Black Gods and Scarlet Dreams by C. L. Moore Page B

— any kind.” Yarol twirled his glass wistfully and studied the crowded room from under his lashes. With those lashes lowered he might have passed for a choir boy in any of Earth's cathedrals. But too dark a knowledge looked out when they rose for that illusion to continue long.
    It was a motley crowd the weary black gaze scrutinized — hard-faced Earthmen in space-sailors' leather, sleek Venusians with their sidelong, dangerous eyes, Martian drylanders muttering the blasphemous gutturals of their language, a sprinkling of outlanders and half-brutes from the wide-flung borders of civilization. Yarol's eyes returned to the dark, scarred face across the table. He met the pallor of Smith's no-colored gaze and shrugged.
    “No one who'd buy us a drink,” he sighed. “I've seen one or two of 'em before, though. Take those two space-rats at the next table: the little rat-faced Earthman — the one looking over his shoulder — and the drylander with an eye gone. See? I've heard they're hunters.”
    “What for?”
    Yarol lifted his shoulders in the expressive Venusian shrug. His brows rose too, quizzically.
    “No one knows what they hunt — but they run together.”
    “Hm-m.” Smith turned a speculative stare toward the neighboring table. “They look more hunted than hunting, if you ask me.”
    Yarol nodded. The two seemed to share one fear between them, if over-the-shoulder glances and restless eyes spoke truly. They huddled together above their segir glasses, and though they had the faces of hard men, inured to the space-way dangers, the look on those faces was curiously compounded of many unpleasant things underlying a frank, unreasoning alarm. It was a look Smith could not quite fathom — a haunted, uneasy dread with nameless things behind it.

    “They do look as if Black Pharol were one jump behind,” said Yarol. “Funny, too. I've always heard they were pretty tough, both of 'em. You have to be in their profession.” Said a husky half-whisper in their very ears,
    “Perhaps they found what they were hunting.”
    It produced an electric stillness. Smith moved almost imperceptibly sidewise in his chair, the better to clear his gun, and Yarol's slim fingers hovered above his hip. They turned expressionless faces toward the speaker.
    A little man sitting alone at the next table had bent forward to fix them with a particularly bright stare. They met his in silence, hostile and waiting, until the husky half-whisper spoke again.
    “May I join you? I couldn't help overhearing that — that you were open for business.” Without expression Smith's colorless eyes summed up the speaker, and a puzzlement clouded their paleness, as he looked. Rarely does one meet a man whose origin and race are not apparent even upon close scrutiny. Yet here was one whom he could not classify: Under the deep burn of the man's skin might be concealed a fair Venusian pallor or an Earthman bronze, canal-Martian rosiness or even a leathery dryland hide. His dark eyes could have belonged to any race, and his husky whisper, fluent in the jargon of the spaceman, effectively disguised its origin. Little and unobtrusive, he might have passed for native on any of the three planets.
    Smith's scarred, impassive face did not change as he looked, but after a long moment of scrutiny he said, “Pull up,” and then bit off the words as if he had said too much.
    The brevity must have pleased the little man, for he smiled as he complied, meeting the passively hostile stare of the two without embarrassment. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. The husky voice began without preamble,
    “I can offer you employment — if you're not afraid. It's dangerous work, but the pay's good enough to make up for it — if you're not afraid.”
    “What is it?”
    “Work they — those two — failed at. They were — hunters — until they found what they hunted. Look at them now.”
    Smith's no-colored eyes did not swerve from the speaker's face, but he