“Suppose we let each man take what gold he could find. What would happen? The lucky ones would be wealthy, and the unlucky would still be poor. And then some of the lucky ones would wake up some morning without the gold they’d taken because someone else had relieved them of it while they slept.
“And others wouldn’t wake up at all, because they’d be found with their throats cut.
“I told you to bring every bit of the metal to me. When this thing is over, everyone of you will get his share. If a man dies, his share will be split among the rest, instead of being stolen by someone else or lost because it was hidden too well.”
He looked at the earring in his hand; then, with a convulsive sweep of his arm, he tossed it out into the middle of the square.
“There! Seven ounces of gold! Which of you wants it?”
Some of the men eyed the circle of metal that gleamed brightly on the sunlit ground, but none of them made any motion to pick it up.
“So.” The commander’s voice was almost gentle. He turned his eyes back toward the accused. “You know the orders. You knew them when you hid this.” He gestured negligently toward the small heap of native-wrought metal. “Suppose you’d gotten away with it. You’d have ended up with your own share, plus this, thereby cheating the others out of—” He glanced at the pile. “Hm-m-m-say, twenty-five each. And that’s only a little compared with what we’ll get from now on.”
He looked back at the others. “Unless the shares are taken care of my way, the largest shares will go to the dishonest, the most powerful, and the luckiest. Unless the division is made as we originally agreed, we’ll end up trying to cut each other’s heart out.”
There was hardness in his voice when he spoke to the accused, but there was compassion there, too.
“First: You have forfeited your share in this expedition. All that you have now, and all that you might have expected will be divided among the others according to our original agreement.
“Second: I do not expect any man to work for nothing. Since you will not receive anything from this expedition, there is no point in your assisting the rest of us or working with us in any way whatsoever.
“Third: We can’t have anyone with us who does not carry his own weight.”
He glanced at the guards. “Hang him.” He paused. “Now.”
As he was led away, the commander watched the other men. There was approval in their eyes, but there was something else there, too-a wariness, a concealed fear.
The condemned man turned suddenly and began shouting at the commander, but before he could utter more than three syllables, a fist smashed him down. The guards dragged him off.
“All right, men,” said the commander carefully, “let’s search the village. There might be more gold about; I have a hunch that this isn’t all he hid. Let’s see if we can find the rest of it.” He sensed the relief of tension as he spoke.
The commander was right. It was amazing how much gold one man had been able to stash away.
IX
They couldn’t stay long in anyone village; they didn’t have the time to sit and relax any more than was necessary. Once they had reached the northern marches of the native empire, it was to the commander’s advantage to keep his men moving. He didn’t know for sure how good or how rapid communications were among the various native provinces, but he had to assume that they were top-notch, allowing for the limitations of a barbaric society.
The worst trouble they ran into on their way was not caused by the native warriors, but by disease.
The route to the south was spotted by great strips of sandy barrenness, torn by winds that swept the grains of sand into the troopers’ eyes and crept into the chinks of their armor. Underfoot, the sand made a treacherous pathway; carriers and men alike found it heavy going.
The heat from the sun was intense; the brilliant beams from the primary seemed to penetrate through the men’s armor and through the insulation underneath, and made the marching even harder.
Even so, in spite of the discomfort, the men were making good time until the disease struck. And that stopped them in their tracks.
What the disease was or how it was spread is unknown and unknowable at this late date. Virus or bacterium, amoeba or fungus—whatever it was, it struck.
Symptoms: Lassitude, weariness, sickness, and pain.
Signs: Great, ulcerous, wartlike, blood-filled blisters that grew rapidly over the body.
A man might go to sleep at night feeling reasonably tired, but not ill, and wake up in the morning to find himself unable to rise, his muscles too weak to lift him from his bed.
If the blisters broke, or were lanced, it was almost impossible to stop the bleeding, and many died, not from the toxic effect of the disease itself, but from simple loss of blood.
But, like many epidemics, the thing had a fairly short life span. After two weeks, it had burned itself out. Most of those who got it recovered, and a few were evidently immune.
Eighteen men remained behind in shallow graves.
The rest went on.
X
No man is perfect. Even with four decades of training behind him, Commander Frank couldn’t call the turn every time. After the first few villages, there were no further battles. The natives, having seen what the invaders could do, simply showed up missing when the commander and his men arrived. The villages were empty by the time the column reached the outskirts.
Frater Vincent, the agent of the Universal Assembly, complained in no uncertain terms about this state of affairs.
“As you know, commander,” he said frowningly one morning, “it’s no use trying to indoctrinate a people we can’t contact. And you can’t subject a people by force of arms alone; the power of the Truth—”
“I know, Frater ,” the commander interposed quickly. “But we can’t deal with these savages in the hinterlands. When we get a little farther into this barbarian empire, we can take the necessary steps to—”
“The Truth,” Frater Vincent interrupted somewhat testily, “is for all men. It works, regardless of the state of civilization of the society.”
