Produced by Greg Weeks, David Wilson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [Front cover: Janet was more than a beautiful woman. She was white heat and surging womanhood all dolled up in a body like that of a French movie star. She was as wanton as a Polynesian dancer and as demanding as a nympho.] [Cover flap: Beth Danson was about twenty-five and, besides her deep auburn-brown hair and lovely face, she boasted an equally attractive body. He found himself captivated by the warm thrust of her breasts beneath the silk blouse. The clear milk of her flesh, at the "V" of her throat excited him in a strange way. When he thought of her as his wife, it was frightening. It was as though someone had tossed him a woman and expected him to just fall into the routine of marriage. It wouldn't be hard to come to love this woman, but it would take awhile. Hell, he didn't know her. She was a complete stranger who had suddenly told him they were married. There was nothing familiar about her; even the fingers that were softly working over his face were alien.] "_I think we're property..._" --_Charles Fort_ He was lying on a strangely made bed, the warm breezes of evening rolling in off the crashing sea and the woman stood in the ornate doorway that entered the bedroom. Her hair was as gold as the noon sun and her eyes, lifting slightly at the outer curves, were as blue as the sea. Her lips petaled back over the white strength of her teeth and her fingers did strange things to make the flimsy robe drop from the rounded softness of her shoulders. Then his fingers curled about the curve of her thigh. His fingers tightened and the crimson smile broadened; he pulled and felt her resist him with maidenly demureness, but in the end she came to him. He felt the yielding firmness of her body pressing down into his on the bed and his arms furled about the softness that she offered. The warm cones of her breasts worked on the hardness of his chest and his mouth fused against hers for a passionate kiss. SEX LIFE OF THE GODS by MICHAEL KNERR AN UPTOWN BOOK AN ORIGINAL NOVEL UPTOWN BOOKS are published at 1213 North Highland Avenue Los Angeles 38, California Copyright 1962 by Uptown Publications All Rights Reserved All persons and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. FOREWORD He left the mother ship and headed for Terra; he smiled at the instrument panel and watched the operation of the big scout ship as it rocketed toward the light ribbon of atmosphere that enveloped the planet. It was a joke, in a way. In a manner of speaking, he was the first Terran to fly an alien space ship, but he wasn't thinking of that. He was thinking of the woman, Elizabeth Danson of Everett, Pennsylvania. She was waiting. And he could see the warmth of her body, sheathed in the web-like gown that seemed spun over her turgid breasts and curved hips by an army of artistic spiders. It would not be a hard thing to love a woman like that. His fingers curled about the controls, his feet working the rudder pedals of the screaming ship as he headed for the strange darkness of the Atlantic Ocean. The space ship was operating well and the Earth lifted her curved bosom to meet his rush. Trouble came early. The danger lights flickered in his eyes and the fear welled up within him like a flood. Fifteen hundred miles an hour and the scout ship was out of control! The behavior of the craft was erratic, as though a giant hand was slapping the silver belly as he plummeted toward the ball of the earth. Desperately he tried to reduce the speed of the hurtling ship, his fingers working the buttons and levers in a frenzy of determination. The craft refused to respond. She whipped into a cloud bank, headed for the sea, lifted suddenly and whirled back toward space. In an agony of fear he realized that he no longer was the master of the space ship - he was a prisoner in a violent, uncontrollable meteor that would finally slam him into infinity against the very earth that was to be home... * * * * * In the early hours of morning, Jean Renault of Nova Scotia fingered the wheel of his fifty foot boat through the grey ground swells of the Grand Banks, almost to the place where he would cast his nets into the water. The overcast sky was refusing to emit the sunlight and a light mist hung over the sea like a disjointed ghost. When Jean heard the whirring roar of the ship, it was too late. The silver streak whipped over his fishing boat with all the furies of the gods, and nearly tore his steadying sail away. Muttering a string of French curses, Jean picked up his radio telephone and reported in violent tones the presence of the jet to the Coast Guard. * * * * * In the half-light of early dawn, the United States and Canada whirled with reports upon the strange craft. The CQ of the National Defense system began systematically pinpointing the track of the strange craft as it raked across the adumbral sky. Then, it was gone! The rocketing ship had appeared over one observation station near Lake Ontario. It had been spotted by a CD worker near Auburn, N.Y., then it was gone. The last observation of the craft showed it flying an erratic track toward the mountain country of Pennsylvania. At CQ operations office, in Washington D.C., Lt. Colonel Martin Griswold tossed the last report on his desk and pinched his lower lip thoughtfully. Colonel Delbert, sitting across from him, looked serious. "It's out of control," he mused. "And it isn't one of ours. Russian?" "Might be." He looked at the rugged country along