“Then,” said William, helping himself to a white tablet, and replacing the box. “I believe that is all.”
“I believe so, sir,” said Donal.
Donal inclined his head and went out. Stopping outside the stateroom door only long enough to take one of his own phase shift sedatives, he headed back toward his own stateroom. On the way, he stopped by the ship’s library to check out an information spool on the First Dissident Church, of Harmony; and this delayed him sufficiently so that he was passing down one of the long sectional corridors when the phase shift occurred.
He had been prudently asleep during those previous shifts he had gone through while outbound from Dorsai; and, of course, he had learned years ago what to expect. In addition, he was fully medicated; and the shift itself was over before it was really begun. In fact, it took place in no time, in no conceivable interval at all. Yet it had happened; and some inextinguishable recognizing part of him knew and remembered that he had been torn apart, down to the most fractional elements of his being, and spread to the wide universe and caught and collected and reassembled at some arbitrary point light-years from his destruction. And it was this memory, not the shift itself, that made him falter, for one short step, before he took up again his steady march back to his stateroom. And the memory would stay with him.
He continued on down the corridor; but he was far from having run his gauntlet for the day. As he reached the end of one section, Anea stepped out from the cross-bar corridor there that was the exact duplicate of the one, several sections down, where he first met her. Her green eyes were afire.
“You’ve been seeing him!” she snapped, barring his way.
“Seeing ... oh, William,” he said.
“Don’t deny it.”
“Why should I?” Donal looked at her almost with wonder. “Surely, it’s nothing to make a secret about?”
She stared at him.
“Oh!” she cried. “You just don’t care for anything, do you? What did you do ... about what I gave you?”
“I gave it back to its owner, of course,” said Donal. “There was no other sensible thing I could do.”
She turned suddenly so white that he almost reached out to catch her, certain she was about to faint. But she did no such womanish thing. Her eyes, as she stared at him, were shocked to enormity.
“Oh!” she breathed. “You ... you traitor. You cheat!” and before he could make a move or say a word to stop her, she had whirled about and was running off down the corridor back in the direction from which she had come.
With a certain wry unhappiness—for, in spite of his rather low opinion of her common sense, he had really expected her to listen to his explanation—he took up his solitary walk to his stateroom. He traveled the rest of the way without meeting anyone. The corridors, in the aftermath of the phase shift were deserted by prudent passengers.
Only, passing a certain stateroom, he heard sounds of sickness from within; and, looking up, recognized the number on its door as one he had looked up just now on his recent trip to the library.
It was the stateroom of ArDell Montor; and that would be the man himself inside it now, unmedicated and racked by the passing of the phase shift, fighting his own long battle with the universe.
Force-Leader
“All right, gentlemen,” said Hugh Killien.
He stood, confident and impressive in his chameleon battle-dress, with the fingertips of his right hand resting on the gently domed surface of the mapviewer before him.
“If you’ll gather around the viewer, here—” he said. The five Force-Leaders moved in until all six men stood thickly clustered around the meter-square area of the viewer. The illumination from the blackout shell enclosing them beat down and met the internal upward illumination of the viewer, so that Donal, glancing around at his fellow-officers, was irresistibly reminded of men caught between wrath and wrath, in some small package section of that hell their First Dissident Church Liaison-Elder had been so eloquent about, only a few hours since at the before-battle service.
“... Our position is here,” Hugh was saying. “As your commandant I make you the customary assurance that it is a perfectly tenable position and that the contemplated advance in no way violates the Mercenaries Code. Now—” he went on more briskly, “as you can see, we occupy an area five kilometers in front and three kilometers in depth, between these two ridges. Second Command of Battle Unit 176 to our right, Fourth Command of Battles to our left.
“The contemplated action calls for the Second and Fourth Commands to hold fast in full strength on both our flanks, while we move forward at sixty per cent of strength and capture a small town called Faith Will Succour, which is here—”
His index finger stabbed down and rested upon the domed image of the map.
“... At approximately four kilometers of distance from our present position. We will use three of our five Forces, Skuak’s, White’s and Graeme’s; and each Force will make its separate way to the objective. You will each have your individual maps. There are woods for the first twelve hundred meters. After that, you will have to cross the river, which is about forty meters in width, but which Intelligence assures us is fordable at the present time with a maximum depth of a hundred and twenty centimeters. On the other side it will be woods again, thinning out gradually right up to the edge of the town. We leave in twenty minutes. It’ll be dawn in an hour and I want all three Forces across that river before full daylight. Any questions?”
“What about enemy activity in the area?” asked Skuak. He was a short, stocky Cassidan, who looked Mongoloid, but was actually Eskimo in ancestry. “What kind of opposition can we expect?”
“Intelligence says nothing but patrols. Possibly a small Force holding the town, itself. Nothing more.” Hugh looked around the circle of faces. ‘This should be bread and butter. Any more questions?”
“Yes,” said Donal. He had been studying the map. “What sort of military incompetent decided to send us at only sixty per cent of strength?”
