A Man Called Milo Morai

by Robert Adams

  Milo stubbed out his cigarette, drank down the last of the coffee, then leaned forward and said, "What I can see is that you, Padre, are as nutty as the proverbial fruitcake. Your old mentor, Father Rustung, was a hellish mixture of religious fanaticism, anti-Semitism and Nazism. Well, you saw what happened to him, and it scared the shit out of you, so you went to the opposite extreme. You have become an equally hellish mixture of Catholic fanaticism, anti-Americanism and Communism. I can't imagine why Barstow keeps a nut like you around. In his place, I'd ship you off to a room with soft walls. If you really, truly believe in this internationalist shit, Padre, you'd better keep your mouth shut around anybody with two brain cells to rub together, because your presentation of the wonderful world tomorrow and what it will be like will drive them straight into the arms of Colonel Barstow's variety of American supernationalist."

  After that late-evening exchange, Milo took pains to avoid further one-on-ones with Father Karl, nor did the priest ever again try to speak with him alone. When, years later, he saw Padre again, Milo was to wish he had found a way to kill him quietly in Munich. But more than two decades was to trickle away before that meeting.

  In August of 1945, the world entered into the Atomic Age, a deeply shocked, stunned, terrified Japanese Empire surrendered unconditionally, and the main event of what history was to call by the name of World War Two was concluded. That is to say, the real fighting was concluded, but not the vengeance-taking against the prostrate, disarmed and helpless Germans, Japanese, Italians, Austrians, Hungarians, Rumanians, Vichy French, anti-Communist Russians, Ukrainians and Albanians. Many heinous injustices were perpetrated in that brief spate of quasi-legal revenge, but those nations who came to be known as Western Powers were not to realize just how unjust they had been, just how much they had been misled by certain of their own leftist leaders and by the self-serving Russians until it was far too late.

  On an icy January morning of 1946, Barstow called Milo to his office and said without preamble, "You've done good work for me, and this is reward time. Think you can get back to wearing uniforms again, Major Moray?"

  "You're sending me back to my unit, then, colonel?" asked Milo.

  Barstow's burgeoning potbelly jiggled as he laughed. "Not a bit of it, old bean. No, I've just been given my first star—Brigadier General Eustace Barstow now sits before you. Raaay!—and an immediate reassignment to Holabird. I'll be taking along some of the personnel. Would you like to be one of my jolly crew?"

  "You're goddamn right I would, col… uhh, general, but I don't want to accept under false pretenses, either. For reasons I explained to you shortly after I arrived here and for others as well, there is an even chance that I won't stay in the Army at all, whenever the Powers That May Be decide that my hitch is up," Milo told Barstow in complete sincerity. The new-made general's reply almost floored him.

  "Aside from your desire to fulfill your pledge to the late General Stiles and take care of his widow and their children, which pledge I assume you have translated into marriage to her and the Stiles fortune, what other pressing reasons have you to leave the Army, Milo?"

  Milo just stared at the pudgy officer across the desk from him. Then, finally, he demanded, "General, are you some kind of fucking telepath? Have you been reading my mind? I've never once so much as mentioned Mrs. Stiles to you or to anyone else here in Munich, and to damned few back in my battalion."

  Barstow showed several gold dental inlays in a broad grin. "Heh, heh, heh, Milo, you forget, this is an intelligence operation, and I feel the need to know everything I can dig up about everyone connected with it and me. Not that I had to go any further than to certain files to find out about you and your rich widow lady."

  "What is that supposed to mean, general? Why should there have been a file on me? I was nothing more or less than a simple captain of infantry before you had me transferred in here," said Milo in obvious puzzlement.

  In place of an immediate answer, Barstow just looked at Milo in silence for a long moment, nodded brusquely, then got up and strode to the office door and opened it. To the uniformed first lieutenant behind the desk in the outer office, he said only, "Condition Four-Oh."