the Pennsylvania, New York map for a moment, then he picked up the phone on his desk. "This is Colonel Griswold. Get me the Pentagon." At 0930 a special plane left Washington, bound for the town in northern Pennsylvania that had been chosen as a base of operations. On board the plane were the Secret Service men who were to track down the crashed ship. They were several hours too late... CHAPTER ONE He awakened to flame and smoke and it was as though he had been born again. About him lay thick, summer cloaked forests and heavy carpets of laurel and brush. Obviously, it was some sort of plane that was burning nearby and he had probably been in it. In his mind, he remembered only the blinding flash of white light, then a sea of darkness that had enveloped him. Whether he had been thrown clear of the wreck, or whether he had crawled, he didn't know. But the torn flying suit he wore convinced him that he had once been airborne in that battered craft. The heavy, canvas-like material of the flying suit had protected the blue serge business suit underneath, so that besides a ripped pocket it was presentable. He grinned wryly in the pre-dawn darkness. Presentable to whom? The squirrels? He peeled off the flying suit and added it to the flaming wreckage, then staggered off through the night toward the valley below. There was usually, he recalled, water in ravines. He used small saplings for handholds while his head thumped and thundered wildly. Probing fingers found a lump beneath blood matted hair that was sensitive to the touch. There was a scratch on his cheek, sealed with dried blood, and his hands were skinned as though he had broken a fall in cinders with them. It was, he decided, amazing that he had survived a plane crash with so little injury; but then, stranger things had happened. There was a run at the bottom of the hill, one of those leaf choked, meandering little creeks that become stagnant pools in July and August, and raging torrents of brown water in the spring. Lying on a sloping, flat rock he thrust his face into the stream and drank deeply, feeling the life flow from the water into the weariness of his body. He washed his face in it, splashing it over his head until his mind began to function with familiar clarity. But he still did not know who he was... When he tried to search backward into the past, he could see only the white flash and the darkness. It was frightening. It was as though someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut away the whole memory of his past life. He fumbled through his pockets, found the wallet and the cigarette lighter and began flipping through the cards with the help of the tiny lighter flame. An identification card labeled him Nicholas Howard Danson and stated that he lived at 2312 Weisman Drive, Everett, Pennsylvania. There was also a draft, social security and drivers license card. The others were membership certificates to various clubs and organizations. Finally there were several pictures of himself and a woman; in fact, there were a great many pictures of the woman. One was a portrait of her, inscribed, "love, Beth", which told him that she was either a girlfriend or his wife. Nick extinguished the light and put the wallet away. In his shirt pocket he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, lit it and dragged the smoke down deep into his lungs while he pondered over his newly discovered self. Of course the proper thing to do would be to get to a phone, call the local authorities and explain the crash. The law would help him get home and check him out. That was the proper thing - but he wasn't about to do the proper thing. He was a stranger to himself. Who was he? What was he? He could well be outside the law, a criminal... Then what? Turn yourself in, Danson, he grimaced, and discover that you are wanted by the law for something? To hell with that. Get to this Beth woman and get some answers to a few questions before you bring in the law. Apparently no one had seen the crash. No one knew he was here. Perhaps it would be better to leave it like that until he had a chance to find out just what he was up against. He decided not to contact anyone. When it was light enough he would look for a ride to somewhere. At a gas station he could find out where he was and where Everett, Pennsylvania was. Then, by thumbing, he could get a ride to where he lived. If this Beth woman was his wife, she could fill him in. There was plenty of time to call the law. Sleep, when he tried it, refused to come. There were too many unanswered questions rocketing around in his brain. Well, he had to find a road, sooner or later, so it might as well be now. Perhaps the more distance he put between himself and the wreck, the better it would be for him. He took a final drink of water from the creek and stood up, his sore, battered muscles protesting violently. Then he began to stumble through the adumbral forests to find a road. It was getting light when he found the highway. It was small and narrow, bedded with pebbly asphalt with a faded white line down the middle that told him it was not a first class road. It stretched ahead of him, dwindling among the thick hemlock forests and dwarfed by the steep, wooded hills. He grinned, wondering vaguely which direction he should travel to get to Everett. Finally he pulled a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. He caught it deftly. Heads, I go to the right; tails, I go to the left. Heads won and he started off toward the right, the stiffness