To Mrs. Jaffe, wherever you are
The Tel-ran Empire stretched over half the Milky Way galaxy, from the lonely fringes of the immense spiral of stars to its richly-packed center. Earth was the capital of this vast Empire, but the planet Mars was headquarters for the Star Watch. The Empire’s military arm, the Star Watch had bases on many planets, in all the farthest reaches of the immense Terran domain. But Mars— covered from pole to pole with mighty buildings housing the men and machinery that ran the Star Watch—was headquarters.
In a small office in one of those buildings, a noncom was startled out of his usual routine. His desk communicator lit up, and the dour features of the Chief-of-StafT took form on the screen.
“I want the complete file on Oran VI immediately.” ‘“Yes sir.” Before the chiefs image had completely faded from” the screen, the noncom’s fingers were tapping out a message on his desktop keyboard to the mammoth computer that held the Star Watch’s master files.
He decided to check and make certain that he had requested the correct information from the computer. (The possibility of the computer making an error was unthinkable.) He punched a button on the desk and the communicator screen lit up again.
The screen showed a map of the Milky Way galaxy, with the position of the star Oran marked out. It was on the edge of the Terran Empire, out in one of the farther spiral arms of the galaxy, near the territory of the Komani nation. The map faded, and a block of written data filled tTip scrGCii”
ORAN; galactic coordinates ZJJ 27458330194126-3232. Eight planets, one terrestrial (Oran VI).
ORAN vi; radius 1.04, density 0.91, gravity 1.025. Atmosphere Earth-normal (0.004 deviation). Three major continents, surface 80% sea-covered. Native human population, 3.4 billion (estimated). Economy: rural agricultural; underdeveloped industrial base. Subject to Imperial Development Plan 400R, priority 3C. Former colony of Masters, incorporated into Empire immediately following Galactic War of last century. Native name for planet: Shinar.
“SHI-NARl”
The square was thronged with people. Shouting, jumping, dancing people. It was hard to see how so many people could jam into the city square, but still more were pouring in from every avenue. They waved banners and held aloft placards. Several groundcars were overturned and swarmed over. A bonfire glowed near a statue at one end of the square. The people shouted one word, which rose and fell like the endless waves of the sea:
“SHI-NARl SHEE- AR!”
The Terran governor stood frowning on the balcony of his official residence, at the head of the jam-packed square. He turned to the garrison commander standing beside him. “This has got to be stopped!” The governor ad to shout to be heard over the roars of the crowd. “There’ll be another riot down there in a few minutes. The native police can’t handle that mob.”
The commander arched his eyebrows. “Sir, if I send my troops into the square, there may be bloodshed.”
“That can’t be helped now,” the governor said. “Send in the troops,
Star Watch Junior Officer Emil Vorgens sat in his tiny compartment aboard the starship and reread his orders for the tenth time. He found it hard to believe that he was finally a full-fledged officer of the Star Watch. School was finished, his commission was safely tucked away in his travel kit, and here—on plastic film—were the orders for his first official mission.
He slid the tiny film into his pocket viewer again and projected the words onto the bare compartment wall:
“You will proceed to Oran VI and assist the Imperial Governor there in dealing with certain dissident elements of the native population.”
Like most Star Watch orders, there was a good deal of meaning in the words that were not there. The Star Watch was the Terran Empire’s interstellar miBtary arm. In fact, the Star Watch pre-dated the Empire, and existed even back in the old days of the Confederation, more than a century ago.
It had been the Star Watch that fought the successful war against the Masters, the war that had made the Terran Confederation—almost against its own will—the new masters of most of the galaxy. The problems of ruling such a vast territory had been solved only by the creation of the Empire. Now the Star Watch served to control the interstellar space routes. A subsidiary branch, the Imperial Marines, handled any planet-home fighting that had to be done.
Vorgens sat back in his webbed chair and studied his orders, a worried frown on his face. It was a youthful ace, with a high forehead. His skin was a golden brown, his closely cropped hair copperish red, his eyes tawny. Although born into the Terran Empire, and fully human, Vorgens was not an Earth-man, but a native of the Pleiades star cluster.
His orders troubled him. To send a Star Watchman to Oran VI meant that the Empire was considering military action there. “Dissident elements of the native population.” That could mean almost anything. It sounded serious.
Just how serious. Vorgens learned a few days later. A coded message from Star Watch headquarters was beamed to the ship for him. When he decoded it, the order stated:
“The Imperial Governor of Oran VI has been murdered. You will assist Brigadier Aikens, 305th Imperial Marines, in restoring order to the planet.”
The starship hurtled on toward its destination as Vorgens spent his days fretfully trying to get more information on the situation on Oran VI. Very little could be learned. The Imperial Marines had landed there and the planet was in turmoil. Evidently a band of Komani raiders, sensing a chance for battle and looting, had also landed on Oran VI, A few days before reaching the planet, Vorgens received a final change in orders;
“You will seek out the Komani leader and warn him of the consequences of fighting against the Empire. The Komani raiders are to be offered safe conduct back to their homeworld in return for immediately quitting Oran VI. The Komani leader is to be reminded that all Komani clans have sworn allegiance to the Empire, and he can expect no assistance from the rest of the Komani nation.”
Almost before Vorgens had a chance to digest the news that these orders implied, the starship broke out of subspace and entered an orbit around Oran VI. A planetary shuttle brought him down to the major spaceport, heavily guarded by Marines.
The major in charge outlined the situation to him quickly;
“Things are pretty confused here. Watchman. We control the four major cities on the planet, and this spaceport. The Komani raiders have been shooting up the countryside. There are bands of native rebels with themBrigadier Aikens has the Mobile Force out hunting down the raiders.”
Without more ado, the major bundled Vorgens into an aircar and sent the Watchman off. with a Marine pilot and gunner, to find Brigadier Aikens and the Mobile Force.
Sergeant Mclntyre had come a long way in the heat of the afternoon, scrabbling over the broken rocks, half tumbling down the steep slope of the valley, while the big yellow sun of Oran blazed hotter and brighter every minute.
Finally he saw the first outpost of the Mobile Force—a scout car, its turret hatches open, and a few men sitting lazily in the scant slice of shade the car offered.
As he approached, one of the troopers got up slowly. adjusted his glare visor, picked up his weapon and hailed him;
“Who goes?”
“Sergeant Mclntyre, K Company, returning from patrol.”
Mclntyre stopped a few paces before the younger man. He could feel the sweat trickling down his flanks.
“Returning from patrol?” the trooper echoed. “Where’s the patrol, Sarge?” 12
“You’re looldn’ at it, Idd,” Mclntyre answered. “Are we gonna stand here all day? I’m hot, tired, thirsty and I’ve gotta make a report to my company commander.”
The soldier swallowed his amazement, “Yeah, sure, Sarge. Come on over to the car.” He turned and bawled out, “Lieutenant!”
Mclntyre trudged over to the shade and squatted down on the bare, dusty ground, leaning his back against the dark, cool metal of the scout car. He took off his helmet, squinted painfully into the shimmering afternoon haze as he mopped his head with a tattered sleeve, then replaced the helmet and slid the glare visor over his eyes again.
One of the men offered him a canteen.
A lean, spotless lieutenant climbed down from the turret and confronted Mclntyre.
“Sergeant, are you the man who led this morning’s patrol through here and out to the southern edge of the valley?”
“Yes sir,” Mclntyre said, getting slowly to his feet.
“Where’s the rest of your patrol? You had twenty men, didn’t you?”
“Yes sir. The others were all lolled or captured, sir.”
“What? Impossible!”
Mclntyre shook his head. “I wish it was impossible, sir. I only wish it was.”
Sergeant Mclntyre made his report by tri-di beam from the scout car to the communications center of the Mobile Force’s main body, camped down in the heart of the valley.
“Sorry we don’t have a vehicle for you,” the lieutenant said a little stiffly, to hide his embarrassment. “We’ve been ordered to remain here at the perimeter.”
“That’s okay, sir,” Mclntyre answered. Then he added, with just a hint of malice, “I don’t mind walldn’ back. I’ll be going away from the Komani for a change.”
By the time he reached the main encampment of the
Mobile Force, the hot, yellow sun had sunk behind the hills. The sky overhead was still bright, but the valley itself was now in shadow.
As Mclntyre made his way through the maze of land cruisers, dreadnaughts, troop carriers, supply vans and scout cars, it became obvious to him that his own report had been matched by equally bad reports from the other patrols of that morning. None of the guard details took the time to ask his identity. None of the shavetail officers stopped him for a lecture about his no-longer-regulation uniform. They knew where most of his equipment had been left, why he had buckled to his hip an extra sidearm (taken from a dying corporal), whose blood was on his ragged shirt.
The petty routine of military life was finished. They were all too busy with the urgency of self-preservation to bother. They were digging in, all across the valley. The Mobile Force of the 305th Imperial Marines, the military extension of the Terran Empire that ruled most of the galaxy, was threatened with annihilation.
It was cooler now that the sun had dipped behind the western hills. That was one thing to be grateful for, Mclntyre thought as he searched out his company commander in the confusion of men and vehicles. The valley was in shadow, but the hills, where the enemy was, were still bright with daylight.
Surrounded, Mclntyre thought to himself. Totally cut off. I wonder how the Brigadier is taking the news?
“Totally impossible!” snapped Brigadier Aikens.
“I’m afraid not, sir.” his executive officer answered quietly. “Alt the patrols report the same thing—we are surrounded.”
Aikens’ pinched face, topped by a balding dome, glowered red as he stared at the stereomap on his desktop viewscreen. “Are any of the patrols still out?”
“Only two, sir. It doesn’t look as though they’re going o make it back. The other patrols were badly mauled. One of them lost every man except a single sergeant.”
Aikens got up from his chair and crossed the tiny compartment in three restless strides. Though the dreadnaught was huge for a land-going vehicle, all the compartments inside had to be as compact as humanly possible.
“Surrounded,” he muttered, “trapped in this valley by a horde of barbarians.”
“They don’t fight like barbarians, sir.” the exec murmured.
“What’s that?”
The officer flushed. “I only meant, sir, that they have been using modem weapons—very effectively, sir.”
Aikens nodded. “I know, I know.” He returned to his desk and sat down again. “I’ve led my men into a trap. Now I’ve got to lead them out of it.” The brigadier stared at the stereomap for a long moment while his aide stood motionless, listening to the faint whir of the airconditioning system.
The exec was in his prime middle years, tall and darkhaired. A long stretch of desk duty, as part of the original garrison of Oran VI, had filled out his midsection and softened his face somewhat.
Aikens, although older by at least a dozen years, was straight-backed and flat-stomachedThe brigadier had picked his aide on the strength of the younger man’s first-hand knowledge of the planet.
Finally Aikens looked up. “Well, we’ll hold our ground tonight. Double the guard around our perimeter.”
“Yes sir.”
“They can maul foot patrols, can they?” the brigadier muttered. “Tomorrow morning we’ll see what they can do against some solid armor.” He looked at the map on his desk again”All right, you may go. Make certain you get a verbal report from all the company commanders after the guard Is changed, and tell my staff I will meet them here in two hours.”
“Yes sir.”
The exec remained at attention before the desk.
“I said you may go,” Aikens repeated.
“There’s one more item, sir. That Star Watch officer who joined the Force two days ago. He’s still waiting to see you, sir.”
Aikens slammed a heavy hand on the desktop. “The situation isn’t bad enough! Now I have to put up with shavetails from the Star Watch Academy who want to peep over my shoulder!”
“Sir, he’s been waiting two days, and his orders are direct from Star Watch Headquarters.”
Aikens fumed silently for a few moments, then said, “All right, get him in here. On the double.”
“Very well, sir.” The exec saluted, turned, and ducked through the low doorway of Aikens’ cubbyhole officer
After a few minutes of searching through the dreadnaught’s command section, the exec found Vorgens hunched beside a seated technician in the communications compartment, staring intently at a static-streaked viewscreen.
“It’s no good, sir,” the technician was saying. “The enemy has every frequency jammed. We can’t get a word in or out.”
Vorgens straightened up. His black-and-silver uniform was in stark contrast to the bright-colored coveralls that identified the crewmen’s various jobs aboard the dreadnaught.
“I see,” the Watchman said. “Thank you anyway.”
“So here’s where you’ve been hiding,” the exec called out. “Come on, the brigadier wants to see you right away.”
Vorgens stepped out of the communications compartment and into the narrow passageway.
“I’ve been trying to establish contact with the cities or Star Watch Headquarters. No luck,” Vorgens said as they started down the passageway -
“They’ve got us boxed in pretty well,” the exec said.
“The reports from the patrols seem to indicate that,” Vorgens admitted. “Any chance of signaling to the orbiting ships?”
“What orbiting ships?”
“The transports that brought the Mobile Force here, and their escorts. Perhaps the ships could ...”
“The ships aren’t there. Watchman. They dropped the Mobile Force three weeks ago and left Oran VI immediately. They won’t be back until they’re called for.”
Vorgens blinked in disbeBef. “But ... why?”
“It’s a big Empire, son,” the exec answered patiently, “and transports are too valuable to be tied up sitting at one planet, empty and useless.”
“You mean we couldn’t retreat off the planet, even if we wanted to?”
“We could commandeer whatever ships are available on the planet, which wouldn’t be enough to carry all the men, let alone the equipment. We could get Star Watch ships in a week or so if we could make contact with somebody outside this blasted valley.”
“How in the world did all this come about?” Vorgens wondered out loud.
The exec took him literally and replied, “It started with some protest demonstrations—some farmers complaining about a nutrient-processing center we were building for them. The next thing we knew, there were riots in the cities. Then the Governor was murdered by some fanatic. The Mobile Force landed a week later, and two days after that these Komani hordes landed in half a dozen places across the planet and started terrorizing the countryside. So here we are.”
The exec stopped walking abruptly, and Vorgens realized he was standing before Brigadier Aikens’ door.
“You know what I think,” the executive officer stated, rather than asked. “I think the whole mess is a plan by the Komani to take over this planet, and it’s just the first step in a much bigger Komani plan.”
“But they were our allies against the Masters,” Vorgens said.
“That was a hundred years ago, Watchman. Times have changed since then.”
Vorgens nodded.
“Well,” said the exec, “good luck with the Old Man.”
“You’re not coming in with me?”
“No, I’ve got several chores to carry off before I get my supper. If I get a chance to eat tonight.” He flicked a salute at Vorgens and turned away.
Vorgens automatically returned the salute, then turned and confronted the brigadier’s door. After an instant’s hesitation, he knocked twice.
“Enter.”
He stepped into the compartment, saluted, and stood at ramrod attention. Aikens. sitting behind his desk, regarded the young Watchman for a moment, then indicated with a nod the only other chair in the office. Vorgens sat down.
No two men on Oran VI looked less like each other. Vorgens was small and wiry, and his golden brown skin and coppery hair proclaimed him to be of non-Earthly stock. His thin, fine-boned face, surmounted by a high forehead, gave him a peculiarly babyish look-
Aikens was a typical Terran, towering above Vorgens’ height and outweighing him by half again. The brigadier’s only sign of encroaching years was his thinning hair and well-creased face. He had made it a point to foster carefully the impression among his men that he was a flamboyant and daring leader. Even now he was wearing the Imperial Marines’ semi-dress uniform of green, red and gold, as opposed to Vorgens’ standard Star Watch blackand-silver.
“I imagine you realize the situation we’re in,” Aikens said flatly.
Vorgens nodded. “I have seen the reports of today’s patrols.”
“This Mobile Force was dispatched to Oran VI to bolster the Imperial garrison and restore order among the native populace. When the Komani raiders landed, we were ordered to induce them to return to their homeworld. ‘A demonstration of force’: that’s how the orders read. Well, for nearly three weeks now we’ve been trying to pin them down for our little demonstration. Now they’ve led us into a nasty trap. We’re surrounded in this valley, and it looks as though the Komani are perfectly willing and eager to fight a full-scale battle.”
“I know,” Vorgens said.
“They’re well armed with modem weapons, and their tactics so far have been masterful. In short, Vorgens, they’ve led me around by the nose for three weeks, and they’re ready to start slugging.”
“Have you any idea of their numbers?”
Aikens shrugged. “We’re outnumbered, that much is certain. How badly, I can’t tell. But that doesn’t worry me. Trained troops can always lick an undisciplined horde of barbarians, no matter how clever the barbarians are. They may have modem weapons, but we have more firepower ... and armored vehicles.”
“They seem to have greater mobility, though,” Vorgens observed.
“True enough, and their reconnaissance is much better than ours. What we need is some airpower and a column of reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?”
“Certainly. Oh, I’m positive we could handle this Komani mob with the men we have right here, but once they start taking a beating, the barbarians will melt back into the hills again and we’ll lose them.” Aikens tapped a forefinger on .the stereomap as he spoke. “I want a olumn of reinforcements, from the city garrisons, with air cover and support, so we can pin down these barbarians from the outsideThen, between our two forces, we can crush them once and for all!”
Vorgens sat in puzzled thought for a moment. Then he said, “Sir, there are two problems on Shinan the native rebels, and the Komani raiders. If you strip the cities of their garrisons to hit the Komani, you will be giving the cities to the rebels.”
Aikens shrugged. “One problem at a time. Watchman. First we crush the Komani. The rebels will be easy to handle after that. Why, we can even show the natives that we helped them get rid of the barbarian invaders. Might win back most of the populace that way.”
“But your aide thinks that the rebels are working for the Komani.”
“True enough. He’s probably right. But the majority of the natives don’t know that.”
“It’s a very mixed-up situation,” Vorgens said.
Aikens smiled grimly. “We’re going to unmix it and make it perfectly simple. The first step is to get the city garrisons marching toward this valley. I’m certain the Komani won’t be able to launch a full-scale attack on us for several days. They’ve got us pinned down, and they’ll want us to run out of food and water before they attack. Attrition tactics.”
