Mine Host, Mine Adversary

By Lester Del Rey

It had been nearly fifteen years since the civilian rocket field had seen more than local traffic. Now, in spite of the bustle of emergency attendants and crews, the field buildings looked forlorn—and deserted. Even some of the posters were of vintage brand. One, sheltered from the rain and sun, was still legible in its early crudity: TO BE BEATEN IS TO BE EATEN!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Mar 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667616667

Lester Del Rey

Lester del Rey (June 2, 1915 – May 10, 1993) was an American science fiction author and editor. He was the author of many books in the juvenile Winston Science Fiction series, and the editor at Del Rey Books, the fantasy and science fiction imprint of Ballantine Books, along with his fourth wife Judy-Lynn del Rey.

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

MINE HOST, MINE ADVERSARY, by Lester del Rey

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in Fantastic Universe, October 1959.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

MINE HOST, MINE ADVERSARY,

by Lester del Rey

It had been nearly fifteen years since the civilian rocket field had seen more than local traffic. Now, in spite of the bustle of emergency attendants and crews, the field buildings looked forlorn—and deserted. Even some of the posters were of vintage brand. One, sheltered from the rain and sun, was still legible in its early crudity:

TO BE BEATEN

IS TO BE EATEN!

The red letters were smeared across the faded, scabrous purple of a tree-like horror with exaggerated fangs and filthy hands clutching at a tender young girl, its grotesque mouth drooling. Such direct appeal to fear of the Xanthot was no longer used, and the idea of being beaten was no longer mentioned, of course. Someone had slapped a modern win NOW slogan over it, but inferior paste had loosened and the old sign still flaunted its crudity.

Paul Weinblum sat staring at it until the rest of his group had left the bus, self-conscious in the loose civilian garb they had all been issued. He saw the bus driver’s impatient eyes on him, sighed, and started after the group.

Free Earth! the driver muttered, irritation heavy in the needless farewell.

Paul nodded. Yeah, free Earth.

Outside, Earth seemed no more free here than in any other of his limited experience this trip. Guards shunted him hastily through a door of the nearest building, down hallways, and into one of many temporary booths. There was a bench, an ashtray and a list of instructions to civilians for the week. What might have been a window was covered with a garish poster of a huge Earth superimposed on the galaxy, demanding that he Remember Earth’s Destiny.

He was on his third cigarette when the door opened and a mousy little man in Major’s uniform entered. The man stood staring appraisingly for a moment, then nodded. Remembering the group with which he’d come, Paul realized he must look good by comparison; he was slightly over average height, fairly well-built, and his fair skin and dark hair lent a touch of vividness to a face more sensitive than handsome.

Free Earth, the Major said. Your full name?

Paul Benjamin Weinblum—the third.

Shock touched the Major’s face. The man’s hands stopped shuffling his papers, then hastily resumed; until he found the right card. His face was frozen when he looked up, but his voice betrayed his reaction. You volunteered?

It wasn’t that surprising, Paul thought. In twelve years of being shuffled from outplanet to outplanet in routine clerical jobs, his isolation and loneliness had never become acceptable. His only taste of battle in the hate-filled war between Xanth and Earth had been by pure accident. He had begun as a lieutenant, and it was still his rating. The few pleasant memories he had were on Earth, during his youth, when even he could hide in the great, self-centered swarm of some metropolis. It was no surprise that he had grabbed the first chance to return, even though his two days here had been too closely guarded to justify his hopes. The only amazing part was that he’d been accepted.

The Major had been whispering into a tiny mike on his chest, but now he closed the switch with a shrug. Okay, he said. It’s their funeral. You’ve been briefed on your duty?

I’m acting as a messenger for part of some formula too secret to send by code. I gather it’s broken down into hundreds of parts, and I’m only one of several carrying the same part. It’s the biggest and most important—

That’ll do, the Major told him. Okay, here’s your identification, civilian allocations, and your message unit. When you have it absolutely memorized—make sure of that—burn it and crumble the ashes into the ashtray. Then ask the guard for Flight 2117. You’ve got half an hour. He paused, then shrugged. And good luck, Weinblum.

Paul had worried about the memorizing; but as he ripped open the envelope and glanced at the printing there, he found his worry was unfounded. 521: Theta over K is greater than e. It meant nothing, of course, but the hardest part was the number—and he found an association to nail that down within a minute. It took longer to dispose of the message than to memorize it.

A bored guard motioned him toward the main building. Outside, he stopped, gazing across the field. There were a dozen out-of-date hulks being readied for takeoff,