The atmosphere in the shell froze suddenly and sharply. Donal looked up to find Hugh Killien’s eyes on his across the viewer,
“As it happened,” said the commandant, a slight edge to his words, “it was my suggestion to Staff, Graeme. Perhaps you’ve forgotten—I’m sure none of the other Force-Leaders have—but this is a demonstration campaign to show the First Dissident Church we’re worthy of our hire.”
“That hardly includes gambling the lives of four hundred and fifty men,” retorted Donal, unmoved.
“Graeme,” said Hugh, “you’re junior officer here; and I’m commandant. You ought to know I don’t have to explain tactics to you. But just to set your mind at rest, Intelligence has given a clear green on enemy activity in the area.”
“Still,” persisted Donal, “why take unnecessary chances?”
Hugh sighed in exasperation.
“I certainly shouldn’t have to give you lessons in strategy,” he said bitingly. “I think you abuse the right the code gives you to question Staff decisions. But to put an end to this—there’s a good reason why we’ll be using the minimum number of men. Our main thrust at the enemy is to come through this area. If we moved forward in strength, the United Orthodox forces would immediately begin to strengthen defenses. But doing it this way, it should appear we’re merely moving to take up a natural vacuum along the front. Once we have the town tied down, the Second and Fourth Commands can filter in to reinforce us and we are in position to mount a full-scale attack at the plains below. Does that answer you?”
“Only partially,” said Donal. “I—”
“Give me patience!” snapped the Freilander. “I have five campaigns to my credit, Force-Leader. I’d hardly stick my own neck in a noose. But I’ll be taking over White’s Force and leaving him in command back here in the Area. You, I and Skuak will make the assay. Now, are you satisfied?”
There was, of course, no reply to be made to that. Donal bowed his head in submission and the meeting
broke up. Walking back to his Force area, however, alongside Skuak, Donal remained unreconstructed enough to put an extra question to the Cassidan.
“Do you think I’m starting at shadows?” asked Donal.
“Huh!” grunted Skuak. “It’s his responsibility. He ought to know what he’s doing.” And, on that note, they parted; each to marshal his own men.
Back in his own Force area, Donal found that his Groupmen had already assembled his command. They stood under arms, drawn up in three hues of fifty men each, with a senior and junior Groupman at the head of each line. The ranking senior Groupman, a tall, thin Cetan veteran named Morphy, accompanied him as he made his rounds of the ranks, inspecting the men.
They were a good unit, Donal thought, as he paced down between the rows. Well-trained men, battle-seasoned, although in no sense elite troops, since they had been picked at random by the Elders of the First Dissident Church—William having stipulated only his choice of officers for the demonstration Battle Unit. Each man carried a handgun and knife in addition to his regular armament; but they were infantry, spring-rifle men. Weapon for weapon, any thug in the back alley of a large city had more, and more modern firepower; but the trick with modern warfare was not to outgun the enemy, but carry weapons he could not gimmick. Chemical and radiation armament was too easily put out of action from a distance. Therefore, the spring-rifle with its five thousand-sliver magazine and its tiny, compact, non-metallic mechanism which could put a sliver in a man-sized target at a thousand meters time after time with unvarying accuracy.
Yet, thought Donal, pacing between the silent men in the faint darkness of pre-dawn, even the spring-rifle would be gimmickable one of these days. Eventually, the infantryman would be back to the knife and short sword. And the emphasis would weigh yet again more heavily on the skill of the individual soldier. For sooner or later, no matter what fantastic long-range weapons you mounted, the ground itself had to be taken—and for that there had never been anything but the man in the ranks.
Donal finished his inspection and went back to stand in front of them.
“Rest, men,” he said. “But hold your ranks. All Groupmen over here with me.”
He walked off out of earshot of the men in ranks and the Groupmen followed him. They squatted in a circle and he passed on to them the orders of the Staff he had just received from Hugh, handing out maps to each of them.
“Any questions?” he asked, as Hugh had asked his Force-Leaders.
There were none. They waited for him to go on. He, in turn looked slowly around the circle, assessing these men on whom his command would depend.
He had had a chance to get to know them in the three weeks previous to this early morning. The six who faced him represented, in miniature, the varying reactions his appointment as Force-Leader had produced in the Force as a whole. Of the hundred and fifty men under him, a few were doubtful of him because of his youth and lack of battle experience. A larger number were unequivocably glad to have him over them because of the Dorsai reputation. A few, a very few, were of that class of men who bristle automatically, as man to man, whenever they find themselves in contact with another individual who is touted as better than they. The instinctive giant-killers. Of this type was the Senior Groupman of the Third Group, an ex-Coby miner named Lee. Even squatting now in this circle, on the brink of action, he met Donal’s eye with a faint air of challenge, his brush of dark hair stiffly upright in the gloom, his bony jaw set. Such men were troublemakers unless they had responsibility to hold them down. Donal revised his original intention to travel, himself, with the Third Group.
“We’ll split up into patrol-sized units of twenty-five men each,” he said. “There’ll be a Senior or Junior Groupman to each unit. You’ll move separately as units, and if you encounter an enemy patrol, you’ll fight as a unit. I don’t want any unit going to the rescue of another. Is that clear?”
They nodded. It was clear.
