STRANGER FROM SPACE
By HANNES BOK
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.