and the weariness dragging at him like a weight tied to his legs. While he walked he studied the pictures in his wallet, noting happily that it also contained twenty dollars in bills. That was comforting. In the daylight, the picture of Beth that had looked pretty in the flame of the lighter, became beautiful. Although it was a black and white photo, Nick decided that her hair was brown. It swept about a soft, heart shaped face like a cloud. The image was smiling at him and he felt that if she was not his wife, he hoped that she was his girl. It was late in the morning when he found the service station. It was a small, lonely, isolated place that sported two pumps and cramped looking lube rack. Through the open door of the washroom, Nick could see the shoes and coverall legs of the attendant as they stuck out from under a Ford. Nick found a dime in his pocket and treated himself to a cold drink, while he tried to figure out where he was. Across the highway a marker told him that he was on Route 87. He pulled a Pennsylvania map - not entirely sure he was in Pennsylvania - from the rack inside the door and, unfolding it, found Everett. The route 87 ran through the town, but it was difficult to puzzle out whether he was north or south of the place. He refolded the map and stuffed it into his pocket for further reference, and glanced around. On the far side of the office was a door marked "MEN", that was just what he wanted. His clothes, his hair and his face needed a few emergency repairs before he could confront the population of Everett. He went in. In a mirror, with most of the backing peeling away, he discovered that Nick Danson was rather good looking, if you overlooked the damage. His blocky, rugged face was smeared with dirt and dried blood, with a slight stubble shadowing his lean cheeks. The mop of tangled black hair had a lot of red splotches in it from the blood he'd lost. He filled the bowl with tepid water and began soaping his face and hands vigorously, even though it hurt. After washing most of the blood from his hair, he found a comb in a pocket and whipped some order into the matted, dark mass. The attendant was standing at the counter when Nick came out of the restroom. He was an elderly man with receding grey hair, a hawk nose and grizzled features set firmly into a face that looked like a dried apple. He grinned and the gold cap on an eye tooth flashed dully. "Thought I heard someone in here," he said around the chew that pouched his cheek. "Car break down on ye?" "I'm walking," Nick told him. "Yer a long way from any kind 'o town, son ... say," he said suddenly noticing the scratch marks. "Y' been fightin' a bobcat?" Nick shook his head and fished for a lie. "Got drunk last night and into a brawl. My friends pitched me out of the car in a moment of playfulness." He hoped he had put enough bitterness into the explanation to make it ring true. The old man chuckled softly. "Durned shame, son. Y'from around here?" "New York," Nick lied. "I'm stayin' in Everett." "Everett," the old man cackled. "Hell, that's fifteen miles south o'here, or better." He paused, swiveled his bird-like head and spat a jet of brown juice through the open door. "Tell y'what, son, seein's how you'll have t'walk it down there. Ain't no one goin' that way, I know of. S'pose y'could thumb it, but it'd be hard. Lonely road, y'see. If y'don't mind waitin' till after supper, I'll run y'down to town. Drop y'off where y'want to go." "Hadn't thought of waiting so long," Nick told him. "What would I do? Just sit here?" "Hell no! In th' back room there's a cot. Been sleepin' there myself sometimes, since m'wife passed along back in '53. December of '53 it was. I'll wake ye, come supper." "Thanks." With the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Nick took a cellophane wrapped pie from the counter and began eating it. He handed the old man a quarter. "S'funny," the old man said, ringing up the sale, "ye don't smell like a drunk. Ought t'be some likker smell to y'son." "I was drinking vodka," Nick countered, wondering how he had pulled that from a mind that could not remember his past. He took another bite of the pie as the old man gave him his change. "Bad stuff, vodka. That's th' slop them Russian hassocks drink, ain't it?" "I think so." "Well, it ain't for Andy Hocum. Them hassocks can have it." Nick was saved from further conversation by a new station wagon pulling into the pumps. A young woman, dressed in a suit, cut the engine and honked the horn briefly. Andy waved and headed for the door. "Get some shut eye, son. I'll wake y' later." "Thanks, Andy." He finished the last of the pie and watched Andy stick a hose into the wagon's gas tank, then go around front to wipe off the windshield. Nick cleared the pie wrapper off the small counter and tossed it into a box as he headed for the backroom. After closing the door, he fell onto the bed and a moment later into the well of sleep. CHAPTER TWO Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice braked the Fairlane at 2312 Weisman Drive and got out quickly. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether Beth Danson would be awake, but it was a long drive into headquarters and he didn't want to go back to a dismal office, or even a lonely bachelor apartment. He glanced at his watch. 