The Starmen

Table of Contents

THE STARMEN, by Leigh Brackett

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

THE STARMEN,

by Leigh Brackett

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1952 by Leigh Brackett.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

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INTRODUCTION,

by John Betancourt

Leigh Douglass Brackett (1915–1978) was an American science fiction writer, dubbed the Queen of Space Opera because of her richly developed planetary romance tales, which borrowed a bit from Edgar Rice Burroughs’s Mars series, but were uniquely her own. Her solar system had both Mars and Venus as habitable worlds, with interplanetary travel and trade. She was a prolific science fiction author whose work spanned almost four decades and helped shape the genre during the mid-20th century.

She was born in Los Angeles, California, and began her writing career in the late 1930s. Her early stories were published in pulp magazines such as Thrilling Wonder Stories and Planet Stories.

Brackett’s work is often characterized by its focus on planetary adventures, space opera, and a strong sense of romance and adventure. She was particularly skilled at creating vivid and atmospheric settings that transported readers to other worlds. Her writing style is often described as evocative, poetic, and atmospheric. She had a unique talent for creating worlds that were both believable and fantastic.

One of the most notable aspects of Brackett’s work was her ability to create strong and complex female characters. At a time when science fiction was dominated by male authors and male protagonists, Brackett’s heroines were often just as capable and adventurous as their male counterparts. This was especially groundbreaking given that Brackett was a woman writing in a genre that was largely seen as a male domain.

Brackett was also known for her collaborations with other science fiction authors. She worked closely with Ray Bradbury, with whom she co-wrote several screenplays, including The Big Sleep and Rio Bravo. Her influence can also be seen in the work of other notable science fiction authors, including Philip K. Dick and Samuel R. Delany.

One of Brackett’s most famous works is her novel The Long Tomorrow, which was published in 1955. The novel takes place in a post-apocalyptic world in which a religious prohibition against science and technology has led to a return to a simpler, agrarian way of life. The story follows two young boys who are drawn to the forbidden knowledge of the past and must navigate a dangerous journey to find a place where they can pursue their curiosity without fear of persecution.

Another notable work by Brackett is her novel The Sword of Rhiannon, which was published in 1953. The novel tells the story of a space adventurer who discovers an ancient sword that transports him back in time to a world ruled by a powerful sorceress. The novel is notable for its vivid and detailed world-building, as well as its exploration of themes such as power, magic, and the nature of civilization.

One of Brackett’s most notable contributions to popular culture was her work on the screenplay for the film The Empire Strikes Back, the second installment of the original Star Wars trilogy. She was brought on board to work on the screenplay in 1977, and she worked closely with director Irvin Kershner to develop the story and characters. Unfortunately, Brackett passed away from cancer shortly after completing the first draft of the screenplay, and the final version was completed by Lawrence Kasdan.

Despite her untimely passing, Brackett’s contributions to The Empire Strikes Back were significant. She helped develop key story elements, including the relationship between Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, and her influence can be seen in the film’s darker and more complex tone compared to the first Star Wars film. Her work on The Empire Strikes Back also helped pave the way for more women to work in the traditionally male-dominated world of science fiction and film.

Throughout her career, Brackett remained a key figure in the science fiction community, serving as a mentor and inspiration to many aspiring writers. Her work influenced the genre for generations, with many of her themes and ideas appearing in contemporary science fiction novels and films to this day.

ONE

Michael Trehearne was to remember that evening as the end of the world, for him. The end of his familiar life in a familiar Earth, and the first glimmering vision of the incredible. It began with the man who spoke to him on the heights behind St. Malo, by the light of the Midsummer Fires.

There was a great crowd of tourists there, come to watch the old Breton festival of the sacred bonfire. Trehearne was among them, but not of them. He stood alone. He was always alone. He was thinking that the ritual being performed in the wide space of stony turf was just too quaint to be endured and wondering why he had bothered with it, when someone said to him with casual intimacy:

In four days we shall be through with all this, going home. A good thought, isn’t it?

Trehearne turned his head, and looked into a face so like his own that he was startled.

The resemblance was that of a strong racial stamp, rather than any blood kinship. If two Mohawks were to meet unexpectedly in the hills of Afghanistan they would recognize each other, and it was the same with Trehearne and the stranger. There was the same arrogant bone-structure, the odd and striking beauty of form and color that seemed to have no root in any race of Earth, the long yellow eyes, slightly tilted and flecked with sparks of greenish light. And there was the same pride. In Trehearne it was a lonely, bitter thing. The stranger bore his like a banner.

