In the final analysis, he was just too tired to attempt an explanation -
not physically worn out, but mentally. Since just before dawn, he felt
as though he had been on a fantastic merry-go-round. Feeling a bit
strange, he allowed her to lead him upstairs to the bedroom. The sight
of one bed startled him, even though it was a rather large double. He
slid eyes sideways, caught her smiling coyly and forced a grin. She
installed him in the bathroom, tossed a pair of pajamas to him and left
him alone.
He took a long time showering and shaving. Then when he could avoid it
no longer, he went into the bedroom. She was combing her long satiny
hair at the dresser and had slipped into an aqua colored nightgown. For
a moment, his breath caught in amazement, then he slid between the
sheets of the bed and watched her. Finally she stopped combing and
walked over to look down at him. He looked back, feeling a little like a
caged animal - but enjoying it.
She fell to her knees beside the bed, her eyes shining with happiness.
The red lipped smile was again tugging at her full mouth. Her fingers
wound gently in his hair and the warm pressure of her soft breasts
rested boldly upon his arm as though they knew they belonged there.
"I love you so much, Nick," she whispered, her eyes half closed.
He reached out a hand to touch her cheek and the softness of it against
his fingers alarmed him, thrilled him. He knew what he had to tell her,
but it was a long time in coming. "I ... I love you too, Beth," he
whispered.
Her soft, moist lips came gently down upon his like a twin promise of
the offering of love that awaited him and he felt his own lips
responding. A slight tremor ran through him as her fingers flicked at
the wall and the room became sheathed in darkness. Moonlight filtered
through the curtains and she moved into the bed, her lithe shape molding
into the hardness of his. Her voice was a warm breath in his ear and her
arms slid over his chest while she talked.
"You don't love me, darling. That's the whole trouble. We love with our
minds, and love is an accumulation of a million memories - but you have
lost yours. I know, I know. To you..."
"Beth," he began but she clamped her hand over his mouth.
"To you, darling, I'm a stranger, just another woman. I know I can't be
anything more right now. You'll have to learn to love me again.
"But me? Nick, it's different with me. I've waited for thirteen long
months for you to love me again, and by some miracle you've come back.
You're here and so am I. I love you and I want you. Oh, darling, pretend
I'm a whore; pretend I'm anything ... but make love to me. Pay no
attention to anything except to me..."
His mouth folded over hers, shutting off the flow of words in a
passionate kiss, while his hands smoothed down over the wisp of silk
that kept his fingers from her flesh. Her arms clung to him tightly.
"It won't be hard, Beth," he whispered against the side of her face.
"You're beautiful ... it won't be hard to love you..."
Then she twisted from him, making a memory of the film of nightgown
that had kept his hands away from her. He moved to her, his fingers
stroking her into passion while she pulled his face down to the soft
thrust of her breasts. Then she was clamped against him and struggling
to get even closer, her body making a prison for him ... yet at the same
time giving him freedom.
Later, when she slept, he propped himself on one elbow to study the soft
lines of her face. Then he too dropped off to sleep.
* * * * *
His uniform was torn by the purple bushes and their nine inch thorns,
and streamers of blood painted the rich blue and yellow of his trousers.
His face was smeared with grey, pasty dirt and the hand that held the
auto-pistol was wet with sweat. His stomach had rolled into a tight ball
within him and he was frightened.
They were out there somewhere, waiting for the sound of his black
leather boots to clatter on one of the grey-green rocks that littered
the hillside. They would find him. Their damned radar antennae would
spot him for them. There was no escape from the bastards, and he knew
it. Commander Imry had bungled every damned assignment he'd been given,
and now Firstspacer Lors would have to die in the supreme bungle that
had created the first native uprising on Thista. He looked up along the
face of the high mountain in his rear. Nothing moved in the
greenish-purple scrub, but he knew they were there.
He peered over the edge of the rock into the valley, a hundred and fifty
_kinos_ away. The patrol car was still there, its driver lying
grotesquely just a few feet from the hatch. The thick, heavy spear
through his chest resembled a finger pointing toward the violet sky.
Closer to him, on the slope, one of the enemy lay dying, a
greenish-brown fluid pumping spasmodically from the hole put in his
chest by the auto-pistol. The alien's huge yellow eyes blinked owlishly
and the slash-like mouth worked as if he wanted to call for help. But no
sound came. The antennae swiveled limply as he tried to locate his
comrades, but they drooped as the alien died.
Still tightly clutching the auto-pistol, he watched the thin, grey
antennae fall to the ground. They pointed off to the left. He swung
about and looked in the direction the native had been scanning, but he
could see no movement beyond the swaying of the desert grass moving in
the faint breath of air.
They should have gotten the message. By now, there was probably a ship
on its way to him. He had to hold out until they got here. He flipped
open the cartridge box and checked his ammunition. Plenty. Of course,
the auto-pistol only held fifteen shots and if they rushed him... He
wished fervently that he had thought to bring the projectile launcher
from the wrecked patrol car.
Damned natives and their uprisings!
He searched the sky anxiously, cold sweat trickling off his forehead in
tiny rivulets. Scenes of other uprisings flickered through his brain,
and more horrible scenes of the remains of tortured captives when he
reached them too late. Those had been small. This one was for real.
The native seemed to materialize out of the ground, screaming shrill
obscenities as he drew himself to his full nine feet of height and
brandished the heavy maul over his head. He came leaping over the ground
and up the hill of tumbled rocks in fiendish rage, his grey antennae
pointed directly at Firstspacer Lors. Behind him came the others, eight
of them.
He fired the auto-pistol at the lead alien, watching the bullet tear a
hole in his face, ripping away one of the blinking yellow eyes. The
alien screamed and fell blubbering. He fired again and again, dropping
two more before the charge broke.
Then suddenly, at a sound, he whirled and stared terrified at the alien
behind him. The charge had been a fake, an old military stunt that any
green Spacer could have seen through. For one brief instant, he stared
into the large eyes of the native. Then he fired. Another native rose
from the ground, then another and another. He fired repeatedly, crying
and cursing in his rage at the weapon's inefficiency, while over his
head he heard the roaring of the rescue ship.
Tongues of flame soared over his head and into the surging mass of
aliens. He hoped the ship was not too late...
* * * * *
"Nick! Nick, darling!"
He awoke, his face drenched with sweat and his stomach a tight knot of
fear. He reached out, in his fright, and grabbed the woman at his side,
pulling her into his arms to hold her tightly. She stroked his hair,
kissed his face and whispered soothing words into his ear.
"What is it, Nick?"
He relaxed his grip and laid his head back on the pillow. In the bright
light of the moon, he looked at her and returned to himself. Those
monsters! So vivid!
"Nightmare," he croaked hoarsely.
She smiled, her lips glistening in the moonlight, and kissed him gently.
"The apple pie," she suggested. "Nightmares are usually caused by eating
before bed."
"It was so real," he muttered. "So real. I ... I was on another planet
... I wore a blue uniform with yellow stripes on the legs and my name
was Lors, or Lars. The natives, horrible monsters, were in a state of
revolution ... they killed my driver. I was alone and they were all
around me..."
"Science fiction," she cooed and stroked his hair. "I think it's a good
sign. All you ever read, for relaxation, was science fiction. Your dream
was probably a story you once read and your mind put you in the hero's
place."