9:30. He shrugged and decided to try it. She answered his knock almost at once, smiling him into the front room. For a moment, he allowed his eyes to finger her body, letting them spear through the wrap around robe and the flimsy nightgown to where warm flesh ebbed and flowed against the sigh of silk. Her brown hair was bed-tangled and most of the makeup was gone from her face, but Beth Danson was a woman who had the unconscious ability to look beautiful under any circumstances. Nolan felt a thunder in his veins as he tossed his hat on the sofa. "Coffee, Nolan?" she asked. He nodded and they went into the kitchen. "We found the Peters' kid, so that ends another case." He dropped to a chair and watched her fixing the coffee. "You're up early, Beth." A shadow crossed her face momentarily. "I had a dream, Nolan. A bad dream." "About Nick?" She nodded and set a cup of coffee before him. The tears were close again, but Brice hadn't seen them fall over Nick for a long while. It was ridiculous the way she mooned over the guy, but there was no understanding women. "You ought to stop dwelling on him, honey," Nolan told her. "It doesn't do any good." "He's alive," she said, softly. "You know better than that. If he was alive, we'd have found him. Men just do not drop out of sight in the Twentieth Century." Beth lifted a hand to brush her hair into place and sat down to sip at her coffee. Nolan studied her. She actually believed that her husband was alive and that he would return to her. He hoped not. It was a selfish thing to think about, but he was in love with her; he'd have had her long ago if it wouldn't have been for Nick and his dark good looks. He mouthed a swallow of coffee and settled the cup in its saucer. She was looking at him. "Is there any news, Nolan?" "About Nick? No." He touched her arm. "They've given up ... and so should you. Honey, you're young, beautiful. Hell, another woman would have gone out and had a ball. "Listen, there's a lousy show on down in Everett. Want to go?" She smiled. "Thanks, but you're probably tired from hunting for the Peters' kid..." "I feel fine." She shook her head. "Nolan, I know how you feel about me. I'm very flattered. But ... but I have to accustom to his loss in my own way. I'm sorry." Nolan forced a smile. "That's the way the mop flops," he mused. "I'll be around, when you are." He finished his coffee in silence. "Well, I have to get moving, make out a report and all. Thanks for the coffee, Beth." She nodded, but remained staring into her cup. Nolan went into the front room, picked up his hat and went out into the morning to climb into his car. When he had started it and headed back toward Everett, he found himself struggling with the feeling that he was being cheated. After all, he reasoned with himself, why should a guy have to play second fiddle to a man who was probably dead. If Nick Danson were alive, it'd be different; but dead, and that was an almost sure thing, he felt cheated. Beth could learn to love him. She could forget. Hell, a lot of women lost their men for some reason or another, but they accustomed, they altered their lives. If a man dropped the reins, some other guy should pick them up. It was only natural. He shut off the thoughts of Beth as he reached the busy section of town and concentrated on his driving. He could wait, he decided in closing off the thoughts. Sooner or later she would be ready to accept the truth, and he would be right there waiting. He maneuvered the Ford around several other cars parked in the lot of the City Hall and found the berth that bore his name. He killed the engine, got out and went inside to his office. When he opened the door and saw the two men and the Chief sitting in his office, he knew it was something big. After awhile, it was so you could spot a Fed a mile away. Especially when they were sitting in your office. Chief Daniels looked grouchy at him, but his tone was cordial. "You finish with Peters?" "Yes." Daniels nodded, his florid, moon face looking lumpy and important. "Lieutenant Brice. This is John Cartwell and Sam Morgan. Secret Service. I've promised to give them assistance in an important matter. They'll brief you." He nodded an important good-by and left the three of them alone. "What's the problem, gentlemen," Nolan said and settled behind his desk. Cartwell, a stocky looking thirty year old, with wavy blond hair, did the talking, while his dark complected friend puffed placidly on a cigar. "Lieutenant Brice," Cartwell said, "your boss seemed to think that you'd be the best man to help us set up our plan of operation. We've already contacted the Civil Air Patrol and the National Guard outfit here. We have an air search under way and for the meanwhile that's all we can do. We were hoping that you could help us get in touch with all the ground observing corps' branches; we'll use this office as a headquarters for operations." Nolan blinked, "What's up? An Air Force test plane down?" Cartwell shook his head. "We got a UFO report..." "A flying saucer?" Nolan was stunned. Cartwell chuckled and his partner grinned. "An Unidentified Flying Object does not necessarily constitute a space craft, Brice. But something was spotted off the Grand Banks, early this morning, going like hell and apparently out of control. We got our last sighting over Auburn, New York. We checked the observation posts around Everett and found that nothing was seen. We also checked Binghamton and Elmira, with a negative report. Since the object was on a southerly heading, when spotted near Auburn, we can only assume that it went down in the area between Everett and Auburn, and Binghamton and Elmira." Nolan gave a long low whistle. "Not one of ours, huh?" "No." "Canadian?" "Not at