Shambleau MAN has conquered space before. You may be sure of that. Somewhere beyond the Egyptians, in that dimness out of which come echoes of half-mythical names-Atlantis, Mu -somewhere back of history's first beginnings there must have been an age when mankind, like us today, built cities of steel to house its star-roving ships and knew the names of the planets in their own native tongues-heard Venus' people call their wet world "Sha-ardol" in that soft, sweet, slurring speech and mimicked Mars' guttural "Lakkdiz." from the harsh tongues of Mars' dry-land dwellers. You may be sure of it. Man has conquered Space before, and out of that conquest faint, faint echoes run still through a world that has forgotten the very fact of a civilization which must have been as mighty as our own. There have been too many myths and legends for us to doubt it. The myth of the Medusa, for instance, can never have had its roots in the soil of Earth. That tale of the snake-haired Gorgon whose gaze turned the gazer to stone never originated about any creature that Earth nourished. And those ancient Greeks who told the story must have remembered, dimly and half believing, a tale of antiquity about some strange being from one of the outlying planets their remotest ancestors once trod. S H A M B L E A U "Shambleau! Ha ... Shambleau!" The wild hysteria of the mob rocketed from wall to wall of Lakkdarol's narrow streets and the storming of heavy boots over the slag-red pavement made an ominous undernote to that swelling bay, "Shambleau! Shambleau!" Northwest Smith heard it coming and stepped into the nearest doorway, laying a wary hand on his heat-gun's grip, and his colorless eyes narrowed. Strange sounds were com-mon enough in the streets of Earth's latest colony on Mars -a raw, red little town where anything might happen, and very often did. But Northwest Smith, whose name is known and respected in every dive and wild outpost on a dozen wild planets, was a cautious man, despite his reputation. He set his back against the wall and gripped his pistol, and heard the rising shout come nearer and nearer. Then into his range of vision flashed a red running figure, dodging like a hunted hare from shelter to shelter in the narrow street. It was a girl-a berry-brown girl in a single tattered garment whose scarlet burnt the eyes with its bril-liance. She ran wearily, and he could hear her gasping breath from where he stood. As she came into view he saw her hesi-tate and lean one hand against the wall for support, and glance wildly around for shelter. She must not have seen him in the depths of the doorway, for as the bay of the mob grew louder and the pounding of feet sounded almost at the corner she gave a despairing little moan and dodged into the recess at his very side. When she saw him standing there, tall and leather-brown, hand on his heat-gun, she sobbed once, inarticulately, and collapsed at his feet, a huddle of burning scarlet and bare, brown limbs. Smith had not seen her face, but she was a girl, and sweetly made and in danger; and though he had not the re-putation of a chivalrous man, something in her hopeless huddle at his feet touched that chord of sympathy for the underdog that stirs in every Earthman, and he pushed her gently- into the corner behind him and jerked out his gun, just as the first of the running mob rounded the corner. It was a motley crowd, Earthmen and Martians and a sprinkling of Venusian swamp men and strange, nameless denizens of unnamed planets-a typical Lakkdarol mob. When the first of them turned the corner and saw the empty street before them there was a faltering in the rush and the foremost spread out and began to search the doorways on both sides of the street. "Looking for something?" Smith's sardonic call sounded clear above the clamor of the mob. They turned. The shouting died for a moment as they took in the scene before them-tall Earthman in the space-ex-plorer's leathern garb, all one color from the burning of savage suns save for the sinister pallor of his no-colored eyes in a scarred and resolute face, gun in his steady hand and the scarlet girl crouched behind him, panting. The foremost of the crowd-a burls y Earthman in tattered leather from which the Patrol insignia had been ripped away-stared for a moment with a strange expression of incredulity on his face overspreading the savage exultation of the chase. Then he let loose a deep-throated bellow, "Shambleau!" and lunged forward. Behind him the mob took up the cry again, "Shambleau! Shambleau! Sham-bleau!" and surged after. Smith, lounging negligently against the wall, arms folded and gun-hand draped over his left forearm, looked incapable of swift motion, but at the leader's first forward step the pistol swept in a practiced half-circle and the dazzle of blue white heat leaping from its muzzle seared an arc in the