During the moment in which Trehearne stared, amazed, the stranger remarked, I don’t remember seeing you on the last ship. How long have you been here?

Since yesterday, answered Trehearne, and knew as he formed the words that they were not the ones expected of him. A wild throb of excitement ran through him. He said impulsively, Look here, you’ve mistaken me for someone else, but I’m glad you did! In his eagerness he all but clutched the man’s arm. I must talk to you.

Something in the stranger’s expression had altered. His eyes were now both wary and startled. Upon what subject?

Your family—my family. Forgive me if I seem impertinent, but it’s important to me. I’ve come a long way, from America to Cornwall and now to Brittany, trying to trace down my own line…. He paused, looking again 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. The resemblance is indeed striking. I mistook you for one of my kin.

Trehearne was frowning. Kerrel? he repeated, and shook his head. My people were called Cahusac, before they went into Cornwall.

There was doubtless a connection, said Kerrel easily. He pointed abruptly 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 glow of the flames. A white-bearded old man began to pray, in the craggy Breton Gaelic.

Trehearne barely turned his head. His mind was full of the stranger, and of all the things that had oppressed and worried and driven him since childhood, the nagging little mysteries about himself to which now, perhaps, he would find the key.

He glanced away only a second, following the gesture of Kerrel’s arm. But when he looked back, Kerrel was gone.

Trehearne took half a dozen aimless steps, searching for the man, but he had melted away into the darkness and the crowd, and Trehearne stopped, feeling sold and furious.

His temper, long the bane of a rather luckless existence, reared up and bared its claws. He had always been childishly sensitive to insults. If he could have got his hands on the contemptuous Kerrel he would have thrashed him. He turned again to the festival, controlling himself as he had learned painfully to do, realizing that he was being ridiculous. But his face, so like that of the vanished stranger, had a very ugly look around the mouth.

The Bretons had begun the procession around the waning fire. Short, burly men in bright jackets and broad-brimmed hats, sturdy women in aprons and long skirts, their improbable starched coifs fluttering with ribbons and lace. Sabots clumped heavily on the stony ground. They would march three times sunward, circling the embers, and then solemnly, each one, pick up a pebble and as solemnly cast it into the coals. Then they would scramble for the charred brands and bear them home to be charms against fever and lightning and the murrain until the next Midsummer Eve.

It struck Trehearne that most of them, except the very old, looked painfully self-conscious about it all. In a thoroughly bad humor, he was on the point of leaving. And then he saw the girl.

She was standing some ten feet away from him, in the forefront of the crowd, which had shaped itself into a semi-circle. She had wanted him to see her. She was swinging a white hand-bag like a lazy pendulum on a long strap, and her gaze was fixed on him. She was smiling, and the smile was an open challenge.

In the reflection of the great bed of glowing embers, Trehearne saw that she was another of Kerrel’s breed—and his own, whatever it might be. But it was not that recognition that made his heart leap up. It was herself.

The red-gold light danced over her, and perhaps it was only that faery glow that made her seem more than a handsome girl in a white dress. Only a trick of wind and starlight, perhaps, that made Trehearne see in her a changeling, bright, beautiful, wicked, and wise, and no more human than Lilith.

She beckoned to him, with a small imperious movement of her head. He had forgotten his anger for the moment, but now it returned. He began to walk toward her, across the front of the crowd, a tall man, splendidly built and strong, bearing in his own face the stamp of that strange, wicked beauty, his eyes yellow as the fire and as hot. She saw that he was angry, and she laughed.

Whether it was the sound of her laughter that drew the attention of the Bretons, or merely a chance look, Trehearne never knew. He came up to her, and she said:

I am a Kerrel, also. Will you talk to me?

He was about to answer, when he realized that the noise of the sabots had broken rhythm, and that the crowd of tourists was staring at him and the girl and then past them at the Bretons. He heard an uneasy muttering of questions in French and English, and behind him a great silence.

He turned. The ritual circle was broken. The old man who had prayed was coming toward them, and with him were other men and women, drawn as though by some compulsion from the ranks of the marchers. They were all old, their faces weathered and seamed by the passing of many winters, and in their eyes he saw the spark of an ancient hatred, the shadow of an ancient fear.

He had seen that same look among the older country folk of Cornwall—directed at himself.

The old man raised his hand. He stopped only a few feet away, and the others with him. There was something infinitely threatening in the squat monolithic bulk of that little crowd, a survival from an older world. The girl flung up her head and laughed, but Trehearne did not feel like laughing.

