The H. Beam Piper Megapack

by H. Beam Piper

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” he asked, clinging with courtroom formality to his self-control.

  “Yes, your Honor. We find the defendant, Merlin, not guilty as charged.”

  In the uproar his words released, Rodney Maxwell got to his feet and came quickly to Conn.

  “Flora called just a while ago. Your mother is conscious; she’s asking for us. Flora says she seems perfectly normal.”

  “We’ll go right away; take a recon-car. General, will you explain things till I get back? Sylvie, do you want to come with us?”

  XXII

  It was autumn again, the second autumn since he had landed from the City of Asgard at Storisende and taken the Countess Dorothy home to Litchfield. Again the fields were bare and brown; all up and down the Gordon Valley the melons were harvested, and the wine-pressing was ready to start.

  The house was crowded today. All top-level Litchfield seemed to have turned out, and there were guests from Storisende, and even a few who had made the trip from Koshchei to be there, Simon Macquarte, the president of Koshchei Tech; Conn would always remember him in the screen threatening a whole planet with devastation. Luther Chen-Wong, the chief executive of Koshchei Colony. Clyde Nichols, the president of Koshchei Airlines.

  He almost bumped into Yves Jacquemont, coming in from the hall. Jacquemont’s beard had been trimmed down to a small imperial, and he was wearing the uniform of Trisystem & Interstellar Spacelines, nothing at all like a Federation Space Navy uniform. He was laughing about something; he threw an arm over Conn’s shoulder, and they went into the front parlor together.

  “Oh, Gehenna of a big crop!” he heard Klem Zareff’s voice, chuckling happily, above the babble in the room. “You wouldn’t believe it. Why, we had to build six new vats.…”

  The thin-faced, white-haired man in the chair beside him said something. Mike Shanlee and Klem Zareff, old enemies, were now fast friends. Shanlee had come in from Force Command with Conn that morning. He had stayed on Poictesme as nominal head of Project Merlin, and intended to remain there for the rest of his life.

  “Oh, there aren’t any more farm-tramps,” Zareff replied. “Everybody’s getting factory jobs off-planet. I have an awful time getting help, and what I can get won’t work for less than ten sols a day. Why, they’re even organizing a union.…”

  There were feminine shrieks from across the room, and a stampede. The housecleaning-robot had come in, running its vacuum-cleaning hose around and brandishing its mops. He saw his mother break away from a group of older ladies and shout:

  “Oscar!”

  The robot stopped dead. “Yash’m?” a voice came out of it, Sheshan-accented.

  “Go out!” his mother commanded. “Go to kitchen. Stay there.”

  “Yash’m.” The robot floated out the door to the hall.

  His mother rejoined her friends. Probably telling them, for the thousandth time, that her boy Conn fixed up the sound receptors and voice for Oscar. Or harping on how Conn had been telling everybody the truth, all along, and people wouldn’t believe him.

  Sylvie came up to him and caught his arm. “Come on, Conn; they’re going to start the rehearsal,” she said.

  “They’ve been going to start it for an hour,” her father told her.

  “Well, they’re really going to start it now.”

  “All right. You two run along,” Yves Jacquemont said. “And you’d better start rehearsing for your own wedding before long. The Genji will be ready to hyper out in another month, and I don’t want to be at space when my only daughter gets married.”

  They pushed through the crowd, dragging Conn’s mother with them toward the big living room beyond. On the way, Mrs. Maxwell stopped to try to drag Judge Ledue out of a chair.

  “Judge, the rehearsal is starting; they can’t do it without you.”

  Ledue clung to his chair. “They daren’t do it with me, Mrs. Maxwell. If I get into it, it won’t be a rehearsal; they’ll be really married, and then there won’t be any point in having a wedding tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Morgan!” Conn called across the room to Gatworth. “You’ve just been appointed temporary judge for the wedding rehearsal!”

  There was a big crowd around Wade Lucas, in the next room; he was telling them about the voyage to Baldur, from which he had returned, and the one to Irminsul, with a cargo of arms, machine tools and contragravity vehicles, on which he and his bride would go for their honeymoon. There was another crowd around Flora; she was telling them about the new fashions on Baldur, which had been brought back on the Ouroboros II.

