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KGLQA-LangChain-QuALITY

Dataset card Data Studio Files
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"In half an hour our last space port will be captured," he had
telepathed curtly. "Only one more messenger ship can leave
The
Defender
. Be on it."
"No. I shall die here."
His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. "Then
die usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that will
destroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they are
successful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of the
battle."
"There's an off-chance you may survive," countered a mentor. "We're
also working on a means for your escape—not only because you are
Gordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will prevent
radio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape with
our secret if and when our experiments prove successful."
"But you must expect to die," her father had warned with gentle
finality.
She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenched
herself back to the present.
That time had come.
With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay on
the floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest with
both hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedo
fissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of the
ship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezing
would she die.
She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped in
dismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bonds
and was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubicle
had been terrific.
With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examined
the interior of the box.
It was a shattered ruin.
Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathing
hard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,
finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during the
interval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk that
clutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis.
She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space.
Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were still
intact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,
set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it were
unsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythian
enemies.
Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.
The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on the
chaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.
Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun the
sealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling on
the side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowly
to her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valve
of her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploring
the surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally she
was alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside the
cubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag dangling
from her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggle
to come would be her apparent harmlessness.
Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-born
Scythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as that
of a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the black
stumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years had
supplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector.
The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, and
evidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:
Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been two
months since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.
Yes, he would shoot.