“Perhaps so,” Vorgens said. “Now, brigadier, my orders ...”
“Yes, your orders, that’s why I called you in here.” Aikens leaned back in his chair. “I have a copy of your orders here on my desk, but I’d like to hear how you interpret them.”
“There’s not much to interpret.”
“Come now, Watchman,” Aikens countered. “You’ve been with Mobile Force for how long now? Two full days, isn’t it? Certainly by now you realize that orders cut and processed at Star Watch Headquarters couldn’t ossibly foresee all the details of the situation here on Oran VI.”
“The orders are quite simple and explicit,” Vorgens insisted. “I am instructed to attempt to negotiate with the chief of the Komani raiders. I am to tell him that his people can return peacefully to their homeworid if they stop their raiding on Oran VI immediately. I am also to tell him that the Komani clan chieftains have sworn to the Terran Council that they will remain loyal to the Empire and will not in any way aid or sympathize with this attack on Oran VI. I suppose I should remind the raiders that the Komani were allies of the Terrans during the Galactic War of the last century, and that this attack on Imperial territory is a breach of friendship.”
Commander Aikens gazed toward the ceiling as he quietly asked, “And just how do you propose to contact the Komani chief?”
“That’s the difficult part,” Vorgens admitted”I had hoped to arrive on this planet before the fighting got so intense that the Komani would refuse to parley. It looks as though I barely made it in time.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why, simply that the Komani have not really opened battle yet. We might still be able to discuss a truce.”
“While we’re surrounded?” Aikens shook his head. “You don’t understand these barbariansThe only time they’re ready to negotiate is when they’re taking a beating.”
“My orders command me to attempt .. -”
“Your orders,” Aikens interrupted, “place you under my command for the duration of your stay on Oran VI. Correct?”
“Yes ,.. but with the understanding that as an officer of the Imperial Marines you are subject to the orders of the Star Watch High Command and that you will assist the Star Watch’s attempt to bring about a peaceful settlement with the Komani.”
Aikens rose from his chair and strode wordlessly across the small compartment. Then he turned and pointed a finger at Vorgens.
“Listen, youngster, I’m just as anxious as you are to talk the Komani out of a bloodletting. Those are my men out ther°, and I’m responsible for their lives—every last one of them. But if we try to parley from our present position—surrounded, cut off, and outnumbered—the Komani will simply take it as a sign of weakness. We’ll be encouraging mem to attack. We’ll be convincing them that they’ve got us licked.”
“It may be entirely unnecessary to fight at all,” Vorgens insisted-
The brigadier nodded curtly. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
Aikens returned to his desk and sat down. Leaning over die stereomap, he said to Vorgens:
“This is what we’re going to do. Tomorrow morning’, I’ll send out more patrols—stronger patrols than today’s—with armor. They’ll probe the Komani lines and keep the barbarians off balance. Meanwhile, you will take an armored cruiser and a picked detachment of men and break through the Komani lines.”
Vorgens’ mouth dropped open, but the brigadier waved him down before he could say anything. “You will break through the Komani lines and outrun their communications jammers. Then you will call for reinforcements from the garrisons of the cities we now hold.”
“These are your orders?”
“That’s right. Watchman. I’ll give you two days and two nights to get the reinforcements here. I doubt if the Komani will attack before men. They’ve got men scattered halfway across the planet, and they’ll want to group them together before they tackle us in earnest.
“Youu have to draw every last man you can get. Use your authority as a Star Watchman. I want a strong enough force to smash these marauding barbarians once and for all.”
“And the truce negotiations?”
“Let them make the request for a truce,” Aikens snapped.
“Then you refuse to obey the express orders of the Star Watch High Command?”
Aikens glared at the Watchman. “What are you trying to do, youngster, set me up for a board of inquiry? No, I do not refuse to carry out the High Command’s orders, I simply feel that the situation is so precarious at the moment that the orders can’t be put into effect. Not at this time and place.”
Vorgens stood up. “I suppose it would be pointless to attempt to argue you out of this decision.”
“Completely pointless. Good evening.”
The young Star Watchman saluted and left the brigadier’s compartment. He stood outside the door for a moment after closing it, frowning worriedly. Then he slowly made his way down the narrow passage, past the compact booths of officers’ quarters, climbed through a hatch and clambered down the side of the dreadnaught to the ground.
It was not much wanner outside than in, now that Oran had set. But the night was never completely dark, despite the hour. Oran was six times brighter than Sol, and its luminosity was great enough to keep a twilight glow in the air all night long.
Vorgens paced slowly around the mammoth dreadnaught, watching his boots stir up the dust. The Star Watch orders me to parley; the brigadier orders me to fight, he thought to himself. Orders are orders. But which set do I obey?
Halfway across the planet it was still bright dayBght.
The home of Clanthas, the merchant, was neither particularly large nor well-adomed, It stood at the crest of a hill, flanked by equally good houses, and overlooked the harbor of the small city of Katan. Unlike the four major cities of Shinar, the port city of Katan was not occupied by a Terran garrison.
Until a year earlier, Clanthas had been distinguished from his fellow merchants only by being a shade quickerwitted and, perhaps, blessed with slightly more man his share of good fortune. In those days, before the rebellion against me Terran Empire, Clanthas could be seen during most sunny afternoons of the warm summer sitting on the balcony that spanned his house, either relaxing or conducting business, as the occasion demanded.
It was about a year ago that the first farmers began to trickle into Katan, complaining that the Terrans had driven them off their own soil, so that the land could be used for factories that made synthetic foodstuffs.
Clanthas, whose business depended on buying and selling the farmers’ produce, appealed to the Terran governor. The nutrient processors were necessary, even vital, he was told.
Instead of quietly trying to make the best of the situation, as most of his countrymen did, Clanthas recalled something his son had told him, some quotation from galactic history that the youth was studying at the university:
“A man is free because he has the brains and the courage to stand on his own feet and go his own way. And for a man to remain free, he and his fellow men must be strong enough to resist those who would enslave them.”
Those words had been spoken more than a century ago by a Terran, Geoffrey Knowland, the conqueror who defeated the Masters and established the Terrans as rulers over Shinar.
Clanthas decided that the Terran’s words made sense, even when applied against the Terrans themselves. So he acted-
He organized the farmers and held a demonstration in Katan. He organized similar demonstrations in the major cities. Inevitably, some of the larger demonstrations developed into riots. Troops were called in; shots were fired. Unarmed civilians were killed. Tempers flared. VioJent men took action. The Terran governor was murdered. The Imperial Marines arrived. Komani warriors landed on the planet.
Before he had time to realize it, Clanthas had become the acting leader of his people. He was squarely in an increasingly impossible position. On the one hand stood the Empire-building Terrans, intent on “pacifying” Shinar and returning it to the status of a docile colony. On the other were the fearsome Komani, with plans of their own. Even among his own people, there were hotheads and opportunists over whom Clanthas had no control.
On this particular afternoon, however, he was trying to put aside thoughts of politics and fighting to confront his only son simply as a bewildered and outraged father.
Clanthas sat on the edge of a large, well-padded chair. He watched intently the image of his son on the screen of the tri-di transceiver in the small room that Clanthas used for private conversations. By the standards of his race, the’ merchant was in prime middle life. His complexion was nut brown, his hair dark, his eyes like coal. He had accumulated weight with his years, so that now he was broad-girthed and puffy-faced, but his eyes were still clear and piercing.
His son, Merdon, showed what the merchant must have looked like in his youth: tall, broad, strong-limbed. The two men shared the same facial characteristics— prominent cheekbones, broad brow, massive, stubborn jaw. \
“Merdon. I told you this was raving lunacy when you first revealea your idiotic plans to me,” the older man raged. “I was wrong. It’s worse. It’s doom. It’s damnation. It’s the ruin ofour planet and our peopleAnd my son—my only son—is the ringleader.”
Merdon shook his head slowly and waited for his father to go on.
“Why couldn’t you have trusted my judgment? You, of all people! You should have remained at my side, and helped me to control your hot-blooded young friends. You should have warned me of the plot against the governor’s life. Instead you remained siTent. You should have spoken against those who wanted to shoot back at the Terrans. Instead you went even farther.”
“I did what I had to do, Father. The Terrans weren’t going to be swayed by mere words.”
“Oh no, you had to be clever. One step ahead of everyone, including your father. Free the pfanet! Throw the foreigners out! How? By inviting other foreigners in to fight for us. Barbarians!”
“But it’s working,” the youth said defensively. “The Komani have beaten the Terran garrison in several engagements.”
“Yes, and now the Imperial Marines are here.”
“And the Komani have trapped them.”
“WHAT?”
“Didn’t you know? The Terrans have been trapped in a valley—in the Carmeer district. The Komani have them surrounded. It’s only a matter of time...”
Clanthas sank back in his chair. “Only a matter of time,” he moaned, “before our planet is completely at the mercy of these barbarians.” He looked up at his son. “You’re certain of this?”
“Okatar Kang is gathering his men from every corner of the planet. Our own fighting units are joining him. There’s even talk of contingents from other Komani clans landing on Shinar to join the battle.”
Uke vermin attracted to an open wound, thought Clanthas.
Merdon continued, “Okatar wants to be certain of overpowering strength beforewe attack the Terrans. We’ll wipe them out completely!”
“Listen to me,” Clanthas commanded. “Keep your men away from that battle. Don’t join in it. The Terrans don’t realize that we—you—invited the Komani to Shinar to fight for us. If they ever find out, they’ll never trust any of us again.”
“But...”
Clanthas waved his son to silence. “If the Komani beat the Terrans, they might be weakened enough for us to overcome them. If the Terrans win, we can say we had no active role in fighting against them. Perhaps we can still escape from this circle of doom in which you’ve placed us.”
“Father, you don’t understand. The Komani are our allies. They have come to Shinar because we asked them.
They are fighting for us. They are dying to help free usrom the Terrans.” The ex-merchant swore under his breath. Aloud, heaid, “The Komani are barbarians. They have no allies. Now they are lolling Terrans. Next they will kill
Shinarians.”
“Father, you must learn to trust them.” “I trust them! I trust them to loot this planet when they’ve finished with the Terrans. I trust them to sack and bum and destroy everything they can’t carry away with them, and I trust they’ll start just as soon as the
Terrans are wiped out.”
“No. They’ve promised they’ll loot only the Terrans.” “I suppose the villages that they’ve raided were populated with Terrans.”
Merdon frowned at his father. “That was a misunderstanding. They needed food, and the stupid farmers refused to feed them. Some of the Komani warriors got out of hand, but we’ve made arrangements that will eliminate that sort of thing in the future.”
“Fine. And what will your friend Okatar Kang do when he leams that there are warehouses full of food and an arsenal full of equipment right here in Katan?”
“l will protect you,” Merdon said, a slight smile stealing across his face.
Clanthas shook his head. “No you won’t. You’ll be deadIf you participate in the coming battle against the Terrans trapped in that valley, you will be killed. Either by the Terrans or the Komani-”
“Father!” “Don’t be naive. You are one of the principal leadersf the rebels. Alive, you are a stubborn, strong-minded, idealistic, capable leader of all the younger idiots of Shinar. You’ve turned against the Terrans. Someday you will rum against the Komani. But dead—then you 11 be a martyr to the antiTerran cause. The Komani can count on your heroic memory to hold all your rebellious friends n line long past the point where you, yourself, would have broken with them,”
“I’m flattered. Father, but you overestimate my importance. The real objective is to free Shinar of the Terrans and their rotten Empire.”
“Free us? And leave the Komani on our backs?”
“They’ll leave, after the Terrans have been driven off.”
“And after we’re pillaged.”
“No .. -”
“Do you think that the Terrans are going to allow the Komani to escape unpunished? They’O send a stronger force to Shinar. It might even be on its way here at this moment. You’re turning your homeworld into a battleground.”
Merdon’s face went completely blank. “There’s no point in continuing this argument. Father. You won’t change your mind. But someday you’U be proud of your son and the things he will have done for Shinar.”
“I hope so,” Clanthas said wearily, “but I doubt it.”
The youth said nothing. His body gradually dissolved and disappeared, leaving his father sitting there in silence, staring at the bare screen of the tri-di transceiver.
Merdon also remained sitting before his tri-di set for many minutes after his father’s image had faded into nothingness. He frowned moodily, weighing his father’s words of warning.
Abruptly, he shook his head and got up from the seat. “You’re a well-meaning old man,” Merdon said softly to his unhearing father, “but you’re hopelessly wedded to the past. The Terrans became our overlords by driving the Masters out of the Galaxy. It took action, force—not words and demonstrations. To drive the Terrans off Shinar, we must use force.” Merdon nodded to himself. He was right, he knew, and his father wrong. And yet ... Clanthas felt that the Komani could not be trusted. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth there.
The youth stepped away from the tri-di booth and looked aroundHe was in a deserted factory, one of the few that the Terrans had built before the rebellion had broken out. Long rows of silent machines stood untended in the half-light of evening. Merdon snapped off the lamp that illuminated the tri-<u booth and stared briefly at the
Terran machinery.
Nutrient processors. His face wrinkled in disgust at them. The Terrans can’t grow food from the ground, the way normal human bein do. Too slow. Not enough yield. They must hurry things, take elements directly from the soil and the air and convert them into artificial protein, synthetic foodstuffs. A few chemicals added here and a few enzymes injected there, and the accumulated knowledge of sixty centuries of planting and growing and harvesting is blasted out of existence.
He strode out of the factory, into the cool night air. Shinar had no moon, but the night-long airglow created a shimmering twilight that prevented real darkness,
Merdon looked at the youths lounging in the compound between the massive Terran buildings. These were his fighters, the new heroes of Shinar, he thought. Sons and daughters of farmers and philosophers—andven merchants.
A young girl walked up to him. “There are some newecruits waiting to see you, on the other side of theates.”
“Let them come in, Altai,” he said quietly. She turned and walked toward the gate. Altai was tall for a girl, with a slim athletic build and a natural grace that made watching her a pleasure. She was not particularly beautiful, but she had the knack of looking completely feminine even in slacks, and with an automatic rifle slung over her shoulder. Maybe it was her long, jetblack hair, or her voice.
Merdon found himself smiling as he watched her go oward the gates. Maybe it was just the way she looked in slacks.
“Merdon, I have the completed tally of the weapons we got from the arsenal...”
He turned and focused his attention on the bookish student who had become his quartermaster. Then a halfdozen of his lieutenants converged on Merdon with questions about rations, ammunition, and the best route to take for joining up with the Komani at the valley at Carmeer.
It was nearly an hour before he could break free and inspect the new recruits. They were a typically mixed bunch: some students, a few adventurers, one boy he recognized to be a distant cousin, and a quartet of fanners, shuffling around, feeling miserably out of place.
Merdon welcomed them all solemnly.
“I want you all to realize,” he said as they gathered around him, “that many of us will die before Shinar becomes free. If any of you are reluctant to face death, if any of you belong to families that need you to run their farms, or earn their living, you are free to go now, uid no one will think less of you for it. But once you stand with us, you are in an army, and rigid discipline will be enforced.”
“May I speak?” one of the students asked.
“Certainly.”
“The ground we’re standing on now was once my father’s farm. The Terrans took it to build their factories.”
“What became of your father?”
“Terrans paid him what they said was a fair price for his land. He wasn’t permitted to argue. He went to Kolmar City ‘to find a job, but ail he knew was farming. He ... well, he’s just a shell of the man he once was.”
“I see.”
One of the farmers spoke up. “The same thing happened o us, in our district. I’ll die before I see them turn my farm into a factory.”
The others nodded agreement.
“I hope that none of us has to die,” Merdon said quietly, “but I expect us all to fight until we win.”
He turned the group over to one of his lieutenants and walked off toward the far end of the compound. He did not have to look over his shoulder to know that Altai was walking behind him. He slowed down and let her come abreast of him.
“You spoke to your father again?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Do the others know?”
He turned and faced her. “What if they do? He’s my father.”
She smiled. “So touchy tonight! You get angry and argumentative every time you speak with him. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t realize it.”
Altai put her hand to his cheek”You mustn’t let anyone or anything upset you. Your mind must be clear at all times. You hold our lives in your hands...”
“Your life too?”
“Yes.”
“And your heart?”
“Of course.”
“That’s all I care about.”
She shook her head and answered gravely, “You have much more to worry about than me.”
“I wish I didn’t,” he said impulsively. He frowned for a moment, then said:
“Listen. Romal has just made up a tally of the weapons we took from the arsenal last night. I want you to divide that list in half—and tell no one except Romal about it. Then, quietly, with as few men as possible, have half the weapons stored here, and the other half sent along with the new recruits to the Komani camp tomorrow.”
“You’re keeping half the weapons from the Komani?”
He nodded. “Hide them in the buildings here. Half the ammunition, too.”
“But why?”
“I’m not sure. The Komani may be our allies, but I’d feel safer if we had some weapons available that they didn’t know about. I don’t want to find out some day that we’ve driven off the Terrans, only to have the barbarians ruling over us.”
“Suppose they discover it...”
“They won’t.”
“But you’re supposed to go to their camp tomorrow. You’ll be in their midst.”
“That’s a chance 1 must take.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Altai said.
“So are we all,” Merdon replied.
The sun rose abruptly over the hills, and a wave of heat swept across the valley where the Mobile Force lay huddled.
Sergeant Mclntyre stood before a heavy cruiser, shaking his head. “I don’t like it one bit, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, sir.”
Vorgens turned to the sergeant and studied his face for a moment. It was a narrow-eyed, weather-seamed, professional soldier’s face: broad and rugged, set on a thick, solid frame. Mclntyre was built big, as were all the true Terrans.
“What don’t you like, sergeant?” the Star Watchman asked.
“The whole setup, sir. It’s goin’ to take a lot more’n one heavy cruiser and a detachment of leftovers from yesterday’s patrols to break through the Komani lines.”
