Sixth Column (27 page)

aircraft, too busy to clean out the barracks. He thought now that he should

have fought city by city, using all available scout cars as a unit, and trusting

to the jamming of the radio to permit him to do it that way. Was it too late now

to change? Yes-the gage was thrown, the battle was on all over the country.

Now it must be fought.

He was already busy with his staff in an attempt to swing the issue. He

cut into the lines of Asiatics with the primary effect set at full power, doing a

satisfying amount of slaughter. Then he decided on a change in tactics-colloidal explosion. It was slower and clumsy, but the effect on morale should

be advantageous.

He omitted the guide ray to make it more mysterious and sighted through

a deep hole in the cube of the staff. There! One of the rats was smoke! He

had them ranged now-two! Three! Four! Again and again-a dozen or more.

It was too much for the Orientals. They were brave and seasoned

soldiers, but they could not fight what they did not understand. They broke

and ran, back toward their barracks. Ardmore heard cheers from the

scattered Americans, dominated by an authentic rebel yell. Figures rose up

from cover and took out after the disorganized Asiatics.

Ardmore called headquarters again. "Circuit AI"

A few seconds' delay and he was answered, "You've got it."

"All officers, attention! Use the organic explosion as much as possible. It

scares the hell out of 'em!" He repeated the message and released the

circuit.

He directed Bryan to go closer to the buildings. Bryan bumped the car

over a curb and complied, weaving in and out between trees. They were

conscious of a terrific explosion; the car rose a few feet in the air and carne

lurching down on its side. Ardmore pulled himself together and attempted to

get up. It was then that he realized that somehow he had held his staff clear.

The door above him was jammed. He burned his way clear with the staff

and clambered out. He looked back in to Bryan. "Are you hurt?"

"Not much." Bryan shook himself. "Cracked my left collarbone, maybe."

"Here-grab my hand. Can you make it? I've got to hang on to my staff."

Between them they got him out. "I'll have to leave you. Got your basic

weapon?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Good luck.',' He glanced at the crater as he moved away. It

was well, he thought, that he had had his shield turned on.

A few dozen Americans were moving cautiously among the buildings,

shooting as they went. Twice Ardmore was fired on by men who had been

told to shoot first. Good boys! Shoot anything that moves!

A PanAsian aircraft, flying low, cut slowly across the edge of the campus.

It trailed a plume of heavy yellow fog. Gas! They were gassing their own

troops in order to kill a handful of Americans. The bank of mist settled slowly

toward the ground and rolled in his direction. He suddenly realized that this

was serious, for him as well as for others. His shield was little protection

against gas, for it was necessary to let air filter through it.

But he was attempting to get a line on the aircraft even as he decided

that his own turn had come. The craft wavered and crashed before he could

line up on it. So the scout car was on the job after all-good!

The gas came on. Could he run around the edge of it? No. Perhaps he

could hold his breath and run through it, trusting to his shield for all other

matters. Not likely.

Some unconscious recess of his brain gave him the answertransmutation. A few seconds later, his staff set to radiate in a wide cone, he

was blasting a hole in the deadly cloud. Back and forth he swept the cone, as

if playing a stream of water with a hose, and the foggy particles changed to

harmless, life-giving oxygen.

"Jeff!"

"Yes, Chief?"

"Any trouble with gas?"

"Quite a bit. In-"

"Never mind. Broadcast this on Circuit A: Set staff to-" He went on to

describe how to fight that most intangible weapon.

The scout car came screaming down out of heaven, hovered, and began

cruising back and forth over the dormitory barracks. The campus became

suddenly very silent. That was better; apparently the pilot had just had too

much to do at one time. Ardmore felt suddenly alone, the fight had moved

past him while he was dealing with the gas threat. He looked around for

transportation to commandeer in order to scout around and check up on the

fighting in the rest of the city. The trouble with this damn battle, he thought to

himself, is that it hasn't any coherence; it's every place at once. No help for it;

it was in the nature of the problem.

"Chief?" It was Thomas calling.

"Go ahead, Jeff. "

"Wilkie is heading your way."

"Good. Has he had any luck?"

"Yes, but just wait till you see! I caught a glimpse of it in the screen,

transmitted from Kansas City. That's all now."

"O.K." He looked around again for transportation. He wanted to be

around some PanAsians, some live PanAsians, when Wilkie arrived. There

was a monocycle standing at the curb, abandoned, about a block from the

campus. He appropriated it.

There were PanAsians, he discovered, in plenty near the palace-and the

battle was not going too well for the Americans. He added the effort of his

staff and was very busy picking out individuals and exploding them when

Wilkie arrived.

Enormous, incredible, a Gargantuan manlike figure of perfect black-more

than a thousand feet high, it came striding across the buildings, its feet filling

the streets. It was as if the Empire State Building had gone for a stroll-a giant,

three-dimensional shadow of a priest of Mota, complete with robes and staff.

It had a voice.

It had a voice that rolled with thunder, audible and distinct for miles.

"Americans, arise! The day is at hand! The Disciple has come! Rise up and

smite your masters!"

Ardmore wondered how the men in the car, could stand the noise,

wondered also if they were flying inside the projection, or somewhere above

it.

The voice changed to the PanAsian tongue. Ardmore could not

understand the words, but he knew the general line it would take. Downer

was telling the war lords that vengeance was upon them, and that any who

wished to save their yellow skins would be wise to flee at once. He was

telling them that, but with a great deal more emphasis and attention to detail

and with an acute knowledge of their psychological weaknesses.

The gross and horrifying pseudo-creature stopped in the park before the

palace, and, leaning over, touched a massive finger to a fleeing Asiatic. The

man disappeared. He straightened up and again addressed the world in

PanAsian-but the square no longer contained PanAsians.

The fighting continued sporadically for hours, but it was no longer a

battle; it was more in the nature of vermin extermination. Some of the

Orientals surrendered; more died by their own hand; most died purposefully

at the hands of their late serfs. A consolidated report from Thomas to

Ardmore concerning the degree of progress in mopping up throughout the

country was interrupted by the communications officer. "Urgent call from the

priest in the capital city, sir."

"Put him on."

A second voice continued, "Major Ardmore?"

"Yes. Go ahead."

"We have captured the Prince Royal-"

"The hell you say!"

"Yes, sir. I request your permission to execute him."

"What was that, sir?"

"No! You heard me. I'll see him at your headquarters. Mind you don't let

anything happen to him!"

Ardmore took time to shave off his beard and to change into uniform

before he had the Prince Royal brought before him. When at last the

PanAsian ruler stood before him he looked up and said without ceremony,

"Any of your people I can save will be loaded up and shipped back where

they came from."

"You are gracious."

"I suppose you know by now that you were tricked, hoaxed, by science

that your culture can't match. You could have wiped us out any time, almost

up to the last."

The Oriental remained impassive. Ardmore hoped fervently that the calm

was superficial. He continued, "What I said about your people does not apply

to you. I shall hold you as a common criminal."

The Prince's brows shot up. "For making war?"

"No-you might argue your way out of that. For the mass murder you

ordered in the territory of the United States-your èducational' lesson. You will be tried by a jury, like any other

common criminal, and, I strongly suspect

hanged by the neck until you are dead!

"That's all. Take him away."

"One moment, please."

"What is it?"

"You recall the chess problem you saw in my palace?"

"What of it?"

"Could you give me the four-move solution?"

"Oh, that." Ardmore laughed heartily. "You'll believe anything, won't you?

I had no solution; I was simply bluffing."

It was clear for an instant that something at last had cracked the Prince's

cold self-control.

He never came to trial. They found him the next morning, his head

collapsed across the chess-board he had asked for.