Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “Brothers, our intelligence is that one hundred Gunners, more or less, are now flying from an unknown Muscovite base to occupy the Forbach-Sarralbe triangle on the border of our Star’s realm. Time of arrival—I can only say this afternoon or evening and hope I am correct. The importance of the area is incalculable. It was a top secret until the information evidently got to Muscovy. There is iron ore in the district

  A murmur swept the lectory, and Cade murmured with the rest in astonishment. Iron ore on Earth! Power metal still to be found on the ten-thousand-year-old planet after ten thousand years of mining for the stuff that drove engines and charged guns! All reserves were supposed to have been exhausted four hundred years ago; that was why rust-red Mars had been colonized, and from rust-red Mars for four hundred years had come Earth’s iron.

  “Enough, Brothers! Enough! Our plan will be roughly the same as that employed in our raid last month on Aachen—two divisions to the front, one in reserve. The first company under me will be based at Dieuze, about forty kilometers south of the triangle. The second company under Gunner Cade will be based at Metz, fifty kilometers west of the triangle. The third company will be in reserve, based at Nancy, seventy kilometers southwest of the triangle. The companies will proceed to their bases in two-man fliers immediately after this briefing.

  “After arrival and the establishment of communication, my company and Gunner Cade’s will send out air scouts to reconnoiter the triangle. If no enemy action is discovered from the air, scouts will parachute for recon on foot. The orders I will issue from that point on will depend on their reports. Man your fliers and take off at once, Brothers. May your deeds today be fitting and glorious.”

  II.

  Cade, icily calm, ran from the Chapter House two hundred meters to the flying field. He was not panting when he swung himself into his small craft. His fingers flew over the unlabeled switches and dials of the panel. It had been many years since he’d relied on mnemonic jingles to recall the order and setting of the more than two hundred controls. As the red electronic warmup fog misted from the tail of the flier, his passenger, Armiger Kemble, vaulted in and was immediately slammed back against his uncushioned seat by a 3.25-G takeoff.

  Paris was a blur beneath them, the Paris that Cade, Denver-born, had seen only from the air and the windows of the Chapter House. Minutes later Reims flashed past to their left. The braking and landing in the square at Metz were as cruel as the take-off.

  Cade had never spared himself or anybody else on service, though he did not know that he was famous for it.

  “Brother,” he said to the battered Armiger, “line up the command set on Dieuze and Nancy.” To his disgust Kemble juggled with the map, the compass and the verniers of the aiming circle for two minutes until he had laid beams on the fields at the reserve base and the other frontline command post. The peril of pride, he guiltily thought, choking down his annoyance. The twelve other ships of his company had landed by then.

  “Brother Cade,” said the voice of the Superior. “Scouts out!”

  “Scouts out, Brother,” he said, and waved two fliers aloft. From them a monotonous drone of “No enemy action” began over the command set.

  The tune changed after five minutes: “Rendezvous with first company scouts over Forbach. No enemy action.”

  “Brother Cade,” said the Superior, “order your scouts to jump. My fliers will provide cover.”

  Cade ordered: “Second company scouts—Gunner Arris, take over Gunner Meynall’s flier on slave circuit. Brother Meynall, parachute into Forbach for recon on foot. Armiger Raymond, recon Sarreguemines. Armiger Bonhls, recon Sarralbe.”

  Brothers Meynall, Raymond and Bonhls reported successful landings. The Gunner in Forbach said: “No Commoners about at all. As usual. I’m in the village square headed for the ’phone exchange. No en—” There was the sound of a gun and no further report.

  Cade opened the Raymond-Bonhls circuit to the Superior and reserve company and snapped: “Take cover. Forbach is occupied. Gunner Arris return to base with fliers immediately.”

  The Superior’s voice said: “First company fliers return to base immediately. Brothers Raymond and Bonhls, report!”

  Armiger Raymond’s voice said: “Sarreguemines is empty of Commoners. I’ve taken cover in the basement of a bakery whose windows command the square. I see movement at the windows of a building across the square—the town hall, ’phone exchange, water department and I don’t know what else. It’s just a village.”