The commander looked out of the unglazed window of the native hut in which he had established his temporary headquarters, in one of the many villages he had taken—or, rather, walked into without a fight because it was empty. “But you’ll admit, Frater, that it takes longer with savages.”
“True,” said Frater Vincent.
“We simply haven’t the time. We’ve got to keep on the move. And, besides, we haven’t even been able to contact any of the natives for quite a while; they get out of our way. And we have taken a few prisoners—” His voice was apologetic, but there was a trace of irritation in it. He didn’t want to offend Frater Vincent, of course, but dammit, the Assemblyman didn’t understand military tactics at all. Or, he corrected himself hastily, at least only slightly.
“Yes,” admitted Frater Vincent, “and I’ve had considerable success with the prisoners. But, remember—we’re not here just to indoctrinate a few occasional prisoners, but to change the entire moral and philosophical viewpoint of an entire race.”
“I realize that, Frater ,” the commander admitted. He turned from the window and faced the Assemblyman. “We’re getting close to the Great Bay now. That’s where our ship landed on the second probing expedition. I expect we’ll be more welcome there than we have been, out here in the countryside. We’ll take it easy, and I think you’ll have a chance to work with the natives on a mass basis.”
The Frater smiled. “Excellent, commander. I...uh...want you to understand that I’m not trying to tell you your business; you run this campaign as you see fit. But don’t lose sight of the ultimate goal of life.”
“I won’t. How could I? It’s just that my methods are not, perhaps, as refined as yours.”
Frater Vincent nodded, still smiling. “True. You are a great deal more direct. And—in your own way—just as effective. After all, the Assembly could not function without the military, but there were armies
long before the Universal Assembly came into being.”
The commander smiled back. “Not any armies like this, Frater.”
Frater Vincent nodded. The understanding between the two men—at least on that point—was tacit and mutual. He traced a symbol in the air and left the commander to his thoughts.
Mentally, the commander went through the symbol-patterns that he had learned as a child—the symbol-patterns that brought him into direct contact with the Ultimate Power, the Power that controlled not only the spinning of atoms and the whirling of electrons in their orbits, but the workings of probability itself.
Once indoctrinated into the teachings of the Universal Assembly, any man could tap that Power to a greater or lesser degree, depending on his mental control and ethical attitude. At the top level, a first-class adept could utilize that Power for telepathy, psychokinesis, levitation, teleportation, and other powers that the commander only vaguely understood.
He, himself, had no such depth of mind, such iron control over his will, and he knew he’d never have it. But he could and did tap that Power to the extent that his physical body was under near-perfect control at all times, and not even the fear of death could shake his determination to win, or his great courage.
He turned again to the window and looked at the alien sky. There was a great deal yet to be done.
The commander needed information—needed it badly. He had to know what the government of the alien empire was doing. Had they been warned of his arrival? Surely they must have, and yet they had taken no steps to impede his progress.
For this purpose, he decided to set up headquarters on an island just offshore in the Great Bay. It was a protected position, easily defended from assault, and the natives, he knew from his previous visit, were friendly.
They even helped him to get his men and equipment and the carriers across on huge rafts.
From that point, he began collecting the information he needed to invade the central domains of the Greatest Noble himself. It seemed an ideal spot—not only protection-wise, but because this was the spot he had originally picked for the landing of the ship. The vessel, which had returned to the base for reinforcements and extra supplies, would be aiming for the Great Bay area when she came back. And there was little likelihood that atmospheric disturbances would throw her off course again; Captain Bartholomew was too good a man to be fooled twice.
But landing on that island was the first—and only—mistake the commander made during the campaign. The rumors of internal bickerings among the Great Nobles of the barbarian empire were not the only rumors he heard. News of more local treachery came to his ears through the agency of natives, now loyal to the commander, who had been indoctrinated into the philosophy of the Assembly.
A group of native chieftains had decided that the invading Earthmen were too dangerous to be allowed to remain on their island, in spite of the fact that the invaders had done them no harm. There were, after all, whisperings from the north, whence the invaders had come, that the armored beings with the terrible weapons had used their power more than once during their march to the south. The chieftains were determined to rid their island of the potential menace.
As soon as the matter was brought to the commander’s attention, he acted. He sent out a patrol to the place where the ringleaders were meeting, arrested them, and sentenced them to death. He didn’t realize what effect that action would have on the rest of the islanders.
He almost found out too late.
XI
“There must be three thousand of them out there,” said Lieutenant Commander Hernan tightly, “and everyone of them’s crazy.”
“Rot!” The commander spat on the ground and then sighted again along the barrel of his weapon. “I’m the one who’s crazy. I’m a lousy politician; that’s my trouble.”
The lieutenant commander shrugged lightly. “Anyone can make a mistake. Just chalk it up to experience.”
“I will, when we get out of this mess.” He watched the gathering natives through hard, slitted eyes.
The invading Earthmen were in a village at the southern end of the eight-mile-long island, waiting inside the mud-brick huts, while the natives who had surrounded the village worked themselves into a frenzy for an attack. The commander knew there was no sense in charging into them at that point; they would simply scatter and reassemble. The only thing to do was wait until they attacked—and then smash the attack.
