Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (232 page)

I lay there now in the Friendly compound, not able to sleep and remembering. And after a while I heard the soldiers marching, forming in the square for midnight service.

I lay on my back, listening to them. Their marching feet stopped at last. The single window of my room was over my bed—high in the wall against which the left side of my cot was set. It was unglazed and the night air with its sounds came freely through it along with the dim light from the square which painted a pale rectangle on the opposite wall of my room. I lay watching that rectangle and listening to the service outside; and I heard the duty officer lead them in a prayer for worthiness. After that they sang their battle hymn again, and I lay hearing it, this time, all the way through.

Soldier, ask not—now, or ever,

Where to war your banners go.

Anarch’s legions all surround us.

Strike! And do not count the blow!

Glory, honor—praise and profit,

Are but toys of tinsel worth.

Render up your work, unasking,

Leave the human clay to earth.

Blood and sorrow—pain unending,

Are the portion of us all.

Grasp the naked sword, opposing.

Gladly in the battle fall.

So shall we, anointed soldiers,

Stand at last before the Throne.

Baptized in our wounds, red-flowing,

Sealed unto our Lord—alone!

After that they dispersed to cots no different from mine.

I lay there listening to the silence in the square and the measured dripping of a rainspout outside by my window, its slow drops falling after the rain, one by one, uncounted in the darkness.

IV

After the day I landed, there was no more rain. Day by day the fields dried. Soon they would be firm underneath the weight of heavy surface-war equipment, and everyone knew that then the Exotic spring offensive would get under way. Meanwhile both Exotic and Friendly troops were in training.

During the next few weeks, I was busy about my newswork. Mostly feature and small stories on the soldiers and the native people. I had dispatches to send and I sent them faithfully. A correspondent is only as good as his contacts; I made contacts everywhere but among the Friendly troops. These remained aloof, though I talked to many of them. They refused to show fear or doubt.

I had heard these Friendly soldiers were generally undertrained because the suicidal tactics of their officers kept their ranks always filled with green replacements. But the ones here were the remnants of an Expeditionary Force six times their present numbers. They were all veterans, though most of them were in their teens. Only here and there, among the non-coms, and more often among the commissioned officers, I saw the prototype of the non-com who had ordered the prisoners shot on New Earth. Here, the men of this type looked like rabid, gray wolves mixed among polite, well-schooled young dogs just out of puppyhood.

It was a temptation to think that they alone were what I had set out to destroy.

To fight that temptation I told myself that Alexander the Great had led expeditions against the hill tribes and ruled in Pella, capital of Macedonia, and ordered men put to death when he was sixteen. But still the Friendly soldiers looked young to me. I could not help contrasting them with the adult, experienced mercenaries in Kensie Graeme’s forces. For the Exotics, in obedience to their principles, would hire no drafted troops or soldiers who were not in uniform of their own free will.

Meanwhile I had heard no word from the Blue Front. But by the time two weeks had gone, I had my own connections in New San Marcos, and at the beginning of the third week one of these brought me word that the jewelers shop in Wallace Street there had closed its door—had pulled its blinds and emptied the long room of stock and fixtures, and moved or gone out of business. That was all I needed to know.

For the next few days, I stayed in the vicinity of Jamethon Black himself, and by the end of the week my watching him paid off.

At ten o’clock that Friday night I was up on a catwalk just above my quarters and under the sentry-walk of the walls, watching as three civilians with Blue Front written all over them drove into the square, got out and went into Jamethon’s office.

They stayed a little over an hour. When they left, I went back down to bed. That night I slept soundly.

* * * *

The next morning I got up early, and there was mail for me. A message had come by spaceliner from the director of News Network back on Earth, personally congratulating me on my dispatches. Once, three years before, this would have meant a great deal to me. Now, I only worried that they would decide I had made the situation here newsworthy enough to require extra people being sent out to help me. I could not risk having other news personnel here now to see what I was doing.

I got in my car and headed east along the highway to New San Marcos and the Exotic Headquarters. The Friendly troops were already out in the field; eighteen kilometers east of Joseph’s Town, I was stopped by a squad of five young soldiers with no non-com over them. They recognized me.

“In God’s name, Mr. Olyn,” said the first one to reach my car, bending down to speak to me through the open window at my left shoulder. “You cannot go through.”

“Mind if I ask why?” I said.

He turned and pointed out and down into a little valley between two wooded hills at our left.

“Tactical survey in progress.”

I looked. The little valley or meadow was perhaps a hundred yards wide between the wooded slopes, and it wound away from me and curved to disappear to my right. At the edge of the wooded slopes where they met open meadow, there were lilac bushes with blossoms several days old. The meadow itself was green and fair with the young chartreuse grass of early summer and the white and purple of the lilacs, and the variform oaks behind the lilacs were fuzzy in outline, with small, new leaves.

In the middle of all this, in the center of the meadow, were black-clad figures moving about with computing devices, measuring and figuring the possibilities of death from every angle. In the very center of the meadow for some reason they had set up marking stakes—a single stake, then a stake in front of that with two stakes on either side of it, and one more stake in line before these. Farther on was another single stake, down, as if fallen on the grass and discarded.

I looked back up into the lean young face of the soldier.

“Getting ready to defeat the Exotics?” I said.

He took it as if it had been a straightforward question, with no irony in my voice at all.

“Yes sir,” he said seriously. I looked at him and at the taut skin and clear eyes of the rest.

“Ever think you might lose?”

“No, Mr. Olyn.” He shook his head solemnly. “No man loses who goes to battle for the Lord.” He saw that I needed to be convinced, and he went about it earnestly. “He hath set His hand upon His soldiers. And all that is possible to them is victory—or sometimes death. And what is death?”

