He set his slide rule down on the desk, wishing for one of the pocket computers that were common on planets closer to Earth. The Freedom Party leader had one. George had talked to him about the fusion generators only two days before, and it seemed as if the Freedom Party didn’t care that the generators wouldn’t last forever. The FP leader’s attitude was that Earth wouldn’t allow famine, that Hadley could use her own helplessness as a weapon against the CoDominium. The concept of real independence from the CD didn’t interest him. Hamner thought about that and swore, went back to engineering. He liked problems he could get his hands on and know he’d solved them, not political troubles that kept coming back no matter what he did.
Laura came in with a pack of shouting children. Was it already time for them to go to bed? The four-year-old picked up his father’s slide rule, played with it carefully before climbing into his lap. George kissed the boy, hugged the others and sent them out, wondering as he did every night what would happen to them. Get out of politics, he told himself. You can’t do Hadley any good, and you’re not cut out for the game. You’ll only get Laura and the kids finished along with yourself. But what happens if we let go, if we can’t succeed, another part of his mind asked, and he had no answer to that.
But it doesn’t matter … you’ll get your family killed, and for what? Debts, inadequate pay, temptation after temptation to give in, compromise, look after Number One, swim with the stream until you become somebody you don’t even want to know …
“You look worried,” Laura said after she’d seen the children to bed. “It’s only a few days … What happens, George? What really happens when CoDominium leaves for good? It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?”
He pulled her to him, feeling her warmth, tried to draw comfort from her nearness and at the same time distract her, but she knew that trick. “Shouldn’t we take what we can and go east?” she asked. “We wouldn’t have much, but you’d be alive.”
“It won’t be that bad,” he told her. He tried to chuckle, as if she had said something funny, but the sound was hollow. “We’ve got a planetary constabulary … at the worst it should be enough to protect the government. But I am moving all of you into the Palace in a couple of days.”
“The army,” she said with plenty of contempt. “Some army, General Bradford’s volunteers who’d kill you just to make that horrible little man happy … and those marines! You said yourself they were the scrapings.”
“I said it. I wonder if I believe it. There’s something strange happening here, Laura, something I don’t understand. I went to see Karantov the other day, thought I’d presume on an old friend to get a little information about this man Falkenberg. Boris wasn’t in his office but one of the junior lieutenants was. The kid was green, only been on Hadley a couple of months . . . We got into a conversation about what happens after independence. Discussed street fighting, mob suppression, and how I wished I had some reliable marines instead of the people they were getting here. He looked funny and asked just what I wanted, the Grand Admiralty Guard? But then Boris came in and when I asked what the lieutenant meant, he said the kid was new and didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“And you think he did?” Laura asked. “But what could he have meant? Stop that!” she added hastily. “You have an appointment.”
“It can wait.”
“With only a couple of dozen cars on this whole planet and one of them coming for you, you will not keep it waiting while you make love to your wife, George Hamner!” Her eyes flashed, but not with anger. “Besides, I want to know what Boris told you.” She danced away from him, sat on the other side of the desk. “What do you think he meant?”
“I don’t know … but those troops don’t look like misfits to me. Not on training exercises. Off duty they drink and shout and they’ve got the fieldhands locking up their daughters but come morning they muster out on that parade ground like … And there’s more. The officers. They’re not from Hadley, and I don’t know who they are!” ‘
“Why don’t you ask?”
“I took it up with Budreau, and he gave me a stall about it being in Bradford’s Ministry, so I asked him, and Ernie told me they were Progressive volunteers. I’m not that stupid, Laura. I may not notice everything, but if there were fifty men with military experience in the Party I’d know. So why would Bradford lie?”
Laura looked thoughtful, pulled her lower lip in a gesture so familiar that Hamner hardly noticed it any longer. He’d kidded her about it before they were married . . . “He lies just for practice,” she said finally. “But his wife has been talking about independence, and she seems to think Earnest will be president. Not some day, but soon … Why would she think that?”