  In silence, the junior officer opened a drawer of his desk to reveal an array of buttons. He pressed one of them and a succession of metallic slamming noises from the direction of the door to the reception office told of a number of bolts now in place. The pressing of another button brought forth a deep-toned humming noise that pervaded the room. Then the lieutenant opened the cabinet behind him, took out a civilian-model Thompson with no shoulder stock and a drum rather than the military box magazine, armed it and laid it on the desktop before him. Then and only then he spoke.

  "Condition Four-Oh, sir."

  When once more Barstow had closed and, this time, multiply bolted his office door and resumed his seat, Milo said, "Jesus fucking Christ, general, what are you expecting? The survivors of the Das Reich SS-Panzer Division to assault this place?"

  "As I said earlier, Milo, you forget that this is a counterintelligence operation, but you can bet your bottom dollar on the fact that the NKVD and Red Army intelligence don't forget just what we have here. And the real pity of it all is that certain persons in very highly placed offices in Washington have allowed our armed services to become so infiltrated with Uncle Joe Stalin's agents that it sometimes is difficult to be sure of the motives of anyone. But, for now, let's get your question out of the way. I can't maintain Condition Four-Oh for any length of time without arousing comment."

  "Why were your name and other facts about you in a certain file? For this reason, Milo: your involvement with Brigadier General Jethro Stiles, deceased."

  "Oh, come on, general, I knew Jethro from my basic training days on. He was no fucking spy for the Red Army, the Nazis or any fucking body else, and you're not going to convince me that he was!" Milo exploded with heat.

  "Please keep your voice down," said Barstow mildly. "The device we activated only mutes out normal, conversational speech. You are quite correct, Milo, Stiles was not a spy, not in the ordinary sense of that word. But still we felt it well advised to keep an eye on him and any of his friends who spent time alone with him. We also had in his quarters microphones connected to a listening post and a wire-recording instrument."

  "Well, you're sweet, trusting bastards, aren't you?" Milo said bitterly. "And why all of this shit, just because he was buying a few things from Nazis who were due to lose everything soon anyway?"

  Barstow smiled thinly. "That operation was nothing more than what we in the intelligence community call a cover, Milo. It gave him a reason for being in touch with the still-unconquered portions of Germany, a reason even for occasional trips behind German lines. The few who knew aught about his clandestine 'purchasing trips' were of the consensus that he was representing and given protection by a clique of greedy general officers at corps or possibly army level, and he himself enhanced that impression by allowing the commander of your division to buy in on the operation.

  "In reality, of course, General Stiles" was performing something of inestimable importance for the United States and the future. It was something that is still too highly classified to tell you about. But we are certain that sudden realization of the truth, the real purposes of his activities, was what got General Stiles and Captain Wesley killed that day in Delitzsch."

  "General, I was there, remember? Jethro was killed by three Hitler Youth amateur snipers. And who the hell is Captain Wesley?" Milo tersely informed and demanded.

  "Wesley? Oh, you knew him as Sergeant Webber, his cover name for that operation. He was a loan from another agency. And yes, the shootings were very cut-and dried, but only on the surface, Milo, And I cannot impart any more information on that subject to you, not now. Should you decide to remain in the Army and should you be cleared to work for me in my new assignment, I might be able to tell you more, someday."

  "But for now, Milo, the war is over. You've done all that you can in Eur
ope, so why not take this opportunity to go home?"

  Epilogue

  As Milo closed his memories and ceased to speak, there was a ripple of movement around the ranks of seated boys and girls and men and prairiecats who had gathered about the main Skaht firepit to be entertained by his tale of long ago.

  While others rubbed at arms and legs and sleepy eyes or began to gather up tools and handiworks to stow them away for another night, two of the Skaht girls kept to what they had been doing. Myrah Skaht cracked nuts from a pile, separated the meats and tossed the shells down into the bed of dying-out coals in the firepit. Karee Skaht then took up the nutmeats and fed them to Gy Linsee, who sat between them. From time to time, Myrah stopped her nut-cracking to take from its place in a nest of coals a small long-handled pot with which she refilled the horn cup for Gy with a heated mixture of herb tea laced with fermented honey.

