The Sex Life of the Gods Part 4

"I'm interested in the old ones right now," he told her glumly. "Things have happened so fast, it's hard to accustom to the thing."

"I know," she mused, working over the meal.

He looked at her steadily. "Beth? When did you last see me?"

"Thirteen months ago."

"No, no. I mean, where was I going, what was I doing?"

"You were going up to the cabin to repair the fireplace and build some lawn furniture. You were going to stay over night and come back the evening of the second day. When you didn't come back, Nolan took me up to look for you. Your car was there, but you were gone."

"No clues?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. We thought you might have wandered off into the woods and injured yourself; but I couldn't accept that. You were always a good woodsman, even in desolate country like that."

"Secluded, huh?" He asked.

"Some of the worst country in the state. We bought the place so we could get away from the mess in the city."

He smiled at her. Apparently they had gotten away from one mess merely to fall victim to another.

She sliced him a huge piece of pie and set it before him, the same brave smile still fixed upon her lips. Then she fixed the coffee for him, black with a lump of sugar. He forked some of the pie into his mouth and felt a little sick, along with the headache. A stranger feeding him and loving him, and who knew more about him than he did. He bolted the pie and gulped the coffee hurriedly. When he had finished, he glanced at the electric clock above the pink refrigerator. 9:15.

"Tired, dear?" She asked.

He nodded dully. Now, he thought, I suppose I'm to crawl into bed with her! He felt trapped, suddenly panic stricken at the thought; but she was his wife. He'd married her. He'd probably slept with her thirteen months before. Why the horror?

"We'll go to bed now," she decided. "I usually turn in early. Have to work, you know."

"I'll sleep on the sofa," Nick mumbled.

She blinked at him. "You'll do no such thing. You'll march right upstairs to bed, Nick Danson."

And the die, he figured, was cast...

CHAPTER FOUR

In the final a.n.a.lysis, he was just too tired to attempt an explanation - not physically worn out, but mentally. Since just before dawn, he felt as though he had been on a fantastic merry-go-round. Feeling a bit strange, he allowed her to lead him upstairs to the bedroom. The sight of one bed startled him, even though it was a rather large double. He slid eyes sideways, caught her smiling coyly and forced a grin. She installed him in the bathroom, tossed a pair of pajamas to him and left him alone.

He took a long time showering and shaving. Then when he could avoid it no longer, he went into the bedroom. She was combing her long satiny hair at the dresser and had slipped into an aqua colored nightgown. For a moment, his breath caught in amazement, then he slid between the sheets of the bed and watched her. Finally she stopped combing and walked over to look down at him. He looked back, feeling a little like a caged animal - but enjoying it.

She fell to her knees beside the bed, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with happiness.

The red lipped smile was again tugging at her full mouth. Her fingers wound gently in his hair and the warm pressure of her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s rested boldly upon his arm as though they knew they belonged there.

"I love you so much, Nick," she whispered, her eyes half closed.

He reached out a hand to touch her cheek and the softness of it against his fingers alarmed him, thrilled him. He knew what he had to tell her, but it was a long time in coming. "I ... I love you too, Beth," he whispered.

Her soft, moist lips came gently down upon his like a twin promise of the offering of love that awaited him and he felt his own lips responding. A slight tremor ran through him as her fingers flicked at the wall and the room became sheathed in darkness. Moonlight filtered through the curtains and she moved into the bed, her lithe shape molding into the hardness of his. Her voice was a warm breath in his ear and her arms slid over his chest while she talked.

"You don't love me, darling. That's the whole trouble. We love with our minds, and love is an acc.u.mulation of a million memories - but you have lost yours. I know, I know. To you..."

"Beth," he began but she clamped her hand over his mouth.

"To you, darling, I'm a stranger, just another woman. I know I can't be anything more right now. You'll have to learn to love me again.

"But me? Nick, it's different with me. I've waited for thirteen long months for you to love me again, and by some miracle you've come back.

You're here and so am I. I love you and I want you. Oh, darling, pretend I'm a wh.o.r.e; pretend I'm anything ... but make love to me. Pay no attention to anything except to me..."

