priest had gone—since in my body and in Klaneth's they could still strive against each other for possession of the ship...
"And so we sail—and fight, and sail—and fight... How long, I do not know. Many, many years must have passed since we faced the gods in Uruk—but see, I am still as young as then and as fair! Or so my mirror tells me," she sighed.
VI
"AM I NOT—WOMAN!"
Kenton sat silent, unanswering Young and fair she was indeed—and Uruk and Babylon mounds of timeworn sands these thousands of years!
"Tell me, Lord"—her voice roused him; "tell me, has the Temple at Uruk great honor among the nations still? And is Babylon proud in her supremacy?"
He did not speak, belief that he had been thrust into some alien, reality wrestling with outraged revolt of reason.
And Sharane, raising her eyes to his troubled face, stared at him with ever growing doubt. She leaped from beside him, stood quivering like a blade of wrath in a sweetly flowered sheath.
"Have you word for me?" she cried. "Speak—and quickly!"
Dream woman or woman meshed in ancient sorceries, there was but one answer for Sharane—the truth.
And tell her truth Kenton did, beginning from the arrival of the block from Babylon into his house; glossing no detail that might make all plain to her. She listened, her gaze steadfast upon him, drinking in his words— amazement alternating with stark disbelief; and these in turn replaced by horror, by despair.
"For even the site of ancient Uruk is well-nigh lost," he ended. "The House of the Seven Zones is a windswept heap of desert sand. And Babylon, mighty Babylon, has been level with the wastes for thousands of years!"
She leaped to her feet—leaped and rushed upon him, eyes blazing, red-gold hair streaming.
"Liar!" she shrieked. "Liar! Now I know you—you phantom of Nergal!"
A dagger flashed in her hand; he caught the wrist just in time; struggled with her; bore her down upon the couch.
She relaxed, hung half fainting in his arms.
"Uruk dust!" she whimpered. "The House of Ishtar dust! Babylon a desert! And Sargon of Akkad dead six thousand years ago, you said—six thousand years ago!" She; shuddered, sprang from his embrace. "But if that is so, then what am I?" she whispered, white lipped. "What—am I? Six thousand years and more gone since I was born—and I alive! Then what am I?"
Panic overpowered her; her eyes dulled; she clutched at the cushions. He bent over her; she threw white arms around him.
"I am alive?" she cried. "I am—human? I am—woman?"
Her soft lips clung to his, supplicating; the perfumed tent of her hair covered him. She held him, her lithe body pressed tight, imperatively desperate. Against his racing heart he felt the frightened pulse of hers. And ever between her kisses she whispered: "Am I not a woman—and alive? Tell me—am I not alive?"
Desire filled him; he gave her kiss for kiss; tempering the flame of his desire was clear recognition that neither swift love for him nor passion had swept her into his arms.
It was terror that lay behind her caresses. She was afraid— appalled by that six-thousand year wide abyss between the life she had known and his. Clinging to him she fought for assurance. She had been driven back to woman's last entrenchment—the primal assertion of the woman-self —the certainty of her womanhood and its unconquerable lure.
No, it was not to convince him that her kisses burned his lips—it was to convince herself.
He did not care. She was in his arms. He gave her kiss for kiss.
She thrust him from her; sprang to her feet.
"I am a woman, then?" she cried triumphantly. "A woman—and alive?"
"A woman!" he answered thickly, his whole body quivering toward her. "Alive! God—yes!"
She closed her eyes; a great sigh shook her.
"And that is truth," she cried, "and it is the one truth you have spoken. Nay—be silent!" she checked him. "If I am a woman and alive, it follows that all else you have told me are lies—since I could be neither were Babylon dust and it six thousand years since first I saw the ship. You lying dog!" she shrilled, and with one ringed hand struck Kenton across the lips.
The rings cut deep. As he fell back, dazed both by blow and sudden shift of fortune, she threw open the inner door.
"Luarda! Athnal! All!" wrathfully she summoned. "Quick! Bind me this dog! Bind him—but slay him not!"
Streamed from the cabin seven warrior maids, short kirtled, bare to their waists, in their hands light javelins. They flung themselves upon him. And as they wound about him Sharane darted in and tore the sword of Nabu from his hand.
And now young, fragrant bodies crushed him in rings of woman flesh, soft, yet inexorable as steel. The blue cloak was thrown over his head, twisted around his neck. Kenton awoke from his stupor—awoke roaring with rage. He tore himself loose, hurled the cloak from him, leaped toward Sharane. Quicker than he, the lithe bodies of the maids screened her from his rush. They thrust him with their javelins, pricking him as do the matadors to turn a charging bull. Back and back they drove him, ripping his clothing, bringing blood now here, now there.
Through his torment he heard her laughter.
"Liar!" she mocked. "Liar, coward and fool! Tool of Nergal, sent to me with a lying tale to sap my courage! Back to Nergal you go with another tale!"
The warrior maids dropped their javelins, surged forward as one. They clung to him; twined legs and arms around him, dragged him down. Cursing, flailing with his fists, kicking—caring no longer that they were women—Kenton fought them. Berserk, he staggered to his feet. His foot struck the lintel of the rosy cabin's door. Down he plunged, dragging his wildcat burden with him. Falling they drove against the door. Open it flew, and out through it they rolled, battling down the ivoried deck.
There was a shouting close behind him, a shrill cry of warning from Sharane—some urgent command, for grip of arms and legs relaxed; clutching hands were withdrawn.
Sobbing with rage, Kenton swung to his feet. He saw that he was almost astride the line between ivoried deck and black. It came to him that this was why Sharane had whistled her furies from him; that he had dragged them too close to its mysterious menace.
Again her laughter lashed him. She stood upon the gallery of little blossoming trees, her doves winging about her. The sword of Nabu was in her hand; derisively she lifted it.
"Ho, lying messenger!" mocked Sharane. "Ho, dog beaten by women! Come, get your sword!"
"I'll come, damn you!" he shouted, and leaped forward.
The ship pitched. Thrown off his balance, Kenton staggered back, reeled to the line where black and ivory decks met.
Reeled over it—unhurt!
Something deeper than
