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                       The Girls From Fieu Dayol

                          By ROBERT F. YOUNG

                      They were lovely and quick
                       to learn--and their only
                       faults were little ones!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
             Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's
_History of English Literature_, Herbert Quidley's penchant for old
books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.
Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the
background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.

On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy
paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:

    _asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
    Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe
    Fieu Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo--te bijk weil en snoll
    doper--Klio, asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj_

Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back
in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?
Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into
the literature section.

He had just taken down Xenophon's _Anabasis_ when he saw the girl walk
in the door.

Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on
Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old
paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he
liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way
Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and
started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and
liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would
have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris
wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.

After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's
desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered
his eyes to the _Anabasis_ and henceforth followed her progress out of
their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book
and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the
P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused
again and took down Taine's _History of English Literature_.

He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an
interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library
were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the
volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it
with the air of a seasoned browser.

Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected
another--seemingly at random--and took it over to the librarian's desk.
She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked
it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.
As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took
Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark
was gone.

He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines
of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was
it merely what it appeared to be on the surface--the efforts of an
impatient typing student to type before his time?

He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that
the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The
name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had
contained the word "Cai", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got
"Kai"--or "Kay". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and
had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream
of borrowing.

By whom--her boy friend?

Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the
presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but
because the term itself brought to mind the word "fiance," and the word
"fiance" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him
violently. I.e., "marriage". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's
_History_ under observation for a while.

       *       *       *       *       *

Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend
turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of
her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading
table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,
_The Zeitgeist_, Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route
to the shelf where Taine's _History_ reposed, take the volume down,
surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages
and return it to the shelf.

After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second
message. It was as unintelligible as the first:

    _asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai:
    Habe wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po
    jestig toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling--Yoolna. asdf
    ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj_

Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai
was, and he knew--from the reappearance of the words _wotnid_, _Fieu
Dayol_ and _snoll doper_--that the two communications were in the
same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last
word--_Yoolna_--was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that
she was a different person from the _Klio_ whose name had appended the
first message.

He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book
to the shelf and went back to the reading table and _The Zeitgeist_.

Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning
to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till
tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same
tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by
chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same
undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out
the door, he was not far behind her.

She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It
took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.
When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an
all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a
matter of following her inside.

He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead
before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.
First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you
situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the
nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and
after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till
he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.
When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a
way that some of its contents spilled on her lap--

"I'm terribly sorry," he said, righting it. "Here, let me brush it off."

       *       *       *       *       *

"It's all right, it's only sugar," she said, laughing.

"I'm hopelessly clumsy," he continued smoothly, brushing the gleaming
crystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.
"I beseech you to forgive me."

"You're forgiven," she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with a
slight accent.

"If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send the
bill to me. My address is 61 Park Place." He pulled out his wallet,
chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her--

                     Herbert Quidley: _Profiliste_

Her forehead crinkled. "_Profiliste?_"

"I paint profiles with words," he said. "You may have run across some
of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,
of course."

"How interesting." She pronounced it "anteresting."

"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my
fancy." He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a
dainty sip. "You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss--"

"Smith. Kay Smith." She set the cup back on the counter and turned and
faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied
his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly
clear--and suddenly cold--blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished
when she said, "Would you really consider word-painting _my_ profile,
Mr. Quidley?"

_Would_ he! "When can I call?"

She hesitated for a moment. Then: "I think it will be better if I call
on you. There are quite a number of people living in our--our house.
I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like
yourself to concentrate."

Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a
week, to reach the apartment phase. "Fine," he said. "When can I expect
you?"

She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller
than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,
she'd have been taller than he was. "I'll be in town night after next,"
she said. "Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?"

"Perfectly."

"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley."

He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually
did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his
custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in
his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as
usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, _Self
Profile_, nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better
Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid
array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,
occupying a two-page spread.

It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the
first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of
paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an
advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he
went to bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had
unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages
until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the
library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment
for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table
post and took up _The Zeitgeist_ once again.

He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.

And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed and
graceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophy
section now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into the
literature aisle and toward the T's....

The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:

    _fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;
    Cai: Gind en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid
    jestig snoll doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers
    ensing!--Gorka. fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;_

Judging from the repeated use of the words, _snoll dopers_ were the
topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the
book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.

He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what
a _snoll doper_ was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur
secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.
It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,
they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be
quixotic enough to employ Taine's _History of English Literature_ as a
communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and
a mailbox on every corner?

Somehow the words "what on earth foreign organization" got turned
around in his mind and became "what foreign organization on earth" and
before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced
a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his
normal self again.

