrait, he went on, ‘Your husband?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet. He has not the genes the Llurdi wish to propagate, so we could not marry and he had to stay on Allondax instead of becoming one of this group. But he and I love each other more than life. When we Jelmi aboard this
Mallidaxian
have taught those accursed Llurdi their lesson, we will marry and we’ll never be parted again. But time presses, friend Vance; we must consider our formalities.’

Walking around the foot of her bed – the satin coverlet of which bore, in red and gold, a motif that almost made even DuQuesne blush – she went to a bureau-like piece of furniture and began to pull open its bottom drawer. Then, changing her mind, she closed it sharply; but not before the man got a glimpse of its contents that made him catch his breath. That drawer contained at least two bushels of the most fantastic jewelry DuQuesne had ever seen!

Shaking her head, Sennlloy went on, ‘No. My formality should not influence yours. The fact that you appreciate and employ formality implies, does it not, that you do not materialize and dematerialize its material symbols, but cherish them?’

‘Yes; you and I think very much alike on that,’ DuQuesne agreed. He was still feeling his way. This
hadn’t
been a cue; that was now abundantly certain. In fact, with Sennlloy so deeply in love with one man, she probably wouldn’t be in the business herself at all … or would she? Were these people advanced enough – if you could call it advancement – different enough, anyway – to regard sex-for-love and sex-for-improvement-of-race as two entirely different matters; so completely unrelated as not to affect each other? He simply didn’t know. Data insufficient. However the thing was to go, he’d played along so far; he’d still play along. Wherefore, without any noticeable pause, he went on:

‘I intend to comply with your
conventions, but I’ll be glad to use my own if you prefer. So I’ll ask Tammon to flip me over to my ship to put on my high-formal gear.’

‘Oh, no; I’ll do it.’ Donning the helmet that had been lying on the beautifully grained oak-like top of the bureau, she took his left hand and compared his wristwatch briefly with the timepiece on the wall. ‘I’ll bring you back here in … in how many of your minutes?’

‘Ten minutes will be time enough.’

‘In exactly ten minutes from –’ She waited until the sweep hand of his watch was exactly at the dot of twelve o’clock. ‘Mark,’ she said then, and DuQuesne found himself standing in his own private cabin aboard the
Capital D.

He picked up shaving cream and brush; then, asking aloud, ‘How stupid can you get, fool?’ he tossed them back onto the shelf, put on his helmet, and thought his whiskers off flush with the surface of his skin. Then, partly from habit but mostly by design – its richly masculine, heady scent was supposed to ‘wow the women’ – he rubbed on a couple of squirts of aftershave lotion.

Opening closet doors, he looked at the just-nicely-broken-in trappings he had made such a short time before. How should he do it, jeweled or plain? She was going to be gussied up like a Christmas tree, so he’d better go plain. Showy, plenty; but no jewels. And, judging by that spectacular coverlet and other items in her room, she liked fire-engine red and gold. Okay.

Taking off his watch and donning one exactly like it except for the fact that it kept purely imaginary Xylmnian time – that had been a slip; if she’d noticed it, she’d have wondered why he was running on Tellurian time – he dressed himself in full panoply of Xylmnian finery and examined himself carefully in a full-length mirror. He now wore a winged and crested headpiece of interlaced platinum strips; the front of the crest ridging up into a three-inch platinum disk emblazoned with an intricate heraldic design in deeply inlaid massive gold. A heavy collar, two armbands, and two wristlets, all made of woven and braided platinum strands, each bore the same symbolic disk. He wore a sleeveless shirt and legless shorts of gleaming, glaringly-red silk, with knee-length hose to match – and red-leather-lined buskins of solid-gold chain mail. And lastly, a crossed-strap belt, also of massive but supple gold link, with three platinum comets on each shoulder, supported a solid-platinum scabbard containing an extremely practical knife.

He drew the blade. Basket-hilted and with fifteen inches of heavy, wickedly curved, peculiarly shaped, razor-edged and needle-pointed stainless-steel blade, it was in fact an atrocious weapon indeed – and completely unlike any item of formal dress that DuQuesne had ever heard of.