“Hernan,” he said, his eyes still watching the outside, “you and the others get out there with the carriers after the first volley. Cut them down. They’re twenty-to-one against us, so make every blow count. Move.”
Hernan nodded wordlessly and slipped away.
The natives were building up their courage with some sort of war dance, whooping and screaming and making threatening gestures toward the embattled invaders. Then the pattern of the dance changed; the islanders whirled to face the mud-brick buildings which housed the invading Earthmen. Suddenly, the dance broke, and the warriors ran in a screaming charge, straight for the trapped soldiers.
The commander waited. His own shot would be the signal, and he didn’t want the men to fire too quickly. If the islanders were hit too soon, they might fall back into the woods and set up a siege, which the little company couldn’t stand. Better to mop up the natives now, if possible.
Closer. Closer—
Now!
The commander’s first shot picked off one of the leaders in the front ranks of the native warriors, and was followed by a raking volley from the other power weapons, firing from the windows of the mud-brick buildings. The warriors in the front rank dropped, and those in the second rank had to move adroitly to keep from stumbling over the bodies of their fallen fellows. The firing from the huts became ragged, but its raking effect was still deadly. A cloud of heavy, stinking smoke rolled across the clearing between the edge of the jungle and the village, as the bright, hard lances of heat leaped from the muzzles of the power weapons toward the bodies of the charging warriors.
The charge was gone from the commander’s weapon, and he didn’t bother to replace it. As Hernan and his men charged into the melee with their carriers, the commander went with them.
At the same time, the armored infantrymen came pouring out of the mud-brick houses, swinging their swords, straight into the mass of confused native warriors. A picked group of sharpshooters remained behind in the concealment of the huts to pick off the warriors at the edge of the battle with their sporadic fire.
The commander’s lips were moving a little as he formed the symbol-patterns of power almost unconsciously; a lifetime of habit had burned them into his brain so deeply that he could form them automatically while turning the thinking part of his mind to the business at hand.
He soon found himself entirely surrounded by the alien warriors. Their bronze weapons glittered in the sunlight as they tried to fight off the onslaught of the invaders. And those same bronze weapons were sheared, nicked, blunted, bent, and broken as they met the harder steel of the commander’s sword.
Then the unexpected happened. One of the warriors, braver than the rest, made a grab for the commander’s sword arm. At almost the same moment, a warrior on the other side of the carrier aimed a spear thrust at his side.
Either by itself would have been ineffectual. The spear clanged harmlessly from the commander’s armor, and the warrior who had attempted to pull him from the carrier died before he could give much of a tug. But the combination, plus the fact that the heavy armor was a little unwieldy, overbalanced him. He toppled to the ground with a clash of steel as he and the carrier parted company.
Without a human hand at its controls, the carrier automatically moved away from the mass of struggling fighters and came to a halt well away from the battle.
The commander rolled as he hit and leaped to his feet, his sword moving in flickering arcs around him. The natives had no knowledge of effective swordplay. Like any barbarians, they conceived of a sword as a cutting instrument
rather than a thrusting one. They chopped with them, using small shields to protect their bodies as they tried to hack the commander to bits.
But the commander had no desire to become mincemeat just yet. Five of the barbarians were coming at him, their swords raised for a downward slash. The commander lunged forward with a straight stop-thrust aimed at the groin of the nearest one. It came as a complete surprise to the warrior, who doubled up in pain.
The commander had already withdrawn his blade and was attacking the second as the first fell. He made another feint to the groin and then changed the aim of his point as the warrior tried to cover with his shield. A buckler is fine protection against a man who is trying to hack you to death with a chopper, because a heavy cutting sword and a shield have about the same inertia, and thus the same maneuverability. But the shield isn’t worth anything against a light stabbing weapon. The warrior’s shield started downward and he was unable to stop it and reverse its direction before the commander’s sword pierced his throat.
Two down, three to go. No, four. Another warrior had decided to join the little battle against the leader of the invading Earthmen.
The commander changed his tactics just slightly with the third man. He slashed with the tip of his blade against the descending sword-arm of his opponent-a short, quick flick of his wrist that sheared through the inside of the wrist, severing tendons, muscles, veins and arteries as it cut to the bone. The sword clanged harmlessly off the commander’s shoulder. A quick thrust, and the third man died.
The other three slowed their attack and began circling warily, trying to get behind the commander. Instead of waiting, he charged forward, again cutting at the sword arm of his adversary, severing fingers this time. As the warrior turned, the commander’s sword pierced his side.
How long it went on, he had no idea. He kept his legs and his sword-arm moving, and his eyes ever alert for new foes as man after man dropped beneath that snake-tonguing blade. Inside his armor, perspiration poured in rivulets down his skin, and his arms and legs began to ache. but not for one second did he let up. He could not see what was going on, could not tell the direction of the battle nor even allow his mind to wonder what was going on more than ten paces from him.
Takeoff! Page 13