“Would you rather report back to your company commander?”
Mclntyre’s eyes widened in surprise for just a flash of a second. Then he drew himself up as straight as he could stand. “No sir. I was asked to volunteer and I did. I’ll stick it out as long as you do, sir.”
Vorgens smiled. “Good. I don’t like the setup any more than you do, sergeant, but somebody’s got to try it, and I guess we’ve been nominated. Let’s start moving.”
They swung up the ladder and ducked into the turret hatch. The cruiser was air-conditioned to Terran standards; the sudden drop of temperature inside made Vorgens shudder involuntarily. He felt more comfortable in the hot sunshine.
The cruiser’s blowers whined shrilly and blasted jets of air straight downward. As the shrieking grew higher in pitch, the lumbering behemoth edged higher off the ground, while the air jets scoured dust and rocks from beneath it. Finally the turbos’ whining rose past the range audible to the human ear; the cruiser was now a good foot above the ground. She slid forward slowly, hatches open and a knot of footsoldiers riding topside behind the turret.
When they reached the end of the valley floor and rumbled past the last perimeter entrenchment, Vorgens popped out of the turret hatch and told the footmen:
“All right, now—get off and spread out. Keep low and move fast. Stay within sight of the cruiser. Report the slightest sign of movement. Remember, they’ve been watching us from up in the hills, so we’re bound to be attacked.”
He dropped back into the bowels of the cruiser and strapped himself into a slightly too-big bucket seat, next to Mclntyre, Vorgens turned on the omnidirectional video scanner and donned the communications headset.
Soon they were climbing the first low hills, and the countryside was changing from the bare rocldness of the valley to wide patches of dark grass and ever-thickening bush.
“These cruisers ain’t much help in this terrain,” Mcintyre muttered.
“What’s that?” Vorgens asked.
“Cruisers can’t take a very steep grade, sir. In climbing terrain like this, we’ve gotta stick to the gentlest slopes. That means the Komani can plot our course before we can. They know just where we’ve gotta go.”
“Hm. Perhaps so.” Vorgens fingered the control dials of the scanner. “No sign of anything so far, though.”
After a few minutes of silence, Mclntyre said, “Sir?”
“Yes?” Vorgens answered without taking his eyes from the screen.
“How come a Star Watch officer is leadin’ this mission? If you don’t mind my asking, sir.”
Vorgens looked up at him. “Brigadier Aikens is in charge of all Imperial personnel on this planet.”
“But ain’t the Imperial Marines under the Star Watch’s command? I mean, the Marines—this Mobile Force— we’re just a branch of the Star Watch.”
Vorgens nodded. “Yes. Brigadier Aikens takes orders from the Star Watch High Command. That doesn’t mean that a Star Watch junior officer can order around a full brigadier. You know that, sergeant. What are you driving at?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be repeating a rumor, sir,” Mclntyre said, avoiding Vorgens’ eyes, “but—well, is it true that you were supposed to arrange a truce with the Komani?”
So he knows! Vorgens thought. Probably the word is out to every trooper in the Mobile Force.
Aloud, he answered, “I was ordered to arrange a truce, when the military situation permits negotiations to be made. Brigadier Aikens must decide when the situation is right for truce talks. I’m responsible to him while I’m here.”
“And he ordered you on this breakout mission,” Mclntyre said.
“Yes.”
“That means he don’t want a truce ... and he don’t expect us back. He’s gonna fight the Komani, and he wants us—you, that is—out of his way.”
Vorgens stiffened. “Sergeant, our mission is to break through the Komani lines and summon reinforcements to the Mobile Force, not to make half-cocked psychoanalyses of our commanding officer.” No matter how rigfvt they may he, he added silently.
“Yes sir,” Mclntyre said.
The ground got steeper and more densely covered with foliage as me hours passed. As Mclntyre had predicted, the cruiser’s pilot had to keep the vehicle gliding along the flattest, easiest slopes. They followed a twisting, meandering path, avoiding the steeper grades and areas that were covered with boulders or large bushes. The sun climbed higher as Vorgens silently watched the seemingly empty countryside unfold on his scanner screen.
There are a thousand places for an ambush along this way, he thought. But it wiU take some doing for even Komani warriors to stop a heavy cruiser. It all depends on what kinds of weapons they ‘have; how much equipment. Like the tales of the old ones back home, when the Terrans first proclaimed their Empire ... men against machines.
“Enemy breastworks at ten o’clock!”
Vorgens snapped his attention to the viewscreen. He twisted a dial and saw the entrenchment, about a hundred fifty yards from the cruiser. He dialed a close-up view. Empty.
“Hey, they’re firing from the ridge—three o’clock!” another footman called.
Vorgens dialed the scene. Sporadic small-arms fire was coming from the ridge. Off to one side, he noticed a small clump of trees. He dialed a close-up.
“Enemy troops in those trees at two o’clock,” he called into his mouthpiece.
The footmen on the right flank dropped to the ground as Mclntyre drove the turret around and swept the trees with ultrasonic beams. Then he swung back and launched a missile toward the ridge.
“They’re charging! Ten o’clock!”
Komani warriors were swarming in on one-man flyers, saddlelike machines that gave them terrifying speed and mobility. Vorgens could see them plainly now, huge, humanoid warriors in gleaming battle armor, their arms covered with tuzzy greenish hair, their faces more like cats than men.
Mclntyre was blazing away with everything available now and the footmen were laying down a heavy fire. The Komani were being mowed down in the volley, but still more of them came, some of them brandishing their ceremonial broadswords.
Vorgens dialed the other side of the cruiser, and spoke into his mouthpiece, “Keep both our flanks covered, no matter ...”
The screen exploded in a shower of glass and Vorgens was smashed back in his chair as the whole cruiser lurched violently.
Vorgens shook his head groggily, It was dark inside the turret, and strangely quiet. A surge of panic flashed through the Watchman, but he fought it down automatically, The cruiser was stopped. Power off. But Fin still in one piece ... I think.
Vorgens unbuckled his safety strap and turned around in his seat. His head hurt, a dull, sullen pain. In the dimness he could see Mclntyre sprawled unconscious next to him, his left arm twisted grotesquely,
Unconscious or—no, no—he’s breathing.
His eyes were getting accustomed to the shadows now. Vorgens could both see and smell a faint acrid smoke drifting through the shattered turret. There were no signs of life from the men below. He realized that his right and was throbbing. A glass splinter was sticking into the palm and a steady trickle of blood oozed from it.
He pulled it out, wincing, then reached across Mdntyre’s inert form for the first-aid kit on the turret bulkhead. Clumsily, with his left hand, he swabbed the cut and sprayed a plastic over it. Then he carefully brushed his jacket and pants clean of the other fragments that had showered him.
Mclntyre began to moan.
“Easy sergeant. Don’t try to move. Your arm’s broken.”
“What happened?”
“Nuclear grenade, I imagine. They only needed one.”
Mclntyre closed his eyes and leaned back. “I told you we weren’t supposed to come out out of this alive.”
“We’re not dead yet.”
Vorgens rose from his seat gingerly. His knees were a little wobbly, but only a little. He jabbed a sedative into Mclntyre ‘s good arm, then decided it was too cramped and dark in the turret to attempt to set the broken bone. He reached up for the overhead hatch, the debris littering the deck crunching under his boots as he moved.
“I’m going to take a look around,” he said to Mclntyre.
The Watchman climbed up on his chair and pushed open the turret hatch. Cautiously he stuck his head out into the sunshine. The right side of the cruiser was smashed in, the turret itself tilted slightly askew. For a radius of fifty yards around, the ground was scorched black.
At the top of a little hillock, some hundred yards from the cruiser, three figures were moving slowly among the sprawled bodies. Two were Komani warriors, the third a native of Oran VI who wore the flowing white robes of a priest.
Blessing the dead, Vorgens thought.
They saw him, and one of the warriors raised his rifle.
“Don’t fire!” Vorgens called out in standard Terran. “There’s a wounded man in here.”
“Bring him out,” the warrior commanded.
“I’ll need help.”
They consulted among themselves. The seemed apathetic, but the olive-skinned priest evidently persuaded them. One of the Komani came while the other remained with the priest, armed and ready. The warrior literally dwarfed Vorgens. His powerful body looked fully human, but his face was feline—wide-spaced cat’s eyes, flat nose, broad slash of a mouth. His ears were a pair of tiny cups atop his skull. The whole face and head was covered with a wiry, greenish fuzz.arriors
With the giant Komanfs help, Vorgens pulled Mcintyre out of the turret and carried him to the shade of me trees atop the hillock. The native priest set the sergeant’s arm while Vorgens applied Terran anesthetics and antibiotics. Together, they put on a plastic splint and binding.
“Are we the only ones left alive?” Vorgens asked the priest in his own language after Mclntyre was safely asleep.
“About half the Komani force survived. They have gone elsewhere now, leaving only these two to search for toot and prisoners. There are two others of your footmen nearby, although one is near death from his wounds.”
The priest led Vorgens across to the windswept ridge on the other side of the cruiser. They both tried for more than an hour to save the wounded trooper—in vain. Then they started back to the grove of trees where Mclntyre was resting. With them came the other Terran prisoner— private Neal Giradaux—tall, lanky, trying hard not to look afraid.
“You speak our tongue,” the priest observed as they walked back to the trees.
“It was taught to me before I was sent here,” Vorgens said. “Actually, it’s not much different from my own native language.”
By the time they got back to the grove, Mclntyre was itting up with his back against a tree, his splinted and bandaged left arm sticking out awkwardly at his side. The two Komani warriors stood some distance away, aloof and impassive.
“By glory, it’s Mac!” Giradaux shouted as they approached. “You’re alive, sarge!”
“Well, if you made it, soldier,” Mclntyre shot back, “did you think I wouldn’t?”
Giradaux ran up to the sergeant and squatted beside him. “Are you okay, Sarge?”
“Broke my arm when they got the cruiser. How about you?”
“Knocked out by the blast. That’s all.”
Vorgens joined them as the priest went to the two warriors. “You two are in the same outfit?”
“Not now, sir,” Mclntyre answered. “But I broke this pup into the service a coupla years ago.”
“I see,” Vorgens said. “Sergeant, do you feel strong enough to walk? The priest tells me that the Komani want to take us to their headquarters.”
Mclntyre grunted. “I guess I’ll hafta walk, then ... or be dragged.”
“I’ll help you, Sarge,” Giradaux offered.
“Get your trench-diggin’ hands off me!” Mclntyre bellowed. “You think a busted arm means I’m helpless?”
“No, Sarge.” Giradaux grinned.
Mclntyre struggled to his feet and stood at attention. “All right, sir. I’m ready to go.”
The sun was nearly at zenith as the little band of men started their journey. The beginning was easy enough— down the reverse slope of the hills they had been in most of the morning. The sun’s warmth was tempered by cool breezes and frequent clumps of trees that threw dense shade. They stopped briefly after an hour’s march and ate a scant meal: a few dried vegetables, a lump of something like bread, and water from a running stream.
Then came the worst of it—trudging across another dry, rocky valley under the heat of the afternoon sun.
The yellow sun seemed to hang directly overhead, no matter how far or how long they plodded across the barren valley. Twice the size of Sol and six times brighter, Oran beat mercilessly on the bare rocks, withering the scrubby plants, making the air dance with heat currents, wringing streams of sweat from the weary men, roaring in their ears and dazzling their eyes with painful glare.
Mclntyre had pulled down the giare visor from his helmet when they started across the valley. But as they struggled through the long afternoon, he saw that Vorgens and Giradaux had neither helmet nor visor.
“Sir,” he asked of Vorgens, “would you like my helmet?”
The Star Watchman shook his head. “No thanks, Sergeant.”
“I have an extra pair of glare goggles in my pocket, then. They’re on this side,” he gestured with his bandaged arm, “so you’ll hafta get them for yourself.”
“I don’t need them, Mclntyre, thanks. This star is pretty bright, but it’s not as brilliant as the one I was born under. What I need more than goggles is a long, cool drink and a fresh breeze.”
Mclntyre was silent for a moment.
“You might give the goggles to Ciradaux. He seems to be having a hard time of it.”
Mclntyre grinned. “Yes sir. Hey, Gerry!” he called to the trooper, marching a few yards ahead of them.
“Yeah, Sarge?”
“Where’s your helmet, trooper?”
Ciradaux slackened his pace momentarily, until he was beside the other two. “Gee, Sarge, I dunno where it is. I must’ve left it on that ridge...”
Mclntyre shook his head. “You’re expected to give up your weapon when you’re taken prisoner, but you don’t hafta strip naked! That helmet costs the Empire money.”
“I know, Sarge,” Giradaux looked miserable, “and I could use the glare visor, too.”
“Here, fish in this pocket and get my spare goggles before you go blind , ..”
“Thanks, Mac!”
“Think I’m gonna let you charge the Empire for a disability pension because you’re careless?”
The going got rougher as the long afternoon wore on. Before they reached high ground again, Mclntyre was allowing Giradaux and Vorgens to take turns supporting him. The priest gave them water from a canteen he carried within the folds of his robe. The Komani warriors were impassive, except for insisting that the prisoners maintain the pace of the march.
“How come the Komani don’t need glare visors?” Giradaux asked as they struggled up a slope.
“Look at their eyes,” Mclntyre answered. “They narrow down to slits ... just like a rotten cat’s.”
Finally they reached the crest of a wooded ridge, and were out of the glaring heat. They rested for a few minutes, then were on their way again—this time along the ridge, under the tall trees.”
With Mclntyre able to get along by himself again, Vorgens turned his attention to the surroundings. The trees, the grass, the blue sky, the sounds of birds and insects ... it was practically the same as on his homeworld. The leaves were a darker shade of green, the birds were slightly different ... yet not so different after all. And the native priest—he was smaller than Vorgens, his skin slightly darker. No doubt his bones and joints and internal organs were somewhat different, but he was human.
Thousands of parsecs from his homeworld, and even farther from Earth, here was a planet that bore not only Earth-type life, but human life.
Don’t get emotional, Vorgens told himself. Human life is a logical development in the evolution of an Earth-type planet. It happened on your homeworld, it happened on
Earth, it’s happened spontaneously on some fifteen thousand planets within the Empire.
He watched a small, furry animal scurry across the trail up ahead and dash up a tree trunk. Still, he thought, it’s not much less than miraculous.
The priest especially fascinated Vorgens. He was evidently quite old, yet he carried himself with a dignity that forced respect. His sidn was a deep brown, his eyes jet black, and what was left of his wispy hair was silverish. His face was spiderwebbed with age, and Vorgens finally realized that this was what intrigued him. He had never seen a really old person before, not face to face. On Plione IX, his homeworld, on Mars, where he received his Star Watch training, on Earth and throughout the Terran Empire, he had never seen a truly old person close up. The physical signs of age had been eliminated by Terran science centuries ago.
Vorgens soon found himself talking with the priest— Sittas was his name—as the little group made its way through the cool woods. They talked of general things, noncommittal things, things that had nothing to do with war and the inevitability of death.
“Tell me of your homeworld,” Sittas asked.
“It’s a long, long distance from here, even in a starship,” Vorgens said. “Phone IX—the ninth planet circling the star that the Terrans call Plione; a giant blue star, much larger and hotter than Oran, although our planet is considerably farther away from Plione than you are from your sun.”
“And your homeworld is like our world here?”
Vorgens nodded. “Very much. It’s a little smaller than Oran VI...”
“What is Oran VI?”
“Huh? Why. this planet—your world, here.”
“Of course, of course,” Sittas said, smiling. “That is the Terran name for our world. In the hill villages, where I am from, we see very few Terrans.”
“What do you call the planet?”
“Its name is Shinar,”
“Shinar,” Vorgens repeated. “That means ... urn, something to do with home, isn’t it?”
The priest nodded. “Home, yes. It also means peace. and life, and many other things besides.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then Vorgens said, “I’m surprised to see a native priest with the Komani raiders.”
Sittas smiled. “They have souls. I am a priest.”
“Yes, but they are looting your people—turning your planet into a battlefield-...”
“Does that make them impossible to change? Does that doom them to our everlasting hatred? Were not the Komani of this very clan once the allies of the Terrans?”
“Yes,” Vorgens admitted. “The entire Komani nation fought on the side of the Terrans in the Galactic War, but that was a century ago, and now ...”
“And now you loll one another. Does that mean that you cannot stop the killing and live in peace once again?”
“I see.” Vorgens said. “I understand,” To himself he added. We have a lot in common, old man. You and I may be the only sane ones on this planet.
Sittas changed the subject abruptly, and the young Star Watchman told the old priest of many things as they walked through the long afternoon under the cool trees along the nameless ridge. Vorgens found himself talking for the first time in years about his homeworld.
Plione IX, circling the brightest star of the Pleiades, a massive blue giant whose fierce radiation made life impossible on all but its outermost planets.
Plione IX, known as Bhr’houd’grinr until the Terrans landed and began to homogenize the local culture into the standard Terran blend and incorporate the planet into the efficient, expanding Empire.
“My people were also allies of the Terrans during the Galactic War,” Vorgens said, “but when we were annexed nto the Empire, instead of allowed our own government, the people tried to fight. It was hopeless, though.
“My grandfather was one of the few men on our planet to recognize that the Terrans were unbeatable,” Vorgens told the receptive Sittas. “As proof of his convictions, he sent his oldest son to join the Terran Star Watch, to be trained and educated by the Terrans—to serve them. By this example, he hoped to prove to his compatriots that life within the Terran Empire was better than a hopeless war of resistance.”
“And was he successful?” Sittas asked.
Vorgens shrugged. “He died before the war was finally ended. Assassinated. Plione IX is now a peaceful member of the Empire; its people are prosperous and happy. My father is still in the Star Watch, and he made certain that I became a Watchman, too.”
“And you?”
