Drogobych lay before them.
The city stood on the open gray moor, and it had once been large. But
its outer structures were long crumbled to ruin, heaps and shards of
stone riven by ages of frost, fallen and coveted by the creeping dust.
Here and there a squared monolith remained like the last snag in a
rotted jaw, dark against the windy sky. It was quiet. Nothing stirred
in all the sweeping immensity of hill and moor and ruin and loneliness.
Helena pointed from her seat on Wocha, and a lilt of hope was eager in
the tired voice: "See--a ship--ahead there!"
They stared, and someone raised a ragged cheer. Over the black
square-built houses of the inner city they could make out the metal
nose of a freighter. Takahashi squinted. "It's Denebian, I think," he
said. "Looks as if man isn't the only race which has suffered from
these scum."
"All right, boys," said Helena. "Let's go in and get it."
They went down a long empty avenue which ran spear-straight for the
center. The porticoed houses gaped with wells of blackness at their
passage, looming in cracked and crazily leaning massiveness on either
side, throwing back the hollow slam of their boots. Donovan heard
the uneasy mutter of voices to his rear: "_Don't like this place....
Haunted.... They could be waiting anywhere for us...._"
The wind blew a whirl of snow across their path.
_Basil. Basil, my dear._
Donovan's head jerked around, and he felt his throat tighten. Nothing.
No movement, no sound, emptiness.
_Basil, I am calling you. No one else can hear._
_Why are you with these creatures, Basil? Why are you marching with the
oppressors of your planet? We could free Ansa, Basil, given time to
raise our armies. We could sweep the Terrans before us and hound them
down the ways of night. And yet you march against us._
"Valduma," he whispered.
_Basil, you were very dear to me. You were something new and strong and
of the future, come to our weary old world, and I think I loved you._
_I could still love you, Basil. I could hold you forever, if you would
let me._
"Valduma--have done!"
A mocking ripple of laughter, sweet as rain in springtime, the
gallantry of a race which was old and sick and doomed and could still
know mirth. Donovan shook his head and stared rigidly before him. It
was as if he had laid hands on that piece of his soul which had been
lost, and she was trying to wrench it from him again. Only he wanted
her to win.
_Go home, Basil. Go home with this female of yours. Breed your cubs,
fill the house with brats, and try to think your little round of days
means something. Strut about under the blue skies, growing fat and
gray, bragging of what a great fellow you used to be and disapproving
of the younger generation. As you like, Basil. But don't go out to
space again. Don't look at the naked stars. You won't dare._
"No," he whispered.
She laughed, a harsh bell of mockery ringing in his brain. _You could
have been a god--or a devil. But you would rather be a pot-bellied
Imperial magistrate. Go home, Basil Donovan, take your female home, and
when you are wakened at night by her--shall we say her breathing?--do
not remember me._
The Terrans slogged on down the street, filthy with dust and grease and
blood, uncouth shamblers, apes in the somber ruin of the gods. Donovan
thought he had a glimpse of Valduma standing on a roof-top, the clean
lithe fire of her, silken flame of her hair and the green unhuman eyes
which had lighted in the dark at his side. She had been a living blaze,
an unending trumpet and challenge, and when she broke with him it had
been quick and clean, no soddenness of age and custom and--and, damn
it, all the little things which made humanness.
_All right, Valduma. We're monkeys. We're noisy and self-important,
compromisers and trimmers and petty cheats, we huddle away from the
greatness we could have, our edifices are laid brick by brick with
endless futile squabbling over each one--and yet, Valduma, there is
something in man which you don't have. There's something by which these
men have fought their way through everything you could loose on them,
helping each other, going forward under a ridiculous rag of colored
cloth and singing as they went._
_Fine words_, added his mind. _Too bad you don't really believe them._
He grew aware of Helena's anxious eyes on him. "What's the matter,
darling?" she asked gently. "You look ill."