He looked to his fellow soldiers and they all nodded.

“What is death?” they echoed.

I looked at them. They stood there asking me and each other what was death as if they were talking about some hard but necessary job.

I had an answer for them, but I did not say it. Death was a Groupman, one of their own kind, giving orders to soldiers just like themselves to assassinate prisoners. That was death.

“Call an officer,” I said. “My pass lets me through here.”

“I regret, sir,” said the one who had been talking to me. “We cannot leave our posts to summon an officer. One will come soon.”

I had a hunch what “soon” meant, and I was right. It was high noon before a Force Leader came by to order them to chow and let me through.

* * * *

As I pulled into Kensie Graeme’s Headquarters, the sun was low, patterning the ground with the long shadows of trees. Yet it was as if the camp was just waking up. I did not need experience to see the Exotics were beginning to move at last against Jamethon.

I found Janol Marat, the New Earth commandant.

“I’ve got to see Field Commander Graeme,” I said.

He shook his head, for all that we now knew each other well.

“Not now, Tam. I’m sorry.”

“Janol,” I said, “this isn’t for an interview. It’s a matter of life and death. I mean that. I’ve got to see Kensie.”

He stared at me. I stared back.

“Wait here,” he said. We were standing just inside the headquarters office. He went out and was gone for perhaps five minutes. I stood, listening to the wall clock ticking away. Then he came back.

“This way,” he said.

He led me outside and back between the bubble roundness of the plastic buildings to a small structure half-hidden in some trees. When we stepped through its front entrance, I realized it was Kensie’s personal quarters. We passed through a small sitting room into a combination bedroom and bath. Kensie had just stepped out of the shower and was getting into battle clothes. He looked at me curiously, then turned his gaze back on Janol.

“All right, Commandant,” he said, “you can get back to your duties, now.

“Sir,” said Janol, without looking at me.

He saluted and left.

“All right, Tam,” Kensie said, pulling on a pair of uniform slacks. “What is it?”

“I know you’re ready to move out,” I said.

He looked at me a little humorously as he locked the waistband of his slacks. He had not yet put on his shirt, and in that relatively small room he loomed like a giant, like some irresistible natural force. His body was tanned like dark wood and the muscles lay in flat bands across his chest and shoulders. His belly was hollow and the cords in his arms came and went as he moved them. Once more I felt the particular, special element of the Dorsai in him. It was not just his physical size and strength. It was not even the fact that he was someone trained from birth to war, someone bred for battle. No, it was something living but untouchable—the same quality of difference to be found in the pure Exotic like Padma the OutBond, or in some Newtonian or Cassidan researchist. Something so much above and beyond the common form of man that it was like a serenity, a sense of conviction where his own type of thing was concerned that was so complete it made him beyond all weaknesses, untouchable, unconquerable.

I saw the slight, dark shadow of Jamethon Black in my mind’s eye, standing opposed to such a man as this; and the thought of any victory for Jamethon was unthinkable, an impossibility.

But there was always danger.

“All right, I’ll tell you what I came about,” I said to Kensie. “I’ve just found out Black’s been in touch with the Blue Front, a native terrorist political group with its headquarters in Blauvain. Three of them visited him last night. I saw them.”

Kensie picked up his shirt and slid a long arm into one sleeve.

“I know,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Don’t you understand?” I said. “They’re assassins. It’s their stock in trade. And the one man they and Jamethon Black both could use out of the way is you.”

He put his other arm in a sleeve.

“I know that,” he said. “They want the present government here on St. Marie out of the way and themselves in power—which isn’t possible with Exotic money hiring us to keep the peace here.”

“They haven’t had Jamethon Black’s help.”

“Have they got it now?” he asked, sealing the shirt closure between thumb and forefinger.

“The Friendlies are desperate,” I said. “Even if reinforcements arrived tomorrow, Jamethon knows what his chances are with you ready to move. Assassins may be outlawed by the Conventions of War and the Mercenaries’ Code, but you and I know the Friendlies.”

Kensie looked at me oddly and picked up his jacket.

“Do we?” he said.

I met his eyes. “Don’t we?”

“Tam.” He put on the jacket and closed it. “I know the men I have to fight. It’s my business to know. But what makes you think you know them?”

“They’re my business too,” I said. “Maybe you’d forgotten, I’m a newsman. People are my business, first, last and always.”

“But you’ve got no use for the Friendlies.”

“Should I?” I said. “I’ve been on all the worlds. I’ve seen the Cetan entrepreneur—and he wants his margin, but he’s a human being. I’ve seen the Newtonian and the Cassidan with their heads in the clouds, but if you yanked on their sleeves hard enough, you could pull them back to reality. I’ve seen Exotics like Padma at their mental parlor tricks, and the Freilander up to his ears in his own red tape. I’ve seen them from my own world of Old Earth, and Coby, and Venus and even from the Dorsai, like you. And I tell you they’ve all got one thing in common. Underneath it all they’re human. Every one of them’s human—they’ve just specialized in some one, valuable way.”

“And the Friendlies haven’t?”

“Fascinaticism,” I said. “Is that valuable? It’s just the opposite. What’s good—what’s even permissible about blind, deaf, dumb, unthinking faith that doesn’t let a man reason for himself?”

“How do you know they don’t reason?” Kensie asked. He was standing facing me now.

“Maybe some of them do,” I said. “Maybe the young ones, before the poison’s had time to work in. What good does that do, as long as the culture exists?”

* * * *

A sudden silence came into the room.

“What are you talking about?” said Kensie.

“I mean you want the assassins,” I said. “You don’t want the Friendly troops. Prove that Jamethon Black has broken the Conventions of War by arranging with them to kill you; and you can win St. Marie for the Exotics without firing a shot.”