  “Brother Bonhls, report!”

  There was no answer.

  “Brother Raymond, stand fast. We shall mount an attack. Hold your fire until the enemy is engaged and then select targets of opportunity. You will regard yourself as expendable.”

  “Yes, Brother.”

  “Third Company at Nancy, you are alerted. Second Company and Third Company, rendezvous with First Company in ten minutes, at 1036 hours, two kilometers south of the Sarralbe town square. Align your fliers for unloading to fight on foot; we shall conduct a frontal assault on Sarralbe and clear it of the enemy. The Third Company will be on the left wing, the Second Company will be our center, and the First Company will be in the right wing. Gunner Cade, you will detail one flier to amuse the enemy with a parachute attack on the town hall as our skirmishers reach the square. Into action, Brother’s.”

  “Load!” yelled Cade to his company and they tumbled into their craft. On the slave circuit he took the fliers up in dress-parade style, hurled them to the rendezvous and released the ships for individual landings. The First Company was aligned straight as a string to his right, and moments later the Third Company touched down.

  Armiger Kemble had done a most unsatisfactory job lining up the communications, Cade reflected, but it was not fitting in a Gunner to hold a grievance. “Brother,” he said, “I’ve chosen you to conduct the diversion our Superior ordered.”

  The youngster straightened proudly. “Yes, Brother,” he said repressing a pleased grin.

  Cade spoke into his command set: “Gunner Orris. You will remain here in your flier during the attack, with Armiger Kemble as a passenger. On my signal you will take off and fly over the Sarralbe Town Hall, dropping Brother Kemble by parachute to create a diversion. After dropping him, return your flier to its present position and dismount to join the attack on foot.”

  The Armiger climbed out of Cade’s flier to head for Orris’ craft, but hesitated on the ground and turned to brag: “I’ll bet I get a dozen of them before they get me.”

  “Well, perhaps, Brother,” said Cade, and this time the grin did break out as the Armiger marched down the line. Cade hadn’t wanted to discourage him but the only Muscovite gunman he had a chance of killing before he was picked off in midair was their roof spotter. But how could he be expected to understand? Thirty seconds of confusion among the enemy could be vastly more important than killing thirty of their best Gunners.

  The clock said 1036; men boiled out of the fliers and formed a skirmish line carefully ragged. The raised right arm of the Superior, far on the right of the line, went down and the Brothers began to trudge forward, all with the same solid, deliberate stride . . .

  Cade’s eyes were everywhere; they were scanning bushes for untoward movements, the ground for new dirt cast up in the digging of a foxhole, trees for unnatural man-sized clumps of foliage among the branches. But somehow he felt his feet in his boots, not painfully but happily. Gunners march where the Emperor lyills; that is their glory.

  Off to the right a gun blasted. The Superior’s voice said in his helmet: “Enemy observation post, one Novice. We got him but now they’re alerted in town.”

  He told the men flanking him: “Enemy O.P. spotted us. Pass the word, Brothers.” It murmured down the line. Brothers who had absently let themselves drift into a dress-parade rank noticed it and lagged or heel-and-toed until the line was properly irregular again.

  It was done none too soon. Some thirty meters to the left of Cade the excellently-camouf
laged lid of a firing pit flipped up as the line passed. The Muscovite blasted two Armigers with a single shot before he was killed. Defilading fire into a straight rank would have netted him twenty. The wood grew thicker and direct flank contact was lost. “Scouts out,” said the Superior’s voice, and Cade waved two Gunners forward.

  Their eloquent arms were the eyes of the Company. One upraised and the Company saw possible danger; it halted. The upraised arm down and forward and the Company saw safety; it trudged on. Both arms moved forward in a gesture like clasping a great bundle of straw and the Company was alarmed by something inexplainable; it inched forward with guns drawn, faces tingling. Both arms beating down like vultures’ wings and the Company was face-to-face with grinning death; it hurled its fifty bodies to the ground to dodge the whistling scythe.

