A kiss for the conqueror

By CLYDE MITCHELL
From our innermost planet to the farthest reaches of space, one man plus one woman equals—well, read Mr. Mitchell's story.
Tonight's the night, Bolgar said.
He ducked his head to catch a glimpse of his face in the particle of mirror hanging on the barrack wall. It was a lean and hungry face, the hollows in the thin cheeks disguised by the three-day growth of stubble.
He could see Sgt. Pulley's sneer reflected in the glass.
You think I'm joking? Bolgar pushed the long black hair over his ears with the palms of his hands. There were few combs in the world.
I think you're nuts, Pulley said from his bunk. He was wearing a ragged T-shirt. The medal, with its shrieking eagle green with rust, looked ludicrous pinned to his chest. But Pulley wouldn't part with it.
We'll see, Bolgar said grimly. Can I use your razor?
Pulley shrugged. Once more won't matter. I'd give a thousand credits for a straight-edge and a strop.
Fat chance, Bolgar said. He peeled off the coat of his gun-metal gray uniform and flung it on the bed. Then he went to the brown-spotted sink and turned the only faucet that worked. The trickle of icy water that emerged ran copper.
Ion gun, he said crisply.
Pulley extracted the device from his waist, and tossed it to his barrack-mate.