that speed." "That leaves the big one, then. Russian?" Cartwell shrugged. "Could be. If it is, we want the wreckage. No matter what it is, or whose it is, we are very interested in any aircraft that travels at speeds of fifteen to nineteen thousand miles per hour." Nolan whistled again. "That's rolling," he grinned. "Yeah," mused Sam Morgan, "and we'd kind of like to know what makes it roll like that." "Okay. Let's go into a huddle," Nolan said. "But I can tell you this. If the thing went down in north central Pennsylvania, it's in some pretty rugged country." "Great," Cartwell snarled. CHAPTER THREE The dream was of a woman. He was lying on a strangely made bed, the warm breezes of evening rolling in off the crashing sea and the woman stood in the ornate doorway that entered the bedroom. About him lay all manner of bright silks and strange colored cloths. The woman smiled and his eyes caressed her. Her hair was as gold as the noon sun and her eyes, lifting slightly at the outer corners, were as blue as the sea. Her lips petaled back over the white strength of her teeth and her fingers did strange things to make the flimsy robe drop from the rounded softness of her shoulders. He watched her walk, upon curvaceous legs, to the edge of the bed. For just a second, she smiled down at him. "Father is sleeping like a baby," she whispered. He felt himself talk: "Good." Then his fingers curled about the curve of her thigh. His fingers tightened and the crimson smile broadened; he pulled and felt her resist him with maidenly demureness, but in the end she came to him. He felt the yielding firmness of her body pressing down into his on the bed and his arms furled about the softness that she offered. The warm cones of her breasts worked on the hardness of his chest and his mouth fused against hers in a passionate kiss. "Lors, Lors, darling. You've been gone so long." Her voice was a kitten purr in his ear, warm and gentle. "I'm back, Jela," he smiled, his hands caressing the lithe length of her body, folding her against him tightly. She moved away from him, rolling, tugging at him to respond, but he needed no encouragement. His body rolled with her, his arms pinning her to him tightly so that she could move nothing ... nothing but her legs, but then there was little need to move anything else... * * * * * The dream faded and he cursed, and tried to get back to sleep and the beautiful woman who awaited him. Sleep came, but the dream was gone. Andy, shaking his shoulder, woke him about sundown and Nick swung his legs off the cot and stood up. Still sleepy, he fingered the heavy stubble on his face and looked at the old man. "Y'kin use my razor t'chop off that beard, son," he said. "C'mon, get around now. Got soup and sandwiches ready an' some famous Hocum coffee." Nick straightened his wrinkled clothing, shaking the last remnants of weary fog from his brain. Andy went on talking to him and said something that woke Nick Danson up completely. "Yer buddies was here, couple o' hours ago, son." "What?" It was almost impossible to keep the surprise out of his face and voice. Andy didn't seem to notice anything wrong. "Th' fellers y'got drunk with. Wanted t'know if I'd seen any strangers on th' road. I said I hadn't, 'cause I figgered they might want t'slap y'around again." "Thanks, Andy." Who could possibly know about the plane crash? If the wreck _had_ been found, it would be the police asking questions, not two strangers. Somebody, somewhere, was searching for him. Who? And what did they want? Fingers of fear and worry flittered along his spine. When they had finished eating, Nick shaved, cleaned himself up and followed Andy out to where his car was parked. He found that he liked the old man, but under the circumstances conversation was difficult. The plane crash, for one thing, was a bit on the odd side. The burning wreckage, he recalled, had shown no signs of ever having had wings or a tail assembly. But that was probably minor; the wings could have been ripped off by the trees when the plane came down. The important thing was that someone knew he was here. As they drove toward the town of Everett, the old man began talking about the strangers that had inquired after Nick earlier in the day. "... Nope, I says to the big feller, ain't seen a soul on foot all day, 'ceptin' o'course, Jimmy Dilson, goin' down t'Willer Creek, t'fish. That seemed t'satisfy them so they lit out." "Notice what kind of car they drove, Andy?" Nick asked. "Yep. Gave 'em gas. They was drivin' a Chevrolet. Looked to be a '56 or a '57; black, it was. Blacker'n th' inside of a coal bin, with th' shiniest chrome y'ever saw." "Sounds like them," Nick told him, enlarging the lie. "One of them short and the other medium?" "Not exactly. The one did all the talkin' had a funny accent. Anyways, he was about six feet, three or four, and heavy. Goodlookin', with blond hair. The other guy was about your build, with sandy hair. Never talked, that guy." "They're the ones," Nick lied and shook a cigarette from a half empty pack. "Thanks for not giving me away." Andy nodded, lapsing into silence, while Nick concentrated on coming home to a strange woman, and the two men who had been asking after him. For some reason, he got the feeling that Beth Danson was his wife and he accepted it that way. She couldn't be his sister ... besides, a man his age would be married, in all likelihood. He wondered vaguely how she would welcome him, but cast the thought aside. He'd know soon enough. As they approached Everett, in