slag pavement at his feet. It was an old gesture, and not a man in the crowd but understood it. The foremost recoiled swift-ly against the surge of those in the rear, and for a moment there was confusion as the two tides met and struggled. Smith's mouth curled into a grim curve as he watched. The man in the mutilated Patrol uniform lifted a threatening fist and stepped to the very edge of the deadline, while the crowd rocked to and fro behind him. "Are you crossing that line?" queried Smith in an omin-ously gentle voice. "We want that girl!" "Come and get her!" Recklessly Smith grinned into his face. He saw danger there, but his defiance was not the fool-hardy gesture it seemed. An expert psychologist of mobs from long experience, he sensed no murder here. Not a gun had appeared in any hand in the crowd. They desired the girl with an inexplicable bloodthirstiness he was at a loss to understand, but toward himself he sensed no such fury. A mauling -he might expect, but his life was in no danger. Guns would have appeared before now if they were coming out at all. So he grinned in the man's angry face and leaned lazily against the wall. Behind their self-appointed leader the crowd milled im-patiently, and threatening voices began to rise again. Smith heard the girl moan at his feet. "What do you want with her?" he demanded. "She's Shambleau! Shambleau, you fool! Kick her out of there-we'll take care of her!" "I'm taking care of her," drawled Smith. "She's Shambleau, I tell you! Damn your hide, man, we never let those things live! Kick her out here !" The repeated name had no meaning to him, but Smith's innate stubbornness rose defiantly as the crowd surged for-ward to the very edge of the are, their clamor growing loud-er. "Shambleau! Kick her out here 1 Give us Shambleau I Shambleau!" Smith dropped his indolent pose like a cloak and planted both feet wide, swinging up his gun threateningly. "Keep back!" he yelled. "She's mine! Keep back!" He had no intention of using that heat-beam. He knew by now that they would not kill him unless he started the gun-play himself, and he did not mean to give up his life for any girl alive. But a severe mauling he expected, and he braced himself instinctively as the mob heaved within itself. .. To his astonishment a thing happened then that he had never known to happen before. At his shouted defiance the foremost of the mob-those who had heard him clearly -drew back a little, not in alarm but evidently surprised. The ex-Patrolman said, "Yours! She's yours?" in a voice from which puzzlement crowded out the anger. Smith spread his booted legs wide before the crouching figure and flourished his gun. "Yes," he said. "And I'm keeping her! Stand back there!" The man stared at him wordlessly, and horror and disgust and incredulity mingled on his weather-beaten face, The incredulity triumphed for a moment and he said again, "Yours!" Smith nodded defiance. The man stepped back suddenly, unutterable contempt in his very pose. He waved an arm to the crowd and said loudly, ' 'It's-his!" and the press melted away, gone silent, too, and the look of contempt spread from face to face. The ex-Patrolman spat on the slag-paved street and turn-ed his back indifferently. "Keep her, then," he advised brief-ly over one shoulder. "But don't let her out again in this town!" Smith stared in perplexity almost open-mouthed as the suddenly scornful mob began to break up. His mind was in a whirl. That such bloodthirsty animosity should vanish in a breath he could not believe. And the curious mingling of con-tempt and disgust on the faces he saw baffled him even more. Lakkdarol was anything but a puritan town-it did not enter his head f or a moment that his claiming the brown girl as his own had caused that strangely shocked revulsion to spread through the crowd. No, it was something deeper rooted than that. Instinctive, instant disgust had been in the faces he saw- they would have looked less so if he had ad-mitted cannibalism or Pharol-worship. And they were leaving his vicinity as swiftly as if what-ever unknowing sin he had committed were contagious. The street was emptying as rapidly as it had filled. He saw a sleek Venusian glance back over his shoulder as he turned the corner and sneer, "Shambleau!" and the word awoke a new line of speculation in Smith's mind. Shambleau! Vague-ly of French origin, it must be. And strange enough to hear it from the lips of Venusians and Martian drylanders, but it was their use of it that puzzled him more. "We never let those things live," the ex-Patrolman had said. It reminded him dimly of something. . . an ancient line from some writ-ing in his own tongue . . . "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." He smiled to himself at the similarity, and simulta-neously was aware of th...
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