"Tired," he said. "But we can't have so very far to go now--"
"_Look out!_"
Whirling, he saw the pillars of the house to the right buckle, saw
the huge stone slabs of the roof come thundering over the top and
streetward. For a blinding instant he saw Valduma, riding the slab
down, yelling and laughing, and then she was gone and the stone struck.
They were already running, dropping their burden of the hurt and
fleeing for safety. Another house groaned and rumbled. The ground
shook, flying shards stung Donovan's back, echoes rolled down the ways
of Drogobych. Someone was screaming, far and faint under the grinding
racket.
"Forward. Forward!" Helena's voice whipped back to him, she led the
rush while the city thundered about her. Then a veil of rising dust
blotted her out, he groped ahead, stumbling over fallen pillars and
cornices, hearing the boom around him, running and running.
Valduma laughed, a red flame through the whirling dust. Her spear
gleamed for his breast, he grabbed it with one hand and hacked at her
with his sword. She was gone, and he raced ahead, not stopping to
think, not daring.
They came out on a great open plaza. Once there had been a park here,
and carved fountains, but nothing remained save a few leafless trees
and broken pieces. And the spaceships.
* * * * *
The spaceships, a loom of metal against the dark stone beyond, half
a dozen standing there and waiting--spaceships, spaceships, the most
beautiful sight in the cosmos! Helena and Wocha were halted near a
small fast Comet-class scoutboat. The surviving Terrans ran toward
them. Few, thought Donovan sickly, few--perhaps a score left, bleeding
from the cuts of flying stone, gray with dust and fear. The city had
been a trap.
"Come on!" yelled the woman. "Over here and off this planet!"
The men of Drogobych were suddenly there, a ring about the ship and
another about the whole plaza, crouched with their weapons and their
cat's eyes aflame. A score of hurt starvelings and half a thousand
un-men.
A trumpet blew its high note into the dusking heavens. The Arzunians
rested arms, expressionless. Donovan and the other humans continued
their pace, forming a battle square.
[Illustration: _A trumpet blew its high note into the dusking heavens,
and Valduma appeared above the battlers to give heart to the men of
Drogobych._]
Morzach stood forth in front of the scout-ship. "You have no further
chance to escape," he called. "But we want your services, not your
lives, and the service will be well rewarded. Lay down your weapons."
Wocha's arm straightened. His ax flew like a thunderbolt, and Morzach's
head burst open. The Donarrian roared and went against the enemy line.
They edged away, fearfully, and the Terrans followed him in a trotting
wedge. Donovan moved up on Wocha's right side, sword hammering at the
thrusts for his ribs.
An Arzunian yelled an order which must have meant "Stop them!" Donovan
saw the outer line break into a run, converging on the knot of
struggle. No flying spears this time, he reflected in a moment's bleak
satisfaction--tearing down those walls must have exhausted most of
their directing energies.
A native rushed at him, sword whistling from behind a black shield.
Donovan caught the blow on his own plundered scute, feeling it ring in
the bones of his arm, and hewed back. His blade screamed close to the
white teeth-bared face, and he called a panting salutation: "Try again,
Davleka!"
"I will!"
The blows rained on his shield, sang viciously low to cut at his legs,
clattering and clanging, whistle of air and howl of iron under the
westering sun. He backed up against Wocha's side, where the Donarrian
and the woman smote against the airlock's defenders, and braced himself
and struck out.
Davleka snarled and hacked at Donovan's spread leg. The Ansan's glaive
snaked forth against his unshielded neck. Davleka's sword clashed to
earth and he sprawled against the human. Raising his bloody face, he
drew a knife, lifted it, and tried to thrust upward. Donovan, already
crossing blades with Uboda, stamped on his hand. Davleka grinned, a
rueful crooked grin through the streaming blood, and died.
Uboda pressed close, working up against Donovan's shield. He had none
himself, but there was a dirk in his left hand. His sword locked with
Donovan's, strained it aside, and his knife clattered swiftly for an
opening.
Helena turned about and struck from her seat. Uboda's head rolled
against Donovan's shield and left a red splash down it. The man retched.