the gathering twilight, Andy turned to him. "Where d'ye want off, son?" "Weisman Drive. Know it?" "Yep. We're almost there. Suburban area, just north of town. Y'got friends there?" "Yes." Nick grinned inwardly. That is, he thought, I hope she's a friend. Hell, I don't know whether she hates my guts, or loves me ... but she's the only one that can help. A frightening gloom fell over him suddenly. Andy lapsed again into silence and the sound of the motor became loud. Nick continued to ponder the strange men and the woman he was coming home to, but it was like bashing his head against a wall. He could remember nothing. And, through his thoughts, the memory of the dream returned to him. It was the most vivid dream he had ever had, almost as though it was real. Abruptly Andy brought the car to a stop before a sign that read, "Weisman Drive." Nick thanked him and climbed out onto the road. The old man waved and the car spat cinders as it roared back onto the highway, heading toward the town. For a moment, he stood there watching Andy's car fade into the night, then he began walking along the road, looking for 2312 Weisman Drive and trying to ignore the feeling of fear that welled up within him. When he finally found it, he saw that it was a two story place that looked to be white frame, trimmed with a darker color that was probably blue. In the off light from the street lamp, it was difficult to tell. There was a garage built alongside and a good sized lawn in the front, but there was no evidence of children. A light in the front room told him that someone was home - likely Beth - and caution told him he'd better make sure no friends were with her. He slipped quietly up on the porch and looked briefly into the window. Beth was there, sitting on the sofa reading a book. Her hair, he noticed, was brown with a reddish cast to it and she was every bit as beautiful as the picture he carried in his hip pocket. He knocked on the door. It occurred to him, after he had rapped, that this was his own house. Why should he rap? But what was done, was done. He waited until she had opened the door and stood looking at him. He tried a smile, but Beth Danson's eyes widened in shock and her lips parted in astonishment. "Nick," she whispered, as though she had seen a ghost, and fell to the floor in a dead faint. Stunned, he stepped over the crumpled body of the woman and walked into the room. When he had closed the front door, he lifted her limp body and laid her on the sofa. He began patting her face and hands to revive her, wondering what the hell he had done to cause her to faint. Why the devil was she so shocked to see him, he wondered. Is she in love with another man and did they rig that plane so it would crash to be rid of me? If they had tried to kill him, he could damned well see why she had fainted at the sight of him. The rings on her left hand bragged that she was married, probably to him. But why faint? He was trying to decide whether to stay or run, when her long lashes fluttered and she came to. Again her greenish eyes dilated in astonishment, but this time she did not pass out. Her soft arms slid about his neck and she pulled him down to where she could kiss him. Her warm lips caressed his face, kissing his mouth, his cheeks and his eyes, while she murmured his name over and over in absolute joy. Had news of the crash reached her? Did the authorities find the wreck and presume him dead? Was that why she had fainted and was now so overjoyed at having him back? His mind whirled with a hundred questions that his stunted memory refused to answer, and he decided to take it easy, waiting for her to make the first move. "Oh, Nick," she murmured against his ear. "Where have you been?" "I don't know. I've been in a crack up, Beth. I can't remember anything..." She pushed him away, suddenly, looking at his face. "Darling! Your face! You're hurt!" "Just scratches," he told her swiftly. "Nothing serious. Beth, you've got to help me. Please!" He felt strange. It was like asking a total stranger for help, and he was ashamed and confused. "Of course I'll help you, darling. I'm your wife. Now come out to the kitchen where I can patch you up." Suddenly she burst into tears and held him close. "Oh, darling, darling! It's so good to have you back!" He held her until she had stopped crying, then he allowed himself to be led into the kitchen where she began applying iodine and bandaids to his scratched face. Weariness was again dragging at him like some clutching demon that threatened to drag him down into a bog of darkness. He studied her, trying to take his mind off his lethargy. Beth Danson was about twenty-five and, besides her deep auburn-brown hair and lovely face, she boasted an equally attractive body. He found himself captivated by the warm thrust of her breasts beneath the silk blouse. The clear milk of her flesh, at the "V" of her throat excited him in a strange way. When he thought of her as his wife, it was frightening. It was as though someone had tossed him a woman and expected him to just fall into the routine of marriage. It wouldn't be hard to come to love this woman, but it would take awhile. Hell, he didn't know her. She was a complete stranger who had suddenly told him they were married. There was nothing familiar about her; even the fingers that were softly working over his face were alien. Alien! That's it! The whole damned world is alien, and I don't know who I am, who I've been... "Beth?" He asked suddenly, "how long have I been gone? You act as