with unabashed accuracy that of all my scribbling through the years, this story holds the dubious honor as the one most reprinted. After the Zebra book outing, it appeared in comic book form-- issue number six of the BJA sci-fi title “Alien Worlds”. At the time I was writing all the stories for the comic—four per issue--and simply ran out of steam. Yes, I stole from myself. With Frank Brunner’s illustrative help, the tale turned out rather well in graphic story form, I think, though I’m not sure it’s science fiction. Not long afterwards (probably not long enough) the tale appeared again in a now out-of-print paperback collection of my stories called TWISTED TALES . To some a collector’s item now, the book boasted a cover and several interior illustrations by ole pal Richard Corben. All this was made more confusing because “Twisted Tales” is also the title of another line of BJA comics partner April Campbell and I were packaging for San Diego publisher Pacific Comics. Whew! At any rate (as Robert Bloch’s agent always said) now, at long last, the poor, tattered, homeless story has a final resting place in this tediously long foreward. So you see, kids, if you want to be a really-for-real professional writer, always be ambivalent. But most of all learn to think green—recycle! And maybe you too can endlessly torture a beleaguered reading public with the likes of something as unceasingly ubiquitous as:
T he Colifax she wore at her girdle, and she didn’t like it. It pulled the wrong way. It hurt. It looked ugly.
The stunner she had thrown away hours ago. She could always claim later she’d lost it in the tangled underbrush. It would cost her, of course, but she’d rather pay a fine than be humiliated by the presence of a common gun. She would have thrown away the Colifax too, even earlier, but it happened to be worth several million credits base value and even more than that to the prestige of Colony Six and its commander; if she had any intention of staying with the Fleet, she’d better hang onto that particular piece of hardware.
All right, she’d put up with the damn thing. Even if it did get in her way, slow her down and (most importantly) unforgivably disfigure her sexy, newly designed combat uniform. She’d suffer through.
But damned if she’d use it. She’d flit through this mission in record time, bring back her man without a scratch (to either of them) and collect her credits and medals. And she didn’t need any so-called cutting-edge techno-gadget to accomplish it. Dangers? Of course. Threats? To be sure. There were always those. But she’d run into them before, in more jungles on more planets than she could remember. She could handle it. Handle it well.
She had her sword.
Ah. Her sword.
She touched it now, lightly, on the jeweled hilt as she stepped over the next moss-laden log, and couldn’t suppress a smile of pride tugging her lovely cheek. Now here was a sword!
The uniform may have been for show, true; the flaming hair, moisture-gloss lips, black choker and diamond slippers, pure eye-candy, all for effect. Granted. Even the elegant sweep and flamboyant design of the blade itself may have been opulently histrionic—but that’s where the similarity ended. Once that ivory hand wrapped around that ebon grip and the blinding sabre length sang from its scabbard, all the tinsel ended, all the glitter vanished.
She was lightning, she was whirlwind, she was blinding blur—everywhere her opponent should have been just one nth of a second before he got there—all slash and gleam and terrible wind-screaming death was she. Until her combatant got dizzy just watching, just absorbing this wondrous dervish-- probably never felt the incredible razor incisions even after the ground was soaking red under him and his knees were buckling of their own accord. Oh she was good. She was the best. Sex distinction
T he Colifax she wore at her girdle, and she didn’t like it. It pulled the wrong way. It hurt. It looked ugly.
The stunner she had thrown away hours ago. She could always claim later she’d lost it in the tangled underbrush. It would cost her, of course, but she’d rather pay a fine than be humiliated by the presence of a common gun. She would have thrown away the Colifax too, even earlier, but it happened to be worth several million credits base value and even more than that to the prestige of Colony Six and its commander; if she had any intention of staying with the Fleet, she’d better hang onto that particular piece of hardware.
All right, she’d put up with the damn thing. Even if it did get in her way, slow her down and (most importantly) unforgivably disfigure her sexy, newly designed combat uniform. She’d suffer through.
But damned if she’d use it. She’d flit through this mission in record time, bring back her man without a scratch (to either of them) and collect her credits and medals. And she didn’t need any so-called cutting-edge techno-gadget to accomplish it. Dangers? Of course. Threats? To be sure. There were always those. But she’d run into them before, in more jungles on more planets than she could remember. She could handle it. Handle it well.
She had her sword.
Ah. Her sword.
She touched it now, lightly, on the jeweled hilt as she stepped over the next moss-laden log, and couldn’t suppress a smile of pride tugging her lovely cheek. Now here was a sword!
The uniform may have been for show, true; the flaming hair, moisture-gloss lips, black choker and diamond slippers, pure eye-candy, all for effect. Granted. Even the elegant sweep and flamboyant design of the blade itself may have been opulently histrionic—but that’s where the similarity ended. Once that ivory hand wrapped around that ebon grip and the blinding sabre length sang from its scabbard, all the tinsel ended, all the glitter vanished.
She was lightning, she was whirlwind, she was blinding blur—everywhere her opponent should have been just one nth of a second before he got there—all slash and gleam and terrible wind-screaming death was she. Until her combatant got dizzy just watching, just absorbing this wondrous dervish-- probably never felt the incredible razor incisions even after the ground was soaking red under him and his knees were buckling of their own accord. Oh she was good. She was the best. Sex distinction
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