All this had taken nine and one half minutes by his watch – by his Earth-watch, lying now upon his dresser. The time was now zero minus twenty-eight seconds.

Precisely on the tick of time DuQuesne stood
again in Sennlloy’s room. He glanced at her; then stood flat-footed and simply goggled. He had expected a display, but
this
was something that had to be seen to be believed – and then but barely. She was literally ablaze with every kind of gem he had ever seen and a dozen kinds completely new to him. Just as she stood, she could have supplied Tiffany and Cartier both for five years.

Yet she did
not
look barbaric. Blue-eyed, with an incredible cascade of pale blonde hair cut squarely across well below her hips, she looked both regal and virginal.

‘Wow!’ he exclaimed finally. ‘The English has – not a word for it, but a sound,’ and he executed a long-drawn-out wolf-whistle.

She laughed delightedly. ‘Oh? I did not hear that on Tellus; but it sounds … appreciative.’

‘It is, Milady. Very.’ He took her hands and bowed over them. ‘May I say, Lady Senny, that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen?’

‘“Milady.” “Lady.” I have not told you how much I like those terms, friend Vance. I’m wonderfully pleased that you find me so. You’re magnificently handsome yourself … and you smell nice, too.’ She came squarely up to him and sniffed approvingly. ‘But the … the blade of formality. May I look at it, please?’

She examined it closely, then went on, ‘Tell me, Vance, how old is your recorded history? Just roughly, in Tellurian years?’

This could be a crucial question, DuQuesne realized; but, since he didn’t know the score yet, he hadn’t better lie too much. ‘Before I answer that; you’re a biologist, aren’t you, and in the top bracket?’

‘Yes. In English it would have to be “anthropological biologist” and yes, I know my specialty very well.’

‘Okay. For better or for worse, here it is. Xylmny’s recorded history goes back a little over six thousand Tellurian years.’

‘Oh, wonderful!’ she breathed. ‘Perfect! That’s what I read, but I could scarcely believe it. A
young
race. Mature, but still possessing the fire and the power and the genius that those accursed Llurdi have been breeding out of all us Jelmi for many thousands of years. They want us to produce geniuses for them, but they kill or sterilize all our aggressive, combative, rebellious young men. A few of us women carry all the necessary female genes, but without their male complements, dominant in heredity, we all might exactly as well have none of them.’

‘I see … but how about Tammon?’

‘He’s sterile, since he was a genius before he became
a rebel. And he kept on being a genius; one of the very few exceptions to the rule. But since the Llurdi are insanely logical, one exception to any rule invalidates that rule.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s time to go now.’

Walking slowly along the corridor, DuQuesne said, ‘“Insanely logical” is right. I knew that there was a lot more to this than just an experiment, but I had no idea it was to put new and younger blood into an entire race. But with mothers such as you have in mind—’

‘Mothers?’ She broke in. ‘You already know, then?’

‘Of course. I am sufficiently familiar with your specialty to know what a top-bracket biologist can do and how you intend to do it. With mothers of your class some of our sons may make genius grade, but what’s to keep them alive?’

‘We will.’ Sennlloy’s voice and mien became of a sudden grim. ‘This fourth-dimension device that Tammon is going to give you was developed only a few weeks ago, since we left Llurdiax. The Llurdi know nothing whatever of it. When we get back to our own galaxy with it, either the Llurdi will grant us our full freedom or we will kill every Llurdi alive. And being insanely logical, they’ll grant it without a fight: without even an argument, Sancil burn their teeth, wings, and tail!’

DuQuesne did not tell the girl how interested he was in the Llurdi; especially in Llanzlan Klazmon the Fifteenth. Instead, ‘That makes a weird kind of sense, at that,’ he said. Tell me more about these Llurdi,’ and she told him about them all the rest of the way to the dining hall.

They went through an archway, stepped aside, and looked around. Three or four hundred people were in the hall already, and more were streaming in from all sides. Some were eating, in couples or in groups of various numbers, at tables of various sizes. Dress varied from nothing at all up to several spectaculars as flamboyant as Sennlloy’s own. Informal, semi-formal, and formal; and the people themselves were alike in only one respect – that of physical perfection. DuQuesne had never seen anything like it and said so; and Sennlloy explained, concluding: