_Far out in limitless space, Valduma, queen of the
voluptuous half-life, plied her deadly trade ... a
Lorelei of the black void, beckoning adventurous spacemen
to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories January 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Basil Donovan was drunk again. He sat near the open door of the Golden
Planet, boots on the table, chair tilted back, one arm resting on the
broad shoulder of Wocha, who sprawled on the floor beside him, the
other hand clutching a tankard of ale. The tunic was open above his
stained gray shirt, the battered cap was askew on his close-cropped
blond hair, and his insignia--the stars of a captain and the silver
leaves of an earl on Ansa--were tarnished. There was a deepening flush
over his pale gaunt cheeks, and his eyes smoldered with an old rage.
Looking out across the cobbled street, he could see one of the tall,
half-timbered houses of Lanstead. It had somehow survived the space
bombardment, though its neighbors were rubble, but the tile roof was
clumsily patched and there was oiled paper across the broken plastic of
the windows. An anachronism, looming over the great bulldozer which was
clearing the wreckage next door. The workmen there were mostly Ansans,
big men in ragged clothes, but a well-dressed Terran was bossing the
job. Donovan cursed wearily and lifted his tankard again.
The long, smoky-raftered taproom was full--stolid burgers and peasants
of Lanstead, discharged spacemen still in their worn uniforms, a couple
of tailed greenies from the neighbor planet Shalmu. Talk was low and
spiritless, and the smoke which drifted from pipes and cigarettes was
bitter, cheap tobacco and dried bark. The smell of defeat was thick in
the tavern.
"May I sit here, sir? The other places are full."
Donovan glanced up. It was a young fellow, peasant written over his
sunburned face in spite of the gray uniform and the empty sleeve.
Olman--yes, Sam Olman, whose family had been under Donovan fief these
two hundred years. "Sure, make yourself at home."
"Thank you, sir. I came in to get some supplies, thought I'd have a
beer too. But you can't get anything these days. Not to be had."
Sam's face looked vaguely hopeful as he eyed the noble. "We do need a
gas engine bad, sir, for the tractor. Now that the central powercaster
is gone, we got to have our own engines. I don't want to presume, sir,
but--"
Donovan lifted one corner of his mouth in a tired smile. "I'm sorry,"
he said. "If I could get one machine for the whole community I'd be
satisfied. Can't be done. We're trying to start a small factory of our
own up at the manor, but it's slow work."
"I'm sure if anyone can do anything it's you, sir."
Donovan looked quizzically at the open countenance across the table.
"Sam," he asked, "why do you people keep turning to the Family? We led
you, and it was to defeat. Why do you want anything more to do with
nobles? We're not even that, any longer. We've been stripped of our
titles. We're just plain citizens of the Empire now like you, and the
new rulers are Terran. Why do you still think of us as your leaders?"
"But you are, sir! You've always been. It wasn't the king's fault, or
his men's, that Terra had so much more'n we did. We gave 'em a fight
they won't forget in a hurry!"
"You were in my squadron, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir. CPO on the _Ansa Lancer_. I was with you at the Battle of
Luga." The deep-set eyes glowed. "We hit 'em there, didn't we, sir?"
"So we did." Donovan couldn't suppress the sudden fierce memory.
Outnumbered, outgunned, half its ships shot to pieces and half the
crews down with Sirius fever, the Royal Lansteaders had still made
naval history and sent the Imperial Fleet kiyoodling back to Sol. Naval
historians would be scratching their heads over that battle for the
next five centuries. Before God, they'd fought!
* * * * *
He began to sing the old war-song, softly at first, louder as Sam
joined him--
Comrades, hear the battle tiding,
hear the ships that rise and yell
faring outward, starward riding--
Kick the Terrans back to hell!
The others were listening, men raised weary heads, an old light burned
in their eyes and tankards clashed together. They stood up to roar out
the chorus till the walls shook.
Lift your glasses high,
kiss the girls good-bye,
for we're riding,
for we're riding,
for we're riding out to Terran sky! Terran sky! Terran sky!
We have shaken loose our thunder
where the planets have their way,
and the starry deeps of wonder
saw the Impies in dismay.
Lift your glasses high,
kiss the girls good-bye--
The workmen in the street heard it and stopped where they were. Some
began to sing. The Imperial superintendent yelled, and an Ansan turned
to flash him a wolfish grin. A squad of blue-uniformed Solarian marines
coming toward the inn went on the double.
Oh, the Emp'ror sent his battle
ships against us in a mass,
but we shook them like a rattle
and we crammed them--
"Hi, there! Stop that!"
The song died, slowly and stubbornly, the men stood where they were and
hands clenched into hard-knuckled fists. Someone shouted an obscenity.
The Terran sergeant was very young, and he felt unsure before those
steady, hating eyes. He lifted his voice all the louder: "That will be
enough of that. Any more and I'll run you all in for _lèse majesté_.
Haven't you drunken bums anything better to do than sit around swilling
beer?"
A big Ansan smith laughed with calculated raucousness.
The sergeant looked around, trying to ignore him. "I'm here for Captain
Donovan--Earl Basil, if you prefer. They said he'd be here. I've got an
Imperial summons for him."