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 accumulation 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 whore; 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 passionate 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 passion while she pulled his face down to the soft thrust of her breasts. 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 damned radar antennae would spot him for them. There was no escape from the bastards, and he knew it. Commander Imry had bungled every damned assignment he'd been given, and now Firstspacer 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.