A KISS FOR THE CONQUEROR By CLYDE MITCHELL _From our innermost planet to the farthest reaches of space, one man plus one woman equals--well, read Mr. Mitchell's story._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "Tonight's the night," Bolgar said. He ducked his head to catch a glimpse of his face in the particle of mirror hanging on the barrack wall. It was a lean and hungry face, the hollows in the thin cheeks disguised by the three-day growth of stubble. He could see Sgt. Pulley's sneer reflected in the glass. "You think I'm joking?" Bolgar pushed the long black hair over his ears with the palms of his hands. There were few combs in the world. "I think you're nuts," Pulley said from his bunk. He was wearing a ragged T-shirt. The medal, with its shrieking eagle green with rust, looked ludicrous pinned to his chest. But Pulley wouldn't part with it. "We'll see," Bolgar said grimly. "Can I use your razor?" Pulley shrugged. "Once more won't matter. I'd give a thousand credits for a straight-edge and a strop." "Fat chance," Bolgar said. He peeled off the coat of his gun-metal gray uniform and flung it on the bed. Then he went to the brown-spotted sink and turned the only faucet that worked. The trickle of icy water that emerged ran copper. "Ion gun," he said crisply. Pulley extracted the device from his waist, and tossed it to his barrack-mate. Bolgar ran a count on the water. It was clear. "Razor," he said. Pulley threw that, too. The metal was as rotten green as the man's eternal medal. Bolgar looked at it disgustedly, running a thumb along the blade without breaking skin. "Couldn't cut lard," he said with a snort. But he started the painful shaving process. * * * * * Pulley watched in fascination. "You really got it bad," he said wonderingly. "Taking a chance like that, for one lousy kiss. What's so hot about this dame?" "I can't explain it. She's a looker--but it's more than that. I been watching her parade around, swingin' her little--" He cut himself and swore. "I stopped to speak to her once. There was something in her face--the same kind of thing you see in _all_ their faces--" "Yeah," Pulley said bitterly. "I know the look." "Do you?" The other man turned around. "What do _you_ see? Hate?" "Yeah. What else?" "No." Bolgar shook his head and stared moodily at himself in the sliver of glass. "It's not hate anymore, Pulley. The hate died out of 'em a long time ago--right after the war, right after the contamination...." "They hate us," Pulley stated flatly. "I don't think so. I think it's something different now. Something worse." He began to shave again. "Contempt," he said.