No woman he had ever known seemed so breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin had been caressed by a lifetime’s freedom in the sun; her long, dark hair had the sheen of polished ebony; and in the firm, healthy curves of her body he saw the sensuous grace of a Venus or an Aphrodite.
In a fern-banked glen beside a miniature waterfall, Martin Lord first saw Niaga.
She stood up slowly and faced him, smiling; a bright shaft of sunlight fell on the liquid bow of her lips. “I am Niaga,” she said. “You must be one of the men who came on the ship.”
“Martin Lord,” he answered huskily. “I’m the trade agent in command.”
“I am honored.” Impulsively she took the garland of flowers which she had been making and put it around his neck. When she came close, the subtle perfume of her hair was unmistakable—like the smell of pine needles on a mountain trail; new grass during a spring rain; or the crisp, winter air after a fall of snow. Perfume sharply symbolic of freedom, heady and intoxicating, numbing his mind with the ghosts of half-remembered dreams.
“I was coming to your ship with the others,” she said, “but I stopped here to swim, as I often do. I’m afraid I stayed too long, day-dreaming on the bank; time means so little to us.” Shyly she put her hand in his. “But, perhaps, no harm is done, since you are still alone. If you have taken no one else, will I do?”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“You are strangers; we want you to feel welcome.”