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.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic February 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"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.