She fled from him like a startled fawn, but Guantra built good ships. Kortha overhauled her slowly, ducking her gun-blasts, swallow-darting. When she dove for a cliffside, Kortha followed; and only expert piloting prevented them both from slamming the hulls of their ships against those coppery walls.
A shell from her rear electrogun ripped away a section of his fuselage before she saw him, big and white-furred, in the glass cabin. He saw her face go white, looking back at him. Ilse fought her controls, dropping toward the plain. Grinning wryly, fighting his ship that bucked with a hole in her side, Kortha followed her down.
She came running to him across the stones, her loose white bolero jacket blowing back, her straight long legs flashing brown in the sunlight, making shadowy grotesques ahead of her on the jagged rocks. Her red mouth shouted laughter at him, mixed with sobs.
He caught her up against him; bent to memorize her blue eyes, the soft cheeks that were moist with tears, the full scarlet mouth. Her platinum hair blew wild in the breeze.
Kortha drank a kiss from her wet mouth, and kept her crushed to him for moment after moment. Three years on the desert is a long time.
"Whew!" whispered Ilse, laughing up at him with lips and eyes, her nose crinkling a little.
She sobered suddenly; put soft hands to his cheeks, stroking them.
"You fly Guantra's ship. What happened?"
He told her, looking down into her eyes, moving his gaze from hair to lips, to cheeks and throat. She shuddered, listening, and he held her tighter.
"It's no use, Kortha," she said at last. "We can't fight the fleet that Guantra can muster. The fact that he has those weapons makes a lot of difference. I knew when I came for you that we were nearly beaten. You were our only hope. If Kortha could come back from the grave—there would be a psychological value to the thing. We might aim at strikes, at seducing men from Guantra's navy. Build ships on the sly, from Mare Cimmerium to Sinus Gomer. But now—"