Dark Of The Woods

food.
    Until
she
came…
    He had flopped on the bed to ponder the scene, his mind ablaze with images of alien art and structure. Her voice came on the hollow echo of the still, late afternoon air. At first, he thought it was a dream voice, for he hung on the edge of sleep. Then he realized it was calling his name. He pushed off the bed and went to the inner portal, stared down the well of the central core.
    She was about to call him again, then saw him out of the corner of her eye and looked up…
    He realized, as if he had stepped outside of his body and looked back at himself, that his mouth was hanging open rather stupidly. Yet he could not summon the willpower to close it.
    Her ebony mane of hair spread about her cherubic face, which was further highlighted by the pitch of her eyes, the cunningly crafted sweep of her graceful neck. The hair curled down her light toga garment and encircled her small breasts.
    "I brought food," she said, holding up a paper bag and a thermos. "From the Keepers at the Sanctuary. Shall I bring it up?"
    "Yes," he said, finally able to move his mouth and speak.
    She took three small steps on her toes as if beginning a ballet twirl, and she was airborne, rising toward him on soft blue wings. Amber light filtered through the membrane, softened into violet, and made each panel of the thin flesh into a flower petal glued between the fine struts of cartilage. There was a heavy flapping noise as the membranes folded, spread, folded—and she stood before him on the platform. She offered the food and thermos.
    Proteus hummed beside him, gurgling frantically as he searched his flora and fauna banks to be certain she was not of a deadly species. Davis was glad he had taken time to rerelate the robot to Demos on the drive up from the port. Otherwise, the machine might already have disposed of her in a most unpleasant manner.
    "That's just for tonight," she said. "Matron Salsbury will send me in a grav car with provisions for a week. Tomorrow morning, if that suits you."
    "Yes, fine." He stared a moment, unable to avert his eyes from her, then said, "Will you join me?"
    "No thank you. I've eaten, Mr. Davis." She smiled, amused by his confusion.
    "Stauffer."
    She frowned. "I don't know that name, though I had thought I had mastered your language quite well."
    "You have. It's not a real first name, but a family name. A sadistic mother who was sorry she ever married my father. She managed to saddle me with her bitterness by labeling me with her maiden name."
    "Your people don't sound happy."
    "They're dead anyway," he said. "And don't look sorry about
that!"
    They stood, eyes dark to dark in the amber light, her wings drawn back and folded like velvet cloth so that they almost ceased to exist. "Well," she said, "I have to go."
    Impulsively, he said, "I'm unfamiliar with Demos. Would you ask Matron Salsbury if you might be my guide for a few days—until I become acquainted?"
    She hesitated. "I'll ask. But now I have to go, or shell be angry." She turned, stepped into the air, fluffed her wings and drifted down. Moments later, she was gone from the core, even the distant sound of her wings faded altogether.
    Removed from her bewitching presence, his common sense returned like a tidal wave crashing across the beach of his mind, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. Certainly she attracted him, for she was undeniably beautiful. But he should never have made his interest so evident. To imagine her as his lover (as he had been doing) was sheer madness—sheer, deadly, stupid madness. The Supremacy of Man coalition had designed and enforced the strictest imaginable miscegenation laws; Earthmen who loved those of other races were made impotent, and the minimum prison sentence was twelve years. Once in prison, there would be little chance of eventual freedom, even if he were given the minimum sentence.
    The Supremacy-hired, Supremacy-sympathizing guards would see to that with a joyous, savage brutality…
    He could not allow himself such dangerous dreams. It was a silly thing for any man to think of, let alone a man with so much to lose as he.
    He must consider her only a friend. How could affection have arisen so swiftly anyway? He surely wasn't going to try to argue love-at-first-sight, was he? It could only be lust he felt. And lust could be conquered. He would think of her only as a friend, and he would not allow himself to love her. He hoped…
    Later that night, there were dreams:
    "
Love in its