though it's been a long while..." "A long while, darling." "How long?" She looked steadily at him for a moment, her eyes deep with seriousness. "Thirteen months," she whispered, her voice shaking. Thirteen months! He relaxed heavily in the straight backed chair and stared at her dumbfoundedly. Over a year! Where had he been? What had he done? Why hadn't he been located before now? "Thirteen months," he croaked, unable to say anything else. She nodded. "Oh, Nick, every police agency in the country has been looking for you. I've had detectives out hunting. Nolan Brice has been doing everything he can to locate you. But they couldn't. No one could. It was as though you had disappeared from the face of the earth." "Nolan Brice?" Nick asked. "Your best friend..." When she realized that he knew nothing of the man, Nick could see her starting to cry. Her eyes began filling and he could almost see the hopelessness within her. "Please, honey. Don't start crying again." "I'm trying not to." He rose to his feet slowly, his head starting to thump and thunder again, and took her into his arms. It was kind of difficult, trying to comfort her the way a husband should, but he tried. "Listen, Beth," he whispered against her cheek. "It'll all come back to me. It'll all come back eventually and I'll remember. But for now ... for now, you'll have to bear with me. I don't know where I've been, or what I've done, so don't tell anyone I'm here. Please! Don't tell a single soul! No one!" "But why, Nick?" "Because I could have killed someone. I could be a thief, a desperado or something. I don't know. I could even have gotten married..." "Oh, darling!" She collapsed on his shoulder and began crying violently again. "Honey, honey! I didn't say that's what I've done. It's just that I don't know. Whatever I am, I can take my medicine, but I want to know what it is first. You've got to understand that." She tried a smile, blinking back the tears that lay close to the surface, and he forced a smile to pull at his mouth. It was difficult to comfort her, yet he knew that it was his duty to do so. She'd been through a hell of a lot, _and_ she had the memories of it. He did not. Despite the alien feeling that was welling within him, he knew that she was the only person who could help him return to himself. Whether he loved her or not was immaterial; he needed her desperately to show him to the man he was. Perhaps it would all come back then. "I'm sorry, Nick. I'll try to help." "Thanks, honey." "Hungry?" She asked brightly, moving to turn the flame on under the coffee pot. At his nod, she went on: "There's some apple pie and I can whip up a couple of sandwiches, or something." "Coffee and pie is fine." "In a way, it'll be like courting all over again," she told him, in an attempt at lightness. "It's terrible to lose the things we had, the memories. I can't share them with you anymore. But we'll make a whole lot of new ones to take their place." "I'm interested in the old ones right now," he told her glumly. "Things have happened so fast, it's hard to accustom to the thing." "I know," she mused, working over the meal. He looked at her steadily. "Beth? When did you last see me?" "Thirteen months ago." "No, no. I mean, where was I going, what was I doing?" "You were going up to the cabin to repair the fireplace and build some lawn furniture. You were going to stay over night and come back the evening of the second day. When you didn't come back, Nolan took me up to look for you. Your car was there, but you were gone." "No clues?" She shook her head. "Nothing. We thought you might have wandered off into the woods and injured yourself; but I couldn't accept that. You were always a good woodsman, even in desolate country like that." "Secluded, huh?" He asked. "Some of the worst country in the state. We bought the place so we could get away from the mess in the city." He smiled at her. Apparently they had gotten away from one mess merely to fall victim to another. She sliced him a huge piece of pie and set it before him, the same brave smile still fixed upon her lips. Then she fixed the coffee for him, black with a lump of sugar. He forked some of the pie into his mouth and felt a little sick, along with the headache. A stranger feeding him and loving him, and who knew more about him than he did. He bolted the pie and gulped the coffee hurriedly. When he had finished, he glanced at the electric clock above the pink refrigerator. 9:15. "Tired, dear?" She asked. He nodded dully. Now, he thought, I suppose I'm to crawl into bed with her! He felt trapped, suddenly panic stricken at the thought; but she was his wife. He'd married her. He'd probably slept with her thirteen months before. Why the horror? "We'll go to bed now," she decided. "I usually turn in early. Have to work, you know." "I'll sleep on the sofa," Nick mumbled. She blinked at him. "You'll do no such thing. You'll march right upstairs to bed, Nick Danson." And the die, he figured, was cast... CHAPTER FOUR In the final analysis, he was just too tired to attempt an explanation - not physically worn out, but mentally. Since just before dawn, he felt as though he had been on a fantastic merry-go-round. Feeling a bit strange, he allowed her to lead him upstairs to the bedroom. The sight of one bed startled him, even though it was a rather large double. He slid eyes sideways, caught her smiling coyly and forced a grin. She installed him in the bathroom, tossed a pair of pajamas to him and left him alone. He took a long time showering