  Grinding himself into the ground while his eyes methodically scanned before him for the well-concealed Muscovite combat patrol, Cade thought: It is fitting that we Gunmen serve. He saw the unnatural movement of a bush and incinerated it. In the heart of the blaze was a black thing that capered and gibbered like a large ape—one more of the enemy charred to nonexistence. His blast had given away his position; automatically he snap-rolled two meters and saw flame blaze from a tree’s lower branches to the spot he’d fired from. Before the blast from the tree expired he had answered it.

  He thought: While this is so, all will be well to the end of time.

  The surviving scout’s arm went up with an air of finality. The company halted and the scout trotted back to Cade. “Ten meters of scrub and underbrush and then the town. Three rows of four-story stone houses and then the square, as I recall. The underbrush is clear. But those windows looking down on it—J”

  “Plunging fire,” Cade muttered, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from beside him. He turned to look sternly on the young Armiger with the stricken face, but before he could reprove the lad, he heard Harrow, the Marsman, intervene.

  “I hate it, too,” the Gunner said, and the unexpected note of sympathy broke the youngster completely.

  “I can’t stand it,” he babbled, hysterically. “That feeling you get when it’s coming at you from above and all the ground cover in the world won’t help—all you can-do is run! I can’t stand it!”

  “Quiet him,” Cade said with disgust, and someone led the Armiger away, but not before Cade noted his name. He would deal with it later.

  “Brother,” Harrow spoke in his ear, earnestly.

  “What is it?” Cade snapped.

  “Brother, I have an idea.” He hesitated, but as Cade turned impatiently away, he rushed on: “Brother, let’s give them plunging fire. No one would have to know.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cade asked blankly. “There aren’t any trees high enough or near enough.”

  The Marsman said wildly: “Cade, don’t pretend to me. I can’t be the only Gunner who ever thought of it! Who’s going to know the difference? I mean—” His throat sealed; he couldn’t get the words out.

  “I’m glad to see you have some shame left,” Cade said disgustedly. “I know what you mean.” He turned aside and called out: “Bring back the coward Armiger!” As soon as the youngster was with them, he said: “I want you to learn for yourself the consequences of submitting to the peril of fear. Your outburst made Gunner Harrow propose that we . . . we fire on the houses from our fliers.”

  The Armiger looked down at his feet for a long moment and then faced his commander. He said hoarsely, “I didn’t know there were people like that, sir. Sir, I should like to request the honor of being permitted to draw fire for our men.”

  “You have earned no honors,” Cade snapped. “Nor does your rank entitle you to privileged requests.” He looked meaningfully at the Mars-born Gunner.

  Harrow wiped sweat from his face. “I would have got back to Mars,” he said, “back with my own people if I’d lived through this one.”

  “You deserve less than this Gunner Harrow,” Cade pronounced sternly into a sudden listening silence. The firing was momentarily stilled; the enemy was awaiting their action. All the Armsmen of France within hearing distance of the episode had edged closer to be in on the final outcome. Cade seized the moment to impress an unforgettable lesson on his men. He said loudly:

  “Klin wrote: ‘Always assume mankind is essentially merciful; nothing else explains why crooks are regularly returned to office.’ If you know as little of the Philosophy as you do of decency, Brother, I should explain that a crook is an implement formerly used by good shepherds and in this case stands, by a figure of speech, for the good shepherd himself. I shall obey Klin’s precept of mercy. We need a Gunner to draw fire from the house windows so we can spot those which are—Are you listening to me?”

  The Mars-born Gunner was mumbling to himself; he looked up and said clearly, “Yes, Brother, I’m listening.” But his lips kept moving as Cade went on: “We have to draw fire from the house windows so we can see which are manned, blast them with a volley and take the house in a rush.”

  “Yes, Brother, I’ll draw their fire,” said Harrow.

  Cade wheeled suddenly, and confronted the rest of his company. “Are you Armsmen,” he demanded fiercely, “or Commoner kitchen gossips? Back to your posts before the enemy discovers your weakness! And may the fighting scourge your minds of this memory. Such things are better forgotten.”

