The mercenaries of the war lords had fought
their last paying fight. They--the war
lords--the civilization was bankrupt--
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There were no stars. The ruined landing field was lit by dancing
shadows from a huge bonfire. With forlorn, hollow eyes the broken
towers looked down upon the field, the leaping flames, and the
one battered space boat. Beyond the dancing fire the night waited
threateningly.
In the shadow of one of the rickety towers a man huddled before a tiny
flame and now and then turned his attention to a bubbling pot that hung
from a forked stick above the coals. He was lean and broad-shouldered.
The flickering coals occasionally lit up his thin face--the somber,
gray eyes, the high cheekbones, the wide, sensitive mouth and the
yellow curls that fell across a high forehead. The man seemed to be
lost in thought, only turning his gaze away from the coals long enough
to look up at the dark sky or to stir the pot of stew. When he moved to
throw more wood upon the fire it was with the lithe grace of a cat, and
even his tattered uniform took on a trim, military look from its wearer.
As the man stared into the fire he was listening to the sound of an
approaching ship, half-heard, far above him in the dark sky. The noise
of a descending ship increased, changed from a whine to a scream, and
from a scream to a roar.
There was a roar and a gush of flame. A long, billowing jet of fire
swept over the landing field like a scythe, and another space boat
glided across the weed-strewn field. It stopped near the silent
space craft. Both the boats were small, battered, patched and
repatched--little one-man boats that had gone buzzing about space like
wasps--as though the planets and the asteroids were golden fruit ripe
for the taking.
The man before the fire made no movement other than to hitch his belt
around so that a lean bronzed hand rested upon the worn butt of a
pistol. He sat there looking into the fire, though he could hear the
sound of feet stumbling through the underbrush. The night was chill,
and with his free hand he pulled his patched leather jacket across his
chest.
"Hello." The visitor stood before him smiling a cold smile--a little
man with wide, drooping shoulders and eyes as blue as chilled steel.
The man before the fire grunted and motioned with his head for the
newcomer to be seated.
"Smells good," said the visitor as he sat down and looked into the
steaming pot. "That was white of you to build the fire. I'd never've
landed without it. Not much power left, either." He sighed.
"That's O. K. I figured there would be more boats along. They're coming
home now--those that have power enough in their engines to make the
trip. My name's Duane, Jim Duane."
"They call me Captain," said the little man. "I've got other names, but
mostly I answer to Captain. I'm a professional soldier." He added with
a trace of a cold smile, "Like you."
"Yeah," Duane said wearily, "that's my work. Fightin' for the highest
bidder. But when the war lords ran short of uranium they sent me home."
He added with a malicious grin, "Like you."
"And damned lucky to get home. Plenty of boys marooned up there."
Captain jerked his chin upward toward the dark, mist-swept sky. "But
they'll find more uranium. They'll call us back. Twenty years of
fightin' can't end this way. The war lords aren't satisfied. There'll
be more power for those crates, and guys like us will be gentlemen
again, drawin' monthly wages in four figures."
Duane shook his head. "It's gone. They've hunted everywhere. Oh, they
found plenty--enough for centuries. But they burned it up in twenty
years. They blasted the worlds apart. They fought like mad dogs. An'
now it's gone. An' I'm damned glad."