and shaving. Then when he could avoid it no longer, he went into the bedroom. She was combing her long satiny hair at the dresser and had slipped into an aqua colored nightgown. For a moment, his breath caught in amazement, then he slid between the sheets of the bed and watched her. Finally she stopped combing and walked over to look down at him. He looked back, feeling a little like a caged animal - but enjoying it. She fell to her knees beside the bed, her eyes shining with happiness. The red lipped smile was again tugging at her full mouth. Her fingers wound gently in his hair and the warm pressure of her soft breasts rested boldly upon his arm as though they knew they belonged there. "I love you so much, Nick," she whispered, her eyes half closed. He reached out a hand to touch her cheek and the softness of it against his fingers alarmed him, thrilled him. He knew what he had to tell her, but it was a long time in coming. "I ... I love you too, Beth," he whispered. Her soft, moist lips came gently down upon his like a twin promise of the offering of love that awaited him and he felt his own lips responding. A slight tremor ran through him as her fingers flicked at the wall and the room became sheathed in darkness. Moonlight filtered through the curtains and she moved into the bed, her lithe shape molding into the hardness of his. Her voice was a warm breath in his ear and her arms slid over his chest while she talked. "You don't love me, darling. That's the whole trouble. We love with our minds, and love is an accumulation of a million memories - but you have lost yours. I know, I know. To you..." "Beth," he began but she clamped her hand over his mouth. "To you, darling, I'm a stranger, just another woman. I know I can't be anything more right now. You'll have to learn to love me again. "But me? Nick, it's different with me. I've waited for thirteen long months for you to love me again, and by some miracle you've come back. You're here and so am I. I love you and I want you. Oh, darling, pretend I'm a whore; pretend I'm anything ... but make love to me. Pay no attention to anything except to me..." His mouth folded over hers, shutting off the flow of words in a passionate kiss, while his hands smoothed down over the wisp of silk that kept his fingers from her flesh. Her arms clung to him tightly. "It won't be hard, Beth," he whispered against the side of her face. "You're beautiful ... it won't be hard to love you..." Then she twisted from him, making a memory of the film of nightgown that had kept his hands away from her. He moved to her, his fingers stroking her into passion while she pulled his face down to the soft thrust of her breasts. Then she was clamped against him and struggling to get even closer, her body making a prison for him ... yet at the same time giving him freedom. Later, when she slept, he propped himself on one elbow to study the soft lines of her face. Then he too dropped off to sleep. * * * * * His uniform was torn by the purple bushes and their nine inch thorns, and streamers of blood painted the rich blue and yellow of his trousers. His face was smeared with grey, pasty dirt and the hand that held the auto-pistol was wet with sweat. His stomach had rolled into a tight ball within him and he was frightened. They were out there somewhere, waiting for the sound of his black leather boots to clatter on one of the grey-green rocks that littered the hillside. They would find him. Their damned radar antennae would spot him for them. There was no escape from the bastards, and he knew it. Commander Imry had bungled every damned assignment he'd been given, and now Firstspacer Lors would have to die in the supreme bungle that had created the first native uprising on Thista. He looked up along the face of the high mountain in his rear. Nothing moved in the greenish-purple scrub, but he knew they were there. He peered over the edge of the rock into the valley, a hundred and fifty _kinos_ away. The patrol car was still there, its driver lying grotesquely just a few feet from the hatch. The thick, heavy spear through his chest resembled a finger pointing toward the violet sky. Closer to him, on the slope, one of the enemy lay dying, a greenish-brown fluid pumping spasmodically from the hole put in his chest by the auto-pistol. The alien's huge yellow eyes blinked owlishly and the slash-like mouth worked as if he wanted to call for help. But no sound came. The antennae swiveled limply as he tried to locate his comrades, but they drooped as the alien died. Still tightly clutching the auto-pistol, he watched the thin, grey antennae fall to the ground. They pointed off to the left. He swung about and looked in the direction the native had been scanning, but he could see no movement beyond the swaying of the desert grass moving in the faint breath of air. They should have gotten the message. By now, there was probably a ship on its way to him. He had to hold out until they got here. He flipped open the cartridge box and checked his ammunition. Plenty. Of course, the auto-pistol only held fifteen shots and if they rushed him... He wished fervently that he had thought to bring the projectile launcher from the wrecked patrol car. Damned natives and their uprisings! He searched the sky anxiously, cold sweat trickling off his forehead in tiny rivulets. Scenes of other uprisings flickered through his brain, and more horrible scenes
{'title': 'The Sex Life of the Gods by M. E. Knerr', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}