The Virgin of Zesh & the Tower of Zanid Read Free Page A

moved in the court. The entrance from the outside into the court lay bare and unguarded, for the Viagens was at peace with the world of Krishna.
    Althea glanced back at Gorchakov, wondering whether he was dead, dying, or merely stunned. Snoring sounds came from his throat, and his lungs visibly expanded and contracted. Althea concluded that he was merely stunned and, more ominously, might awaken at any moment. The thought filled her again with panic fear.
    Though normally a modest girl who had never patronized the nuderies found at Terran beach resorts, Althea did not now stop even to snatch a garment from Gorchakov’s supply. Instead, she slipped over the sill, lowered herself until she hung by her hands, and dropped.
    ###
    Gorchakov’s suite was in Compound Twelve, along with those of most of the other fiscais of the Viagens Interplanetarias. Bahr and Kirwan, Althea knew, shared a room in the transient quarters in Compound Eleven. Like an ivory streak in the moonlight, Althea raced out of Compound Twelve, across the street, and into Compound Eleven.
    The only persons who saw her during her flight were Oswaldo Guerra, a clerk in the Terran Embassy, and Kristina Brunius, a stenographer-typist in the Viagens offices. Senhor Guerra was kissing Jungfru Brunius goodnight in the doorway that led into the section of the quadrangle tenanted by Bahr and Kirwan, when Althea Merrick, coming up at a run, said, “Excuse me please!” and squeezed past the loving couple. She paused in the vestibule to scan the name plates beside the call buttons and disappeared into the building.
    “Did you see what I saw?” asked Oswaldo Guerra.
    “I must have,” replied Kristina Brunius. “I could almost swear it was that American girl missionary, that Senhorita Merrick.”
    “But that is, of course, impossible,” said Guerra. “Try to imagine that prim Miss Merrick . . .”
    “You’re so right, Oswaldo. It is, of course, impossible. Where were we?” And they took up where they had left off, Guerra rising on tiptoe to reach his stalwart Swedish sweetheart. Meanwhile, Althea Merrick bounded up the stairs to the second floor, found Bahr and Kirwan’s room, and burst in.
    The light was still on. The room contained two beds. In one of these, Gottfried Bahr, in pajamas decorated with dragons, roses, and sunbursts, lay with his hands behind his head, which was propped up both on his own pillow and Kirwan’s. There was a half-empty glass on the small night table between the two beds. The other bed was empty.
    Brian Kirwan sat in his underwear in one of the room’s two chairs before the little desk, writing in longhand. Two pieces of adhesive tape marked the places where Gorchakov’s fists had found his face. A half-empty glass stood on the desk beside his writing paper.
    Althea closed the door behind her and stood with her back to it, panting. Both men stared at her in stupefaction.
    “I—” began Althea, but had to halt for lack of breath.
    Kirwan at last transferred his fascinated gaze from Althea to Bahr, saying, “D’you suppose it’s a man she’ll be wanting? Whatever it is, she seems in a devil of a hurry for it.”
    “I—” began Althea again, then broke off to pant some more.
    Bahr said, “One cannot tell. When these inhibited types finally burst loose . . .”
    Althea, still unable to speak, walked over to the empty bed and slid her long form in under the top sheet. Bahr said, “She chooses you, my friend. It must be the ubiquitous charm of the Irish.”
    “Well,” said Kirwan, “she’ll have to wait until I finish this.”
    “I—” said Althea.
    “What is that?” asked Bahr. “A poem?”
    “No, a letter to me grandmother in Dublin. Have to keep on the good side of the old hag, so when she finally kicks off she’ll leave me enough to live like a gentleman.” Kirwan looked back again at Althea, whose fists were clenched and whose eyes were filled with tears of rage and frustration. “All right now, Althea