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.

"We'll see," Bolgar said grimly. "Can I use your razor?"

Pulley shrugged. "Once more won't matter. I'd give a thousand credits
for a straight-edge and a strop."

"Fat chance," Bolgar said. He peeled off the coat of his gun-metal gray
uniform and flung it on the bed. Then he went to the brown-spotted sink
and turned the only faucet that worked. The trickle of icy water that
emerged ran copper.

"Ion gun," he said crisply.

Pulley extracted the device from his waist, and tossed it to his
barrack-mate.

Bolgar ran a count on the water. It was clear.

"Razor," he said.

Pulley threw that, too. The metal was as rotten green as the man's
eternal medal. Bolgar looked at it disgustedly, running a thumb along
the blade without breaking skin.

"Couldn't cut lard," he said with a snort. But he started the painful
shaving process.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pulley watched in fascination. "You really got it bad," he said
wonderingly. "Taking a chance like that, for one lousy kiss. What's so
hot about this dame?"

"I can't explain it. She's a looker--but it's more than that. I been
watching her parade around, swingin' her little--" He cut himself and
swore. "I stopped to speak to her once. There was something in her
face--the same kind of thing you see in _all_ their faces--"

"Yeah," Pulley said bitterly. "I know the look."

"Do you?" The other man turned around. "What do _you_ see? Hate?"

"Yeah. What else?"

"No." Bolgar shook his head and stared moodily at himself in the sliver
of glass. "It's not hate anymore, Pulley. The hate died out of 'em a
long time ago--right after the war, right after the contamination...."

"They hate us," Pulley stated flatly.

"I don't think so. I think it's something different now. Something
worse." He began to shave again. "Contempt," he said.

Pulley's right hand balled into a fist and struck his knee. "We shoulda
killed 'em all! We shoulda wiped 'em out!"

"I asked her for a match," Bolgar said dreamily. "Just a lousy match.
She stared at me like I was some kind of microbe. Then she wraps her
damn cape around her face like she didn't want to let me breathe on
her." His growing anger caused his hand to tremble; he cut himself a
second time.

"So you're gonna kiss her?" Pulley sneered. "Why don't you throttle the
gal? Why don't you beat her up? Or haven't you got the guts?"

Bolgar turned the anger on him. "Watch yourself, Sergeant!"

"Pulling rank?" It was a jeer.

"Shut up!"

Pulley swung his boots to the bed. "Okay, pal," he chuckled. "Have it
your own way. You're asking for the same amount of trouble--whether you
kiss her or kill her--"

"I'm going to kiss her," Bolgar said vacantly, dabbing at his face with
a grimy cloth. "I'm going to wait for her by the mess hall. She comes
out of quarters on Barton Street every night around ten o'clock. She
cuts across the square, over to Pitcher Street. It's pretty deserted
there, that time. I'm gonna jump out and--"

"Operation kiss," Bolgar laughed, toying with the medal on his chest.
"The last victory of the war...."

Bolgar slipped into his coat. The unbleached cloth was shabby and
threadbare, but the buttons were still bright and gleaming. The
insignia of the 505th Army caught the light in the room brazenly, the
iron hand clutching forked lightning. He had medals, too, and they
jangled as he buttoned the coat up to its tight collar. At least, he
thought, his medals were worn where they belonged.

"My!" Pulley said mockingly. "You look pretty, Lieutenant."

"Where's my cap?"

"On the hook, behind you."

Bolgar put the cap on his head, squaring it. He stepped back from the
glass to determine its correctness.

"Beautiful!" Pulley said.

"All right, knock it off! What time is it?"

"Twenty of ten. Better get goin'. Your girl friend's waiting."

"I'm going," Bolgar said, strapping on his watch. He clanked to the
doorway of the barrack, but turned before going out. "This place
stinks," he said. "We got to clean it up one of these days."

"Sure," Pulley said lazily. He flopped over on the sagging bunk and
turned his head to the wall. "Have a good time, Lieutenant." His
chuckle ended in a yawn.

       *       *       *       *       *

The area was deserted, just as Bolgar knew it would be.

He walked quick march towards the mess hall, hoping that he would be
unobserved, regretting now the cluster of medals on his uniform. He
knew that these tokens of battle were officially frowned upon; but he
also knew that there would be added satisfaction in crushing the hard
bits of brass and iron against the girl's heaving chest....

He ducked behind a building when he heard footsteps.

Two women passed him, speaking in low tones, their skirts rustling in
the silence of the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

He held his breath until they were gone, and darted out from
concealment, walking more rapidly towards his destination.

The mess hall wasn't a hundred yards away from the wire fence that
marked the safety limit. Even from where he was, he could see the
red-lettered sign that warned conqueror and vanquished alike away from
the radiation-contaminated zone.

Bolgar suddenly remembered that he had forgotten his ion gun. The
thought troubled him only slightly. He had more vital things on his
mind.

It was an odd revenge he was after.

The mess hall was a looming black shadow, facing the rows of
sagging-roofed shacks that stretched out for a third of a mile. It was
_their_ quarters; seedier, uglier, far less equipped to withstand the
brutal weather than the barracks; yet somehow, warmer, friendlier,
happier-looking. He hated the sight of them.

He dived into the enveloping darkness behind the mess hall, stealing a
look at the illuminated dial of his watch. He began his vigil.

In a few minutes, _she_ would appear.

Time went slowly.

Then he saw her. She was giving murmured good-byes to the people with
whom she visited night after night. Now it was time to go, half an hour
before the sound of curfew.

He saw her arms adjusting her cape over her head, in the age-old motion
of women.

Now she was walking hurriedly away from the shack, across the square,
her low heels slipping on the loose gravel.

There was a moon, and its light struck her face gently, softly
highlighting the sad loveliness of her features.

When she was some twenty yards away, Bolgar started after her.

He walked lightly, on his toes.

She didn't hear him until it was too late.

His hand went out, and his fingers whipped the cape from her shoulders
to the ground. One arm snaked her waist, the other arched smoothly in
front of her.

       *       *       *       *       *

But she was struggling, her foot kicking out forcefully.

"Just a kiss, baby!"

He leaned over her, laughing, and replaced the hand over her lips with
his own hungry mouth.

The kiss was savage; beyond the force of love or sexual appetite. It
was a blow, a crushing onslaught, a blitz of the emotions.

"You--_animal_!" she cried.

"Listen--"

"Help!" she screamed.

"No--you don't understand--"

"Stop!" he shouted.

He turned around, frantic at the sounds that were gathering behind him.
He saw the figures coming towards them.

When the hands closed around him, he went limp and silent, and allowed
himself to be led away.

The tribunal took action quickly.

The guards, with their rifles firm against their chests, looked at him
with neither hate nor animosity.

The judges were less dispassionate.

"Lieutenant Bolgar?"

He stared over their heads.

"Janice Damon?"

The girl stepped forward, still sobbing.

"Yes--" she said. "He's the one. He's been watching me. I know it. I've
seen him hanging around the quarters."

The woman in the silken uniform looked solemn.

"You were given many privileges, Lieutenant," she said crisply. "But it
would seem that _men_--" she said the word with loathing--"must always
take advantage of their privileges. Do you have anything to say?"

He shook his head.

"It's greed, you know," the woman said confidentially. The other women
of the tribunal nodded in agreement. "Greed's the downfall of _all_
men. How many wars do you have to lose before you realize that?"

He said nothing.

"Send him to the breeding camp," the woman said carelessly. "He'll pay
for his kiss."

She looked at the girl sympathetically.

"Your lipstick's smudged, dearie."


                                THE END