“I’m not very prosperous,” Vorgens answered, smiling. “but I was happy enough in the Star Watch—until Oran VI. I mean, Shinar.”
Then, quite suddenly, Vorgens had nothing left to say to the priest. They had talked of the past and the present, but neither of them wanted to speak about the future. They moved apart by mutual, unspoken agreement.
Vorgens rejoined Mclntyre and Giradaux. who were still slogging along side by side over the steadily-rising ground.
“How’s it going?” Vorgens asked the sergeant.
Mclntyre shrugged with one shoulder. “Okay. The arm hurts a little, but not much. You know, we’ve been passin’ guard posts for the past hour or so.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Vorgens blurted.
Mclntyre pointed with his eyes. “Up there, sir, there’s another one.”
Vorgens glanced at a jutting rock off to one side of the trail. A Komani was flattened out on top of it, his reenish body hair and gray clothing a near-perfect camouflage in the heavy foliage atop the rock.
“Yes, I see,” Vorgens said. “We must be approaching their headquarters.”
“Geny and I have been takin’ bearings as well as we can, sir,” Mclntyre said in a lower voice. “I think we’ll be able to spot their headquarters on map coordinates when we get back to the Mobile Force.”
“Fine,” Vorgens said absently as he silently changed Mclntyre’s when to an if.
“Sir?” Giradaux asked, and at Vorgens’ nod went on, “How come a native priest is with the Komani? I thought the barbarians were raiding this planet and the natives want us to throw ‘em out.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Vorgens said. “But there’s more to this story than the part we know. A lot more.”
The Komani camp was a shock.
Not only was it bigger and much better equipped than Vorgens had expected, but there were almost as many Shinarian natives milling around in it as Komani.
The camp was set on a broad, thinly wooded meadow. Off to one end were dozens of landing ships, slim, needle-nosed, erect and gleaming in the slanting rays of the setting sun. Except for a small blast ring around the ships, the meadow was covered with Komani bubbletents, thousands of them, each brightly colored in a distinctive family insignia, each housing anywhere from one warrior to a dozen. Laced between the colorful bubbles were pennants, ceremonial fires, stacks of equipment and weapons.
The exact center of the encampment was the site of the largest tent of all, colored pure gold: the home of the tribal Kang.
“They’re pretty brazen, camping in the open,” Mcintyre growled as they first saw the meadow.
“They’ve probably got an energy screen that’ll protect ‘em against missiles and aircraft, Sarge,” Giradaux said. “You’d either have to hit ‘em with heavy beamguns from a starship, or attack ‘em overland. They’ve got the approaches bottled up pretty tight,”
Mclntyre muttered to himself.
They were led into the camp, through row after row of gaudy bubble-tents, stared at silently by the solemn Komani warriors, women and children. They stared back intently at this unexpected close-up of their enemy’s base.
“What’re all the natives doin’ here?” Mclntyre wondered. “I thought the Komani were raidin’ them. Why’re they actin’ so friendly?”
The Shinarians were there, if not in force, then certainly in numbers. Groups of olive-skinned natives were everywhere in the Komani camp, selling food to Komani women, bargaining over jewelry with Komani nobles, demonstrating mobile energy beam projectors to Komani technicians.
But, worse still, Vorgens saw many of the natives were simply talking—quietly and earnestly—with Komani warriors. And the natives wore weapons.
Finally the Terrans were ushered into a bubble-tent. It was furnished with a single low-slung table; nothing elseThe lone doorway was guarded by four heavily armed warriors, the smallest of them a full head taller and seemingly a yard wider than Mclntyre.
“The last word in hospitality,” Giradaux joked lamely-
Mclntyre tapped a heel on the floor of the tent. “Plastisteel, I bet. We won’t be diggin’ our way out.”
“No, we’re here to stay,” Vorgens admitted, “for awhile,”
The last shafts of sunlight were disappearing behind the forest at the edge of the meadow when a Komani youth arrived at the entrance with a tray of food. The youngster hesitated momentarily at the doorway, then walked in, very stiff and grave, placed the tray on the bare table, and half-ran out of the tent.
“Guess he thought we’d eat him,” Mclntyre said.
It was a good-enough meal, although less than would satisfy the Terrans’ appetites. By the time they finished eating it was dark. The night-long twilight of Shinar was broken only by the ceremonial campfires that dotted the camp.
Mclntyre rose from his cross-legged squat at the table, stretched as well as he could with his bandaged arm, and said, “I’m gonna grab some sack time. With your permission, sir.”
“It’s not my permission that counts,” Vorgens murmured.
“Sir?”
“Nothing, sergeant. Go on, have a good sleep. We can skip the formalities for the time being.”
“Okay, sir. If you want me, just holler.”
With a nod of his head, Mclntyre made it clear to Giradaux that he should sleep, too.
Vorgens left them alone and stepped out to the doorr way of the tent. He could sense the Komani guards tighten a fraction as he appeared in the flickering firelight. He stopped just outside the doorway. The guards said nothing.
Vorgens stood there looking out across the bizarre camp, etched in fireiight. A chilling night breeze moaned by, and then, mixed with it, came a low, plaintive chant from somewhere near the center of the meadow.
He listened as the slow, melancholy sound of women’s voices drifted through the night. A funeral dirge, he realized finally. A dirge for the men who were killed today. For the men we killed today
The Star Watchman remained motionless as he listened to the weird, haunting music. But his mind was churning endlessly and again he saw the charging Komani warriors, heard the shouted orders, the blasts of weapons, the screams of men in battle. Now he realized that these warriors—these men—were also sons and fathers who feared death as much as anyone. What was it the old priest had said? They have souls.
The dirge ended at last, and one of the campfires suddenly blazed into a huge pyre. Vorgens watched as the flames soared skyward and then, slowly, slowly, died down into nothingnessAfter the funeral pyre had faded completely, Vorgens found himself looking up at the stars overhead. The airglow and the glare of the campfires made it impossible to see any but the nearest, brightest stars. Vorgens knew that the Pleiades were too far away to be seen, and then he realized, with a sudden shock, that he did not even know just where in the skies of Shinar they would appear.
“Can you see your home star?”
Vorgens turned to find Sittas standing beside him. “No,” he answered. “I don’t even know where to look for it.”
“Are your men comfortable?”
“They’ve eaten and now they’re asleep.”
Sittas nodded. “Would you like to talk? I have many questions on my mind. Or perhaps you are tired from today’s—events.”
“No, I couldn’t sleep if I tried. I have some questions, too.”
“Good, we can talk.” The old priest turned to the guards and said a few words to them in their own language, then led Vorgens away from the tent.
“I find that walking stimulates my conversation,” Sittas said. “Walking and conversation are the only vices left to one of my age.”
Vorgens studied the old man’s face in the flickering irelight. On another world, at another time, Sittas might have been a teacher, or a physician, or even a planetary governor. His face had the natural dignity, the touch of good humor at the comers of the mouth, the impression of wisdom in the silver hair and wrinkled brow. But deep in his eyes was a sadness born of many years and long experience of the failure of man’s grandest dreams.
“I was surprised,” Vorgens said finally, “to see so many Shinarians in camp.”
Sittas said nothing.
“I had thought... that is, Terran intelligence believes, that the Komani raiders have landed on your planet while you are in rebellion against the Empire—taking advantage of the confused situation to loot your people.”
“There was some looting,” Sittas agreed noncommittally.
“I don’t understand.”
Sittas stopped walking and looked up at the young Watchman”Perhaps it is not me you should speak with, but Merdon.”
“Who is Merdon?”
“A youth—very much like yourself. And yet, very unlike you.”
Vorgens shrugged. “All right, let’s talk to Merdon.”
Sittas led him through a maze of tents, and finally left him standing in front of one of the smaller bubbles. After a few minutes, the old priest reappeared at the doorway and gestured Vorgens inside.
The tent was sparsely furnished with three cots, a table, a pair of chests, a few stools, and a single globular lamp overhead. Seated behind the table was Merdon, poring over a big paper map and a pile of reports; a miniature tri-di transceiver held down one comer of the map, and a beam pistol rested on the opposite comer.
Merdon looked up as Sittas said, “This is the Star Watchman I told you about.”
“Vhro’r yns is my name. The Terrans find it easier to say Vorgens.”
Merdon looked into the Watchman’s tawny eyes and smiled. “In this case, I find myself forced to agree with the Terrans. I am Merdon—in Terran as well as Shinarian.”
Merdon gestured to the stools before the table, and Vorgens and Sittas sat down.
“Sittas tells me,” Merdon said, “that you can’t understand why so many Shinarians are here in the Komani encampment. The answer is simple: the Komani are here in Shinar because we invited them here. They are our guests, our allies. They are helping us to fight against the Terrans.”
Vorgens felt his breath catch in amazement. “You ... incited the Komani? As mercenary troops?”
“As allies. Oh, I know what the Terran commanders think. They believe that we on Shinar are acting as unwitting pawns for some deep, dark Komani plan of conquest. The truth is exactly the opposite. The Komani are working for us.”
“Why?”
Merdon snapped, “Why? Why do you think? Because we want to be rid of the Terrans and their blasted Empire!”
“But why should the Komani help you? What do they gain by going against the Empire?”
Merdon’s brows knitted thoughtfully for a moment. Then he replied, “The Komani are born fighters. The smell of battle, a chance of loot—that’s all they want,”
“You make it sound very simple,” Vorgens said quietly.
“No, it’s the Terrans who oversimplify everything. They think that because our culture is a peaceful, agricultural society that we are a simple, stupid people. That is a mistake. We are as complex in our desires, in our fears, in our loves and hates, as any Terran—or any other human.”
“All right,” Vorgens agreed, “but what’s that got to do with—”
“Your Terran officials think that we Shinarians are all sheep. Well, perhaps many of us are. But not all of us.”
“So you decided to resist the Empire.”
“A few of us did, yes. Some tried to resist with words, with protests, with street demonstrations. The Ten-ans” answer was force. Well, now we are meeting force with force. We will fight and die and fight again until the Terrans are no longer willing to pay the price for Shinar. Until they leave us in freedom.”
“And the Komani are helping you in this struggle.”
“The Komani—and any other recruits we can find,” Merdon said, looking straight at Vorgens.
“Any other recruits?”’ the Watchman echoed.
Merdon leaned across the table. “You are not a Terran. Sittas tells me that your own people fought against the Empire. Join us! Help us to free Shinar! Perhaps someday we can destroy this evil Empire altogether, and free your own people.”
Vorgens blinked, and turned toward Sittas. The priest shrugged his bony shoulders to indicate that the idea was Merdon’s alone-
“I am not a native Terran, that is true,” Vorgens said, “but I am a citizen of the EmpireMy people did fight against the Terrans, once, a long time ago. But today they are so much a part of the Empire that they could not establish an independent nation if they wanted to— which they don’t. I am a sworn officer of the Star Watch. I cannot turn my back on my own word, and fight against the men with whom I have served.”
“You hide behind your duty,” Merdon snapped.
Vorgens’ face tightened. “Perhaps so. But listen to me. No matter what the Empire has done on Shinar, the peoples ruled by the Terrans would be plunged into chaos and starvation if the Empire were destroyed. The Terrans may seem evil and arbitrary to you—perhaps hey are, in many cases—but they are also the carriers of law, of stability, of commerce and order, throughout more than half the galaxy. Their job is not an easy one. Here on Shinar they may have failed, but you cannot destroy the Empire unless you replace it with something better ... not unless you are an unthinking barbarian, as the Komani are.”
“You are a Terran, after all,” Merdon growled.
“I am an officer of the Star Watch,” Vorgens said, his voice rising. “I was sent to Shinar to try to arrange a truce that will end this bloodshed. I can offer you the same terms I offer the Komani: lay down yours arms and return to your homes. Otherwise the Empire will be forced to crush you.”
“Get out!” Merdon shouted. “Take your truce terms and go back to your tent and wait for the Komani to deal with you. Star Watchman, truce-bearer—you’re a prisoner, a Komani prisoner, and before long you’ll be dead!”
Vorgens rose and strode from the tent. Sittas hurried out after him.
“He had no excuse for speaking to you like that,” the priest said. “I am ashamed for him.”
“He lost his temper,” Vorgens said, calmer now in the open air. “I know I lost mine. We see the world through different eyes... And he’s right, you know. I am a prisoner. I’m not in a position to offer anyone anything.”
“Still, Merdon’s behavior was inexcusable.”
“He just doesn’t understand the reason for the Empire.”
“I must confess.” Sittas said softly, “that I, myself, do not see why the Empire must have this particular planet, when there are so many ...”
Vorgens thought it over for a moment, then answered, “I suppose the answer is that, if Shinar were allowed to quit the Empire, others would want to leave it, also. It’s the first step on the road to chaos.
“The Terrans didn’t want an Empire. No one planned it this way. At one moment, the Terran Confederation was fighting for its life against the Masters. A moment later, the Masters were utterly defeated, and their empire fell to the Terrans. Suddenly the Terrans found themselves responsible for administering, feeding, governing, half the galaxy. They tried to get various star systems to govern themselves, but it didn’t work out. The Empire was needed. The Terrans had no choice.”
“Regardless of the cost,” Sittas said.
The cost?”
“Yes. In maintaining the Empire of the Masters and making it their own, the Terrans have obliterated the individual cultures of their member planets. Their effort to turn Shinar into a Terran-type food-manufacturing world has touched off this war. You, yourself, told me how your native culture has been submerged by the Terrans.”
Vorgens nodded. “That’s right. My people are almost exactly like all the other people in the Empire. The old customs, the old beliefs—they’re only for teachers of ancient history, or museum keepers. I—I suppose it was inevitable. Unavoidable.”
“Was it?” Sittas asked.
“Yes,” Vorgens replied. “There are reasons . -.”
“Reasons?”
Vorgens looked at the old priest for a long moment. Then he began to explain to him what every servant of the Empire was expressly forbidden to tell a native.
He told Sittas of the Terrans’ gradual realization that, a million years earlier, a race of Terrans had reached into space, met a powerful alien race, and been smashed in a devastating war. He told the priest of the discovery of the ruins on Mars, of the machinery that had produced the Ice Ages that was found on Titan, of the remnants of the crumbled First Empire that the Terrans had found as they expanded into the stars once again.
“They are building their new Empire as solidly as they can,” Vorgens finished, “because they know that somewhere among the stars—perhaps in another galaxy, even—the Others still exist. They nearly exterminated the Terrans once, a million years ago. The Terrans are building an Empire that can exterminate the Others, if they show up again.”
“And for this reason Shinar must become a cog in their Imperial machine?”
Vorgens nodded.
“Are we not men? Would we not help to fight the Others?”
“I know,” the Star Watchman said. “My own people would, too. They wouldn’t have to be regimented by the Terrans. But now my homeworld is a planet of mines and factories. There are ten times more people there than we could possibly feed with our own resources. If, for some reason, the Empire should break down, nine people of every ten would starve.”
“Yet you fight for the Terrans.”
Vorgens shrugged. “I fight for what I believe. The Empire is not the best way, but it’s the only way we have. Its laws are just. I know that what’s happening to your planet is hard to accept, but there is no alternative. I don’t like to fight against your people, but your people started the fighting.”
Sittas agreed with a nod. “Yet, who is without blame in a war?”
“It’s no longer a matter of blame,” Vorgens said. “Now we must decide where we go from here.”
They found themselves back at Vorgens’ tent, with its quadruple guard.
“You have answered my questions quite frankly,” Sittas said, “for which I thank you. Now tell me, what questions can I answer for you?”
Vorgens immediately asked, “How many Komani warriors are on Shinar?”
“I don’t really know,” the priest said. “An entire clan has landed here, as you can see. I suppose there must be something like fifteen thousand fighting men.”
“An entire clan.” Vorgens repeated. “And who is their chief?”
“Okatar Kang.”
“Could you arrange an audience with him for me? Tomorrow, as early as possible?”
Sittas shook his head. “That I cannot do. The Kang does not usually see prisoners, unless they are remarkable in some respect—a general, or a renowned warrior. I have no influence whatsoever over Okatar and his Elders. Merdon might have arranged such a meeting, but ...” Sittas’s voice trailed off.
“I see,” Vorgens said. “Well, thank you anyway. I’m sony the meeting with Merdon wasn’t more fruitful.”
Sittas nodded silently.
“Good night,’” Vorgens said.
“Good fortune to you. my friend.”
Vorgens watched the old man disappear among the tents, and slowly realized that it was the first time since he had left the Star Watch Academy that someone had called him “friend.”
Inside the tent, he found Mclntyre and Giradaux awake, talking quietly while squatting as far from the entrance—and the guards—as they could.
Vorgens told them what he had learned from Sittas.
“So it seems that we are facing not just the Komani,” he concluded, “but a well-armed and very determined band of rebels, as well.”
“It’s a dirty business,” Mclntyre grumbled. “Fighting these barbarians is bad enough, but half the planet might be up in arms against us.”
Vorgens nodded. “Under any circumstances, it means that the forces holding down the Mobile Force could be wo or even three times larger than Brigadier Aikens believes them to be.”
“We’ve gotta get back to the Force tonight,” Mclntyre said, “and let them know what they’re up against.”
“Right,” Vorgens said.
“The Sarge and I were talking over our chances of breaking outta here,” Giradaux said-
“And?”
Mclntyre answered, “There’s four guards against the three of us. They’re armed. Gerry was frisked good when they captured him. He’s clean. I managed to sneak a stinger under my belt before they took us.” He pulled out a slim rod. “It won’t kill anybody, but it’ll put him outta commission for a few hours.”
Vorgens grinned. “Good. And I fixed that cast of yours so that it ought to be as hard as plastistee! by now.”
Mclntyre looked surprised. He tapped the cast on the floor. It sounded good. He ran a hand over the innocentlooking bandages. “By Pluto, this’U break any bone in the galaxyDid you bring anything from the cruiser, sir?”
