The Best of C. L. Moore Part 1

C. L. Moore.

The Best of C. L. Moore.

Forty Years of C. L. Moore

by LESTER DEL REY

Back in the fall of 1933, I opened the November issue of Weird Tales to find a story with the provocath'e but meaningless t.i.tle, "Shambleau," by an unknown writer named C. L. Moore-and life was never quite the same afterward. Up to that time, science-fiction readers had accepted the mechanistic and unemotional stories of other worlds and future times without question. After the publica-tion of Moore's story, however, the bleakness of such writing would never again be satisfactory.

Almost forty years later, I sat in the audience at a World Science Fiction Convention banquet, listening to Forrest J. Ackerman an-nounce a special award that was about to be presented to a writer. As is customary, Ackerman was saving the name of the recipient for the climax. But he mentioned a story called "Shambleau" and never got to finish his speech. As one, the z,ooo people in the audience came in-stantly to their feet in unanimous tribute-clapping, shouting, and craning to see a gracious and lovely lady blus.h.i.+ngly accept the applause.

Many in that audience had never read the story. But everyone knew about it. And everyone knew that Catherine Moore was one of the finest writers of all time in the field of science fiction.

It is probably impossible to explain to modem readers how great an impact that first C. L. Moore story had. Science fiction has learned a great deal from her many examples. But if you could go back to the old science-fiction magazines of the time and read a few issues, and then turn to ~ShambIeau" for the first time, you might begin to understand. The influences of that story were and are tremendous.

Here, for the first time in the field, we find mood, feeling, and color. Here is an alien who is truly alien-far different from the crude monsters and slightly-altered humans found in other stories. Here are rounded and well-developed characters. Northwest Smith, for in- stance, is neither a good guy nor a bad guy-he may be slightly larger than life, but he displays all aspects of humanity. In "Shambleau" we also experience as never before both the horror at what we may find in s.p.a.ce and the romance of s.p.a.ce itself. And-certainly for the first time that I can remember in the field-this story presents the s.e.xual drive of humanity in some of its complexity.

"Black Thirst" was Moore's next story, and it continued the exploits of Northwest Smith. In this story, something new was brought to our tales of the far planets: a quality of beauty as a thing a man must strive for, even when it is perverted to wrong ends. There were other stories of Northwest Smith, but these first two stand out as the most moving and original.

Many of Moore's early stories appeared in Weird Tales, thongh they were basically science fiction.

Apparently, some of the editors of the sf magazines of the day were afraid of such extreme deviation from the more standard stories. But in October, 1934, Astounding Stories published her "Bright Illusion." Now in those days, as count-less letters to the editor indicated, the one thing readers of the science-fiction magazines did not want was a love story. Yet here was a tale of the pure quintessence of love that transcended all limits! Nev-ertheless, the readers raved about it arid clamored for more.

A few years ago, Larry Janifer was putting together an anthology of the favorite stories of a number of leading writers in the field. I sent him three t.i.tles, including "Bright Illusion." He wrote back to say that he'd never read it before, that he was deeply grateful to me for suggesting it, and that it was an absolute must for the book. Some-how, in spite of advances and changes in our writing, the stories of C. L.

Moore remain as fresh and powerful now as they were back when the field was groping through its beginnings.Meanwhile, in Weird Tales, Moore was beginning a new series of stories about Jirel, the warrior maid of the mythical kingdom of Joiry. In those days, the sf magazines were all intensely male oriented. Most of the readers were male, and the idea of s.e.xual equality had never been considered-certainly not for the protagonist of an adventure story. For such fiction, it followed axiomatically, one used a male hero. But in "Black G.o.d's Kiss" the intensely feminine Jirel was a woman equal in battle to any swashbuckling male hero who ever ruled over the knights of ancient valor.

Jirel of Joiry was no imperturbable battler, however. She loved and hated, feared desperately to the core of her superst.i.tious heart-and yet dared to take risks that no man had ever faced. Every male reader loved the story, forgot his chauvinism, and demanded more stories about Jirel. More were quickly forthcoming, though to my mind, the first one remained marginally the best and most original. "Black G.o.d's Kiss" was simply too good to be surpa.s.sed in later episodes of the series.

"Tryst in Time" was another love story that greatly pleased the readers of Astounding Stories. Once again Moore captured the ul-timate sense of romance that could be accepted only in a world of fan-tasy.

Here was a love that swept through time-roving among the ages and building slowly to a climax of full realization. Yet "Tryst in Time" was more than a love story-it was also an exposition of both the fallibility and the glory of man.

During these early years, C. L. Moore had been a fairly prolific writer of stories which dealt almost exclusively with the most emo-tional elements of fiction. But after 1938, changes came about that may or may not have been caused by a change in her personal life. Her biographers disagree, and she makes few comments that provide us with any real answer. My own suspicion is that the changes oc-curred because of greater maturity on the part of the writer. Certainly, however, the alteration of her fictional interests coincide with a major event in her life.

