THE STARMEN
Leigh Brackett
GNOME PRESS, Inc.
New York
Copyright 1952 by Leigh Brackett
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. Editors and reviewers
may use short passages from the book
without written permission. Short version
copyright 1951 by Better Publications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
ONE
Michael Trehearne was to remember that evening as the end of theworld, for him. The end of his familiar life in a familiar Earth, andthe first glimmering vision of the incredible. It began with the manwho spoke to him on the heights behind St. Malo, by the light of theMidsummer Fires.
There was a great crowd of tourists there, come to watch the old Bretonfestival of the sacred bonfire. Trehearne was among them, but not ofthem. He stood alone. He was always alone. He was thinking that theritual being performed in the wide space of stony turf was just tooquaint to be endured and wondering why he had bothered with it, whensomeone said to him with casual intimacy,
"In four days we shall be through with all this, going home. A goodthought, isn't it?"
Trehearne turned his head, and looked into a face so like his own thathe was startled.
The resemblance was that of a strong racial stamp, rather than anyblood kinship. If two Mohawks were to meet unexpectedly in the hills ofAfghanistan they would recognize each other, and it was the same withTrehearne and the stranger. There was the same arrogant bone-structure,the odd and striking beauty of form and color that seemed to have noroot in any race of Earth, the long yellow eyes, slightly tilted andflecked with sparks of greenish light. And there was the same pride.In Trehearne it was a lonely, bitter thing. The stranger bore his likea banner.
During the moment in which Trehearne stared, amazed, the strangerremarked, "I don't remember seeing you on the last ship. How long haveyou been here?"
"Since yesterday," answered Trehearne, and knew as he formed the wordsthat they were not the ones expected of him. A wild throb of excitementran through him. He said impulsively, "Look here, you've mistaken mefor someone else, but I'm glad you did!" In his eagerness he all butclutched the man's arm. "I must talk to you."
Something in the stranger's expression had altered. His eyes were nowboth wary and startled. "Upon what subject?"
"Your family—my family. Forgive me if I seem impertinent, but it'simportant to me. I've come a long way, from America to Cornwall and nowto Brittany, trying to trace down my own line...." He paused, lookingagain into that remarkable face that watched him, darkly handsome,darkly mocking in the firelight. "Will you tell me your name?"
"Kerrel," said the man slowly. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur. Theresemblance is indeed striking. I mistook you for one of my kin."
Trehearne was frowning. "Kerrel?" he repeated, and shook his head. "Mypeople were called Cahusac, before they went into Cornwall."
"There was doubtless a connection," said Kerrel easily. He pointedabruptly to the open space beyond. "Look—they begin the final ritual."
The great bonfire had burned low. The peasants and the fisherfolk,some hundreds of them, were gathered in a circle around the windy glo