George shook his head. “Maybe—no, he hasn’t the guts for that, Ernie would never oust Budreau. He knows half the party wouldn’t stand for it . . . The technicians would walk out in a second; they can’t stand him and he knows it.”
“Earnest Bradford has never yet admitted any limitations,” Laura reminded him. She glanced at the clock behind George. “It’s getting late and you haven’t told me what Boris said about Falkenberg.”
“Said he was a good marine commander. Started out as a navy man, transferred to marines, became a regimental commander with a good combat record. That’s all in the reports we have … I got the scoop on the court martial. There weren’t any slots for promotion. But when a review board passed Falkenberg over for a promotion that the admiral couldn’t have given in the first place, Falkenberg made such a fuss about it that he was dismissed for insubordination.”
“Can you trust him to command here?” she asked. “His men may be the only thing keeping you alive …”
“I know.” And keeping you alive, and Jimmy, and Christie, and Peter . . . “I asked Boris. He said there’s not a better man available. You can’t hire CD men from active duty, or even retired officers … Boris said that Falkenberg’s really better than anyone we could get anyway. Troops love him, brilliant tactician, experience in troop command and staff work as well … Laura, if he’s all that good, why did they boot him out? My God, fussing about promotion should be pretty trivial, and besides, it’s not smart, Falkenberg would have to know it couldn’t get him anywhere. None of it …”
The interphone buzzed, and Hamner answered it absently. It was the butler to announce that his car and driver were waiting. “I’ll be late, sweetheart. Don’t wait up for me. But you might think about … I swear that Falkenberg is the key to something, I wish I knew what.”
“Do you like him?” Laura asked.
“He isn’t a man who tries to be liked.”
“I said, do you like him?”
“Yes. And there’s no reason to. I like him, but can I trust him?” As he went out he thought about that. Could he trust Falkenberg. With Laura’s life … and the kids’, for that matter … with a whole planet that seemed headed for hell with no way out …
The troops were camped in an orderly square, earth ramparts thrown up around the perimeter, tents in lines that might have been laid with a transit. Equipment was scrubbed and polished, blanket rolls tight, each item in the same place inside the two-man tents … yet the men were milling about, shouting, gambling openly in front of the campfires. There were plenty of bottles in evidence even from the outer gates.
“Halt! Who’s there?”
Hamner started. He hadn’t seen the sentry. This was his first visit to the camp at night, and he was edgy. “Vice-President Hamner,” he answered.
A strong light played on his face from the opposite side of the car. Two sentries, then, and both invisible until he’d come on them. “Good evening, sir,” the first sentry said. “I’ll pass the word you’re here. Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Five!” The call rang clearly in the night. A few heads around campfires turned toward the gate, then went back to their other activities.
Hamner was escorted across the camp to officers’ row. The huts and tents stood across a wide parade ground from th
e densely packed company streets of the troops, and Hamner saw another set of guards posted around these tents. Falkenberg came out of his hut. “Good evening, sir. What brings you here?”
I’ll just bet you’d like to know, Hamner thought. “I have a few things to discuss with you, Colonel. About the organization of the constabulary.”
“Certainly.” Falkenberg was crisp, and he seemed slightly nervous. “Let’s go to the mess, shall we? More comfortable there. Haven’t got my quarters made up for visitors.”
Or you’ve got something there I shouldn’t see, George thought . . . God, can I trust him? Can I trust anyone? Falkenberg led the way to a building in the center of officer’s row. There were troops milling around the parade ground, most wearing the blue and yellow duty uniforms Falkenberg had designed, but others trotted past in synthileather battle dress carrying heavy packs.
“Punishment detail,” Falkenberg commented. “Not so many of those as there used to be.”
Sound crashed from the officers’ mess building, drums and bagpipes, a wild sound of war mingled with shouted laughter. Inside, two dozen men sat at a long table as white-coated stewards moved briskly about with whiskey bottles and glasses. Kilted bandsmen marched around the table with pipes, drummers stood in one comer. The deafening noise stopped as Falkenberg entered, and everyone got to his feet, some unsteadily.