When her first story was published, she was just twenty-two years old and was employed as a secretary in a bank in Indianapolis. By all accounts, she was a lovely and very popular young lady. But there had been many years of ill health before, during which she had turned to fiction as an escape. She says that she had been writing for fifteen years before submitting anything for publication. That would explain the "escapist" nature of her early fiction, though hardly the vigor of the stories.

In 1938, Catherine Moore met Henry Kuttner, a young writer of great promise, who was then just becoming recognized. She gave up her job in Indianapolis and moved to New York, where she and Kuttner were married in 1940. From then until 19~8, when Kuttner died of a heart attack, after becoming one of the leading writers of science fiction, her interests were strongly focused on writing as a way of life.

Kuttner and Moore were an unusual mating of talents. Her fiction was noted for its sensitivity and emotional coloration. His was essen-tially intellectual in its creation, based upon a firm understanding of plot structure and, initially, often more clever than moving in its de-velopments. Somehow, the couple managed to merge their talents, so that a story by either one would display both an intellectual base and a richly colored background.

They often worked together upon a single story; indeed, few stories produced during their marriage seem to be the work of either one alone. They used a great number of pseudonyms, some of which they seemed to share or exchange. And generally, the authors.h.i.+p of many of the stories is something of a puzzle, even today. A tale credited to Kuttner in one compiler's list may be ascribed to Moore in another list. Internal evidence isn't always much help, either. I'm told that the novel Fury was written by Kuttner, based upon a novelette ent.i.tled "Clash by Night," by Moore; yet of the two, the novel seems to have more of the richness of emotional tone one might expect from Moore.

The change in Moore's fiction began before her marriage, however. "Greater Than G.o.ds" appeared in the July, 1939 issue of Astounding Science Fiction (the magazine having changed its t.i.tle slightly). In this story, love again plays a key role-but hardly in its old, romantic fas.h.i.+on. Here love is no longer some unbreakable tie between man and woman that can defy time and the G.o.ds. Now the conflict lies in a choice between duty and a man's desire for love. The problem and the resolution of the story are clearly intellectual in their development. Only the power of the writing remains unchanged from the preceding"Tryst in Time."

Moore's next story also must have been written before her marriage, though it appeared afterward, in the October, 1940 issue of Un-known. "Fruit of Knowledge" is straight fantasy with 'none of the trappings of science fiction. And here it is difficult to determine whether emotion or intellect is the stronger element.

The basic idea -the ancient myth of Lilith-is one that almost forces a writer to fall back on the emotionalism usually a.s.sociated with this strangely un-dying bit of folklore. Moore's refusal to accept the obvious in telling of this conflict of love and Divine Power indicates clearly the deeper insight she was gaining in the handling of the elements of fiction.

Unfortunately, the years of marriage resulted in very few stories that can be credited with any certainty to C. L. Moore alone. As time went on, her stories became increasingly more rare in the magazines. Yet when one did appear, it was generally so outstanding that the quality of this later work almost makes up for the lack in number.

Of these later stories, my favorite is "No Woman Born," which ap-peared in the December issue of Astounding Science Fiction. This is a nearly perfect blend of emotion and intellect. The conflict of the story lies in the problem of discovering what the basis of true human-ity may really be-a problem that has baffled philosophers for cen-turies. Quite rightly, Moore sees the problem also as encompa.s.sing the need to know the basis and nature of human emotions. The resulting portrait of a great artist and marvelously feminine woman struggling to be true to her inner self is unforgettable.

Perhaps the least typical Moore story included here is "Daemon," which appeared in the October, 1946 issue of Famous Fantastic Fic-tion. This is a straight fantasy about a "simpleton" with a strange gift.

The idea seems slight, and it could easily lead to an excess of senti-mentality. Yet the story is told simply and calmly-but very effec-tively. It's an excellent example of Moore's developed craftsmans.h.i.+p as a writer.

At about the same time, in the September, 1946 issue of Astound-ing Science Fiction, "Vintage Season"

appeared. This is the story which most seem to consider Moore's masterpiece. Certainly it has been included in more of the great anthologies than her other stories. C. L. Moore seems to have posed a problem for most anthologists; her stories are never less than io,ooo words in length, and most are much longer. The editor of an anthology is usually compelled to include as many stories as possible, which means that novelettes tend to be pa.s.sed up in favor of shorter stories. But "Vintage Season" proved to be so good that it could hardly be left out!

Certainly the story is a showpiece for all the talents of C. L. Moore. It blends the disparate elements of horror and beauty, alien culture and human feelings, and progress and decadence. And it has the sense of inevitability needed for great fiction, skillfully combined with the uncertainty of a fine suspense story. I refuse to describe the story fur-ther, since it must be read to be truly appreciated.

During the following years, C. L. Moore wrote a few stories and a novel, Doomsday Morning. But most of her time seems to have been spent in collaborating with her husband and in finis.h.i.+ng her college education, which was interrupted by financial difficulties during the Depression.

After the tragic death of Henry Kuttner, she remained in Califor-nia, where she turned to the lucrative field of television writing. She has married again, this time to Thomas Reggie, who is not a writer.