“Just something from the medical kit. It’s not a weapon, but it could be just as’important to us.”
He pulled a small bottle of pills from his jacket pocket. “These are mescal capsules,” Vorgens explained, opening the bottle and handing them out. “They speed up your perceptions, temporarily, so that everything around you seems to be moving very slowly. If we’re going to depend on surprise, it might be useful to be able to see the enemy’s reactions in slow motion. It would give you time to think about your next move—in the middle of a handto-hand fight!”
Mclntyre popped a capsule into his mouth, swallowed hard, then grinned. “I’m glad we’ve got a Star Watchman with us, sir. Us poor footsloggers wouldn’t think to look for weapons in the infirmary.”
“Coming from you, sergeant, that’s a real compliment.”
They discussed tactics for a few minutes, while llowing the mescal to take effect. As a test, Vorgens took Mclntyre’s stinger and dropped it to the floor. It floated down like a feather and bounced lazily for what seemed like several minutes. They were ready.
Their plan was simple, based on speed and surprise.
Giradaux was lead man. He came bombing out of the tent at top speed, diving straight into one of the guards. The big Komani, half asleep, toppled over and Giradaux started to spin free of him. As the other three guards turned to face the Terran, drawing their weapons, Vorgens and Mclntyre entered the fight.
It all seemed like a dream to Vorgens, under the effect of the mescal. Every move they made—friend and foe alike—had that underwater languor about it. He saw the Komani drawing their sidearms, saw Gerry slowly rising to his feet.
Then the nearest Komani began to rum toward him. Vorgens raised the stinger (it seemed an eternity to lift it) and touched it to the warrior’s chest. He froze for an instant, then began slumping toward the ground.
Vorgens turned to see Mclntyre swinging his arm-cast into the face of a startled Komani. Another was already on the way down, his head split and bleeding. Giradaux chopped artfully at the neck of the warrior he had toppled, and the fight was abruptly finished. Vorgens’ stunned victim finally hit the ground, as if to punctuate the end of it.
They took the Komani sidearms and made a cautious retreat to the edge of the camp. It was late, and the camp was quiet. No one seemed to be stirring.
Vorgens whispered an order to set the captured handguns to stun, rather than on killing power. Mclntyre grumbled something about “fighting tomorrow the enemies we don’t kill tonight,” but a quick glance at the Star Watchman showed that he was not going to argue the point.
Their first trouble came at the outer guard perimeter.
A Komani warrior spotted them and let out a warning yelp before Mclntyre’s shot knocked him unconscious.
Then it was an agonizing race in slow motion for the edge of the meadow. Beacon flares began to pop around them, and although Vorgens knew that the three of them were dashing for the thick foliage at the meadow’s edge, the mescal made it seem as though they were suspended in mid-flight while the whole Komani camp had plenty of time to take leisurely aim at them,
“They ain’t set to stunt” Mclntyre yelled as energy beams sizzled past them.
They zigzagged the last few yards to the meadow’s edge and plunged down the steep slope, stumbling and falling in me darkness. They made their way toward the thick brush, where they would be safe from the Komani—temporarily.
After a few minutes’ thrashing through the foliage, they found a gulley that led away from the camp. They flopped down, bellies in the dirt, and gasped for breath.
“Everyone okay?” Vorgens asked.
Two grunts answered him. Through the foliage, he could see lights swinging back and forth.
“Sergeant, can you find your way back to the Mobile Force from here?”
“I dunk so, sir,” Mclntyre said.
“Can you evade those guard posts we saw on the way up here ”
“Yes sir.”
They could hear shouts now, and the sounds of men probing through the brush.
“All right, Sergeant,” Vorgens said. “You and Giradaux make a break for it. I’ll scuttle off in another direction, making enough noise for the Komani to spot me. I’ll lead them on as long as I can. You two make certain to get back to Brigadier Aikens.”
“But, sir ...”
“You tell Brigadier Aikens—personally—that he’s facing a whole Komani clan, not just a few raiders, plus a large number of native rebels. They’ve got modern weapons of every type.” “Yes sir.” “All right—now get going.” “But—they’re shootin’ to kill. You can’t ...” “Sergeant, are you a soldier or a lawyer?” Vorgens could sense Mclntyre’s face going red. “Yesir.
“Now get moving. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got something else in mind. Good luck to you both.”
“Luck to you, sir.”
They scrambled off down the gulley. Vorgens waited a moment, then headed across me gulley and up the other side. Once there, he started diagonally away from the spot where he had left Mclntyre and Giradaux, toward the oncoming Komani.
As he scuttled through the foliage, he spotted three Komani warriors groping cautiously through the twilight haze. The effect of the mescai’s worn off, he realized as he stopped to watch them.
Vorgens edged carefully off to one side of the approaching Komani, working his way to a position as far as possible from the direction the Terrans had taken. Another flare burst overhead, and in its sudden light Vorgens saw another trio of warriors moving slowly through the brush toward him. Now is the time, he said to himself.
He fired at the first group of Komani, hit two of them and left the third to scream for aid. Then he swung around and fired quickly at the other trio. He dropped one of them and got a sizzling blast by his ear in return.
Ducking into the deeper brush as the flare petered out, Vorgens crawled farther away from the Komani searchers, always leading them—he hoped—away from the escaping Terrans.
Twice more flares bloomed overhead, and twice Vorgens topped to hit-and-run, making certain that the Komani knew from which direction he was firing.
Then for a long stretch there was dark silence. Vorgens squatted in the foliage and waited, straining his senses for some hint of what they were doing. He began to realize how a mouse might feel, if a pack of cats were quietly stalking it.
I wonder if they have infrared snoopers? Then they wouldn’t need flares. His answer was a sudden, searing flash, and a long, long fall into oblivion.
The darkness lifted slowly, and Vorgens gradually became aware that he was lying in a cot. There was no pain, no feeling whatsoever. He was aware that his eyes were open, but he was unable to focus them. The world was a gray blur. He tried to move, but found he could not. The effort was too great. He lapsed back into unconsciousness.
He awoke again. This time he could see. Things were still blurry, smeared at the edges, but he could see.
A girl was sitting by his cot, watching him, completely unaware that he was conscious and his eyes could function again. Her face was a curious mixture of anxiety and interest, as though she were looking into a mirror to find some flaw in herself. She was young and slim, with jetblack hair falling to her shoulders and wide, dark eyes.
Gradually, the girl’s image became indistinct, and his head began throbbing painfully. Vorgens found himself supping back into darkness again.
Then he heard voices. There were two of them, speaking a language he either did not understand or could not grasp through the ache in his head. Slowly his eyes focused on the glowing roof of the Komani bubble-tent. Vorgens found that he could turn his head slightly. He saw Sittas, deep in conversation with the Shinarian girl, who was standing now near the entrance to the tentThey were speaking something close to the Shinarian language he had been taught, Vorgens finally realized, probably an up-country dialect.
Vorgens closed his eyes, momentarily, he thought, but when he opened them again, the girl was gone and Sittas was standing alone by his cot.
“What time is it?” the Star Watchman asked.
The priest smiled. “Past midday. You have been unconscious all night and morning.”
“”What are you grinning at?”
“Your Terran training. Only a Terran would awake from many hours of unconsciousness and ask what time of day it is.”
Vorgens propped himself up on an elbow. “Time is getting to be important ...”
“How do you feel?” the priest asked.
“Not bad. My head hurts a bit. How seriously was I hit?”
“You took a strong bolt from a sonic gun. I have no way of knowing how seriously the shock might have affected your nervous system.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Vorgens said. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and with Sittas’ help got to his feet. “A little wobbly,” he said, walking slowly across the tent with die old man at his elbow, “but I think I’m all right.”
“You should try to eat,” the priest said, gesturing to a tray of food on the small table in the middle of the tent.
Vorgens nodded. “How about the other two? Did they gpt away safely?”
“Yes,” Sittas answered. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Perhaps it is not proper for me to ask, but I do not understand how they escaped successfully and you did not.”
Vorgens sat down on a stool, next to the table.
“I didn’t want to escape,” the Watchman said.
Sittas’ mouth formed an unspoken why?
“It was necessary for someone to get back to the Mobile Force and warn Brigadier Aikens of the odds he’s facing,” Vorgens explained. “Mclntyre can do that. Giradaux is better off with the sergeant than here. But I have a mission to carry out—a mission that calls for me to see Okatar Kang. You said he would not see an ordinary officer, only someone of high rank or great righting ability.”
“That is true.”
“Please tell him, then,” Vorgens said, “that the Star Watchman who engineered the escape of the two prisoners last night from under his nose has a message for him from the Commander-in-Chief of the Terran Imperial Star Watch.”
Sittas’ weathered old face slowly unfolded into a broad grin. “It might work.”
The priest left to try to reach Okatar and arrange a meeting. Vorgens sat alone at the tiny table and nibbled on some of me meat and fruit from the tray.
He smiled wryly at the irony of the situation: Brigadier Aikens tries to prevent me from negotiating with the Komani. and his very orders bring me almost face-to-face with the Komani chieftain.
After a few minutes the Watchman got up and returned to his cot. The ache in his head was nearly gone, and the food had refreshed him. He stretched out on the cot, not to rest, but to think.
Vorgens tried to push every unwanted thought out of his mind, to reach back to his classes at the Academy, to remember what he had been taught about the
Komani. He pictured in his mind the stereocast lecture he had sat through.
“A nation of warriors, consisting of nomadic clans that fight each other almost as often as they raid their neighbors. Their culture is feudal, their energies directed toward battle and loot. Komani warriors are disdainful of civilized values..,.”
Yet through it all Vorgens heard in the back of his mind the keening funeraT dirge of the women; the solemn, frightened-yet-brave face of the youth who had brought them food the night before; the calm, firm insistence of Sittas that despite politics and wars, the Komani had souls.
How to appeal to them? That was the question. How to present the Star Watch’s demands in a way that they could understand and accept? Vorgens thought about it, and tried to frame the words he would use with Okatar.
At length, Sittas returned to the tent. He stood silently at the entrance for several minutes before the Watchman noticed him there.
“Well?”
The old priest looked into Vorgens’ eyes”You asked me to arrange a meeting with Okatar Kang.”
“That’s right.”
“He wants to see you immediately.”
Vorgens jumped to his feet. “Good!”
“No, my friend, not good,” Sittas murmured slowly. “He wishes to see you merely to pronounce a death sentence over you.”
Vorgens was escorted to Okatar Kang’s huge golden bubble-tent by a half-dozen warriors. Sittas walked at his side as they tramped through the encampment. The sun was high, the sides cloudless. The Watchman could not help but notice that there was much more bustle and activity in the Komani camp than there had been the previous afternoon.
They’re puQmg in their men from aS. over the planet, Vorgens said to himself. They’re getting ready for a major attack on the Mobile Force.
He had expected the Kang’s tent to be crowded with people, but instead it was nearly empty. A small group of Komani and Shinarians were sitting at a low-slung table off to one side of the tent. The guards marched Vorgens to the middle of the tent, then turned to face the table, Sittas remained just inside the doorway.
Vorgens guessed that the second Komani from the right was Okatar. He was no bigger or more impressive physically than the rest, but his head was held a trifle higher, his back was a shade stiffer, and his yellow cat’s eyes gave an impression of unquestioned authority. Komani faces gave Vorgens a feeling of fierceness. He almost expected them to have saber-like fangs jutting from their lips.
Vorgens recognized Merdon among the Shinarians. The young rebel was going over a long list with Okatar while the others at the table listened in silence. For several minutes, Vorgens and his six guards stood in the middle of the tent, while Okatar carefully ignored them.
Finally he put the list down on the table and turned to face Vorgens.
“I am Okatar Kang,” he said, in standard Terran, “and you are the Terran prisoner who tried to escape last night. Prisoners who spurn our hospitality are traditionally executed. Therefore ...”
“Before you go any farther ...” Vorgens began.
“Silence!” roared one of the Komani nobles.
Okatar glanced at the roarer, then returned to Vorgens. “Pleas for mercy will not avail you.”
“I am not pleading for mercy,” Vorgens said, “and I did not try to escape from your camp last night. If I had wanted to escape, I could have done so easily with my two fellow prisoners.”
“You aided their escape,” said another Komani noble, “so the death penalty still holds.”
Sittas interrupted. “He is not a true Terran,” the old priest said, walking up from the doorway toward the table, “and has never been in contact with the Komani before. Your customs and laws are probably strange to him ...”
Vorgens disagreed. “I am familiar with your customs. 1 helped the two Terrans escape because I knew they would be put to death ultimately by you. Which of you would have done less for his own men?”
Okatar gave a grunt of grudging approval. “And why did you not escape with them?”
“Because I have come to this planet to see you, Okatar. I have been sent by the Star Watch to offer you peace.”
“You were taken prisoner in a skirmish that cost us a score of lives,” one of the Komani countered. “You were fighting from within an armored cruiser. What kind of peace offer is that?”
“My mission to this planet is to discuss a truce with you,” Vorgens insisted, talking straight to the Kang. “Last night, we could have killed many more of your men. Instead we merely stunned them. I am not here to kill, but to save lives.”
Okatar glanced at Merdon, then, smiling grimly, said, “I have heard of the peace offer you made to the Shinarian fighters. Do you presume to offer the same terms to the clan of Okatar?”
“If you leave Shinar at once and return to your homeworid without further bloodshed,” Vorgens said, “the Star Watch will take no punitive action against you.”
“And if we do not leave Shinar immediately?”
“You will be destroyed by the forces of the Terran Empire.”
Dead silence filled the room for a moment, Vorgens added, “The Empire has half a galaxy of resources to pit gainst you ... powerful armies and fleets. You cannotope to overcome them all.”
“No, not by ourselves,” Okatar said quietly. “I have also been instructed to inform you that thether Komani clan chiefs have sworn to the Empire thathey will remain loyal and will not assist you, regardlessf what you do.” The slightest trace of a smile flickered across Okatar’srim face.
“I see,” he replied. “Our choice is to return meekly home, or suffer complete destruction. Now then, about this destruction, where are the Imperial forces that will accomplish this mighty victory? Your Mobile Force is trapped and living on borrowed time. Your vaunted Star Watch fleets are nowhere near Shinar, and cannot get here within a month, at least.”
How does he know that? Vorgens wondered.
The Kang continued, “Your mighty Empire has no military arm that can withstand the Komani peoples. One small clan of us has humbled your Mobile Force and planetary garrison. By this time tomorrow the word will be spreading through the galaxy that the Komani are on the march. Shinar is the beginning. The other clans will join us. In fact,” Okatar leaned forward and lowered his voice, conspiratorially, “how can you be sure that dQ, the warriors on Shinar are really members of my clan?”
Vorgens felt as though he had been shot again. Slowly, he answered, ‘“What you are saying is that you propose to cause a galactic war between the Komani clans and ‘the Terran Empire. You cannot win such a war. The Empire has resources that will crush you; it will only be a matter of time—and lives.”
Okatar waved down the Star Watchman. “No, my naive Terran. Not at all. Your Empire is crumbling already. If you had the strength to crush us, you would do it now, here, on this planet. Instead you send a small Mobile Force that will be extinguished in another day,
“The people of Shinar do not want your Empire. The people of me galaxy have learned to hate the Terrans. How do you think the Terrans gained control of their Empire? By taking it from the Masters. Now the Komani will take it from the Terrans. For too long now the Komani have fought each other, while the Terrans gained strength from our weakness. But that time is drawing to a close. When the other Komani clans see that the Terrans can be humbled in battle, they will join the clan of Okatar. Your Empire is ripe for picking.”
“You are going to plunge the galaxy into hell all over again,” Vorgens said, “and you will not live to see the end of the chaos you cause.”
“Perhaps,” the Kang retorted, “but certainly you will not live to see even the beginning. Unfortunately, we do not have the time to enjoy the ceremonial execution that bearers of ultimatums are traditionally given. Therefore, you shall be shot, before the sun sets.”
With that, Okatar nodded to the guards. One of them seized Vorgens’ arm and turned him around. They marched out of the tent.
Vorgens walked blindly, numbly, seeing nothing and hearing nothing, his mind in a dizzying whirl that pulled in tighter and tighter on itself.
The Komani aren’t interested in a peaceful settlement. They want only war. Aikens was right. He was right! This battle, here on this minor planet, is only the opening skirmish in a war that will engulf the whole galaxy. The Empire is in danger. Humankind is in danger. If the Empire crumbles, nine people out of every ten will starve. If the Komani have their way. the whole fabric of civilization will be destroyed.
They want to destroy, to kill. They want to kiU me. I will be executed. Shot. Killed. Dead.
Merdon sat at the low-slung table, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the overlarge Komani chair, and watched Vorgens walk numbly out of the tent, escorted by the six guards. Sittas remained at the doorway for a moment, and Merdon’s eyes met the old priest’s and held there. Sittas’ face was expressionless, but Merdon knew whatas in his mind.
The Shinarian youth turned away and glanced at Romal and his other lieutenants, sitting at the table with him. When he looked back at the doorway, Sittas hadone.
“To return to these tallies of weapons ...” Okatar said. Merdon focused his attention on the Kang. “One moment, I have never heard you talk before about this plan for conquering the entire Terran Empire. I would
72 ‘ ike to hear exactly how you propose to do it, and how your plans affect Shinar.”
Okatar smiled. “In a few days—a few weeks, at most— the Komani will have left Shinar. The Terrans will be wiped out, and before they can bring more troops to your planet, we will have struck somewhere else, closer to the heart of their Empire. When we leave you, Shinar will be free of the Terrans for all time. never fear.”
Merdon said, “But you are using Shinar as a steppingstone in your plans against the Empire.”
“Of course. What of it? We wiu free Shinar of the Terrans. Our motives are inconsequential.”
“But do you really believe that you can defeat the Empire? With all their resources and manpower, the Terrans ...”
