THE LIGHTNING'S COURSE
by JOHN VICTOR PETERSON
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Comet January 41.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was only a robot, tiny, chubby, for all the universe like a Ganymedean monkey. It stood in the dark old mansion alone, stiff, immovable. Its pink, bewhiskered, rubberoid face seemed twisted with abject loneliness.... Aye, it stood alone and lonely, as if awaiting the return of its master—
The song pulsed in a vibrant, ominous cadence through the streets of nightclad Certagarni, clashed against the glassite atmosphere—retaining walls of the ancient Martian city, and penetrated faintly into a dimly lighted room of the Earth Embassy where the two earthmen sat smoking, listening.
One of them spoke in a hoarse whisper which cut out above the dull, endless drone of discontented voices like the scream of a tortured soul:
"God, if it would only break! Flame across a world—battles to be fought and won!"
"And lost, Del Andres!" came the other's calm voice. "If this revolt does come, it'll be so big that we'll never stamp it down without the Legion!" His slender fingers rose to caress thoughtfully a close-cropped, golden beard.
A twisted, bitter smile played on Del Andres' full, sensitive lips. Strange pain was etched on his dark, handsome face and in the black pools of his eyes flame burned. He remained silent.