  “Where’s your father?” his mother was asking him. “He has to rehearse giving the bride away.”

  “Probably in his office. I’ll go get him.”

  “You’ll get into an argument with somebody and forget to come back,” his mother said. “Sylvie, you go with him, and bring both of them back.”

  “When’ll we have our wedding, Sylvie?” he asked as they went off together.

  “Well, before Dad goes to Aditya with the Genji. That’ll have to be in a month.”

  “Two weeks? That ought to be plenty of time to get ready, and let people recover from this one.”

  “Everybody’s here now. Let’s make it a double wedding tomorrow,” she suggested.

  He hadn’t been prepared for that. “Well, I hadn’t expected.… Sure! Good idea!” he agreed.

  There was a crowd in Rodney Maxwell’s little office—Fawzi and some others, and some Storisende people. One of the latter was vociferating:

  “Jake Vyckhoven’s no good, and he never was any good!”

  “Well, you have to admit, if he hadn’t ordered the banks and the Stock Exchange closed that time, we’d have had a horrible panic—”

  “Admit nothing of the kind! Jethro, you were there, you’ll bear me out. About a dozen of us were at Executive Palace for hours, bullying him into that. Why, we almost had to twist one of his arms while he was signing the order with the other. And now he has the gall to run for re-election on the strength of his heroic actions at the time of the Travis Hoax!”

  “I know who we want for President!” another Storisende man exclaimed. “He’s right here in this room!”

  “Yes!” Rodney Maxwell almost bellowed, before the other man could say anything else. “Here he is!” He grabbed Kurt Fawzi by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “Here’s the man most responsible for finding Merlin; the man who first suggested sending my son Conn to Terra to school, the man who, more than anyone else, devoted his life to the search for Merlin, the man whose inextinguishable faith and indomitable courage kept that search alive through its darkest hours. Everybody, get a drink; a toast to our next President, Kurt Fawzi!”

  Conn was sure he heard his father add: “Ghu, what a narrow escape!”

  Then he and Sylvie began chanting, in unison, “We want Fawzi! We want Fawzi!”

  NON-SCIENCE FICTION WORKS

  REBEL RAIDER (1950)

  It was almost midnight, on January 2, 1863, and the impromptu party at the Ratcliffe home was breaking up. The guest of honor, General J. E. B. Stuart, felt that he was overstaying his welcome—not at the Ratcliffe home, where everybody was soundly Confederate, but in Fairfax County, then occupied by the Union Army.

  About a week before, he had come raiding up from Culpepper with a strong force of cavalry, to spend a merry Christmas in northern Virginia and give the enemy a busy if somewhat less than happy New Year’s. He had shot up outposts, run off horses from remount stations, plundered supply depots, burned stores of forage; now, before returning to the main Confederate Army, he had paused to visit his friend Laura Ratcliffe. And, of course, there had been a party. There was always a party when Jeb Stuart was in any one place long enough to organize one.

  They were all crowding into the hallway—the officers of Stuart’s staff, receiving their hats and cloaks from the servants and buckling on their weapons; the young ladies, their gay dresses showing only the first traces of wartime shabbiness; the
matrons who chaperoned them; Stuart himself, the center of attention, with his hostess on his arm.

  “It’s a shame you can’t stay longer, General,” Laura Ratcliffe was saying. “It’s hard on us, living in conquered territory, under enemy rule.”

  “Well, I won’t desert you entirely, Miss Ratcliffe,” Stuart told her. “I’m returning to Culpepper in the morning, as you know, but I mean to leave Captain Mosby behind with a few men, to look after the loyal Confederate people here until we can return in force and in victory.”

  Hearing his name, one of the men in gray turned, his hands raised to hook the fastening at the throat of his cloak. Just four days short of his thirtieth birthday, he looked even more youthful; he was considerably below average height, and so slender as to give the impression of frailness. His hair and the beard he was wearing at the time were very light brown. He wore an officer’s uniform without insignia of rank, and instead of a saber he carried a pair of 1860-model Colt .44’s on his belt, with the butts to the front so that either revolver could be drawn with either hand, backhand or crossbody.

