Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous
death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison.
Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage
the main battle raged--where a girl swayed
sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears.
"_Die now--die now--die now_--"
Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of the
cubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that a
rib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way of
knowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.
For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly.
"_Die now--die now--die now_--"
The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, and
it was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the great
battle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in this
tiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certain
her countrymen had either definitely won--or lost.
The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She had
expected nothing else.
She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that would
set in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,
and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and nameless
grave of space.
But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandon
immediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrily
over the memories of her past.
For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched
_The Defender_ grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sized
battle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythian
globe, _The Invader_, sprang out of black space to enslave the budding
Terran Confederacy, _The Defender_ was unfinished, half-equipped, and
undermanned.
The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle.
_The Defender_, commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurled
itself from its orbit around Procyon and met _The Invader_ with giant
fission torpedoes.
And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser Magellanic
Cloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-men
poured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken _Defender_.
The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unreal
and terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken the
Scythians nine years to conquer _The Defender's_ outer shell. Then had
come that final interview with her father.
"In half an hour our last space port will be captured," he had
telepathed curtly. "Only one more messenger ship can leave _The
Defender_. Be on it."
"No. I shall die here."
His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. "Then
die usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that will
destroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they are
successful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of the
battle."
"There's an off-chance you may survive," countered a mentor. "We're
also working on a means for your escape--not only because you are
Gordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will prevent
radio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape with
our secret if and when our experiments prove successful."
"But you must expect to die," her father had warned with gentle
finality.
She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenched
herself back to the present.
That time had come.
With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay on
the floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest with
both hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedo
fissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of the
ship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezing
would she die.
She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped in
dismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bonds
and was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubicle
had been terrific.
With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examined
the interior of the box.
It was a shattered ruin.
* * * * *
Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathing
hard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,
finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during the
interval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk that
clutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis.
She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space.
Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were still
intact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,
set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it were
unsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythian
enemies.
Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.
The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on the
chaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.
Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun the
sealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling on
the side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowly
to her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valve
of her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploring
the surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally she
was alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside the
cubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag dangling
from her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggle
to come would be her apparent harmlessness.
Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-born
Scythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as that
of a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the black
stumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years had
supplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector.
The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, and
evidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:
Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been two
months since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.
Yes, he would shoot.
Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,
hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. With
satisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mind
of the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep up
behind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.
He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,
he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.
Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway.
Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man moved
faster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions in
the mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. He
was not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidly
onward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,
thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yards
in this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, and
the dull light in his brain went out.
[Illustration: _She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling._]
Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped from
behind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.
For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quite
effective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she stripped
the odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beam
power down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. While
he bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped the
beam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, at
least, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind of
a woman.