The Three Suns of Amara

“There aren’t many of us. We live near the river. And the Melas trees grow only by the river, too. Most Amarans are afraid to come near us. Lee wasn’t afraid. He was a real man, although sometimes he lost confidence in himself.”

“Lee? Who was Lee?”

“He was the man who lived with me before you came.”

Sherret disengaged his arm and sat up straight. He frowned down at her. Her beautiful white body lay at careless ease upon the bright cushions. Her profile, partly his creation, with its high brow, straight nose, and firm little chin, was upturned as she gazed at the lofty and domed ceiling. Obviously, she was remembering Lee with affection.

Or perhaps with more than affection.

“You were lovers?” Sherret was surprised at the condemnatory note which rang through the last word. He’d never thought of himself as a puritan. Perhaps he had inherited a Calvinistic streak from his Scottish ancestors.

“But of course. I have loved all of the men who have lived with me.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! You promiscuous little baggage!”

Unfortunately, that phrase didn’t translate well into Amaran. The result implied cold, calculating infidelity.

She sat up abruptly and stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. Then she clawed at his face with both hands. The beard partly saved him but she scored two bad scratches under his eyes. The blood welled and dripped.

He swore, jumping to his feet and flinging her back on the couch. He dabbed at the wounds with the back of one hand.

“You’re a bad-tempered cat, aren’t you? You could make a man’s life a hell, I reckon. Is that why none of your men stayed around here with you? Or did you kill

’em all?”

Her eyes shone like blue fire.

She lifted an arm rigidly and pointed at him. Then it was as though a cannonball had hit him in the chest. He went flying onto his back on the glacial floor and slid for some feet over the slowly writhing shapes beneath it.

He lay still for some moments, whooping for breath. Then he sat up slowly, hands pressed to his sore breastbone. From the couch she regarded him, the fire of hate gone. She looked like a petulant, disappointed child. The strikingly blue eyes looked big and sad.

“You win,” said Sherret with a gasp. “Technical knockout. I didn’t… see it coming.” He managed a grin.

At once she ran over to him, knelt, held his head tightly agtinst her warm body, rocking him gently. The blood from his cheek smeared her breasts. “Sherry, I’m really sorry. Oh, Sherry—”

“Forget it, pet. I said the wrong thing the wrong way.” She said, softly, “Only wicked Petrans live with more than one man at a time. I always had only the one. So I couldn’t be unfaithful.” Between kisses, she went on, “I loved them all… but only some of them loved me. Perhaps none of them did—for they all left me in the end. I think Lee loved me—and will come back to me— when he has proven himself.”

Sherret felt a stab of jealousy about Lee. He stood up, picked her up—she was surprisingly light—and carried her back to the couch.

He. said, “You’re getting me in a whirl. I just don’t understand your way of life. I was angry with you because I love you, and I was jealous of those other men. Now you talk of Lee coming back. Is it him you want—or me?”

She made no answer. Instead, she ripped a piece of cloth from a cushion, licked it wet, and tenderly cleaned up his face. She ignored the daubs on her own flesh. He was amused by her method and touched by her concern. Even though he knew she would have done as much for Lee—and perhaps had done, if they had fought in the same way.

“Did you ever fight with Lee?” he asked, suddenly.

She avoided his gaze. “Yes.”

“Who won?”

“I lost,” she sighed. “For he left me.”