# 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