  He called the first and third companies on his helmet ’phone and filled them in—saying nothing of the disgraceful episode.

  “Well done,” the Superior told him. “Rush the first row of houses immediately; we have your co-ordinates and will follow behind after you have secured a house or two.”

  Harrow’s muttering had started again and become loud enough during the conversation to be a nuisance. He was repeating to himself:

  “It is fitting that the Emperor rules.

  “It is fitting that the Power Master serves him.

  “It is fitting that we Gunmen serve the Emperor through the Power Master and our particular Stars.

  “While this is so, all will he well until the end of time.”

  Cade could not very well rebuke him.

  Harrow distinguished himself in drawing tire from the house windows. In such an operation there is the risk that—well, call him the “target”—the target will walk out in a state of exaltation, thinking more of the supreme service he is rendering than about the actual job of rendering it. Cade was pleased and surprised at the desperate speed with which Harrow broke from the end of the wood and sped through the brush, his cloak flaring out behind him, proudly displaying the two Gunner’s stripes at the hem: a new brown one for France; an old red one below for Mars.

  A bolt from one window missed him.

  “Mark,” snapped the first in a row of picked shots.

  A bolt from another window blasted Harrow’s left arm, but he kept running and even began to dodge.

  “Mark,” said the second of the sharpshooters.

  A third window spat fire at the dodging Gunner and hit the same burned arm.

  “Mark.”

  Another bolt from another window smashed his legs from under him.

  “Mark.”

  There was a little surge forward in the line of waiting Stormers. Cade threw his arm up, hard and fast. “He’s crawling,” he said. “They’ll finish him off.”

  From a small and innocent-looking stairwell window fire jetted.

  “Mark.”

  “He’s done,” said Cade. “While this is so all will he well . . . Marksmen ready; Stormers ready. Marksmen, fire. Stormers, charge.” He led the way, crashing through the brush, with a torrent of flame gushing over his head: his Marksmen, with the initiative of fire, pinning down the Muscovites at their windows—almost all of them. From two unsuspected windows fire blazed, chopping down two of the storming party. They were met with immediate counterfire from waiting Marksmen in the woods. And by then there were ten Gunners in the dead ground against the house wall. With Cade in the lead
, the Armsmen of France swarmed down a narrow alley that separated house from house and blasted down a side door.

  Like coursing hounds they flowed through the house, burning down five Muscovite Armsmen already wounded by the neutralizing fire from the woods, finding two others dead at their windows. They lost one Armiger of France, to the desperate dying fire of a wounded Muscovite. The house was theirs.

  The rest of the company, except for a pair of guards, trudged across the brush and entered.

  Cade stationed men at the vital upper windows and sat, panting, on the floor of a bare second-story room. All the rooms were more or less bare.

  It was probably so through all three villages. He had seen Commoners migrating.

  Clots of them, oozing slowly along the roads. Their chief people in ground cars, cursing at the foot-sloggers who wouldn’t get aside. The carts, piled high with household goods—the sniveling, shrieking children. And yet—And yet—there was a puzzle in it. Not always, but almost always, they knew in advance. The Muscovites, in possession of the great secret of the iron ore, had arrived to find that at least part of the secret was known to the lowliest Commoner—enough at least to send him out on the road.

  They were into the afternoon now, with nothing to do but wait for the First and Third companies. This would last a week, easily—three villages to clear. Perhaps the feint at the city hall—if it came off today—would crumple the Muscovites. And when they go to Sarreguemines there would be Brother Raymond lying doggo in the cellar—

  He sat up with a guilty start. Nobody had checked the cellar in this very house, if it had one, probably because cellars didn’t have windows. He got wearily to his feet and limped downstairs to the first floor. There seemed to be no further steps down—and then he saw a gap between the wall and an immense cherry-wood cabinet bare of its dishes and mementoes. It creaked open when he tried it and there were his cellar steps with a guttering light at the bottom.