“Carry on,” Falkenberg said automatically, but no one did. They eyed Hamner nervously, and at a wave from the mess president at the head of the table the pipers went outside, followed by the drummers and several stewards with bottles.
“We’ll sit over here, shall we?” the colonel asked. He led Hamner to a small table in one comer. A steward brought a whiskey bottle and two glasses.
George looked at the officers carefully. Most of them were strangers, but he recognized half-a-dozen Progressives, the highest rank a first lieutenant. Hamner waved at the ones he knew, received a brief smile that almost seemed guilty before they turned back to their companions.
“Yes, sir,” Falkenberg prompted.
“Who are these men?” George demanded. “I know they’re not native to Hadley. Where did they come from?”
“CoDominium officers on the beach,” Falkenberg answered simply. “Reduction in force. Lots of good men riffed into early retirement. Some of them heard I was coming here, chose to give up their reserve ranks and come out on the colony ship on the chance I’d hire them. Naturally I jumped at the opportunity to get experienced men at prices we could afford. Vice-President Bradford knows all about it.”
I’m sure he does, Hamner thought. I wonder what else that little snake knows about. Without his support Falkenberg would be out of here tomorrow … but then what would we do? “I see. I’ve been looking at the organization of the troops, Colonel. You’ve kept your marines in one battalion with, uh, with these newly hired officers. Then you’ve got three battalions of locals, but all the Party stalwarts are in the fourth; your second and third are locals but again under your own men.”
“Yes, sir?” Falkenberg nodded agreement, gave Hamner a look of puzzlement. Hamner had noticed that particular trick of Falkenberg’s before.
And you know my question, George thought. “Why, Colonel? A suspicious man would say you’ve got your own little army here, with a structure set so that you can take complete control if there’s ever a difference of opinion between you and the government.”
“A suspicious man might say that,” Falkenberg agreed. He lifted one glass of whiskey, waited for George, then drained it. A steward immediately brought freshly filled glasses.
“But a practical man might say something else,” Falkenberg continued. “You wouldn’t expect me to put green officers in command of guard-house troops, would you? Or put your good-hearted Progressives in command of green troops? By Mr. Bradford’s orders I’ve kept the fourth battalion as free of my mercenaries as possible, which isn’t helping their training any. He seems to have the same complaint as you do, and wants his own Party force, I suspect to control me. Which is silly, Mr. Hamner. You have the purse strings. Without your supplies and money to pay these men, I couldn’t hold them an hour.”
“Troops have found it easier to rob the paymaster than fight before now,” Hamner observed. “Cheers.” He drained the glass, then suppressed a cough. The stuff was strong and he wasn’t used to neat whiskey.
Falkenberg shook his head. “I might have expected that remark from Bradford, but not you.”
Hamner nodded. Bradford was always suspicious of something. There were times when George wondered if the vice-president were quite sane, but that was absurd. Still, when the pressure was on, Ernie did manage to get on people’s nerves, always trying to control everything. Bradford would rather have nothing done than allow action he didn’t control.
“Just how am I supposed to organize this coup?” Falkenberg asked. “You can see that I’ve no more than a handful of men loyal directly to me. The rest are mercenaries, and your locals make up the majority of our forces. Mr. Hamner, you have paid a large price to bring my staff and me to your planet. We’re expected shortly to fight impossible odds with nonexistent equipment. If you also insist on your own organization of the forces, I cannot accept the responsibility. … If President Budreau so orders, I’ll turn over command to anyone he names.”
Neatly said, Hamner thought. And predictable too. Who would Budreau name? Bradford, of course, and George trusted Falkenberg more than Ernie. Nothing wrong with Falkenberg’s answers, nothing you could put your finger on . . . “What do you want out of this, Colonel Falkenberg?”
