The Death From Orion
By W. J. MATTHEWS
Tiny suns set in rare metals, crystals of fire
that mocked Terra's diamonds and pearls as
lusterless pebbles and pale glass, the ancient
treasure left behind the same time-worn
trail of sudden blood and stiffening corpses!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
For a long minute the big man did not speak, rocking gently on his heels, hands clasped behind his broad back. The dim glow of the atomics in the corridor cast shadowy bars of gold and sable across his cold face, picked glints of steel and silver from his heavy gunbelt and saffron uniform. The only sound was the gentle tinkle of leg-irons as the prisoner lounging on the cell-bench idly swung his crossed leg, returning the heavier man's reptilian stare with a detached, infuriating coolness.
It moved him to break his silent regard. The thick voice rasped in the dim-lit cell.
"You know why I am here, Kurland?"
The black-bearded outlaw shrugged, a glitter of white teeth splintering his calm stare.
"Were you other than Gion, Marward of Jupiter, I should know. As it is, I do not."