  Milo communicated on a tight, highly personal beaming to Tchuk Skaht. "Look at those three, would you? I believe that the first thing we are going to witness upon our return is a wedding—Gy Linsee and not just one but two of your Skaht girls, Karee and Myrah. What do you think your chief will say to that?"

  The hunt chief grinned and said, "He will say just what he has said since she first saw Sacred Sun: 'Anything that my Myrah wants, she is to have.' That's what he'll say, Uncle Milo."

  Milo grinned, beaming on, "Well, considering what I brought you all here for, I can think of much worse results than marriage of a son of a Clan Linsee bard to a brace of Clan Skaht females, one of them the favorite daughter of the Skaht of Skaht himself."

  "Yes, I think that my purpose here is beginning to see accomplishment, Tchuk, Wind and Sacred Sun be thanked. A few more such ties made between your nubile young people and I think that we will have seen the last of any bloodletting, on any large scale, at least. What true Kindred father would ride to raid against his own children and grandchildren, after all, and what Kindred son would ride against the camp of his parents or in-laws?"

  Tchuk grinned, beaming, "Have you met my in-laws, Uncle Milo? But, no, you're right, of course, as you have always been, so I am told. Those of us who for so long have desired to see an end to this ruinous conflict should have thought of something like this, but then we lacked your vast store of knowledge and experience, too. We soon will start back to the clan camps, then?"

  "Not hardly," replied Milo. "For all else I intended this hunt to be, it still is an autumn hunt, just like any other save for the fact that few warriors and no matrons are taking part in it. When we have loaded down the pack-horses with smoked game and fish and dried plant foods, that is when we'll head back to the camps, not before then."

  "Well, that boar that Gy Linsee speared will help mightily in that regard, Uncle Milo. Even without the hide and the guts and the bones, there must be three hundred pounds of flesh and hard fat in that carcass."

  "True," Milo agreed, "and the rest of the pigs are still out there, awaiting our arrows and spears, too. But what I'd like to find now is a salt lick, for I dislike curing pigmeat without salt. Let's give that task to the foragers tomorrow, eh? They'll be frequenting the vicinities of springs, anyway, in their search for edible plants and roots. You might try mindspeaking the more intelligent and communicative of the horses, too—sometimes they can scent deposits on the prairie."

  "Now, I suggest we all get some sleep, for the dawn will come early, as always."

  To the seemingly bemused Linsee boy, he beamed,

  "Come, Gy, it is late, and I am going back to your clan's fires, this night. We can walk together and converse."

  While he waited, Gy arose and was soundly, linger-ingly kissed first by Karee Skaht, then by Myrah Skaht, then by Karee once more, then by Myrah yet again. Finally, Milo strode over and tore the two girls away from the tall, dark-haired boy, admonishing them and him.

  "If I didn't know better, I'd think Gy Linsee bound outward for a journey from which he might never return. You two will see him no later than dawn tomorrow, you have my word on the matter."

  As the ageless man and the adult-sized boy strolled in the bright moonlight along the bank of the riverlet, Gy beamed hesitantly, "I… uh, Uncle Milo, if still you wish to take me with you and the Tribe Bard, I… that is, you had said that-I might bring a wife with me. Might I… I mean, would I… could I…"

  Milo chuckled, beaming back, "Two wives will be acceptable, Gy—another set of hands never hurts when setting up camp or breaking camp or loading or unloading horses. If you and they both are in agreement on the matter, I say, fine. They'll learn a lot, as will you, my boy, traveling from one far-flung clan camp to the next. You'll meet Kindred you'd never see if you lived long enough to go to a dozen Fifth-Year Tribal Councils. I'll teach the three of you how to read and to write more than just your name, and you'll help me in preparing a series of maps of the land as it now lies. We will explore ruins as we come across them, seeking out metals and ancient jewels and any artifacts still usable after so long in the earth; some, the best, of these, we will keep, others will be guest gifts to clans we visit, the rest we will sell to roving traders or bring up to the next Fifth-Year Camp."