The old man cursed them.

Trehearne had not one word of Gaelic, but he did not need a knowledge of the tongue. Nor did he need to have explained to him the gesture of angry dismissal. The Bretons had already picked up their stones from the fire. In another minute, they would use them, on himself and the girl.

He caught her rather roughly by the arm, but she pulled away and shouted something at the old man, still laughing, still mocking, and he thought again that she was changeling and no ordinary girl. The words she spoke might have been Gaelic, but they had a different sound. Whatever they were, they held no kindness. Trehearne thrust his way through the sightseers, who parted readily to let him through, and in a minute the girl came after him. The voice of the old man followed them down the slope of the hill, and the curious tourists stared after them until they were out of sight.

The girl said, Are you still angry?

What’s the matter with them? demanded Trehearne.

The peasant folks have long memories. They don’t understand what it is they remember, only that evil things once happened to them, because of us.

What sort of evil things?

Have there been any new ones since the beginning? Her voice held a dry humor. Trehearne had to admit there hadn’t been. From the stealing away of maidens to witchcraft, family legends tended to a wearying sameness.

However, he added, the Kerrels and the Cahusacs both must have been outstanding in their field, judging from the reception they gave us back there.

He stopped. They were far from the crowd now. The walled island city bulked huge and dark, a medieval shadow against the night and the sea. The girl was a white wraith in the gloom, all astir with the salt wind that tumbled her hair and set her skirts to rippling. He did not speak to her, but stood there silently, trying to see her face in the starlight. After a while she asked him:

What is in your mind?

I am waiting to see if you will vanish like the other Kerrel.

She laughed. Kerrel is a rude man. I have offered myself to make amends. Surely you can’t be angry now!

It was his turn to laugh. No. In fact, I’m thankful for your—by the way, what relation is he to you?

None.

But you said—

It was a small lie, and it served its purpose.

Well, anyway, I’m thankful for Kerrel’s rudeness. I’d much rather talk to you! His ill-humor was quite gone. He took her hand, and was amazed to find how strong it was. The girl seemed to radiate an immense vitality, an aliveness that made all the other women of his knowing appear like half-awakened clods.

What do they call you, he asked, "who are not a Kerrel?"

Shairn.

That doesn’t sound Breton.

"Doesn’t it? My other name is even more unusual. It’s unpronounceable, and means of the Silver Tower."

Her eyes were very bright in the starshine. He thought that in some secret way she was mocking him, but he did not care. He said, I’ll stick to Shairn. They had started down the path again. He told her his own name, and she asked:

You are American?

Fourth generation.

From Brittany to Cornwall to America, she murmured, as though to herself. The years, the generations, the mingling of other strains—and still the Vardda blood breeds true! Michael, you’re wonderful!

He repeated the word Vardda, wonderingly.

A tribal name. You’ve never heard it. She laughed with pure delight. You’re incredible. No wonder Kerrel made a mistake! Listen, Michael. You wonder about your family, your race. Oh, yes, I heard all that. Well, perhaps I’ll tell you—or again, perhaps I won’t! There’s a little cove beyond the lighthouse. I’ll meet you there, in the morning.

TWO

Morning is an indeterminate time for an appointment. Trehearne made it early, clambering over the spray-wet rocks. The sun was warm, and the sea was very blue, flecked with white foam. A high excitement burned in him. He had not slept, thinking of the girl Shairn and the man Kerrel, trying to analyze the strangeness that clung about them and touched some buried chord within himself. He had not succeeded.

There was something almost fierce in the way he moved. He was oppressed by a fear that Shairn would not come. He felt that she was playing some game of her own with him, though for what purpose he could not guess. But having started the game, he was going to see to it that she played it out. If she did not come he would find her, if he had to take the stones of St. Malo apart to do it.

He found the cove. It was deserted. Reason told him that he was impatient, but he was disappointed and angry all the same. Then, looking closer, he saw footprints in the sand, small naked ones leading to the water. A beach robe and a pair of sandals were tucked into a crevice in the rocks.

He searched the waves that rolled idly in between two grey, tumbled shoulders. There was no sign of her. Trehearne’s eyes took on a hard, bright glint. He stripped off his shirt and slacks and plunged into the cold surf.

He was an excellent swimmer. In his college days he had gone through a phase of being a star athlete, until he was stopped by a vague conviction that his physique had been designed for something more important than