Okatar’s smile vanished. “The resources and manpower of the Terrans come from worlds like your own. They are stolen from peoples who will gladly rise up against the Terrans, as they rose against the Masters a century agoAll they need is a leader, and an army to join. The Komani will be that army, and I will be that leader.”
“After you’ve defeated the Empire, what then? Will the Komani become the new masters of the galaxy?”
“In a sense, yes. But we will not become like the Terrans. We are fighters, not governors. The Komani will live on tribute, freely given by the peoples we liberate from the Terrans. We shall leave aH peoples in peace, and tight against only those who work for the Terrans, or who oppose us.”
Merdon nodded. “I see.” But in his mind he saw his father’s worried face, and heard his words of warning.
“Now then,” Okatar resumed, “about these tallies of weapons. I had assumed that there would be more weapons available. This list seems too short.”
Merdon could sense Romal, sitting next to him, tense at the Komani’s question. He answered calmly:
“My quartermaster has prepared very accurate tallies. Remember that we took those weapons from small garrison posts among the outlying towns. The Terrans kept most of their weapons in the major arsenals in the four cities that they still hold.”
Okatar nodded. “I understand that there are goodsized arsenals in some of the smaller cities. The port of Katan, for instance.”
“There is an arsenal there, yes,” Merdon agreed. “But it is relatively small and nearly empty. Besides, Katan is a long distance from here. We could never get the weapons from the arsenal to our troops in time for tomorrow morning’s attack on the Mobile Force.”
“Sound logic,” Okatar said. “In any event, we have more than enough weapons for tomorrow’s attack.” His lips parted in a smile, but his yellow eyes were cold.
“I have the latest information about food deliveries,” Romal said, changing the subjectHis voice, always highpitched, nearly cracked from nervousness.
They discussed the questions of provisions and other logistics problems for another hour. Neither Okatar nor Merdon mentioned the weapons again, or the arsenal in Katan. But both knew that the other was thinking hard about the matter,
When Merdon finally left Okatar’s tent, he started back toward his own quarters, with his four top lieutenants accompanying him. As they made their way through die Komani bubble-tents, Altai came up and joined them.
“My uncle would like to speak with you,” she said, striding along beside Merdon,
“It will have to wait. There are other things to do.”
She looked up at him. “I heard that Okatar made a speech.”
Merdon grinned humorlessly. “Several of them. He announced his plans for crushing the Empire, told us that he will expect us to support nim by paying his clan ribute, and showed quite a bit of suspicion about the weapons tallies.”
“He knows that we’re keeping back some weapons?”
“He suspects.”
“What are you going to do?” Altai asked.
“I’m going to hold a conference with my four best men, and we’ll decide on what to do.”
“A conference? In your tent?”
“No,” Merdon said, shaking his head. “Right out here, in the open. We’re going to stroll around the camp and talk. I don’t want to go to the tent ... too much of a chance that a microphone might be hidden there.”
Altai nodded in agreement. “All right. I’ll wait for you at your tent.”
“No. Stay with us. We might look a little less as though we’re plotting something if there’s a girl with us.”
“A girl?” Altai repeated. “Just any old girl? Just someone to make the Komani think you couldn’t possibly be talking about anything serious?”
“Now don’t be silly,” Merdon said, taking her hand in his. “Of all the girls on the planet of Shinar, there is none that I would rather have standing here beside me, dazzling the Komani with her radiant beauty, more than you. There, are you happy now?”
Altai shrugged noncommittally. “May I join the discussion, or must I merely listen?”
Merdon glanced at the other four. They were grinning broadly.
“You may speak,” he said, “if you have something serious to say. This is a serious matter.”
“Yes I know,” Altai countered. “But it’s good to see you all smiling again. You looked so solemn a minute ago.”
“For good reason,” Merdon said.
“Okatar Kang thinks that the Komani can conquer the whole Terran Empire. Shinar is just the first step in his plan,” Romal said, his voice squeaking in excitement.
“We face the prospect,” Merdon said calmly, “of having the Komani as overlords after the Terrans have beenriven away.”
Altai shuddered involuntarily. “They wouldn’t even try to govern us. They would take whatever they wanted byorce.”
The others murmured agreement.
“Don’t be so sure,” Merdon argued. “If the Komani are going to tackle the whole Terran Empire, they won’t want to be bothered by uprisings in their rear. If they act belligerently toward us, we can fight. Okatar knowshat.”
“”Yes, and he knows his warriors can whip us,” said Tarat, the lanky son of a fanner, who now served as Merdon’s chief tactician. “Our men are willing fighters, but—I hate to admit it—we’re just not strong enough or experienced enough to stop the Komani.”
“The Komani could whip us,” Merdon agreed. “But not if they were fighting the Terrans at the same time.”
“You’re walking out on a slender branch,” Tarat said.
“Without a safety field to catch you if you slip,” Altaidded-
Merdon stopped walking and looked at them. They had reached the edge of the encampment, and were near a clump of tall trees. Beyond the grove shimmered the barely visible energy screen that protected the camp from missiles and force beams.
“Let’s consider the basic things first,” Merdon said. “Are we agreed that we want to be rid of the Terrans?”
“Not if it means living under the Komani,” Romal saidtubbornly.
“Of course not,” Merdon said. “But if we can be free, should we fight for freedom, or remain under the
Empire?”
“Freedom!” snapped Tarat. “Freedom or death. We’ve come too far to turn back now.”
“Right,” Merdon agreed. “Even if we wanted to return o the Empire, the Terrans would never trust us again. We would all end up in exile, or worse.”
“No,” Altai said, “Uncle Sittas said that the Terran Watchman ...”
Merdon’s scowl silenced her. “The Watchman brought us an ultimatum—stop fighting or be wiped out by the Imperial troops. He never said what would happen after we stopped fighting. You can guess at what the Terrans would do.”
Altai stared at the rebel leader, her face set in a perplexed frown.
Merdon went on, as they resumed walking, “At the moment, the Komani have the same aim that we do—to drive the Terrans off Shinar. Good. We can work together toward that goal.”
“And afterward?” Romal piped.
“Afterward, the Komani will want to attack another planet of the Empire. Again good. We will help them. We will provide them with all the food we can gather. We will give them ships, and clothing, and any equipment we have.”
“Weapons?”
“We will give them weapons, too. Half of all the weapons taken from the arsenals at the four major cities. The other half we will keep. All the other weapons we are now holding on to—including the arsenal in Katan—we shall keep.”
“And if Okatar finds out?” Altai asked softly.
“It will be no secret. We will tell him that we are keeping these weapons in case we are attacked. We have a right to defend ourselves, if we are free.”
Tarat grunted in sudden understanding. “Woof. You’ll be telling Okatar that if he tries to take anything else from Shinar, we’ll fight him.”
“That’s right,” Merdon said. “We’ll be perfectly willing to have him fight the Terrans elsewhere, and leave Shinar in peace.”
“You’re gambling,” Tarat said, “that Okatar will prefer to fight the Terrans rather than us.”
“He’ll have more to gain fighting the Empire. There’s no profit—and no glory for him—in staying here and crushing us.”
The four lieutenants muttered among themselves.
“I know this is a hard decision to make,” Merdon said. “We’re running a terrible risk. If things don’t work out well, we’ll see our world turned into a blood-soaked shambles. We will be killed, no doubt. But if we’re smart enough, and strong enough ... we can achieve freedom. Is it worth the risk or not?”
“It is!” Tarat said.
Romal nodded unhappily. “I guess there’s no other way.”
The others agreed.
Altai remained silent. But Merdon could read the question in her eyes: Is there no other way? Is there absolutely no other possible way?
In a small chamber within his main tent, Okatar Kang watched the six young Shinarian rebels on a tabletop viewscreen as they walked back from the trees at the edge of the camp and returned to their own tents.
“The remote receptor picks up their every word, does it not, my lord?” asked the Komani noble at his elbow.
“Indeed so,” Okatar said. “My compliments to the technicians.”
“You have seen enough?”
Okatar nodded. “Yes. Quite enough.”
The four lieutenants scattered to their private tents, while Altai accompanied Merdon back to his own quartersInside the plastic bubble, Sittas was sitting quietly, his eyes closed. The old priest looked up as the two youngsters entered.
“Were you sleeping or praying?” Merdon asked jokingly.
“A little of both, I fear.”
Merdon sat on a comer of the table and faced the priest. Altai stood beside her uncle’s chair.
“You want to talk to me about the Watchman.”
Sittas nodded. “You must ask Okatar to pardon him. Keep him a prisoner if you must, but a cold-blooded execution ...”
Merdon held up three fingers. “First, Okatar would not pardon a man he has sentenced to death. The Komani aren’t interested in clemency. Secondly, the Watchman has killed Komani warriors, and can hardly be treated as an innocent ambassador of goodwill. Thirdly, if he got back to the Terrans he would end up by killing our own people. So how can you ask for mercy?”
“This Watchman is not an ordinary Terran,” Sittas began.
“I know,” Merdon interrupted. “He’s worse. He knows the Terrans conquered his nation, and yet he fights for the Terrans. He’s an enemy—by his own choice and his own admission.”
“A very unusual enemy,” Sittas countered. “On the whole planet of Shinar, this youth is the only one who has mentioned the word peace in seriousness since the rebellion began. I believe that he holds the key to peace on Shinar.”
“Peace under the Empire? Never. That would merely be returning to the situation that caused the rebellion in the first place.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, Merdon,” Altai said-
“It doesn’t? Why not? Because we don’t want things to be that way? Because we dream of a world ruled by our own people, without the Terrans or anyone else standing on our necks? Well how is this wonderful world oing to come about? By prayer? By dreaming? By longing for peace, at any price?”
Merdon pounded a fist onto his open palm. “We must fight for freedom! The Terrans will not give us freedom for the asking. The Komani will not leave us alone unless we are strong enough to discourage them from attacking us. Is peace worth slavery? Is life so precious that we would place our worthless hides above freedom for our people, above freedom for the generations that haven’t even been born? No. We will fight, and keep fighting, until we have our freedom. Then peace will come, and we will welcome it as men, not as spineless dogs.”
Sittas smiled and nodded. “Fine oratory. It will sound stirring in the history books, but I am not convinced that unending warfare will bring peace to Shinar—or freedom. This Star Watchman, Vorgens, might possibly turn the trick for you. In the vast Terran Empire, there ‘must be officials who would be willing to listen to our cause, and work out some solution satisfactory to all of us.”
“No such Terran has ever taken an interest in Shinar. I doubt that such a Terran exists.”
“Perhaps the Watchman could help us to find the right officials.”
“The Watchman is a prisoner and sentenced to die,” Merdon repeated doggedly. “Your dreams of finding peace are nothing but wishful thinkingThe Watchman is only a junior officer. Do you think he could actually command a truce here on Shinar? Do you think the commander of the Imperial Marines takes orders from a junior officer? The Watchman has no power, no authority. His life is worthless.”
The old priest slowly rose, trembling, from his chair. “The strain of your duties has taken its toll on your good sense, Merdon, and on your heartNever in my life would I have expected you to say what you did a moment ago. A human life—worthless? You had better examine our conscience, my son. You are beginning to enjoy this war too much.”
Merdon started to reply, thought better of it, and simply sat there on the edge of the table, his eyes meeting the priest’s. Finally Sittas turned and silently walked out of the tent.
“The old fool,” Merdon grumbled”He knows I didn’t mean it that way.”
Altai asked, “How did you mean it?”
“Now don’t you start arguing against me!”
She looked at Merdon’s strong, stubborn face for a moment, then turned her eyes away and said, “Merdon— many people have died since this fight began. My own village has been nearly wiped out, first by the Terrans and then by the Komani.”
“That raid was a misunderstanding.”
“Yes, I know. But many people were killed anyway. Dozens of our classmates were killed in the fighting at the university .,.”
“I remember. And you fought by my side during those early days.”
“Early days,” Altai mused. “A few weeks ago. It seems like a lifetime has passed since then.”
“A lifetime has passed,” Merdon said. “None of us is the same person he was before this began. We can never go back to those days, Altai. Never.”
“Merdon. Usten to me. Please. Don’t let this Watchman be killed. I don’t know why, but I can’t just stand back and allow a man to be executed. This war has already killed many, many good people. But they were killed in battle. Now—now you’re going to let them come in and shoot him. You can’t let it happen!”
The young rebel shook his head. “Altai, it has to be this way. There’s no other way. He’s a Komani prisoner, not ours. We can’t set him free. We can’t help him escape.”
“You mean you won’t try to help him.”
“1 can’t.”
She drew herself up to her full height. Merdon smiled inwardly at her, trying to be as tall as a man.
“You can’t help him,” Altai said, “but there are others who can.”
Instantly, Merdon’s amusement vanished. “What do you mean by that?”
She started for the doorway. “You’ll see.”
“Altai! Don’t do anything foolish. The Komani wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a girl—or a priest.”
Vorgens sat in stunned silence in the tent to which the guards had brought him. The Komani warriors loitered outside while the young Star Watchman stared at the blank wall of the tent.
The touch of a hand on his shoulder startled him. He , looked up and saw Sittas standing beside him.
“Have courage,” the priest said quietly,
“Does it show? The fear?”
“Not much.”
Vorgens ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “You heard what Okatar said. The other Komani clans are in league with him. This is the beginning of a galaxywide war.”
Sittas shook his head. “Not necessarily. The other clans may be giving him some aid, and no doubt they are giving him considerable encouragement, but they will not move in force until it becomes clear that the Empire is too weak to stop them.”
“If the Mobile Force is wiped out, that would be their signal, wouldn’t it?”
“It could be.”
“They’ll attack tomorrow morning, for certain,” Vorgens said. ‘They’ve got more men and equipment than Aikens dreams they have. If he stands and fights in that valley, we’ll lose Shinar and the whole Komani nation will begin to march against the Empire.”
But Sittas was no longer listening. He was standing at the doorway of the tent, looking out. The late afternoon sun slanting through the doorway touched his wispy hair and gave him a modest halo.
Vorgens stood up. “Well, when is the firing squad coming? Or do they like to let their victims dangle for a few hours?”
“Death comes to us all, my friend,” Sittas murmured, still gazing intently outward.
“It’s odd,” Vorgens said, pacing across the tent floor, “I never thought about how I would die. I’ve been aboard starships that have run into trouble—real trouble. And yesterday, in battle, and last night, helping Mclntyre and Giradaux to escape, I was frightened, alT right, but the thought of death—my death—it just never entered my mind. But now ... I never thought I would die before a firing squad—on a planet I didn’t even know existed until a few weeks ago.”
“If we knew the time and place of the end of our lives,” Sittas said, glancing at the Watchman, “we would hardly find life interesting enough to go through with it.”
“That’s not much help.”
The old priest smiled. “Then perhaps your next visitor will have better words for you.”
Puzzled, Vorgens stepped over to the entrance of the tent, where Sittas was still standing. Walking through the Komani encampment toward them was a Shinarian girl. Vorgens recognized her as the girl he had seen while he was still half-unconscious after being shot.
“So she’s not a dream,” he muttered.
“Altai? She is my niece. We are from the same village. She joined the rebel forces at the university, where she met Merdon.”
Vorgens frowned. “One of Merdon’s rebels. So she hates the Terrans, too. And me. Just as Okatar said they all do.”
“She is too young to hate,” Sittas said.
They stepped back from the entryway as Altai walked into the tentThe girl looked at Vorgens for a moment, then turned to her uncle and nodded silently.
Sittas said, to no one in particular, “Let us pray for guidance.”
The old man stood a few paces from the entrance, and began chanting. But his eyes were on Vorgens, and he gestured with one hand, first pointing to his ear, then to the guards outside.
Vorgens smiled in understanding. Altai pulled a low bench up to the table in the middle of the room and sat down. Vorgens sat next to her. She took a thin slip of plastifilm and a stylus from the waistband of her slacks and began drawing as Vorgens watched,
Altai sketched the tent they were in, and a dozen nearby tentsIn two of the circles she drew she wrote a single word: ammunition. Then she put down a pair of wavy lines, running parallel from Vorgens’ tent outward to the edge of the film. Within the lines she wrote safe lane; outside the lines, on both sides, she wrote fire. She looked up at Vorgens to see if he understood. Vorgens nodded, and noticed that her eyes were as black and deep as space itself.
While Sittas continued to chant, Altai gestured toward the wall of the tentThen she touched the stylus on the word fire.
Vorgens shook his head and whispered, “Nonflammable. Will not bum.”
Altai smiled and whispered back, “Thermal grenade. It will bum.”
Vorgens grinned at her. “How soon?”
“As quickly as possible,” she answered, rolling up the film and tucking it back into her waistband.
They stood up together. Altai was nearly Vorgens’ own height. Sittas finished his chant.
“I hope our prayers are answered,” the priest said.
Vorgens watched the two of them leave the tent. He stood at the entrance as the old man and the girl walked slowly away and finally disappeared behind some of the gaudy Komani bubble-tents.
The Watchman stepped back toward the middle of the tent. Now it’s a race to see who is ready first: Sittas and his niece, or Okatars execution detail.
His answer—several minutes later—was a dull booming sound and the jarring smack of a concussion wave that jolted everything in the tent. Another explosion, earsplitting, knocked Vorgens off his feet and toppled the table next to him. A Komani warrior stuck his head through the entrance as Vorgens was climbing to his feet. Shouts and screams were mixing with a series of explosions and the peculiar whoosh sound of huge sheets of flame leaping slyward. Vorgens could hear men running outside, and saw behind his guard’s back the eery, nickering light that could only be coming from a huge blaze.
The warrior ducked through the entryway and motioned to Vorgens with a huge, pawlike hand.
“Out. Danger. Fire.”
Vorgens stalled. “You mean you’re worried about me?”
The Komani took another step toward Vorgens, and fingered the pistol on his hip.
The whole far end of the tent suddenly dissolved into flames. The Komani gave an involuntary shriek and leaped for the entrance. Vorgens, without time to think about it, dived straight into the burning plastic wall.
