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    Planet of Dread
    Planet of Dread
    Planet of Dread
    Ebook106 pages5 hours

    Planet of Dread

    By Dwight V. Swain and John Betancourt

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Surrounded by its many suns, Lysor scorned Federation rule and plotted the destruction of our galaxy. So Craig Nesom came in a starship to this—PLANET OF DREAD!


    A classic pulp science fiction novel.


    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWildside Press
    Release dateOct 9, 2021
    ISBN9781479463107
    Planet of Dread

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      Book preview

      Planet of Dread - Dwight V. Swain

      Table of Contents

      PLANET OF DREAD

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      INTRODUCTION

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      PLANET OF DREAD

      DWIGHT V. SWAIN

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2021 by Wildside Press LLC.

      Originally published in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, February 1954.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

      INTRODUCTION

      Dwight Vreeland Swain (1915–1992) was an American author, screenwriter, and teacher. He rose to prominence in the 1940s, publishing fiction in numerous pulp magazines, mostly in the action-adventure oriented science fiction pulps. His first published story was Henry Horn’s Super Solvent (Fantastic Adventures, 1941). He rapidly became a prolific writer, penning not only science fiction, but mysteries, westerns, and adventure stories. Commercial rather than literary success seemed to be his goal, and he succeeded admirably at it.

      In the 1950s, he followed the growing market for paperback originals and began to transition to books. His first published novel was The Transposed Man (1955), which appeared as half of an Ace Double D-113, appearing on the flipside of J.T. McIntosh's One in Three Hundred. Building on his successes as a writer, he scripted a motion picture, Stark Fear, which appeared in 1962 and starred Beverly Garland and Keith Toby.

      He joined the staff in the extremely successful Professional Writing Program at the University of Oklahoma, where he trained writers of commercial fiction and film. He pioneered scripting documentaries and educational/instructional short films using dramatic techniques, rather than the previously common talking heads. This innovation made him a highly visible and successful teacher.

      He later wrote non-fiction books about writing, including Techniques of the Selling Writer (which remains in print to this day); Film Scriptwriting; Creating Characters: How to Build Story People; and Scripting for Video and Audiovisual Media, and was much in demand as a speaker at writers' conferences.

      Swain is a member of the Oklahoma Writers Hall of Fame.

      —John Betancourt

      Cabin John, Maryland

      CHAPTER I

      Face slack, eyes glazed with terror, the Baemae wench came forward through the gate into the walled ring.

      An appreciative murmur ran through the crowd. As one, the assembled Kukzubas barons and their ladies pressed closer about the pit-rail, tense and eager with anticipation.

      High on his dais, Lord Zenaor chuckled. A pretty thing, is she not, Vydys? he queried of the woman who sat beside him, dark vision of sinister beauty.

      Hot with strange passion, the woman’s eyes clung to the cringing figure in the pit. The pink tip of her tongue flicked at her lips. If you can see your way to calling any Baemae woman pretty. For my part, I prefer her in her proper role, as prey here in the games.

      So—? Lord Zenaor raised a mocking coal-black eyebrow. No wonder they call you ‘Vydys the Cruel’ behind your back, my dear! If you had your way, there’d soon be no Baemae left alive to serve us.

      Visibly, Vydys stiffened. Her head came round—dark eyes flashing, jet hair ashimmer; and when she spoke her words were edged with fury. Have a care, Zenaor! I’ve no taste for taunts, even from the chief of barons.

      The truth is no taunt. Zenaor gave not a fraction. Because pain is your passion, you drive our serfs to rebellion.

      Rebellion—! The woman’s eyes glinted like crater diamonds. How many of the Baemae have flown south with their cursed discs already, off to the djevoda ranges? There lies your rebellion—and only torture will stop it! Her laugh rang gall-bitter. Or perhaps, like that Narla, you believe we should free them?

      Keep your tongue off my daughter! It was a command that brooked no discussion. As for the free range, the discs, cross them off. They’ll soon be no menace.

      Oh? Vydys’ lips twisted, mocking. No, doubt you have a plan, my lord Zenaor—

      I have a plan indeed. Zenaor’s tone was icy. One word too many, and you’ll die as its first step.

      Vydys faltered.

      You see, my dear, our goals are different. Zenaor clipped, smiling thinly. You lust after pain, I after power. As chief of barons, I mean to have it—and that means holding down the Baemae. But I’ll waste no time on half-way measures. When I strike, it will be in my own way, and it will win. And—now he leaned forward, close to Vydys—and even one lovely as you shall die if in that moment she plots against me.

      Vydys’ nostrils flared. But before she could speak, the chief of barons turned away. He raised his voice till it echoed through the great vaulted hall. Wench! Are you ready?

      Below him, in the ring, the Baemae girl’s lips moved in a soundless agony of panic.

      A ripple of laughter rose from the crowd. Packed bodies shifted and pressed tighter. Hungrily, mercilessly, a thousand eyes appraised the evening’s victim.

      Zenaor said, Wench, tonight you meet the Lady Vydys’ roller. If you survive, I’ll make a place for you in my own harem. If not.... He shrugged: turned back to Vydys. My dear—

      Vydys’ high, proud breasts rose on a quick-drawn breath. Lithely, she twisted in her seat. My helm, serf!

      The rawboned Baemae youth who wore her livery lifted the ornate metal headdress from its case; stepped forward. His face was pale, sweat-beaded. His hands trembled.

      Vydys’ eyes distended. Why do you shake so, carrion?

      The youth’s voice quavered. She—that girl.... He floundered, groped. She—she is my sister, Lady Vydys.

      Your sister! The mask of anger fell away from Vydys’ face. You mean she is of your blood? You love her?

      Mutely, the serfman nodded.

      And you would suffer were she to meet my roller?

      Again, the liveried Baemae’s head moved in silent affirmation.

      * * * *

      A light gleamed deep in Vydys’ eyes, all dark and evil. Once more, she ran the small, pink tongue along her lips, as if savoring the tension of the moment.

      You—you will spare her—? The youth’s words came out a hoarse, cracked whisper.

      Spare her—and spoil the evening’s entertainment? The Lady Vydys’ ripe lips curved in a small, slow smile that was straight from hell. Surely, serf, you would not ask that of me! And then: Place my helm upon me.

      A new tremor ran through the serving-serf. Wordless, he slid the shining metal casing down over the jet hair, seated it carefully upon the woman’s head.

      Approvingly, she nodded. Now, seat yourself before me—here, where I can watch your face.

      Stiff-lipped, the youth obeyed.

      Vydys laughed softly; turned to Zenaor. You see, my lord? Down there in the ring will be the wench, pitting herself against my roller; while here close by me sits her brother, suffering with her. It offers a new kind of titillation!

      Zenaor shrugged. As you will it.

      Eyes sparkling, Vydys leaned forward. Let in the roller!

      An iron gate lifted. A faceted four-foot sphere bowled slowly out of the shadowed passage

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