Dark Of The Woods Read Free

with her maiden name."
    "Your people don't sound happy."
    "They're dead anyway," he said. "And don't look sorry about
that!"
    They stood, eyes dark to dark in the amber light, her wings drawn back and folded like velvet cloth so that they almost ceased to exist. "Well," she said, "I have to go."
    Impulsively, he said, "I'm unfamiliar with Demos. Would you ask Matron Salsbury if you might be my guide for a few days—until I become acquainted?"
    She hesitated. "I'll ask. But now I have to go, or shell be angry." She turned, stepped into the air, fluffed her wings and drifted down. Moments later, she was gone from the core, even the distant sound of her wings faded altogether.
    Removed from her bewitching presence, his common sense returned like a tidal wave crashing across the beach of his mind, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. Certainly she attracted him, for she was undeniably beautiful. But he should never have made his interest so evident. To imagine her as his lover (as he had been doing) was sheer madness—sheer, deadly, stupid madness. The Supremacy of Man coalition had designed and enforced the strictest imaginable miscegenation laws; Earthmen who loved those of other races were made impotent, and the minimum prison sentence was twelve years. Once in prison, there would be little chance of eventual freedom, even if he were given the minimum sentence.
    The Supremacy-hired, Supremacy-sympathizing guards would see to that with a joyous, savage brutality…
    He could not allow himself such dangerous dreams. It was a silly thing for any man to think of, let alone a man with so much to lose as he.
    He must consider her only a friend. How could affection have arisen so swiftly anyway? He surely wasn't going to try to argue love-at-first-sight, was he? It could only be lust he felt. And lust could be conquered. He would think of her only as a friend, and he would not allow himself to love her. He hoped…
    Later that night, there were dreams:
    "
Love in its essence is spiritual fire": Swendenborg…
    Stauffer Davis tossed through flames. They licked at him but did not consume him. Instead, they exhilarated, shot his flesh through with a contained burning that flowered in him with glowing ash and phoenixed his ancient soul…
    "
The only victory over love is flight": Napoleon…
    But he didn't mean—Oh, well, a Freudian quote. Davis FLEW in his illicit dreams. Still, there were flames all about, all-deep, all-high, all-wide and full. And he flew through them, dancing on the hot air, flying beside her…
    "
Oh my luve's like a dark-haired rose": Burns and Stauffer Davis…
    He flew through the flames beside her, tangling their wings, singing love songs in the crackling air…
    But everything abruptly mutated into nightmare. The flames suddenly stung. His wings caught fire, flashed white. He saw hers catch too…
    He saw her falling…
    And he was falling beside her—down to where thousands of winged men and women waited accusingly. They knew he was not one of them. And standing on the horizon were Supremacy guards with scalpels of steel and diagrams for impotency…
    He woke screaming.
    Proteus hit the lights, plasti-plasma slopping about in his silvered husk, and restlessly searched the room.
    There was nothing, only the ghosts of a thousand winged men and women etched in the ether from another day long gone.
    Davis sat on the edge of the bed, head cradled in his hands, thinking of the stupidity of allowing this silly infatuation to grow into something more serious. Impotency under Supremacy surgeons' hands… imprisonment… almost certain death…
    But none of these ugly possibilities seemed able to drive out the picture of her ebony hair or the perfect geometrical design of her wings which had been imprinted on the soft gray flesh of his brain.
God damn it,
he thought.
I'm not making the artist's error of falling in love with the symbol of my sympathies, am I?
    Infatuation. Nothing more. Please.
    Proteus roamed the