red carbuncle Horn had never noticed before.
Hornâs lips twisted. So it was the thief who was caught, not the assassin.
The gun sight drifted back up the steps to the group on the platform, separated a little now as it acknowledged the audienceâs enthusiasm.
Like the finger of fate, the sight moved across the faces of the rulers of Eron.
Young, proud Ronholm, flushed with triumph.
Thin, sardonic Fenelon, contemptuous of the herd.
Wendre Kohlnar, radiantly lovely, holding her fatherâs arm with a slim, golden hand.
The dying man, Kohlnar, blinking in the sunlight, his face set with the effort of keeping himself erect.
Duchane, powerful and arrogant, his eyes searching the crowd for those who did not cheer or cheered without enthusiasm.
Short, fat Matal, eyes small and calculating as they estimated how much of the applause was for him.
Which one! The question was idle. Horn knew which one. That was why he was here. To kill a man. To shoot one man down from ambush. The sight wavered.
Why am I here? The answer this time was a little different. Because someone wants this man killed.
It had nothing to do with Horn. He was just an instrument. Suddenly he resented that, resented the necessity of doing something he had no interest in doing. The getting here was something different. This thing was easy and distasteful.
But the necessity was there. He had taken the money to do a job. The job was not yet done.
The crosshairs steadied. They centered themselves on the dying man.
Horn gave the thumbscrew another half-twist, estimated the air velocity, and peered through the sight once more. The gun, resting on the wall, didnât waver. The General Manager of Eron seemed only a few meters away. The symbol of Empire waited for the executioner.
Slowly Hornâs finger squeezed the trigger. The pistol jumped, just a little. For a second Kohlnar looked surprised, and then his face sagged, blankly, and his body folded gently to the platform.
Â
THE HISTORY
Star-wandering.â¦
That strange, wonderful period after the breakdown of the first interplanetary civilization. That irresistible bursting-forth which scattered manâs seed hundreds of light years across the stars. That time of struggle and adventure, villainy and heroism.
There were heroes in those days, men larger than reality and magnified in the retelling. Men like Roy Kellon, they became the demi-gods of a new mythology.
Man didnât emerge from the star-wandering quite the same. The engines of the first interstellar ships were poorly shielded; that changed him. The worlds he settled changed him. Isolation changed him. And he traced his ancestry from heroes and demi-gods.
From such origins should come the superman. But the changes were insignificant. Men were still men, even the three-meter Denebolan giants who formed Eronâs elite guard.
Even the Golden Folk of Eron, who lived, loved, and died like other men.
Still, it is unwise to underestimate the psychological importance of a slight variation in pigmentation.
How do you define the superman? The Golden Folk knew.â¦
Â
Â
6
FLIGHT
The scene was frozen under an afternoon sun. All eternity seemed concentrated into a moment, unchanging, unchangeable. And thenâ
Chaos.â¦
The Directors scattered. Only Wendre remained, kneeling beside the crumpled thing that had been her father, then rising, straight and unafraid, to search the edge of the field.
Horn held her face in the gun sight. It was a caress. His finger was far from the trigger.
The charging guards reached the platform. Their ranks became a living shield, three meters high. The last thing Horn saw was the black hulk of Duchaneâs hunter. It was dead against the monument. The bullet had passed through Kohlnar and struck down another killer.
The amplifier shouted orders in a sure, powerful voice. Duchane , Horn thought.
The voice was quick and accurate. No one would move except the guards. They
Hornâs lips twisted. So it was the thief who was caught, not the assassin.
The gun sight drifted back up the steps to the group on the platform, separated a little now as it acknowledged the audienceâs enthusiasm.
Like the finger of fate, the sight moved across the faces of the rulers of Eron.
Young, proud Ronholm, flushed with triumph.
Thin, sardonic Fenelon, contemptuous of the herd.
Wendre Kohlnar, radiantly lovely, holding her fatherâs arm with a slim, golden hand.
The dying man, Kohlnar, blinking in the sunlight, his face set with the effort of keeping himself erect.
Duchane, powerful and arrogant, his eyes searching the crowd for those who did not cheer or cheered without enthusiasm.
Short, fat Matal, eyes small and calculating as they estimated how much of the applause was for him.
Which one! The question was idle. Horn knew which one. That was why he was here. To kill a man. To shoot one man down from ambush. The sight wavered.
Why am I here? The answer this time was a little different. Because someone wants this man killed.
It had nothing to do with Horn. He was just an instrument. Suddenly he resented that, resented the necessity of doing something he had no interest in doing. The getting here was something different. This thing was easy and distasteful.
But the necessity was there. He had taken the money to do a job. The job was not yet done.
The crosshairs steadied. They centered themselves on the dying man.
Horn gave the thumbscrew another half-twist, estimated the air velocity, and peered through the sight once more. The gun, resting on the wall, didnât waver. The General Manager of Eron seemed only a few meters away. The symbol of Empire waited for the executioner.
Slowly Hornâs finger squeezed the trigger. The pistol jumped, just a little. For a second Kohlnar looked surprised, and then his face sagged, blankly, and his body folded gently to the platform.
Â
THE HISTORY
Star-wandering.â¦
That strange, wonderful period after the breakdown of the first interplanetary civilization. That irresistible bursting-forth which scattered manâs seed hundreds of light years across the stars. That time of struggle and adventure, villainy and heroism.
There were heroes in those days, men larger than reality and magnified in the retelling. Men like Roy Kellon, they became the demi-gods of a new mythology.
Man didnât emerge from the star-wandering quite the same. The engines of the first interstellar ships were poorly shielded; that changed him. The worlds he settled changed him. Isolation changed him. And he traced his ancestry from heroes and demi-gods.
From such origins should come the superman. But the changes were insignificant. Men were still men, even the three-meter Denebolan giants who formed Eronâs elite guard.
Even the Golden Folk of Eron, who lived, loved, and died like other men.
Still, it is unwise to underestimate the psychological importance of a slight variation in pigmentation.
How do you define the superman? The Golden Folk knew.â¦
Â
Â
6
FLIGHT
The scene was frozen under an afternoon sun. All eternity seemed concentrated into a moment, unchanging, unchangeable. And thenâ
Chaos.â¦
The Directors scattered. Only Wendre remained, kneeling beside the crumpled thing that had been her father, then rising, straight and unafraid, to search the edge of the field.
Horn held her face in the gun sight. It was a caress. His finger was far from the trigger.
The charging guards reached the platform. Their ranks became a living shield, three meters high. The last thing Horn saw was the black hulk of Duchaneâs hunter. It was dead against the monument. The bullet had passed through Kohlnar and struck down another killer.
The amplifier shouted orders in a sure, powerful voice. Duchane , Horn thought.
The voice was quick and accurate. No one would move except the guards. They
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