THE COSMIC LOOTERS
By Alexander Blade
Wyatt knew his situation was desperate: he
couldn't stop the alien invasion, and even if
he warned Earth—nobody would believe him!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
February 1958
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Duncan Wyatt sprang up, grabbed his gun and started toward the doorbefore he had his eyes properly open. His ears were ringing with theexplosive roar that had awakened him and the pre-fab shack stillquivered in the shock wave.
He thought the Third World War had started.
He crouched in the doorway and peered out onto the mesa. The unorthodoxshape of the experimental ultra-tight-beam transmitter loomed over him,black against the star-blazing New Mexican sky, bearing a red star ofits own to warn low-flying planes. He was all alone here. His partner,Bannister, had flown out to the Coast to oversee the making of newcomponents for a projected improvement in design. Wyatt had never feltlonely before, even in the total solitude of the mesa top with nothingaround it but the vast impersonals of sky and desert, sun and wind. Nowhe did feel lonely, and scared. He wondered where the bomb had dropped.
He couldn't see anything, so he went out and around the corner of theshack, keeping low and sticking tight to the wall.
Now he could see a larger area of the mesa, softly but almostadequately lighted by the billion stars above the crystal-clear air.
He saw what it was that had fallen out of the sky.
It wasn't a bomb. It was a—plane? Call it a plane. Call it arotary-thrust flying wing. Call it anything you want to, it was there,round and glimmering faintly against the drab rock. The boom and shockthat had shaken him out of his bunk must have been the result of thething pulling out of a steep dive at super-sonic speed.
He should have been relieved that this was so. Somehow Wyatt was not.He had a feeling. It was such a crazy feeling that he could not believeit, but he couldn't get rid of it either.
He stood still in the shadow by the corner of the shack and waited tosee what would happen next.
A light came on with blinding suddenness, shining from the center ofthe queer plane. It showed up every pebble and stunted bush, everygrain of the rock, the sun-bitten pre-fab wall, himself in his sockfeet and rumpled khakis, standing stiffly with the gun in his hand.
A portion of the black outer rim of the round plane dropped down,unfolding into a stair.
Wyatt shouted, "What is it? Who are you?" His voice was thin and smallin that vastness of windy air. "I have a gun," he shouted. "Come outslowly, with your hands up!"
The words sounded ridiculous even while he was saying them. But he hadto put up some kind of a front, simply because he was scared. If hedidn't he would have had to turn and run away.
It was the damned round queer-looking plane. He was in a cold shakingsweat waiting to see what came out of it.
When he did see he didn't believe it.
She stood in the aperture at the top of the narrow metal stair. Herhands were raised just a little, so that he might be sure there wasno weapon in them. He thought she was smiling slightly. She had blackhair, black as the blackest shadow you could imagine, shorn closearound her head. She was dressed in black—soft boots, close-fittingpants, wide belt with holster, severely plain shirt with a splotchof gold on the front of