There have been no new science-fiction or fantasy stories from C. L. Moore for almost twenty years now. But her reputation among readers and editors has never diminished. She remains preeminent in the field. And recently she has begun to talk about trying her hand again at science fiction. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!

-Lester del Rey.

New York.

Shambleau.

Man has conquered s.p.a.ce before. You may be sure of that. Some-where 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 s.h.i.+ps 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' thyland dwellers. You may be sure of it. Man has conquered s.p.a.ce 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.

~Shambleaul Ha . . . Shambleaul" 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 undemote to that swelling bay, "Shambleaul Shambleaul"

Northwest Smith heard it coining and stepped into the nearest doorway, laying a wary hand on his heat-gun's grip, and his colorless eyes narrowed. Strange sounds were common 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 brilliance. She ran wearily, and he could hear her gasping breath from where he stood. As she came into view he saw her hesitate 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 reputation 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 swampmen 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 door-ways 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 s.p.a.ce-explorer's leathem 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 burly 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 over-spreadingthe 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! Shambleaul Shambleaul" 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 swiftly 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 Pa-trol 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 ominously 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 foolhardy 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 impatiently, 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! d.a.m.n 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 forward to the very edge of the are, their clamor growing louder. "Shambleaul Kick her out here!

Give us Shambleau! 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 gunplay 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~iot 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, disgust and incredulity mingled on his weather-beaten face. The incredulity triumphed for a moment and he said again, - "Yours!"

Smith'noddecl 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 turned his back indifferently. "Keep her, then," he advised briefly over one shoulder. "But don't let her out again in this town!"

Swith stared in perplexity almost open-mouthed as the suddenly scornful mob began to break up. Hismind was in a whirl. That such bloodthirsty animosity should vanish in a breath he could not believe. And the curious mingling of contempt and disgust on the faces he saw baffled him even more. Lakkdarol was anything but a puritan town-it did not enter his head for a moment that his daiming the brown girl as his own had caused that strangely shocked revulsion to spread through the crowd. No, it was something more deeply-rooted than that. Instinctive, instant disgust had been in the faces he saw- they would have looked less so if he had admitted cannibalism or Pharol-wors.h.i.+p.

And they were leaving his vicinity as swiftly as if whatever unknow-ing 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. Shambleaul Vaguely 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 writing in his own tongue. . . "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." He smiled to himself at the similarity, and simultaneously was aware of the girl at his elbow.

She had risen soundlessly. He turned to face her, sheathing his gun, and stared at first with curiosity and then in the entirely frank openness with which men regard that which is not wholly human. For she was not. He knew it at a glance, though the brown, sweet body was shaped like a woman's and she wore the garment of scarlet-he saw it was leather-with an ease that few unhurnan beings achieve to-ward clothing. He knew it from the moment he looked into her eyes, and a s.h.i.+ver of unrest went over him as he met them. They were frankly green as young gra.s.s, with slit-like, feline pupils that pulsed unceasingly, and there was a look of dark, animal wisdom in their depths-that look of the beast which sees more than man.

There was no hair upon her face-neither brows nor lashes, and he would have sworn that the tight scarlet turban bound around her head covered baldness. She had three fingers and a thumb, and her feet had four digits apiece too, and all sixteen of them were tipped with round claws that sheathed back into the flesh like a cat's. She ran her tongue over her lips-a thin, pink, flat tongue as feline as her eyes -and spoke with difficulty. He felt that that throat and tongue had never been shaped for human speech.

"Not-afraid now," she said softly, and her little teeth were white and pointed as a kitten's.

"What did they want you for?" he asked her curiously. "What had you done? Shambleau. . . is that your name?"

"I-not talk your-speech," she demurred hesitantly.

"Well, try to-I want to know. Why were they chasing you? Will you be safe on the street now, or hadn't you better get indoors some-where? They looked dangerous."

"I-go with you." She brought it out with difficulty.

"Say you!" Smith grinned. "What are you, anyhow? You look like~a kitten to me."

"Shambleau?' She said it somberly.

"Where d'you live? Are you a Martian?"

"I come from-from far-from long ago-far country-"

"Wait!" laughed Smith. "You're getting your wires crossed. You're not a Martian?"

She drew herself up very straight beside him, lifting the turbaned head, and there was something queenly in the poise of her.

"Martian?" she said scornfully. "My people-are-are-you have no word. Your speech-hard for me."

"What's yours? I might know it-try me."

She lifted her head and met his eyes squarely, and there was in hers a subtle amus.e.m.e.nt-he could have sworn it.

"Some day I-speak to you in-my own language," she promised, and the pink tongue flicked out over her lips, swif fly, hungrily.

Approaching footsteps on the red pavement interrupted Smith's reply. A dryland Martian came past, reeling a little and exuding an aroma of segir-whisky, the Venusian brand. When he caught the red flashof the girl's tatters he turned his head sharply, and as his segir-steeped brain took in the fact of her presence he lurched toward the recess unsteadily, bawling, "Shambleau, by Pharol! Shambleau!" and reached out a clutching hand.

Smith struck it aside contemptuously.