THE EAGLES GATHER By Joseph E. Kelleam The mercenaries of the war lords had fought their last paying fight. They--the war lords--the civilization was bankrupt-- [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] There were no stars. The ruined landing field was lit by dancing shadows from a huge bonfire. With forlorn, hollow eyes the broken towers looked down upon the field, the leaping flames, and the one battered space boat. Beyond the dancing fire the night waited threateningly. In the shadow of one of the rickety towers a man huddled before a tiny flame and now and then turned his attention to a bubbling pot that hung from a forked stick above the coals. He was lean and broad-shouldered. The flickering coals occasionally lit up his thin face--the somber, gray eyes, the high cheekbones, the wide, sensitive mouth and the yellow curls that fell across a high forehead. The man seemed to be lost in thought, only turning his gaze away from the coals long enough to look up at the dark sky or to stir the pot of stew. When he moved to throw more wood upon the fire it was with the lithe grace of a cat, and even his tattered uniform took on a trim, military look from its wearer. As the man stared into the fire he was listening to the sound of an approaching ship, half-heard, far above him in the dark sky. The noise of a descending ship increased, changed from a whine to a scream, and from a scream to a roar. There was a roar and a gush of flame. A long, billowing jet of fire swept over the landing field like a scythe, and another space boat glided across the weed-strewn field. It stopped near the silent space craft. Both the boats were small, battered, patched and repatched--little one-man boats that had gone buzzing about space like wasps--as though the planets and the asteroids were golden fruit ripe for the taking. The man before the fire made no movement other than to hitch his belt around so that a lean bronzed hand rested upon the worn butt of a pistol. He sat there looking into the fire, though he could hear the sound of feet stumbling through the underbrush. The night was chill, and with his free hand he pulled his patched leather jacket across his chest. "Hello." The visitor stood before him smiling a cold smile--a little man with wide, drooping shoulders and eyes as blue as chilled steel. The man before the fire grunted and motioned with his head for the newcomer to be seated. "Smells good," said the visitor as he sat down and looked into the steaming pot. "That was white of you to build the fire. I'd never've landed without it. Not much power left, either." He sighed.