  There was more than a touch of the dandy about him. The cloak he was fastening was lined with scarlet silk and the gray cock-brimmed hat the slave was holding for him was plumed with a squirrel tail. At first glance he seemed no more than one of the many young gentlemen of the planter class serving in the Confederate cavalry. But then one looked into his eyes and got the illusion of being covered by a pair of blued pistol muzzles. He had an aura of combined ruthlessness, self confidence, good humor and impudent audacity.

  For an instant he stood looking inquiringly at the general. Then he realized what Stuart had said, and the blue eyes sparkled. This was the thing he had almost given up hoping for—an independent command and a chance to operate in the enemy’s rear.

  * * * *

  In 1855, John Singleton Mosby, newly graduated from the University of Virginia, had opened a law office at Bristol, Washington County, Virginia, and a year later he had married.

  The son of a well-to-do farmer and slave-owner, his boyhood had been devoted to outdoor sports, especially hunting, and he was accounted an expert horseman and a dead shot, even in a society in which skill with guns and horses was taken for granted. Otherwise, the outbreak of the war had found him without military qualifications and completely uninterested in military matters. Moreover, he had been a rabid anti-secessionist.

  It must be remembered, however, that, like most Southerners, he regarded secession as an entirely local issue, to be settled by the people of each state for themselves. He took no exception to the position that a state had the constitutional right to sever its connection with the Union if its people so desired. His objection to secession was based upon what he considered to be political logic. He realized that, once begun, secession was a process which could only end in reducing America to a cluster of impotent petty sovereignties, torn by hostilities, incapable of any concerted action, a fair prey to any outside aggressor.

  However, he was also a believer in the paramount sovereignty of the states. He was first of all a Virginian. So, when Virginia voted in favor of secession, Mosby, while he deplored the choice, felt that he had no alternative but to accept it. He promptly enlisted in a locally organized cavalry company, the Washington Mounted Rifles, under a former U. S. officer and West Point graduate, William E. Jones.

  His letters to his wife told of his early military experiences—his pleasure at receiving one of the fine new Sharps carbines which Captain Jones had wangled for his company, and, later, a Colt .44 revolver: his first taste of fire in the Shenandoah Valley, where the company, now incorporated into Colonel Stuart’s First Virginia Cavalry, were covering Johnston’s march to re-enforce Beauregard: his rather passive participation in the big battle at Manassas. He was keenly disappointed at being held in reserve throughout the fighting. Long afterward, it was to be his expressed opinion that the Confederacy had lost the war by failing to follow the initial victory and exploit the rout of McDowell’s army.

  The remainder of 1861 saw him doing picket duty in Fairfax County. When Stuart was promoted to brigadier general, and Captain Jones took his place as colonel of the First Virginia, Mosby became the latter’s adjutant. There should have been a commission along with this post, but this seems to have been snarled in red tape at Richmond and never came through. It was about this time that Mosby first came to Stuart’s personal attention. Mosby spent a night at headquarters after escorting a couple of young ladies who had been living outside the Confederate lines and were anxious to reach relatives living farther south.

  Stuart had been quite favorably impressed with Mosby, and when, some time later, the latter lost his place as adjutant of the First by reason of Jones’ promotion to brigadier general and Fitzhugh Lee’s taking over the regiment, Mosby became one of Stuart’s headquarters scouts.

  Scouting for Jeb Stuart was not the easiest work in the world, nor the safest, but Mosby appears to have enjoyed it, and certainly made good at it. It was he who scouted the route for Stuart’s celebrated “Ride Around MacClellan” in June, 1862, an exploit which brought his name to the favorable attention of General Lee. By this time, still without commission, he was accepted at Stuart’s headquarters as a sort of courtesy officer, and generally addressed as “Captain” Mosby. Stuart made several efforts to get him commissioned, but War Department red tape seems to have blocked all of them. By this time, too, Mosby had become convinced of the utter worthlessness of the saber as a cavalryman’s weapon, and for his own armament adopted a pair of Colts.