  "We may live or migrate with this clan or that for months, and then again we may go it alone in good weather for just as many months, only seeking out a clan with which to winter when the cold begins to nip at us. Perhaps we will winter one year in a friendly Dirtman settlement. Yes, Gy, there are a very few such places, although they are scattered most widely and most lie far to the south of where we how are."

  "And of course, all the while, Bard Herbuht will be teaching you the history of the various clans and of the tribe itself—the facts, the legends, the heroes, the great chiefs, significant raids, battles, victories, defeats, genealogies of clans and septs, and so much, much more that a Bard of the Tribe must know and recall when the need arises. He and I will also school you in the proper use of your mindspeak, and I am convinced that you possess already great untapped powers of the various types and levels of mindspeak, Gy. I am anxious to see you develop those powers, for a Tribal Bard is more than that title might seem to imply. At times he must be a mediator, a peacemaker between clans or factions within clans, and on those occasions, in those ticklish situations, an ability to soothe the minds of angry, blood-hungry men as well as frightened horses is a necessity owned by few. Herbuht is one such, I am another, and I believe that you can be, too, once your mind is awakened and becomes aware of its true talents and potentials."

  "But back to the very near future, Gy. In the morning, my hunt will be riding back to where we were today, after the rest of those pigs—they're just too much meat in one place to pass them up. I'll be wanting you along and any other good spearmen you know of, too."

  "But… but please, Uncle Milo," beamed Gy from a roiling mind, "I… we… it was my section's day to fish. Karee and Myrah said—"

  Milo clapped the big boy on his thick shoulder, laughing. "Oh, don't fret, Gy. I'll ask for your two intendeds on this hunt with us tomorrow, and I doubt that Hunt Chief Tchuk will voice any really strenuous objections to the rearrangement of schedules."

  At the Linsee area, Milo shooed Gy off to his lean-to, but he himself did not immediately retire. Instead he sent out a mindcall for Hwaltuh Linsee.

  "On the council rock by the water, Uncle Milo," came beaming the silent reply. "Come and join me."

  Milo climbed the flat-topped, mossy rock and squatted beside the Linsee subchief, one of the few adult warriors along on this very unusual hunt. Below them lay one of the backwater pools of the riverlet, and in its near-stillness, the silver disk of the moon was reflected. Now and again at intervals, something splashed in the pool and sent ripples out to break that silvery radiance into wavering shards that slowly recoalesced as the agitation of the water decreased to near-stillness again. It all looked so quiet, so peaceful, but Milo well knew that it was not. It was anything but peaceful, night in the wilds; night was the time of death as the night hunters prowled with gro
wling, empty bellies in search of their natural prey.

  "Were you at my tale-telling this night?" beamed Milo.

  "Yes, for the first part only, though," Subchief Hwaltuh beamed in reply. "Snowbelly mindcalled me from up above. Crooktail had found a strange scent out a few score yards from the area of short grasses, where the horse herd is biding this night."

  "And you found… ?" inquired Milo.

  The Linsee warrior shrugged and shook his head, his braided hair flopping. "No tracks that I could see in the moonlight or feel with my fingers. I couldn't smell anything, either, except a trace of skunk or weasel musk in a couple of places. Nonetheless, I told the cats that I'll bed down up there tonight, close to the herd. With a strong bow and a ready spear and a few darts, I'll be ready for whatever may befall, I think."

  Milo nodded. "A wise decision, that one. Now make another one, Hwaltuh. When we return to the Tribe Council Camp, Gy Linsee will announce his intent to wed Karee Skaht and Myrah Skaht. I ask that you not only not oppose this match but give it your full support should your chief object."

  "Oppose it, Uncle Milo?" The Linsee warrior grinned. "Why should I oppose it? Those two Skaht chits show taste and intelligence rare in Skahts. Besides, they both look healthy and strong enough, and that Myrah Skaht has a fine eye for archery. Certainly I'll favor the match should the Linsee object to it for some reason, but I don't see why he would. How does this matter sit, though, with Tchuk Skaht?"

  "He is of the mind that it will be a good thing for both clans," Milo replied. "And he has offered unasked to intervene with his chief, the girl Myrah's sire, on the matter."