d around my
chest a bit and wrapped me in adhesive. Her slender fingers were too
weak to tear the tough stuff, so when she finished she picked up the
hunting knife and whacked off the tape without comment.

This was my fragile little Vicki, who had palpitations when a wolf
howled--soft, overcivilized Vicki whose doctor had banished her from the
nervous tensions of city society.

She tossed me a shirt and a clean jacket, and while I put them on she
collected my rifle and pistol from my den and hunted up some extra
ammunition.

"Next," she announced, "we've got to get to Fred."

I remembered with a start that there was another Soth on our lake. But
he wouldn't be forewarned. Fred had retired even more deeply than Vicki
when he left the cities--he didn't even own a video.

* * * * *

I wasn't sure enough of myself to take the boat into the air, so we
scudded across the waves the mile and a half to Fred's cabin.

Vicki was still in her strange, taciturn mood, and I had no desire to
talk. There was much to be done before conversation could become an
enjoyable pastime again.

Our course was clear. We were not humanoids. We were humans! Not for
many generations had a human bent a knee to another being. During the
years perhaps we had become soft, our women weak and pampered--But, I
reflected, looking at Vicki, it was only an atavistic stone's toss to
our pioneer fathers' times, when tyrants had thought that force could
intimidate us, that dignity was a thing of powerful government or
ruthless dictatorship ... and had learned better.

Damned fools that we might be, humans were no longer slave material. We
might blunder into oblivion, but not into bondage. Beside me, Vicki's
courageous little figure spelled out the final defeat of the Soths. Her
slender, gloved hands were folded in her lap over my pistol, and she
strained her eyes through the darkness to make out Fred's pier.

He heard us coming and turned on the floods for us. As we came
alongside, he spoke to his Soth, "Take the bow line and tie up."

Vicki stood up and waited until Fred moved out of line with his servant.

Then she said, "Don't bother, Soth. From now on we're doing for
ourselves." And raising the pistol in both hands, she shot him through
the head.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Backlash, by Winston Marks

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACKLASH ***

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