The s.e.x Life of the G.o.ds.

by Michael Knerr.

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 s.p.a.ce 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 b.u.t.tons 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 s.p.a.ce.

In an agony of fear he realized that he no longer was the master of the s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.ds, 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 h.e.l.l 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 cla.s.s 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 ma.s.s.

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.