He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his
shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and
looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything
was--the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,
with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books
stacked imposingly nearby; _Harper's_, _The Atlantic_ and _The Saturday
Review_ showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened
bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the
small table set cozily for two--

       *       *       *       *       *

The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.

She walked in with a demure, "Hello." He took her wrap. When he saw
what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes
wouldn't fall out of their sockets.

Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which her
long hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as though
she had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breasts
before catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sitting
position, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;
arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.

He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She
followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the
bottle. "Say when." "When!" "I admire your dress--never saw anything
quite like it." "Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it."
"It's--it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?" "Thanks.... Is
something wrong, Mr. Quidley?" "No, of course not. Why?" "Your hands
are trembling." "Oh. I'm--I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss
Smith." "Call me Kay."

They touched glasses: "Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,
Herbert. I shall have to come here more often." "I hope you will, Kay."
"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet
Earth." "Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely." "Thank
you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too
far away.... There!" "It's--it's as lovely as your hair, Kay." "Um,
kiss me again." "I--I never figured--I mean, I engaged a caterer to
serve us dinner at 9:30." "Call him up. Make it 10:30."

       *       *       *       *       *

The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The _snoll-doper_
mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next
message transfer took place.

He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he
intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted
mentally, of course--notes were for the hacks and the other commercial
non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,
he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure
flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:
the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful
characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque
heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever
done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the
bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was
on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... _Cut
to interior._ FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any
more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You
don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran
out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that
my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK
CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell
me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of--

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....

Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to
form:

    _a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers
    ensing? Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll
    doper. Gind ed, olro--Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj_

Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle
and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay
doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her
correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl
scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges
in communications!

You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.

Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the _snoll-doper_ enigma. The
fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a _snoll doper_,
for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an
H-bomb.

He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak
English if her own language ran something like "_ist ifedereret, hid
jestig snoll doper adwo_?"

He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.

He remembered the material of her dress.

He remembered how she had come to his room.

"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine."

       *       *       *       *       *

Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right
beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes
became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,
he pulled himself back. "You're early tonight," he said lamely.

She appropriated the message, read it. "Put the book back," she said
presently. Then, when he complied: "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"I'm going to deliver a _snoll doper_ to Jilka. After that I'm going to
take you home to meet my folks."

The relieved sigh he heard was his own.

They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line
of cars. "How long have you been reading my mail?" she asked.

"Since the night before I met you."

"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?"

"Part of the reason," he said. "What's a _snoll doper_?"

She laughed. "I don't think I'd better tell you just yet."

He sighed again. "But if Jilka wanted a _snoll doper_," he said after a
while, "why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?"

"Regulations." She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick
apartment building. "This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get
back."

He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let
herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and
exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.
So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd
been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up
Earth--

Her _folks_!

Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he
sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car
when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't
solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a
complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play
along with her.

       *       *       *       *       *

A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed
with theirs. "Someone's following us," Quidley said.

"Probably Jilka."

Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street and
disappeared. "She's no longer with us," Quidley said.

"She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later."

"At your folks'?"

"At the ship."

The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visible
in the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:
"What ship?" he said.

"The one we're going to _Fieu Dayol_ on."

"_Fieu Dayol?_"

"Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet my
folks, didn't I?"

"In other words, you're kidnapping me."

She shook her head vehemently. "I most certainly am not! Neither
according to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, you
made yourself liable in the eyes of both."

"But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on _Fieu Dayol_. Why
don't you marry one of them?"

"For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromised
me. Two, there are _not_ plenty of men on _Fieu Dayol_. Our race is
identical to yours in everything except population-balance between the
sexes. At periodic intervals the women on _Fieu Dayol_ so greatly
outnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally and
emotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for _wotnids_--or
mates--on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As a
matter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien cultures
to expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellar
statute forbidding us the use of local communications services and
forbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitate
the prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject to
it, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own."

"But why were all the messages addressed to you?"

"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock
girl."

       *       *       *       *       *

April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.
Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they
bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. "Here we are," she
said.

Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its
background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he
hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an
open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.

Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down
the rutted road. "Jilka," Kay said. "I wonder if she got him."

Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her--a rather
woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.
Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and
disappear into the ship.

"Next," Kay said.

Quidley shook his head. "You're not taking _me_ to another planet!"

She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object "A
little while ago you asked me what a _snoll doper_ was," she said.
"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of
marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform
to the sexual mores of their own societies." She did something to the
object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.
"_This_ is a _snoll doper_."

She prodded his ribs. "March," she said.

He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder for
a better look at the object pressed against his back.

It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Girls from Fieu Dayol, by Robert F. Young