Wocha, swinging one of his swords, pushed ahead into the Arzunians,
crowding them aside by his sheer mass, beating down a guard and the
helmet or armor beyond it. "Clear!" he bellowed. "I got the way clear,
lady!"
Helena sprang to the ground and into the lock. "Takahashi, Cohen,
Basil, Wang-ki, come in and help me start the engines. The rest of you
hold them off. Don't give them time to exert what collective para power
they have left and ruin something. Make them think!"
"Think about their lives, huh?" Wocha squared off in front of the
airlock and raised his sword. "All right, boys, here they come. Let 'em
have what they want."
Donovan halted in the airlock. Valduma was there, her fiery head
whirling in the rush of black-clad warriors. He leaned over and grabbed
a spaceman's arm. "Ben Ali, go in and help start this crate. I have to
stay here."
"But--"
Donovan shoved him in, stood beside Takahashi, and braced himself to
meet the Arzunian charge.
They rushed in, knowing that they had to kill the humans before there
was an escape, swinging their weapons and howling. The shock of the
assault threw men back, pressed them to the ship and jammed weapons
close to breasts. The Terrans cursed and began to use fists and feet,
clearing a space to fight in.
Donovan's sword clashed against a shield, drove off another blade,
stabbed for a face, and then it was all lost in the crazed maelstrom,
hack and thrust and take the blows they give, hew, sword, hew!
They raged against Wocha, careless now of their lives, thundering blows
against his shield, slashing and stabbing and using their last wizard
strength to fill the air with blades. He roared and stood his ground,
the sword leaped in his hand, metal clove in thunder. The shield was
crumpled, falling apart--he tossed it with rib-cracking force against
the nearest Arzunian. His nicked and blunted sword burst against a
helmet, and he drew the other.
The ship trembled, thutter of engines warming up, the eager promise of
sky and stars and green Terra again. "Get in!" bawled Donovan. "Get in!
We'll hold them!"
He stood by Wocha as the last crewmen entered, stood barring the
airlock with a wall of blood and iron. Through a blurring vision, he
saw Valduma approach.
She smiled at him, one slim hand running through the copper hair, the
other held out in sign of peace. Tall and gracious and lovely beyond
his knowing, she moved up toward Donovan, and her clear voice rang in
his darkening mind.
_Basil--you, at least, could stay. You could guide us out to the stars._
"You go away," groaned Wocha.
The devil's rage flamed in her face. She yelled, and a lance whistled
from the sky and buried itself in the great breast.
"Wocha!" yelled Donovan.
The Donarrian snarled and snapped off the shaft that stood between his
ribs. He whirled it over his head, and Valduma's green eyes widened in
fear.
"Donovan!" roared Wocha, and let it fly.
It smashed home, and the Ansan dropped his sword and swayed on his
feet. He couldn't look on the broken thing which had been Valduma.
"Boss, you go home now."
Wocha laid him in the airlock and slammed the outer valve shut.
Turning, he faced the Arzunians. He couldn't see very well--one eye was
gone, and there was a ragged darkness before the other. The sword felt
heavy in his hand. But--
"Hooo!" he roared and charged them.
He spitted one and trampled another and tossed a third into the air.
Whirling, he clove a head and smashed a rib-case with his fist and
chopped another across. His sword broke, and he grabbed two Arzunians
and cracked their skulls together.
They ran, then, turned and fled from him. And he stood watching them
go and laughed. His laughter filled the city, rolling from its walls,
drowning the whistle of the ship's takeoff and bringing blood to his
lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, spat, and lay down.
"We're clear, Basil." Helena clung to him, shivering in his arms, and
he didn't know if it was a laugh or a sob in her throat. "We're away,
safe, we'll carry word back to Sol and they'll clear the Black Nebula
for good."
"Yeah." He rubbed his eyes. "Though I doubt the Navy will find
anything. If those Arzunians have any sense, they'll project to various
fringe planets, scatter, and try to pass as harmless humanoids. But it
doesn't matter, I suppose. Their power is broken."
"And we'll go back to your home, Basil, and bring Ansa and Terra
together and have a dozen children and--"