Sixth Column (11 page)

recited over to himself the Seven Principles of the Warrior Race and

indicated to the pilot an alp in which to land.

The building was more impressive from the ground, a great square

featureless mass, fully two hundred yards across in every dimension. The

face toward him shone with a clear monochromatic emerald green, although

it faced away from the afternoon sun. He could see a little of the wall to the

right; it was golden.

His task group of one squad filed out of the helicopter after him and were

followed by the mountain guide who had been impressed for this service. He

spoke to the white man in English. "Have you seen this building before?"

"No, Master."

"Why not?"

"This part of the mountains is new to me."

The man was probably lying, but it was useless to punish him. He

dropped the matter

. "Lead on."

They trudged steadily up the slope toward the immense cube to where a

broad flight of steps, wider still than the cube itself, led to its nearer face. The

lieutenant hesitated momentarily before starting to mount them. He was

aware of a general feeling of unease, a sense of mild disquietude, as if a

voice were warning him of unnamed danger.

He set foot on the first step. A single deep clear note rolled across the

canyon; the feeling of uneasiness swelled to an irrational dread. He could

see that his men were infected with it. Resolutely he mounted the second

step. Another and different tone echoed through the hills.

He marched steadily up the long flight, his men following reluctantly. A

slow, ponderous and infinitely tragic largo kept time to his labored steps,

labored because the treads were just too broad and the lifts just too high for

comfort. The feeling of impending disaster, of inescapable doom, grew

steadily greater as he approached the building.

Two doors of heroic size swung slowly open as the lieutenant ascended.

In the archway thus created stood a human figure, a man, dressed in

emerald robes that brushed the floor. White hair and flowing beard framed a

face of benign dignity. He moved majestically forward from the doorway,

reaching the top of the flight of steps just as the lieutenant attained it. The

lieutenant noted with amazement that a halo flickered unsubstantially around

the old man's head. But he had little time to consider it; the old man raised

his right hand in benediction and spoke:

"Peace be unto you!"

And it was so! The feeling of dread, of irrational fright, dropped away

from the PanAsian as if someone had turned a switch. In his relief he found

himself regarding this member of an inferior race-so evidently a priest with a

warmth reserved for equals. He recalled the Admonitions for dealing with

inferior religions.

"What is this place, Holy One?"

"You stand at the threshold of the Temple of Mota, Lord of Lords and

Lord of All!"

"Mota-h-m-m-m." He could not recall such a god, but it did not matter.

These sallow creatures had a thousand strange gods. Three things only do

slaves require, food, work, and their gods, and of the three their gods must

never be touched, else they grow troublesome. So said the Precepts for

Ruling. "Who are you?"

"I am an humble priest, First Server of Shaam, Lord of Peace."

"Shaam? I thought you said Mota was your god?"

"We serve the Lord Mota in six of his thousand attributes. You serve him

in your way. Even the Heavenly Emperor serves him in his. My duty is to the

Lord of Peace."

This was perilously close to treason, the lieutenant thought, if not to

blasphemy. Still, it may be that the gods have many names, and the native

did not seem disposed to make trouble. "Very well, old Holy One, the

Heavenly Emperor permits you to serve your god as you see him, but I must

inspect for the Empire. Stand aside."

The old man did not move, but answered regretfully, "I am sorry, Master.

It cannot be."

"It must be. Stand aside!"

"Please, Master, I beg of you! It is not possible for you to enter here. In

these attributes Mota is Lord of the white men. You must go to your own

temple; you cannot enter this one. It is death to any but his followers."

"You threaten me?"

"No, Master, no-we serve the Emperor, as our faith requires. But this

thing the Lord Mota Himself forbids. I cannot save you if you offend."

"On the Heavenly Emperor's service-stand aside!" He strode steadily

across the broad terrace toward the door, his squad clomping stolidly after

him. The panic dread clutched at him as he marched and increased in

intensity as he approached the great door. His heart seemed constricted, and

a mad longing to flee clamored through him senselessly. Only the fatalistic

courage of his training made him go on. Through the door he saw a vast

empty hall and on the far side an altar, large in itself, but dwarfed by the

mammoth proportions of the room. The inner walls shone, each with its own

light, red, blue, green, golden. The ceiling was a perfect, flawless white, the

floor an equally perfect black.

There was nothing to be afraid of here, he told himself, this illogical but

horribly real dread was a sickness, unworthy of a warrior. He stepped across

the threshold. A momentary dizziness, a flash of terrifying insecurity and he

collapsed.

His squad, close at his heels, had no more warning.

Ardmore came trotting out of concealment. "Nice work, Jeff," he called

out, "you should be on the stage!"

The old priest relaxed. "Thanks, Chief. What happens next?"

"We'll have time to figure that out." He turned toward the altar and

shouted, "Scheer!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Turn off the fourteen-cycle note!" He added to Thomas, "Those damned

subsonics give me the creeping horrors even when I know what's going on. I

wonder what effect it had on our pal here?"

"He was cracking up, I believe. I never thought he'd make it to the

doorway."

"I don't blame him. It made me want to howl like a dog, and 1 ordered it

turned on. There's nothing like the fear of something you can't understand to

break a man down. Well, we got a bear by the tail. Now to figure out a way to

turn loose-"

"How about him?" Thomas jerked his head toward the mountaineer, who

still stood near the head of the great flight of steps.

"Oh, yes." Ardmore whistled at him and shouted, "Hey you-come here!"

The man hesitated, and Ardmore added, "Damn it-we're white men!

Can't you see that?"

The man answered, "I see it, but I don't like it." Nevertheless he slowly

approached.

Ardmore said, "This is a piece of razzle-dazzle for the benefit of our

yellow brethren. Now that you're in it, you're in it! Are you game?"