His mouth folded over hers, shutting off the flow of words in a pa.s.sionate kiss, while his hands smoothed down over the wisp of silk that kept his fingers from her flesh. Her arms clung to him tightly.

"It won't be hard, Beth," he whispered against the side of her face.

"You're beautiful ... it won't be hard to love you..."

Then she twisted from him, making a memory of the film of nightgown that had kept his hands away from her. He moved to her, his fingers stroking her into pa.s.sion while she pulled his face down to the soft thrust of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Then she was clamped against him and struggling to get even closer, her body making a prison for him ... yet at the same time giving him freedom.

Later, when she slept, he propped himself on one elbow to study the soft lines of her face. Then he too dropped off to sleep.

His uniform was torn by the purple bushes and their nine inch thorns, and streamers of blood painted the rich blue and yellow of his trousers.

His face was smeared with grey, pasty dirt and the hand that held the auto-pistol was wet with sweat. His stomach had rolled into a tight ball within him and he was frightened.

They were out there somewhere, waiting for the sound of his black leather boots to clatter on one of the grey-green rocks that littered the hillside. They would find him. Their d.a.m.ned radar antennae would spot him for them. There was no escape from the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and he knew it. Commander Imry had bungled every d.a.m.ned a.s.signment he'd been given, and now Firsts.p.a.cer Lors would have to die in the supreme bungle that had created the first native uprising on Thista. He looked up along the face of the high mountain in his rear. Nothing moved in the greenish-purple scrub, but he knew they were there.

He peered over the edge of the rock into the valley, a hundred and fifty _kinos_ away. The patrol car was still there, its driver lying grotesquely just a few feet from the hatch. The thick, heavy spear through his chest resembled a finger pointing toward the violet sky.

Closer to him, on the slope, one of the enemy lay dying, a greenish-brown fluid pumping spasmodically from the hole put in his chest by the auto-pistol. The alien's huge yellow eyes blinked owlishly and the slash-like mouth worked as if he wanted to call for help. But no sound came. The antennae swiveled limply as he tried to locate his comrades, but they drooped as the alien died.

Still tightly clutching the auto-pistol, he watched the thin, grey antennae fall to the ground. They pointed off to the left. He swung about and looked in the direction the native had been scanning, but he could see no movement beyond the swaying of the desert gra.s.s moving in the faint breath of air.

They should have gotten the message. By now, there was probably a s.h.i.+p on its way to him. He had to hold out until they got here. He flipped open the cartridge box and checked his ammunition. Plenty. Of course, the auto-pistol only held fifteen shots and if they rushed him... He wished fervently that he had thought to bring the projectile launcher from the wrecked patrol car.

d.a.m.ned natives and their uprisings!

He searched the sky anxiously, cold sweat trickling off his forehead in tiny rivulets. Scenes of other uprisings flickered through his brain, and more horrible scenes of the remains of tortured captives when he reached them too late. Those had been small. This one was for real.

The native seemed to materialize out of the ground, screaming shrill obscenities as he drew himself to his full nine feet of height and brandished the heavy maul over his head. He came leaping over the ground and up the hill of tumbled rocks in fiendish rage, his grey antennae pointed directly at Firsts.p.a.cer Lors. Behind him came the others, eight of them.

He fired the auto-pistol at the lead alien, watching the bullet tear a hole in his face, ripping away one of the blinking yellow eyes. The alien screamed and fell blubbering. He fired again and again, dropping two more before the charge broke.

Then suddenly, at a sound, he whirled and stared terrified at the alien behind him. The charge had been a fake, an old military stunt that any green s.p.a.cer could have seen through. For one brief instant, he stared into the large eyes of the native. Then he fired. Another native rose from the ground, then another and another. He fired repeatedly, crying and cursing in his rage at the weapon's inefficiency, while over his head he heard the roaring of the rescue s.h.i.+p.

Tongues of flame soared over his head and into the surging ma.s.s of aliens. He hoped the s.h.i.+p was not too late...