  The revolver of the Civil War was, of course, a percussion-cap weapon. Even with the powder and bullet contained in a combustible paper cartridge, loading such an arm was a slow process: each bullet had to be forced in the front of the chamber on top of its propellant charge by means of a hinged rammer under the barrel, and a tiny copper cap had to be placed on each nipple. It was nothing to attempt on a prancing horse. The Union cavalryman was armed with a single-shot carbine—the seven-shot Spencer repeater was not to make its battlefield appearance until late in 1863—and one revolver, giving him a total of seven shots without reloading. With a pair of six-shooters, Mosby had a five-shot advantage over any opponent he was likely to encounter. As he saw it, tactical strength lay in the number of shots which could be delivered without reloading, rather than in the number of men firing them. Once he reached a position of independent command, he was to adhere consistently to this principle.

  On July 14, 1862, General John Pope, who had taken over a newly created Union Army made up of the commands of McDowell, Banks and Fremont, issued a bombastic and tactless order to his new command, making invidious comparisons between the armies in the west and those in the east. He said, “I hear constantly of ‘taking strong positions and holding them,’ of ‘lines of retreat,’ and of ‘bases of supplies.’ Let us discard all such ideas. Let us study the probable lines of retreat of our opponents, and leave our own to take care of themselves.”

  That intrigued Mosby. If General Pope wasn’t going to take care of his own rear, somebody ought to do it for him, and who better than John Mosby? He went promptly to Stuart, pointing out Pope’s disinterest in his own lines of supply and communication, and asked that he be given about twenty men and detailed to get into Pope’s rear and see what sort of disturbance he could create.

  Stuart doubted the propriety of sending men into what was then Stonewall Jackson’s territory, but he gave Mosby a letter to Jackson, recommending the bearer highly and outlining what he proposed doing, with the request that he be given some men to try it. With this letter, Mosby set out for Jackson’s headquarters.

  He never reached his destination. On the way, he was taken prisoner by a raiding force of New York cavalry, and arrived, instead, at Old Capitol jail in Washington. Stuart requested his exchange at once, and Mosby spent only about ten days in Old Capitol, and then was sent down the Potomac on an exchange boat, along with a number of other prisoners of war, for Hampton Roads.<
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  The boat-load of prisoners, about to be exchanged and returned to their own army, were allowed to pass through a busy port of military embarkation and debarkation, with every opportunity to observe everything that was going on, and, to make a bad matter worse, the steamboat captain was himself a Confederate sympathizer. So when Mosby, from the exchange boat, observed a number of transports lying at anchor, he had no trouble at all in learning that they carried Burnside’s men, newly brought north from the Carolinas. With the help of the steamboat captain, Mosby was able to learn that the transports were bound for Acquia Creek, on the Potomac; that meant that the re-enforcements were for Pope.

  * * * *

  As soon as he was exchanged, Mosby made all haste for Lee’s headquarters to report what he had discovered. Lee, remembering Mosby as the man who had scouted ahead of Stuart’s Ride Around MacClellan, knew that he had a hot bit of information from a credible source. A dispatch rider was started off at once for Jackson, and Jackson struck Pope at Cedar Mountain before he could be re-enforced. Mosby returned to Stuart’s headquarters, losing no time in promoting a pair of .44’s to replace the ones lost when captured, and found his stock with Stuart at an all-time high as a result of his recent feat of espionage while in the hands of the enemy.

  So he was with Stuart when Stuart stopped at Laura Ratcliffe’s home, and was on hand when Stuart wanted to make one of his characteristic gestures of gallantry. And so he finally got his independent command—all of six men—and orders to operate in the enemy’s rear.

  Whatever Stuart might have had in mind in leaving him behind “to look after the loyal Confederate people,” John Mosby had no intention of posting himself in Laura Ratcliffe’s front yard as a guard of honor. He had a theory of guerrilla warfare which he wanted to test. In part, it derived from his experiences in the Shenandoah Valley and in Fairfax County, but in larger part, it was based upon his own understanding of the fundamental nature of war.