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Tesseract, v. 2, issue 1, January 1937
8
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8 tesseract you realize it or not, but that's exactly the position I occupy. I'm not afraid of any spacer in the system, and I'll defy them to the end. In turn, Commander, I warn you. Let none of your ships descend to my planetoid, or it will be to their destruction." For the moment it seemed his mask slipped, twinging aside to reveal the hate and defiance of a wild elemental nature at bay, but it might have been a trick of the flickering light. Commander Rasmon was silent, staring into the transformed visage. Slowly he drew erect and raised his hand. "Space-Guard, attention!" he commanded crisply. "Break formation for U-line, on the instant ready to attack! Await further orders." The hollow chuckles of the Falcon seemed to persist even after his image faded from the telescreen; then they too died away. Rasmon could see the milling space cruisers swing back under the facile control of his pilots, string out behind the lead-ship, and in battle formation they slid downward across space. Then, gracefully, a thing of metal beauty and strength, the end space-ship dropped downward from the line, at first slow and ponderous, and with gaing speed the bulky lines seemed to vanish and melt into a graceful bulleting missle. Another, and another, perfectly timed, dropped - ovoid streaks in the sunlights glow, splashed against the shadowed side of the pirate's plane with meteoric acceleration. Yet somehow, Commander Rasmon, in the lead - ship which hovered high in space and directed preliminary attack, recalled the rattling laughter which had chuckled from the radiophone as the Falcon's features had dimmed into nothingness. Something foreboding had been expressed; a wordless threat. The savage mirth of Krag Gifford had been more ominous in its original utterance than in the reproduced version in the radiophones of the winging spaceships. Gifford turned from his instruments to the cringing manacled prisoner, under the watchful supervision of Sandreen. Hugh Denzil's feverish imagination had conjured a diabolical aspect to the little vista, and the pirate chieftan seemed transformed to a hellish demon. "You're wondering why I sent for you?" shot Gifford. "Yes, I suppose you are. Denzil, you were pretty clever. Your subtle lies, convincing me that you were a pursued criminal, enabled you to join our forces, which you subsequently betrayed. There is one thing I particularly despise. I hate a spy! My morals may not parallel mudane trends, but to betrayal there is but one just fate, and that death. Perhaps it will be bitter for you to know that your treason has gained nothing. Before you die, I wanted you to know this. That is why I sent for you." It was all very kaleidoscopic to Hugh Denzil. His wounds were like raw searing tongues of fire. The manacles cut into his wrists and the short chain held his arms in a constricted position. The Falcon returned to his instruments. Upon a large telescreen at one side of the room was a tele-transmitted scene of the firmament above, black and velvety, with its long line of manouvering spaceships limned by the reflection of sunlight in outer space. The huge and apprehensive Sandreen stared from his prisoner back to the telescreen where the spaceships began falling, one by one, down upon the planetoid. "They are coming!" Shouted Sandreen. "Let them come!" Krag Gifford said, glancing a trifle contemptously at his huge underline. "We'll be ready." Those long clean craft, dropping in swift arcs, sent a thrill of pride thru Denzil. Well he knew of those trim uniformed men braced at the controls, of others crouching by the manipulator swivels of space-guns, winding to bear on the pirate planetoid; and at the same time he was aware of floodlights glaring across the rooftop of the city, of nervous hustling groups hovering about the barricades, whence giant vitreous muzzles pointed up into the air, anxious to spit death and destruction.
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8 tesseract you realize it or not, but that's exactly the position I occupy. I'm not afraid of any spacer in the system, and I'll defy them to the end. In turn, Commander, I warn you. Let none of your ships descend to my planetoid, or it will be to their destruction." For the moment it seemed his mask slipped, twinging aside to reveal the hate and defiance of a wild elemental nature at bay, but it might have been a trick of the flickering light. Commander Rasmon was silent, staring into the transformed visage. Slowly he drew erect and raised his hand. "Space-Guard, attention!" he commanded crisply. "Break formation for U-line, on the instant ready to attack! Await further orders." The hollow chuckles of the Falcon seemed to persist even after his image faded from the telescreen; then they too died away. Rasmon could see the milling space cruisers swing back under the facile control of his pilots, string out behind the lead-ship, and in battle formation they slid downward across space. Then, gracefully, a thing of metal beauty and strength, the end space-ship dropped downward from the line, at first slow and ponderous, and with gaing speed the bulky lines seemed to vanish and melt into a graceful bulleting missle. Another, and another, perfectly timed, dropped - ovoid streaks in the sunlights glow, splashed against the shadowed side of the pirate's plane with meteoric acceleration. Yet somehow, Commander Rasmon, in the lead - ship which hovered high in space and directed preliminary attack, recalled the rattling laughter which had chuckled from the radiophone as the Falcon's features had dimmed into nothingness. Something foreboding had been expressed; a wordless threat. The savage mirth of Krag Gifford had been more ominous in its original utterance than in the reproduced version in the radiophones of the winging spaceships. Gifford turned from his instruments to the cringing manacled prisoner, under the watchful supervision of Sandreen. Hugh Denzil's feverish imagination had conjured a diabolical aspect to the little vista, and the pirate chieftan seemed transformed to a hellish demon. "You're wondering why I sent for you?" shot Gifford. "Yes, I suppose you are. Denzil, you were pretty clever. Your subtle lies, convincing me that you were a pursued criminal, enabled you to join our forces, which you subsequently betrayed. There is one thing I particularly despise. I hate a spy! My morals may not parallel mudane trends, but to betrayal there is but one just fate, and that death. Perhaps it will be bitter for you to know that your treason has gained nothing. Before you die, I wanted you to know this. That is why I sent for you." It was all very kaleidoscopic to Hugh Denzil. His wounds were like raw searing tongues of fire. The manacles cut into his wrists and the short chain held his arms in a constricted position. The Falcon returned to his instruments. Upon a large telescreen at one side of the room was a tele-transmitted scene of the firmament above, black and velvety, with its long line of manouvering spaceships limned by the reflection of sunlight in outer space. The huge and apprehensive Sandreen stared from his prisoner back to the telescreen where the spaceships began falling, one by one, down upon the planetoid. "They are coming!" Shouted Sandreen. "Let them come!" Krag Gifford said, glancing a trifle contemptously at his huge underline. "We'll be ready." Those long clean craft, dropping in swift arcs, sent a thrill of pride thru Denzil. Well he knew of those trim uniformed men braced at the controls, of others crouching by the manipulator swivels of space-guns, winding to bear on the pirate planetoid; and at the same time he was aware of floodlights glaring across the rooftop of the city, of nervous hustling groups hovering about the barricades, whence giant vitreous muzzles pointed up into the air, anxious to spit death and destruction.
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