PRODIGAL WEAPON
by VASELEOS GARSON
They were the pitiful remnants of a proud world,
huddled into slave quarters on Karrar, dying
before the cold brutality of the Kraks, seeking
the Achilles' heel in the armor of their
masters. One man alone still fought them—even
he knowing he battled with a lance of straw.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Nothing new ... this. The viewpoint, maybe, was different, this time. The script was the same, only there were new actors in the cast of characters.
Human historians had written the story over and over. Even the Kraks probably had a parallel story in their world.
Sean McKenna flinched a little as the beam of the thin yellow light bit into his left shoulder, burning a crooked X into the tanned flesh. Then with a shrug, Sean nodded his red-thatched head slightly, moved into the rapidly growing queue of humans who watched the Krak counters with varied expressions, most of them quietly despairing.
Sean accepted his destiny with a slanted smile.
He, too, stared steadily at the impassive-faced Kraks whose naked torsos and hairless round heads glistened with sweat in the afternoon of Earth's sun.