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“The portable projectors, sir!” begged Correy excitedly. “A pair of them, and that mob–“

“We’re bound by our promise,” I reminded him. “She’s not afraid; her power is terrible. I believe she’ll win without them. Look!”

Liane had paused. She lifted one hand in a gesture of command, and called out to the rabble. Correy translated the whole thing for me later.

“Halt!” she cried sharply. “Who moves upon the Chief Priestess of the Flame earns the embrace of the Flame!”

The crowd halted, cowering; then the old man shouted to them and gestured them onward. With a rush, the front ranks came on.

“So!” Liane called out to them. “You would disobey Liane? Yet even yet it is not too late; Liane gives you one chance more. You little know the Chief Priestess of the Flame if you think she will tolerate an encroachment of her power. Back! Back, I say, or you all shall feel the might of Liane!”

Before her tirade the mob faltered, but again the crazed old men led them on.

Liane turned, saw us, and made a regal gesture of farewell. From the bosom of her tunic she snatched a small black object, and swung it high above her head.

“The bomb!” shouted Hendricks. “She has it; she–“

At the very feet of the onrushing crowd the black object struck. There was a hollow roar; a blast of thundering air swept us backward to the ground.

When we scrambled to our feet, Liane was gone. The relentless mob had gone. Where they had been was a great crater of raw earth, strewn with ghastly fragments. Far back toward the city a few straggling figures ran frantically away from that scene of death.

“Gone!” I said. “Power was a mania, an obsession with her. Even her death was a supreme gesture–of power, of authority.”

“Liane,” Hendricks whispered. “Chief Priestess of the Flame … Giver of Death….”

* * * * *

With Liane gone, and with her the old men who had tried to snatch her power from her hand, and who might have caused us trouble, the rebellion of the Lakonians was at an end.

Leaderless, they were helpless, and I believe they were happy in the change. Sometimes the old ways are better than the new, and Liane’s regime had been merciless and rather terrible.

There are many kinds of women: great women, and women with small souls; women filled with the spirit of sacrifice; selfish women, good women and bad.

And Liane? I leave her for you to judge. She was a woman; classify her for yourself.

After all, I am an old man, and perhaps I have forgotten the ways of women. I do not wish to judge, on one hand to be called bitter and hard, on the other hand to be condemned as soft with advancing age.

I have given you the story of Liane, Chief Priestess of the Flame.

How, you clever and infallible members of this present generation, do you judge her?