He jumped headfirst, as hard and as far as his legs
ould catapult him. He landed, hands down on cool moist grass, and somersaulted. Getting to his feet, Vorgens saw that Altai’s plan was working just as her sketch had shown.
The dome of the tent behind him was engulfed in fireFlaming tents stretched off on either side of him, but the ground between them was clear. The heat was intense though. Not even the grass would last long at this rate.
Vorgens took off at top speed, straight down the alley of fire, legs pumping as hard as they could, lungs sucking in searing, spark-filled air. Smoke burned at his eyes and he could feel that parts of his face and hands were scorched.
Finally he was free of the flames and stumbling down the shrub-choked slope that marked the edge of the meadow and the end of the Komani camp. Gasping for breath, exhausted and riddled with pain, he sprawled in the bushes.
For several minutes he lay there, chest heaving, legs aching, watching the heavy black smoke, occasionally mixed with tongues of flame, billowing from the Komani camp.
“Are you all right?”
Startled, he turned to see Altai kneeling beside him.
“Yes. I’ll be fine as soon as I catch my breath.”
“The Komani will have the fire out soon,” she said. “We’d better move quickly.”
Vorgens scrambled to his feet. “I’m ready.”
Silently she led him deeper into the brush, past a clump of tall trees. Beyond the trees stood Sittas, his robes tinged red by the last rays of the sinking sun.
“I took the liberty,” Altai said as they approached the priest, “of borrowing three flyers from one of the Komani tents that I had to set on fire. They will never miss them.”
“You set on fire? You mean yon did all that ... yourself?”
She nodded and tried not to look smug, but Vorgens could see that she was proud of herself. “It wasn’t too difficult. None of the tents was occupied. The Komani used them for storing ammunition and equipment. All it took was a couple of small grenades to set off everything.”
“And a lot of courage,” Vorgens added.
By this time they were close enough for Sittas to Join the conversation. “You made it safely,” the old priest said.
“A few singes here and there, but I’m still alive.”
“It’ll be dark soon,” Altai said. “We’d better wait for a while before trying to take off on the flyers.”
They spent the last few minutes of daylight examining the saddfe-like, one-man Komani flyers. None of them had ridden one before, but after a few tests of the controls, Vorgens showed them how to handle it.
Night finally came, softened by the ever-present airglow, A flicker of fire still rose from the Komani camp.
Vorgens straddled his flyer and touched the buttons on the pummel that activated the machine. The flyer seemed to pulse into life. It stirred and vibrated, as though waiting for a command to action. He glanced at Sittas and Altai. They both seemed ready to go, although Vorgens worried about the priest’s ability to handle the machine.
At a nod from Altai they started off, keeping low and sticking as much as possible to the shadows until they were weB away from the Komani camp. Then they soared above treetop level and made better time.
As they skimmed along, Vorgens allowed Sittas to set the pace for them. The old man had some difficulty managing the flyer, but with Vorgens and Altai staying side by side with him, they got along without any real trouble.
They flew toward the valley where the Mobile Force as encamped, and landed on a hillside nearby, after less than an hour’s flight. They edged the flyers into the bushes, where they would be reasonably safe from discovery.
“I’ll go the rest of the way on foot,” Vorgens said. “If I tried flying over the guard posts at night they’d shoot me down automatically.”
Sittas nodded. “What will you do after you get there?”
“I’ve got to convince Brigadier Aikens to break out of this valley. He’s hopelessly outnumbered if he sits there and tries to battle it out. There’ll be a slaughter ... on both sides.”
“If you do get the Ten-am forces out of this trap, what then?”
Vorgens shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ll be buying time. We’ll be saving lives. That’s enough for now.”
“Okatar plans to attack at dawn,” Altai said, “from the side of the valley that will give him the sun at his back.”
“I expected that,” Vorgens said. “Where will Merdon’s forces be? I’d rather avoid firing on Shinarians, if it can be helped.”
In the semi-darkness, Vorgens coutd not see Altai’s eyes widen in surprise and joy. There was a moment’s hesitation before she answered-
“Our people will be directly on Okatar’s left flank, and one thing more, the Komani are pulling back most of their men from this end of the valley, so that they can mount a stronger attack at sunrise. There will be only a thin screen of warriors in this area.”
“Then we could break through,” Vorgens said, “if we hit them with everything we have.”
“Yes,” Altai agreed, “and without firing on Shinarians.”
“You must tell your commander,” Sittas reminded, “that a defeat here may well touch off a galactic war.”
“I know. I know.”
Sittas looked up at the sky”You have only until dawn. You must move quickly.”
“I ... there are no words to thank you enough,” Vorgens said, “not just for your help—but for my life.”
The priest smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Go quickly. And good fortune to you.”
“What about you and Altai?”
“We will be safe enoughThis is our homeworld, remember.”
Vorgens nodded. He turned to Altai. “Thank you, too. I hope that the fighting is ended quickly.”
He wanted to say more, then decided against it. He turned away from them and started down the grassy slope of the hill toward the Mobile Force.
Okatar Kang stood watching the smoldering ruins of the tents, with several of his nobles beside him. His face was an impassive mask as Komani warriors sprayed and beat out the last glowing embers.
Merdon walked up slowly, alone except for a single Komani escort.
“It was a stubborn fire,” Merdon said.
Okatar looked down at the young rebel. Though tall for a Shinarian, Merdon barely stood as high as the Komani Kang’s shoulder.
“Several cases of Terran thermal grenades made the fire difficult to fight,” Okatar said.
“This was an unfortunate time for such an accident,” Merdon said. “With the attack ...”
Okatar cut him short. “This fire will have no effect on our attackAnd it was no accident. It was deliberate sabotage.”
“Deliberate? You can’t mean it.”
Okatar said nothing.
“But who would do such a thing?” Merdon asked.
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me. Obviously no Komani would destroy his own tents and some of his precious ammunition.”
Merdon nodded and remained silent for a few oments, his mind racing. Then he asked, “Wasn’t the Watchman quartered near here?”
“Yes,” Okatar said, gesturing toward a patch of charred earth. “That was where his tent stood.”
“Where is he now?”
Okatar shrugged. “We have found no sign of him.”
“Then it must have been him! He knew he was going to be executed, so he somehow set this fire, trying to cause damage to us. He probably died in his own flames.”
Okatar’s yellow eyes flickered with amusement. “An engaging theory. However, there are three flaws in it. First, we have not found his remains among the ruins.”
“His body could have been totally consumed ...”
“Second,” Okatar continued, ignoring Merdon, “one of my warriors saw die Watchman inside his own tent after the first explosions. The fire had already started.”
“Could he have—”
“And finally,” Okatar went on, relentlessly, “we have the very curious pattern of the fire itself.”
Okatar pointed to one of the warriors standing nearby, and the Komani switched in a huge floodlight that bathed the whole area in brightness.
“Look carefully at the scene of the fire,” Okatar said to Merdon. “Tell me what you see.”
Merdon said, “Blackened ground where the flames were burning. Some withered grass nearby. What else?”
“Starting here, where the Watchman’s tent stood,” Okatar said, striding to the scorched oval, “and looking outward toward the edge of the camp—what do you see?”
Merdon looked out along the direction indicated by the Kang’s outstretched arm. The evidence was clear;wo lanes of fire-blacked ground, and between them, a path of safety that led to the edge of the camp.
“I see,” Merdon said at last.
“Yes,” Okatar answered. “Now I ask you—who would have done this? Who would have committed this sabotage, and rescued the Watchman? One of my men, or one of yours?”
Merdon looked directly into the Komani chieftain’s eyes. “Perhaps neither,” he said evenly. “Perhaps it was the two Terrans who had escaped. They might have returned to free their fellow prisoner.”
“How would they know where he was being held?”
Merdon stroked his jaw for a moment. “They could have been watching the camp from those trees. Or the Watchman might have had some sort of miniature signaling device hidden on him.”
Okatar nodded. “Perhaps so. I had not considered that possibility.”
“My people have been fighting shoulder to shoulder with your warriors,” Merdon added. “There is no reason to think that they would have aided the Watchman, and done this damage to our cause.”
“Perhaps,” Okatar muttered. “Perhaps.”
“Still,” Merdon said, “I will check with my people to see if they can shed any light on this.”
“Good.”
“The attack is still set for dawn?”
Okatar nodded.
“All right. I’d better get down there with my men.”
Merdon turned away and left the scene of the fire. Okatar gestured to the warrior at the light, and the Komani turned it off.
“Do you believe him?” asked one of the nobles.
“Of course not,” Okatar replied. “There were six Shinarians present when I sentenced the Watchman to death: Merdon, his four underlings, and that priest. Send a man to check on each of them. If any one of them is missing, your man is to find him—no matter where on Shinar he may be, and when he finds him—kill him.”
“It shall be done.”
Brigadier Aikens sat in frowning silence for a moment as the Star Watchman stood before him. Vorgens looked bedraggled and utterly worn. His uniform was torn and grimy. There was an angry red bum on his right cheek.
Finally the brigadier hunched over his desk and jabbed a finger at Vorgens. “Do you seriously expect me to beheve this story?”
“Sir, if my word is not—”
“I don’t doubt your word. Watchman. It’s your judgment.” Aikens grinned humorlessly. “Befriended by a native priest. Rescued from a firing squad. Tipped off to the Komani strategy and shown a route by which we can escape. Use your head, boyl You’ve been hoodwinked.”
“I can’t believe that, sir,” Vorgens said quietly, “I know what I saw.”
Aikens ran a hand over his balding dome. “All right, what did you see? That the barbarians have more men and equipment than we thought? That some of the natives are on their side? That we can’t count on reinforcements from the city garrisons? So what? It makes no difference on the military situation here.”
“But that’s the whole point, sir,” Vorgens insisted, his voice still soft. “The tactical situation here is overshadowed by the strategic importance of your decision. If the defeat of the Mobile Force is to be the signal for a general uprising of the Komani clans, then strategically you must withdraw and decline combat. You can’t afford running the risk of a defeat at this time and place.”
“Are you lecturing me on military concepts?” Aikens got up slowly from his chair and his voice rose in pitch”My men can whip any horde of undisciplined barbarians, I don’t care what their numbers are!”
“But the Komani are not undisciplined. They’re as well trained as any troops in the galaxy. And the odds are overwhelmingly against you. If you fight here you will be wiped out. Your defeat will touch off a war of terrible proportions.”
Aikens thundered, “I’ve served this Empire for more years than you’ve known, and on more planets than I care to remember, and I’ve never heard such panicked, sickening, fear-ridden talk in my life. If you think for one minute that I’ll be scared into a withdrawal that’ll be, at best, a humiliation to our uniforms, and might possibly lead to a well-planned ambush ...”
“But, sir—”
“But nothing!” Aikens slammed a fist on his desk. “Wake up. Watchman! Just because you’re racially closer to these natives than to real Terrans doesn’t mean that you have to swallow everything they tell you. They’ve fed you a fairy tale. There’s nothing those savages would like better than to see my Force trying to sneak out of this valley. They’d cut us to ribbons between here and the ext range of hills. That priest, and that girl you seem so entranced with—they’re probably waiting for us up in those hills, with guns in their hands, waiting for us and laughing at you! It’s a trap, Watchman. A trap set for a gullible young fool.”
Vorgens sucked in his breath. “Sir, I cannot stand by and—”
“Just get out of my sight, mister, and stay out of my way.”
Aikens sat down again and turned his attention to the pile of reports on his desk.
“Brigadier Aikens, you don’t realize what you’re—”
“Dismissed.”
“But, sir—”
“Dismissed!”
Vorgens left the brigadier’s office and walked blindly down the narrow passageway to the outer hatch. He climbed down to the ground and stood for a moment next to the mammoth dreadnaught, looking at the maze of vehicles spread across the vaUey floor, waiting for the dawn. Most of the men were sleeping, he knew—or trying to.
Can Aikens be right? Vorgens wondered. What makes me so certain that I’m not wrong? He was right about Okatar Kong’s reaction to the truce offer. It could be a trap. Sittas lying? Altai working for the Komani? Leading me and the whole Mobile Force into a slaughter? And yet... I went across those hills tomg/ri. The Komani ready have pulled most of their men away. Can that be part of the trap? Whose judgment can I trust, my own, or Aikens’?
He began to walk away from the dreadnaught, looking for the cruiser in which he had been quartered. As he walked, he continued to question himself.
How long has Aikens been on Shinar?
A few weeks.
Has he met any of the native rebel leaders?
No.
Has he seen any of the Komani?
Only in battle.
What does he know about the situation on Shinar?
Only what he tells himself.
Then why was he right about Okatar’s refusal of the truce?
Vorgens stopped for a moment and puzzled over that one. He knew what Okatar would do, the Watchman realized suddenly, because that is exactly what Aikens himself would have done if he had been in Okatar’s place.
Aikens and Okatar! The same personality, really, when you strip away the differences in race and cultural background. Both warriors. Both impatient with anything less than battle. Both eager to fight it out, here in this valley.
Aikensdoesn’t want to retreat from the valley because he’s anxious to meet Okatar in battleHis fear of a trap is just an excuse. Probably he doesn’t realize it himself, but it’s only an excuse. He wants to fight Okatar!
Vorgens frowned. Or do I merely want to believe it, because I think Aikens is wrong?
There was a way to verify his idea, Vorgens suddenly remembered. He turned back and half ran toward the dreadnaught. He clambered inside and made his way to the main computer. A dreadnaught’s computer served an amazing variety of functions, from directing fire control to making statistical predictions of an enemy’s intent. Vorgens was interested in the personnel records stored in the memory banks. The records were carried to allow officers to pick particularly qualified men for any given task. As a matter of course, the brigadier’s battle history would be there-
The computer control center was a tiny compartment, consisting of a desk-console with its control keyboard, and a readout viewscreen. The cramped compartment was unattended at this hour.
It took Vorgens a few minutes to figure out the coding
sm that unlocked the computer’s memory banks, but Uy he had Brigadier Aikens’ battle record on the viewscreen.
Vorgens tensed in sudden shock as he read about Aikens’ first major battle. It was in the Pleiades Uprising, the rebellion in which Vorgens’ own grandfather had been killed.
So Aikens fought against my people, Vorgens said to himself.
The Star Watchman read the details of the record. Aikens was a junior officer then. and he did not see action on the planet where Vorgens’ family lived.
Stiff, he doesn’t think very highly of my people.
Vorgens read on. There were two other major battles in Aikens’ record. His first action as a senior commander was a daring attack on the capital planet of the Saurian Federation. Vorgens recalled from his history courses that the Saurians had attempted to withdraw from the Terran Empire. Aikens’ raid on their capital was the blow that collapsed them.
Vorgens scanned past scores of minor skirmishes, and then found the third major battle on the brigadier’s record. It was against a Komani clan that was raiding a Terran planet. Aikens was in charge of the garrison. He had been awarded the Legion of Courage medal for his successful defense of the planet.
The citation that accompanied the medal read, in part, “For heroically standing his ground in the face of overwhelming enemy superiority in numbers ...”
So that’s what he’s up to, Vorgens thought. He wants to repeat the tactics that won the medal.
Vorgens flicked off the computer and leaned back in the chair before the control console. The record had made many things clear—Aikens’ immediate dislike of Vorgens, and the brigadier’s stubborn insistence on standing his ground and facing his enemies, no matter what their number and advantage.
Only one thing was not clear: what could Star Watch Junior Officer Vorgens do to correct the situation?
Impulsively, Vorgens tapped out another set of instructions on the computer keyboard. He spent a few more minutes reading very carefully the Star Watch regulations that appeared on the viewscreen in answer to his request.
Vorgens nodded to himself. He turned off the computer once again and stepped out of the tiny compartment into the passageway. At one end of the passageway was an open hatch, and Vorgens could see the sky beginning to pale.
The Watchman made his way to the dreadnaught’s dispensary. A sleepy-eyed medic, gray-haired and sourfaced, was sitting next to the diagnostic booth, checking his inventory of supplies.
“I’ll need some energy capsules that will keep me going at top efficiency for the next day.”
The medic looked up at him. “When’s the last time you slept?”
Vorgens had to think a moment. “Night before last— until about noon.”
“Pills are no substitute for sleep.”
“Doctor, I have no time to argue.”
The medic got up from his chair and went to a cabinet. “All right. But 1 want your name. I’ll have to check on you. I don’t want anybody living on pills.”
Vorgens grinned. “Doctor, if we’re both alive by the end of this day, you can check on me as much as you like.”
The medic handed him three orange capsules. “That should keep you going for a whole day. Take one now, the others when you ieel you need “em.”
“Thank you. My name is Vorgens. Star Watch Junior Officer.”
Vorgens left the dreadnaught and trotted toward the cruiser where his quarters were. His thoughts were racing even faster than his body, though.
You know what you think and what you believe. Do you have the nerve to act on it? Do you have the strength to make a decision that will mean life or death for aU the men in this vaUey? Can you shoulder that much responsibility?
He knew that, in reality, it did not matter whether he wanted to take the responsibility or not. It was his, and he could not escape itWhile Vorgens was arguing with Brigadier Aikens, Merdon was striding along the narrow crest of a ridge overlooking the valley where the Mobile Force lay huddled and waiting for the dawn.
The young Shinarian was inspecting his troops in the final hours before battle. In the softly lit night, he watched his rebels—students, farmers, young workers from the cities—as they cleaned their guns, checked their ammunition, went over their assignments with their squad leaders.
Tarat, walking beside Merdon, said, ‘They’re ready. They’re primed and ready for the battle.”
Merdon nodded. As he stepped along the ridge, the young fighters—girls as well as men—recognized him and waved or grinned in greeting.
Beyond the crest of the ridge the ground sloped away toward the valley floor. The Terran forces there were hidden in shadow, but Merdon could sense their presence.
