AGAINST TETRARCH By A. A. O. Gilmour On that evil planet, broken men who had once trod Earth knew only two things for sure. One, they all were dying at twenty-five. Two, lovely Mona Darlanan was a dirty traitor. [Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1947. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Rod Harrow pawed futilely at the whirling sands in the gryxon mines on Tetrarch IV. Dimly, as through a dark mist, he could see the line of bobbing lamps that etched the tunnel outlines. He raised his pick for another weary stroke, when he noticed the slave next to him. The poor devil’s face was ghastly under its close-fitting helmet. It was deeply lined, worn--and old. Rod saw his twisted grin when the man crumpled against the rocky abutment. A despairing cackle pierced his audiphones: “_I was twenty-five yesterday. I’ll be glad to die!_” Rod eased him as he slid to the tunnel floor. He watched in bitter helplessness while the stricken fingers worked their way toward glazing eyes. Dribbles of foam spattered the inside of the man’s helmet. Pity and a driving desire for vengeance struggled in Rod’s mind when the slave’s feeble shout died away. The doomed man’s feet beat a weak tattoo on the sandy floor. The beat quickened spasmodically--and stopped. Smoke issued from the inert nostrils. It clouded the froth-filled helmet. Hazily, the dead face took on a greenish glow. It glimmered like a crucified Satan for a moment, and then fell away to dry embers. An eerie glow flashed. Rod knew, after only a day in the mines, that the tetrarchian guards were now on their way. Black-browed and huge--with their curiously similar features--they came to drag away the corpse. A sniveling slave on Rod’s left stopped to watch them. A guard turned and raised his weapon suggestively. The sniveler bent to his digging with renewed vigor. When the tetrarchs had gone another slave slipped in to take the place left vacant by the dead man. Rod winced in the act of lifting his pick. The gash he had taken in his arm before he was captured on Earth was far from healed. He saw then that the new slave was a woman. She was young and slender. Her hair was glowing gold in the dim lit tunnel. Under her broad forehead her eyes were an unfathomable grey. “Mona Darlanan!” he breathed in wonderment. Even in the mines--in the serfdom of Tetrarch--her beauty caught him. This was the girl who would always make him uncomfortable ... as it had back in the old days--when Earth was free. She had gone on the stage. He had buried himself in a science laboratory. They had lost touch. When the tetrarchs overran Earth he had lost all knowledge of her. Besides, he had been busy ... busy on the most important project of Earth’s Thirtieth Century A.D. “How long have you been here?” he asked. He felt awkward. This was not the way he had pictured their meeting.