“Money. A little glory, perhaps, although that’s a word not much used outside the military nowadays. A position of responsibility commensurate with my abilities. I’ve always been a soldier, Mr. Hamner. You do know why I’m no longer in CD service.”
“No I don’t.” Hamner was calm, but the whiskey was enough to make him bold, even in this camp surrounded by Falkenberg’s men . . . Who is this man we’re going to entrust our lives to? For that matter, haven’t we already done that? “I don’t know at all. It makes no sense for you to have complained about promotion, Colonel, and the admiral wouldn’t have let you be dismissed if you hadn’t wanted. Why did you have yourself cashiered?”
Falkenberg inspected him closely, his lips tight, gray eyes boring into Hamner. “I suppose you are entitled to an answer. Grand Senator Bronson has sworn to ruin me, Mr. Hamner, for reasons I won’t tell you. If I hadn’t been dismissed for the trivial charge of technical insubordination, I’d have had to face an endless series of trumped-up charges. This way I’m out with a clean record.”
“And that’s all there is to it?”
“That’s all.”
It was plausible. So was everything else. And Hamner was sure that the story would check out. Yet—yet the man was lying, for no reason George could imagine. Not lying directly, not refusing to answer, but not telling it all … if he only knew the right questions.
The pipers came back in, looked at Falkenberg. “Something more?”
“No.”
“Thank you.” The colonel nodded to the pipe major, who raised his baton. The pipers marched to the crash of drums, an incredibly martial sound, and the younger officers glanced around, picked up their drinks again. Someone shouted and the party was on.
The Progressives were drinking with Falkenberg’s mercenaries … and every one of the partisans in the mess was one of his own wing, George realized. There wasn’t one of Bradford’s people in the lot. He rose, signalled to a Progressive lieutenant to follow him. “I’ll let Farquahar escort me out, Colonel,” Hamner shouted.
“As you please.”
The noise followed them outside, along the regimental street. “All right, Jamie, what’s going on here?” Hamner demanded.
“Going on, sir? Nothing that I know of … you mean the party? Ah, we’re celebrating the men’s graduation from elementary training; tomorrow they start advanced work. Major Savage thought a regimental din
ing-in would help knit the troops together, be good for morale …”
“I do not mean the party.” They were at the edge of officers’ row now, and Hamner stopped their stroll. Hadley’s third moon, the bright one called Klum, cast weird shadows around them. “Maybe I do mean the party. Where are the other officers? Mr. Bradford’s people?”
“Ah, they had a field problem that kept them out of camp until late, sir. Mr. Bradford came around about dinnertime and took them with him to the ranch house. He spends a lot of time with them, sir.”
“You’ve been around the marines, Jamie. Where are the men from? What CD outfits?”
“I really don’t know, sir. Colonel Falkenberg has forbidden us to ask. He told the men that no matter what their record before, they start new here. I get the impression that some of them have served with the colonel before. They don’t like him, curse him quite openly. But they’re afraid of that big sergeant-major of his . . . Calvin has offered to whip any two men in the camp, they choose the rules. None of the marines would try it. After the first couple of times, none of the recruits would either.”
“Not popular.” Hamner brushed his hair back from his brows with both hands, remembered what Major Karantov had told him. Whiskey buzzed in his head. “Who is popular?”
“Major Savage, sir. The men like him. And Captain Fast, the marines particularly respect him. He’s the colonel’s adjutant.”
“All right. Look, can this outfit fight? Have we got a chance?” They stood and watched the scene around the campfires, men drinking, shouting. There was a fist fight in front of one tent, and no officer moved to stop it. “Do you permit that?”
“Not—we stop the men only if we officially see something, sir. See, the sergeants have broken up the fight. As to their abilities, really, how would I know? The men are tough, Mr. Hamner, and they obey orders.”
Hamner nodded. “All right, Jamie. Go back to your party.” He strode to his car. As he was driven away, he knew something was wrong, but he still had no idea what.
War and Peace Page 29
