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 dancingshadows from a huge bonfire. With forlorn, hollow eyes the brokentowers looked down upon the field, the leaping flames, and theone battered space boat. Beyond the dancing fire the night waitedthreateningly.
In the shadow of one of the rickety towers a man huddled before a tinyflame and now and then turned his attention to a bubbling pot that hungfrom 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 theyellow curls that fell across a high forehead. The man seemed to belost in thought, only turning his gaze away from the coals long enoughto look up at the dark sky or to stir the pot of stew. When he moved tothrow more wood upon the fire it was with the lithe grace of a cat, andeven 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 anapproaching ship, half-heard, far above him in the dark sky. The noiseof a descending ship increased, changed from a whine to a scream, andfrom a scream to a roar.
There was a roar and a gush of flame. A long, billowing jet of fireswept over the landing field like a scythe, and another space boatglided across the weed-strewn field. It stopped near the silentspace craft. Both the boats were small, battered, patched andrepatched—little one-man boats that had gone buzzing about space likewasps—as though the planets and the asteroids were golden fruit ripefor the taking.
The man before the fire made no movement other than to hitch his beltaround so that a lean bronzed hand rested upon the worn butt of apistol. He sat there looking into the fire, though he could hear thesound of feet stumbling through the underbrush. The night was chill,and with his free hand he pulled his patched leather jacket across hischest.
"Hello." The visitor stood before him smiling a cold smile—a littleman with wide, drooping shoulders and eyes as blue as chilled steel.
The man before the fire grunted and motioned with his head for thenewcomer to be seated.
"Smells good," said the visitor as he sat down and looked into thesteaming pot. "That was white of you to build the fire. I'd never'velanded without it. Not much power left, either." He sighed.
"That's O. K. I figured there would be more boats along. They're cominghome now—those that have power enough in their engines to make thetrip. My name's Duane, Jim Duane."
"They call me Captain," said the little man. "I've got other names, butmostly I answer to Captain. I'm a professional soldier." He added witha trace of a cold smile, "Like you."
"Yeah," Duan