“Any activity tonight?” he asked Tarat, pointing a thumb toward the darkened valley floor.
The lanky tactician shook his head. “They’ve been very quiet. A few patrols this morning, but they withdrew as soon as we offered some opposition. Since men, nothing.”
“H’m. Where are RomaT and the others?”
“A little -further down the line. They’re waiting for you.”
“Good.”
“Say, have you told Altai to stay away from the battle?”
Merdon’s head jerked upward involuntarily. “Why ... what makes you ask?”
“She hasn’t been here all night. We thought she’d be coming with you, but she didn’t. She’s always been in the thick of everything—ever since the first fights at the university.”
“She’ll be here,” Merdon said flatly.
“When? I mean, what’s keeping her? She’s our good luck charm.”
“She’ll be here!”
Tarat stared at his chief for a moment, then decided to drop the subject. “I’ve set up the command post up there,” he pointed, “on that little knoll. Gives us a good view of the ridge and the whole valley.”
“Good.”
They climbed up the side of the knoll and stepped into the dugout that had been cut into its crest. It had a bare, earthen floor and walls, and was roofless. Merdon glanced up at the sly. A few clouds were scudding across the stars.
“It’s not going to rain, is it?”
Romal answered, “We made a radio contact with our underground forces in Capital City. Their meteorologist predicts some cloudiness here for tomorrow, but no rain.”
Merdon turned from the little quartermaster to another of his lieutenants”Ron, you’re a farmer. Will it rain tomorrow?”
Ron scratched his head. “Shouldn’t. But we might get a shower towards sundown.”
“So much for meteorology,” Merdon muttered.
He turned and surveyed the dugout. Portable communications equipment stood along one wall, with a table full of maps alongside it. Merdon went to the table and half sat against it.
“I assume everyone is ready for the attack, and you all know exacdy what you’re expected to do.”
They murmured agreement.
“I just want to call your attention to the basic job we’ve got to do. The Komani will be mounted on their flyers. They’ll be the shock troops. Their mission is to hit the Terrans with beamguns and missiles, and knock out or neutralize the Terran armored vehicles.
“We’ll be the infantry. We move in behind the Komani attack waves and mop up. We’re the ones who’ll actually board the Terran vehicles and smoke out their crews. It’ll be tough, unspectacular, dangerous work. Our casualties will probably be high. But at the end of this day— before the showers that Ron predicts—the Terran Mobile Force will be wiped out. Within a week, the garrisons of the four cities either will have surrendered or been destroyed. Shinar will be free.”
None of the young leaders cheered, but Merdon could see the eagerness and determination in their eyes-
“Is this meeting for men only, or can a lowly female come in?” Altai asked, and without waiting for an answer she stepped into the command post. A beamgun was buckled at her hip, and a bandoher of grenades slung over one shoulder.
Merdon grinned at her. “I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you.”
“You didn’t think I’d stay away, did you?”
Their eyes met and locked for a long. wordless moment.
Romal broke the silence. “Did you see the fire in the Komani camp?” he squealed. “It took them hours to get it out. Six tents full of stores and ammunition, up in smoke.”
“Yes,” Altai answered with a slight smile, “I saw the fire.”
“And where is your uncle?” Merdon asked.
“He wanted to come, but I thought it would be better f he remained further back in the hills. The front line is no place for a man of his years.”
“True enough.”
“I’m not in the way, am I?” Altai asked. “Did I interrupt?”
“No,” Tarat said, “We were just leaving. There’s nothing remaining to be done now except wait for the dawn’s first light.”
“Good luck then,” Altai said to the four lieutenants as they filed out of the dugout.
When the last of them was out of earshot, Merdon took both her hands in his and said, “I’m glad you came, I was worried about you.”
“We saw the Watchman back safely to the Terran forces.”
“It was a foolish thing for you to do. Foolish -and futile.”
“Perhaps,” she answered. “But I had to do it.”
“And yet you came back to fight against him.”
“Not against him, Merdon. For Shinar. No matter how much we differ about the Watchman, we are still together on the basic fact—Shinar will be free.”
While Merdon and Altai talked away the final hour before dawn, six Komani warriors huddled together in a trench not far from the Shinarian command post.
“Every one of the Shinarians is here except the old priest,” said one of the warriors.
Another of the warriors nodded. “I cannot find him anywhere.”
“Then according to Lord Okatar’s command,” said the first, “he is the one responsible for the fire at camp.”
““Yes. I must find him, wherever he is hiding, and kill him.”
The six huge, cat-faced warriors agreed with solemn nods.
“I will miss the battle, then,” said the Komani.
“Better to miss the battle than to disobey the orders of your Kang.”
“True. Still, it is hard to turn one’s back on a battle.”
“Lord Okatar will reward you greatly for your faithfulness.”
“If I find the priest.”
“There is no alternative. You may not return to our tents until you have carried out the Kang’s command. The priest must die.”
“Yes.”
The warriors stood up and began to exchange farewells when, involuntarily, their ears pricked up.
“Listen?”
“What is it?”
A faint, far-off whining. A distant, high-pitched shrill.
“I know that sound,” said one of the Komani. “It comes from Terran engines. They are starting up their cruisers and dreadnaughts. The battle is about to begin.”
Vorgens reached his cruiser at about the same time Merdon met his lieutenants in the dugout command post.
The Watchman spent onfy a few minutes in the cramped cubicle of his quarters. He stripped off his ragged clothes, ducked into the lav-stall for an automatic shower and air-blown drying, changed into a clean uniform and strapped on a sidearm. Then he left the cruiser and began to hunt for Mclntyre.
The effect of the stimulant had reached its full force now, and would sustain Vorgens for several hours more. He felt strong and buoyant, his head was clear. He knew what he had to do, and although he was not particularly happy with the task ahead, he realized that it was the best possible alternative, under the circumstances.
As he searched through the welter of vehicles and equipment that comprised the Mobile Force, Vorgens could see that the men were ready for an attack at dawn. Hardly anyone was alseep. They were checking theirapons, taking stock of their supplies, making lastminute mechanical repairs on their battlewagons. Even the few that were stretched out on the decks and turrets mostly wide-eyed and sleepless-
Mclntyre was sitting in front of a cruiser, carefully adjusting the firing sight of a one-man missile launcher. He had to work with one hand, since his injured arm was still in the cast.
“Good morning. Sergeant.”
Mclntyre looked up, then leaped to his feet, knocking the tubular missile launcher off its tripod.
“Sir! You made it back!”
Vorgens nodded curtly. “I don’t have much time for talking. Sergeant. I need volunteers—real volunteers.”
Mclntyre’s eyes widened as Vorgens explained what he intended to do, and the Star Watch regulations covering such situations.
“I’ll need a dozen men. They should all be experienced, and they should be told exactly what they’re getting into. Can you get me that many men in fifteen minutes?”
For the first time since Vorgens had known him, Mclntyre seemed uncertain of himself. “I can sure try, sir. I can sure try.”
It took closer to twenty minutes, but finally Mclntyre had assembled a dozen men, noncoms and troopers, all of them. Vorgens looted them over as they lined up before the battle cruiser. They were a hard-faced, veteran crew-
“The sergeant has explained what this is about,” Vorgens told them. “Although I am taking full responsibility for this action, there is a chance that your own records may receive a damaging report because of your help to me. If there is any man here who is afraid to run the risk of hurting his service record, he is free to fall out.”
None of the twelve moved. In fact, an extra man tepped out of the shadows and joined the tail end of the line.
“Giradaux!” Mclntyre roared. “Get outta there.”
The trooper’s lean face twisted into a frown. “Sarge, if you’re in this, I want to be in on it, too. By glory, I’m a soldier, same as you.”
Mclntyre stood before the youngster, his tall, thickset form looming over Giradaux’s lanky frame. “You’re a soldier, all right, and when the wind’s behind you, you’re a bloody expedition. But this ain’t soldiering, sonny, it’s politics, and I’m gonna have enough to do without woriyin’ about you. Now fall out! Move!”
Giradaux stepped out of line, his face miserable. Vorgens walked over to him.
“I don’t have time to explain,” the Watchman said, “but the sergeant is trying to do you a favor. Don’t feel disappointed.”
Without further ado, Vorgens marched his tiny contingent straight to Brigadier Aikens’ dreadnaught. The sky was beginning to turn noticeably pink. There was precious little time left.
At the main hatch, Vorgens split up his men: “You two take the communications center. You two, the engine compartment. Three of you take charge of the control center; three more, take the main turret. The remaining two will stay here at the hatch. Let no one in or out. Sergeant, you come with me.”
“You three headin’ for the control center,” Mclnfyre instructed, “make sure that all the other outside hatches are shut off.”
They clambered in through the hatch and hurried off to their assigned positions. Most of the dreadnaught’s crew were in their bunks, and only a skeleton force was on hand to oppose Vorgens’ armed men.
While the troopers seized control of the giant fighting vehicle, Vorgens and Mclntyre marched to the exec’s compartmentVorgens knocked once and entered.
The exec was sitting on his bunk, with a writing table pulled across his lapHe looked up from the letter he was dictating into the audioprinter.
“What’s wrong. Watchman?”
“Get your jacket on and come with me,” Vorgens ordered.
“What?”
“I don’t have time for arguing. We’re going to see the brigadier.”
“He’ll throw you out ...”
“No he won’t. Put on your jacket and come. I’m sure the brigadier will want you as a witness.”
The exec pushed the writing table away and stood up. “Witness? To what? What’s going on here. Watchman?”
“You’ll see soon enough. Come on.”
The exec grabbed his jacket from the rack over his bunk, then looked down at his bare feet.
“No time for putting on boots,” Vorgens said. “Let’s move.”
With a helpless shrug, the exec padded out into the passageway behind Vorgens, pulling on his jacket and buttoning it as they advanced to Brigadier Aikens’ compartment.
Aikens, in full-dress uniform, was buckling a pair of ornate pistols across his middle when the door to his compartment abruptly opened. Vorgens and the exec stepped in. Mclntyre remained out in the passageway.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Aikens bellowed. “I told you to stay out of my sight. Watchman. What’s the meaning of breaking in here like this? And you,” he turned to the exec, “where are your boots?”
Vorgens said quietly, “Brigadier Aikens, you are hereby relieved of duty. I am assuming command of the Mobile Force.”
Aikens’ mouth popped open, but for once in his life he was speechless. He simply stood there, his lips pursed into a silent. Oh.
“I realize that this is an unusual circumstance,” Vorgens continued, “but the standard regulations clearly point out that all Imperial Marine personnel are subject to Star Watch jurisdiction.”
“But a junior officer can’t assume command from a full brigadier.” the exec protested.
Vorgens smiled tightly. “The regulations have no provision in them that prohibits such an action. I am the only Star Watch officer on this planet. I represent Star Watch Headquarters. I am not satisfied with Brigadier Aikens’ handling of the situation, therefore, I must relieve him of duty. There is no one else to place in command but myself.”
“You’re taking command of my Force?” Aikens rasped, finding his voice at last.
“This is not a decision I arrived at lightly, I assure you,” Vorgens said to the brigadier. “I can see no alternative. I know this is unpleasant for you. It is equally unpleasant for me.”
“Unpleasant!” Aikens screamed. “By all the gods of war, 111 have you shot before the sun comes up!” He began punching buttons on his desktop communicator.
Vorgens shook his head. “I’m afraid that you’ll find the drcadnaught is already under my command. I would appreciate it if you’d take off those guns and hand them over to me.”
For a stunned instant, Aikens stood frozen behind the desk. Then he slowly unbuckled the gunbelt and tossed it on the floor at Vorgens’ feet. Vorgens waited for another explosion from the brigadier. Instead, the older man seemed more bewildered and uncomprehending than anything else. He sank down in his chair and stared ahead blankly.
Vorgens turned to the exec. “We’re going to break out of this vauey. Inform all the officers that we will regroup immediately in Standard Formation 014. The breakout ill be made in sectors W5 and W6. I want all units ready to move as soon as the sun clears the hills.”
The exec gasped. “That’s only ten or fifteen minutes from now.”
“Then you’ll have to hurry.”
“Yes sirl”
The exec scampered out of the compartment, past Mclntyre, headed for the communications center.
Vorgens turned back to the brigadier. “I’m sorry it had to happen this way, sir. But I reaUy have no other choice. I was sent to Shinar to try to arrange a truce. Now it is apparent that my first job is to prevent the Komani from destroying this Force, because if they are successful against us, a new galactic war will be triggered. That must be avoided at all costs. Surely you can see that.”
“I can see that you’re trying to ruin me,” Aikens said dully. “You’re trying to destroy a record of fifty-five years -of service with your own half-cocked dreams of glory.”
“That’s not true at all,” Vorgens countered”Ever since I came to Shinar, I’ve been shunted around from place to place by you, by the Komani, by some of the Shinarians. I’ve been pushed into killing some of the people with whom I came to negotiate. I’ve been turned into a messenger boy. I’ve been taken prisoner, and had a death sentence read over me. I’ve been rescued from a firing squad by an old man and a girl, because they saw in me what I had almost forgotten was there—a chance to bring peace to Shinar, to prevent this war from starting.
“Now I’ve stopped playing messenger. I’m a Star Watch officer, and I’m going to take me responsibility that goes with the uniform. I’ve seen the enemy face to face, and I’ve seen the rebels, too. Fighting, killing, destroying—that’s not going to bring peace to this planet. I’ve got to convince the rebels of this.”
Aikens grunted. “And the Komani? Are you going to talk them out of their plans of conquest?”
“No, I’m afraid not. They will pay attention only to force. But when we fight them, I want it to be on my terms, at a time and place that I chose, not at Okatar’s convenience.”
Aikens’ eyes glittered with rage. “If—I say, if. Watchman—if we both live through this, I’m going to see you before the highest military tribunal in the Empire, stripped of rank and uniform, and sentenced to the worst penalty they can mete out.”
“Perhaps,” Vorgens said, “Perhaps.” Then he added softly, “But the first thing we must do is live through today, isn’t it?”
Vorgens dropped to one knee and picked up the brigadier’s pistol belt. Then the Watchman straightened to attention and made a formal salute to Aikens. The older man did not return the salute, but merely sat behind his desk, glaring at Vorgens.
The Star Watchman left the compartment. Mclntyre was still standing out in the passageway.
“Get one of your men,” Vorgens said, as he shut the brigadier’s door, “to stand watch at this post. Then join me at the control center.”
““Yes sir,” Mclntyre said, with a salute. Then he relaxed for a moment and said, with a grin, “Congratulations, sir. And good luck.”
Vorgens returned the smile. ‘Thank you, sergeant. We’ll need all the luck we can get.”
The control center was a half-level above the officers’ quarters, and just under the dreadnaught’s main turret. like every compartment in the mammoth groundcar, the control deck was cramped and low-ceilinged. In addition, it was crammed with computer units, communications equipment, and a tight semicircle of control desks, where tech-specialists could keep in constant touch with every part of the vehicle, and with every vehicle in the Mobile Force.
Vorgens climbed up the ladder from the level below, nd silently took the commander’s seat at the half-circle of control desks. In the dim, greenish light from the viewscreens he could see that most of the crew was uncertain, anxious. The battle was about to begin, and a new, totally untried commander was in charge,
“I want my instructions processed automatically by the master computer and relayed immediately to the rest of / the Force,” Vorgens said quietly.
The computer and communications men nodded and ‘ began setting up their instruments to carry out the Star Watchman’s commands.
“Computer ready, sir,” called out the tech-specialist.
“Communications ready, sir.”
Vorgens nodded. On the desk before him, he could see a pair of green lights signaling what the men had just tofd him.
For a moment, he hesitated. Looking up at the men around him—all of them staring back at him—Vorgens suddenly realized that every one of them was a complete stranger. Even Mclntyre he had known for less than a week.
With an abrupt shake of his head, Vorgens put such thoughts aside. He began dictating his instructions.
Deep in the bowels of the dreadnaught, the master computer translated the Star Watchman’s words into electromagnetic pulses and began sorting them out with the speed of light. Automatically, the computer processed the instructions into a separate set of orders for each of the three hundred individual vehicles in the Mobile Force.
Automatically, each set of orders was relayed to theommunications transmitter and beamed to each individ ual dreadnaught, cruiser, scoutcar, troopcarrier, supply van. On three hundred separate vehicles, communications receivers relayed the messages to computers. On three hundred vehicles, computers suddenly chugged to life and busily rattled off detailed orders. As the tapes ormed out of the printers three hundred skippers read the orders and began barking commands. The sum total of all these individual messages was Vorgens’ plan for breaking out of the Komani trap.
Scoutcars and troopcarriers were to speed to the slopes where the Komani had thinned out their forces—Sectors W5 and W6 on the Terran maps. The troopers were to seize those two sectors and hold them, with the scoutcars neutralizing any pockets of enemy resistance. Light cruisers, slower and less maneuverable than the smaller vehicles, would follow up the first assault and provide extra firepower.
As the troopers gained command of the slopes, engineers’ vans were to immediately begin grading the territory, using force beams and explosives. The objective was to gouge out a broad, easy slope with no major obstructions, so that the larger vehicles of the Mobile Force could skim up the slopes and out of the valley as quickly as possible. Vorgens remembered how his battle cruiser was forced to crawl along the twisting, narrow trail up the slopes. He wanted no more of mat. If the entire Mobile Force had to file out of the valley like that, they would never escape alive.
While the troopers were holding open the escape route and the engineers were making it ready to handle the main body of the Mobile Force, the rest of the Force was to fall back slowly toward the escape slopes. A special task unit of ten dreadnaughts, including Vorgens’ flagship, was to form a rear guard, and to keep the Komani attack stalled and off balance until the final dash for freedom-
“That’s the plan,” Vorgens muttered to himself as he watched the computer’s steady stream of orders flash across the viewscreen at his elbow. “Now to see if it will work.”