The engine was the wealth of Mars. With it Kortha
could save his people ... or the evil Guantra
could rule the Universe. But neither could use
the machine until its secret was solved—so
they fought and schemed for the knowledge, and
their planet lay on the brink of destruction.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Kortha the smith brooded out over the great red waste of desert. Mensaid Kortha was a genius. Men said he was the biggest man on Mars, andstrong as an anthropoid ape. But Kortha brooded, because Kortha was acoward.
He was not afraid for himself. He was afraid of himself.
He looked at his sun-bronzed, hamlike hands, and shuddered; glisteningbeads of sweat appeared on his forehead. With those hands he had killedmen, and had crippled his best friend for life.
Behind him gleamed the red utta-brick smithy and his small shack,and the tiny structure he called his laboratory. Swinging on his heel,he went away from the desert and into the smithy. He made the bellowsleap, and the red flames spurt from the furnace. With the tongs helifted a white-hot strip of metal and pounded on it with a sledge thatan ordinary man would have found immovable.
In the clang and dance of hammer on anvil, he lost himself; listenedonly to the mad symphony of beaten metal instead of the still,small voices of his soul. The din of smitten steel jangling on thesootblacked anvil was the music that helped the giant forget his heart.His eyes gleamed red from the smarting flames, and he peered into theirdepths with green eyes wide and angry as though he beheld a corner ofsome lost hell.
He did not hear the muffled thunder of the 'copter that swung in acircle above his shack and swooped downward to dig its tires into theyielding sands. He did not see the door open, and who came out.
"Kortha," said a voice like a song.
He started then; looked up, brows furrowed. His eyes opened a trifle inastonishment.
"Ilse!" he whispered. The hammer fell from his grasp and bounced on thebrick floor.
The girl with the hair like spun flax laughed softly and leaned againstthe wooden door. A white cloak clasped with a fiery ruby draped hershoulders. She wore gauze trousers with broad leather belt studded withjewels, and a bolero of arket-fur. Her white midriff was bare.
"You ran away, Kortha," she accused, her dark eyes gleaming like uncutsapphires from the tanned oval of her face. "You ran away from Hurlgutwhen he needed you. It took me a long time to learn where you hadholed."
"Three years," said Kortha softly, wiping grimy hands on the white furthat clasped his hard loins beneath the leathern apron.
The girl ran her eyes over his massive frame in approval; saw shouldersa yard wide, and a chest and legs that were ridged in muscles. His longarms, tanned by years of exposure to a desert sun, were those of aking gorilla. She had seen Kortha snap an iron chain with those arms;had seen him break a man's back, and other things. Well did Ilse knowthe strength of Kortha, and the fact that she carried a heatgun in hercloak was mute evidence that she had knowledge of his mad, flare-hottemper.
Ilse sighed, "You could rule the Confederacy if you would."
"And own gems to garland your hair, and furs to swathe your body," hesaid.
His green eyes belied his voice: they drank up the sight of Ilse andher red mouth and her platinum hair as a miser drinks up the sight ofhis yellow gold.
"You idiot," she whispered. "You man-killing, tempestuous idiot! Zut