“Morphy,” said Donal, turning to the thin Senior Groupman. “I want you to go with the Junior unit of Lee’s Group, which will have the rearguard position. Lee will take his own half-group directly in front of you. Chassen”—he looked at the Senior Groupman of the Second Group—”you and Zolta will take positions third and fourth from the rear. I want you personally in fourth position. Suki, as Junior of the First Group, you’ll be ahead of Chassen and right behind me. I’ll take the upper half of the First Group in advance position.”
“Force,” said Lee. “How about communications?”
“Hand-signal. Voice. And that’s all. And I don’t want any of you closing up to make communication easier. Twenty-meter minimum interval between units.” Donal looked around the circle again. “Our job here is to penetrate to the little town as quickly and quietly as we can. Fight only if you’re forced into it; and break away as quickly as you can.”
“The word is it’s supposed to be a Sunday walk,” commented Lee.
“I don’t operate by back-camp rumor,” said Donal flatly, his eyes seeking out the ex-miner. “We’ll take all precautions. You Groupmen will be responsible for seeing that your men are fully equipped with everything, including medication.”
Lee yawned. It was not a gesture of insolence—not quite.
“All right,” said Donal. “Back to your Groups.”
The meeting broke up.
A few minutes later the almost inaudible peep of a whistle was carried from Force to Force; and they began to move out. Dawn was not yet in the sky, but the low overcast above the treetops was beginning to tighten at their backs.
The first twelve hundred meters through the woods, though they covered it cautiously enough, turned out to be just what Lee had called it—a Sunday walk. It was when Donal, in the lead with the first half-Group, came out on the edge of the river that things began to tighten up.
“Scouts out!” he said. Two of the men from the Group sloshed into the smoothly flowing water, and, rifles held high, waded across its gray expanse to the far side. The glint of their rifles, waved in a circle, signaled the all clear and Donal led the rest of the men into the water and across.
Arrived on the far side, he threw out scouts in three directions—ahead, and along the bank each way—and waited until Suki and his men appeared on the far side of the river. Then, his scouts having returned with no sight of the enemy, Donal spread his men out in light skirmish order and went forward.
The day was growing rapidly. They proceeded by fifty meter jumps, sending the scouts out ahead, then moving the rest of the men up when the signal came back that the ground was clear ahead. Jump succeeded jump and there was no contact with the enemy. A little over an hour later, with the large orange disk of E. Eridani standing clear of the horizon, Donal looked out through a screen of bushes at a small, battle-torn village that was silent as the grave.
Forty minutes later, the three Forces of the Third Command, Battle Unit 176 were united and dug in about the small town of Faith Will Succour. They had uncovered no local inhabitants.
They had had no encounter with the enemy.
Force-Leader II
The name of Force-Leader Graeme was mud.
The Third Command, or at least that portion of it that was dug in around the village, made no great attempt to hide the fact from him. If he had shown at all that he was sensitive to their opinion of him, they would have made even less. But there was something about his complete indifference to their attitude that put a check to their obvious contempt. Nevertheless, the hundred and fifty men that had been forced by him to make their approach on the village under full equipment and maximum security effort, and the three hundred other men who had made a much more casual and easy approach, and were congratulating themselves on being out from under such an officer, agreed in an opinion of Donal that had reached its nadir! There is only one thing that veterans hate worse than being made to sweat unnecessarily in garrison; and that is being made to sweat unnecessarily in the field. The word had gone out that the day’s work was to be a Sunday
walk. And it had been a Sunday walk, except for those serving under a green young Dorsai officer, name of Graeme. The men were not happy.
Along about twilight, as the sunset was fading through the bushy-limbed trees that were the local mutant variform of the Earthly conifer that had been imported when this planet was terraformed, a runner came from Hugh at Command HQ, just outside the enemy end of the village. He found Donal seated astride a fallen log, studying a map of the local area.
“Signal from Battles,” said the runner, squatting beside the log.
“Stand up,” said Donal, quietly. The runner stood. “Now, what’s the signal?”
“Second and Third Commands won’t be moving up until tomorrow morning,” said the runner, sulkily.
“Signal acknowledged,” said Donal, waving him off. The runner turned and hurried away with another instance of the new officer’s wax-and-braid to relate to the other enlisted men back at HQ.
Left to himself, Donal continued to study the map as long as the light lasted. When it was completely gone, he put the map away, produced a small black whistle from his pocket and peeped for his ranking Senior Groupman.
A moment later a thin body loomed up against the faintly discernible sky beyond the treetops.
“Morphy, sir. Reporting,” came a voice of the Senior Groupman.
“Yes—” said Donal. “Sentries all posted, Groupman?”
“Yes, sir.” The quality of Morphy’s tone was completely without inflection.
“Good. I want them alert at all times. Now, Morphy—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Who do we have in the Force that has a good sense of smell?”
“Smell, sir?”
Donal merely waited.
“Well, sir,” said Morphy, finally and slowly. “There’s Lee, he practically grew up in the mines, where you have to have a good sense of smell. That’s the mines on Coby, Force-Leader.”
“I assumed those were the mines you meant,” said Donal, dryly. “Get Lee over here, will you?”