The other members of the personnel of the Citadel had gathered around

by this time. The mountain guide glanced around at their faces. "It doesn't

look as if I had much choice."

"Maybe not, but we would rather have a volunteer than a prisoner."

The mountaineer shifted tobacco from left cheek to right, glanced around

the immaculate pavement for a place to spit, decided not to, and answered.

"What's the game?"

"It's a frame-up on our Asiatic bosses. We plan to give them the runaround-with the help of God and the great Lord Mota."

The guide looked them over again, then suddenly stuck out his hand and

said, "I'm in."

"Fine," agreed Ardmore, taking his hand. "What's your name?"

"Howe. Alexander Hamilton Howe. Friends call me Alec."

"O.K., Alec. Now what can you do? Can you cook?" he added.

"Some. "

"Good." He turned away. "Graham, he's your man for now. I'll talk with

him later. Now-Jeff, did it seem to you that one of those monkeys went down

a little slowly?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"This one; wasn't it?" He touched one of the quiet, sprawled figures with

his shoe.

"I think so."

"All right, I want to check up on him before we bring them to. If he's a

Mongolian he should have keeled over quicker. Dr. Brooks, will you give this

laddie's reflexes a work-out? And don't be too gentle about it."

Brooks managed to produce some jerks in short order. Seeing this,

Ardmore reached down and set his thumb firmly on the exposed nerve under

the ear. The soldier came to his knees, writhing. "All right, bud-explain

yourself." The soldier stared impassively. Ardmore studied his face for a

moment, then made a quick gesture, which was protected from the gaze of

the others by his body.

"Why didn't you say so?" asked the PanAsian soldier.

"I must say it's a good make-up job," commented Ardmore admiringly.

"What's your name and rank?"

"Tattoo and plastic surgery," the other returned. "Name's Downer,

captain, United States army."

"Mine's Ardmore. Major Ardmore."

"Glad to know you, Major." They shook hands. "Very glad, I should say.

I've been hanging on for months, wondering who to report to and how."

"Well, we can certainly use you. It's a scratch organization. I've got to get

busy now-we'll talk later." He turned away. "Places, gentlemen. Second -act.

Check each other's make-up. Wilkie, see to it that Howe and Downer are out

of sight. We are going to bring our drowsy guests back to consciousness."

They started to comply. Downer touched Ardmore's sleeve.

"Just a moment, Major. I don't know your layout, but before we go any

further, are you sure you don't want me to stay on my present assignment?"

"Eh? H-m-m-m-you've got something there. Are you willing to do it?"

"I'm willing to do it, if it's useful," Downer replied soberly.

"It would be useful. Thomas, come here." The three of them went into a

short conference and arranged a way for Downer to report through the

grapevine, and Ardmore told him as much about the set-up as he needed to

know. "Well, good luck, old man," he concluded. "Get back down there and

play dead, and we'll reanimate your messmates."

Thomas, Ardmore, and Calhoun attended the Asiatic lieutenant as his

eyes flickered open. "Praise be!" intoned Thomas. "The Master lives!"

The lieutenant stared around him, shook his head, then reached for his

sidearm. Ardmore, impressive in the red robes of Dis, Lord of Destruction,

held up a hand. "Careful, Master, please! I have beseeched my Lord Dis to

return you to us. Do not offend him again."

The Asiatic hesitated, then asked, "What happened?"

"The Lord Mota, acting through Dis, the Destroyer, took you for his own.

We prayed and wept and beseeched Tamar, Lady of Mercy, to intercede for

us." He swept an arm toward the open door. Wilkie, Graham, and Brooks,

appropriately clad, were still busily genuflecting before the altar. "Graciously,

our prayer was answered. Go in peace!"

Scheer, at the control board, picked this moment to increase the volume

on the fourteen-cycle note. With nameless fear pressing his heart, confused,

baffled, the lieutenant took the easy way out. He gathered his men about him

and marched back down the broad flight of stairs, colossal organ music still

following him in awful, inescapable accompaniment.

"Well, that's that," Ardmore commented as the little group disappeared in

the distance. "First round to God's chilluns. Thomas, I want you to start into

town at once."

"So?"

"In your robes and full paraphernalia. Seek out the district boss and

register formal complaint that Lieutenant Stinkyface did wrongfully profane

our sacred places to the great indignation of our gods, and pray for

assurance that it will not happen again. You want to be on your high horse

about the whole matterrighteous indignation, you know-but, oh, very

respectful to temporal authority."

"I appreciate the confidence you place in me," Thomas said with

sardonic grimness. Ardmore grinned at him.

"I know it's a tough assignment, fella, but a lot depends on it. If we can

make use of their own customs and rules to establish a precedent right now

which sets us up as a legitimate religion, entitled to all the usual immunities,

we've got half the battle won."

"Suppose they ask for my identification card?"

"If you carry yourself with sufficient arrogance they will never get around

to asking for it. Just think about the typical clubwoman and try to show that

much bulge. I want 'em to get used to the idea that anyone with the staff and

the robes and the halo carries his identification just in his appearance. It will

save us trouble later."

"I'll try-but I'm not promising anything."

"I think you can do it. Anyhow, you are going out equipped with enough

stuff to keep you safe. Keep your shield turned on whenever you are around

any of 'em. Don't try to account for it in any way; just let 'em bounce off it, if

they close in on you. It's a miracle-no need to explain."

"O. K. "

The lieutenant's report was not satisfactory to his superiors. As for that, it

was not satisfactory to himself. He felt an acute sense of loss of personal

honor, of face, which the words of his immediate superior did nothing to

lessen. "You, an officer in the army of the Heavenly Emperor, have permitted

yourself to look small in the eyes o f a subject race. What have you to say?"