"The Forlorn Hope" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

Chapter Three

The pounding on the door was audible over the gnat-swarm keen of the computer terminal. Private Quade wore a taut expression as he returned to Waldstejn from the front lobby. "I shouted through the door like you say," the Private explained. "He won't go away. You let me-" Quade drew a trembling breath- "and I'll get him to leave."

"No, wait here," the Lieutenant said. His desk beside the terminal was littered with computer tape and hand-written notes. It was a rush job and he was a long way from finishing it. Quade's condition, however, indicated that Waldstejn had better take care of the problem fast. In many ways, Jirik Quade was an ideal subordinate. He was dogged, and he would accomplish without complaint any task within his capacity. Quade seemed honest; he was as strong as men half again his size; and his utter loyalty to Waldstejn, the first commanding officer who had treated him like a human being, was embarrassing.

Still, you do not ignore your guard dog when it starts to growl at children; and Waldstejn did not intend to ignore Private Quade when he started to shake with frustration and rage. The Major could wait for his figures.

The Supply Officer did not bother to close his tunic front, but he did snatch up the equipment belt which he had looped over a drawer pull. He carried it in his left hand. The weight of the radio and holstered pistol made it swing as he strode.

There was a rustle from the other end of the warehouse. Private Hodicky was scrambling out of his sleeping quarters at the back. This was Quade's night for late duty, but Hodicky could hear the knocking and shouts; and he could extrapolate an outcome as well as his Lieutenant could. Waldstejn decided to handle the problem himself anyway. His rank and his assurance that he was acting on instructions of the battalion commander might quiet someone determined to get supplies on the orders of some lower officer.

Besides, it would give Waldstejn a chance to unload some of the frustration which he owed properly to the Major's request.

The knocking, paced but determined, continued as the Lieutenant strode through the lobby. When the call from Headquarters came through, Waldstejn had ordered Quade to letter a sign for the front door: CLOSED BY ORDER OF BATTALION COMMANDER. NO REQUESTS ACCEPTED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Now as Waldstejn threw open the door he shouted, "What's the matter with you? Can't you read the bloody sign?" Then he blinked. Switching to English and a subdued tone, he said, "Oh, ah, Vladimir. Look, I've got another fifteen, thirty minutes work for my CO and there's nobody else here who can run the computer. I really can't even talk to you now."

"Ah, sir," said Private Hodicky from behind the counter. "I can handle the computer, if that's what you want. We had the same unit in my lyceum."

The little man had not intended to admit his competence with the system. As short-handed as the Supply Section was, he would probably wind up with his previous duties as well as work on the computer. For another thing, it was the lyceum computer which had gotten him sent down with six months active and a forced enlistment for the duration of the war. Hodicky had broken into the school office at night and used its terminal to transfer funds to his own bank account. The transaction had been flawless from a technical viewpoint; but the branch manager had known perfectly well that a seventeen year old slum kid should not have been able to withdraw thirty thousand crowns. Using common sense instead of what the terminal told him, the manager had called the police.

But Hodicky had not expected to be serving under an officer like Lieutenant Waldstejn, either…

"I don't mind waiting," said Vladimir Ortschugin. He massaged the heel of the hand with which he had been pounding. "But I need to talk to you as soon as you're free, Albrecht."

"Sure," the Lieutenant said, "just a second." He had tossed a few glasses with the spaceman in company with the two mercenary officers. He could not have remembered Ortschugin's last name for a free trip to Elysion III, however. Switching back to Czech, Waldstejn exclaimed, "You can really work that bitch, Hodicky?" The Private nodded. "Well, you're one up on me," Waldstejn continued. "They're in the middle of a staff meeting and somebody decided they had to know everything about arms, ammunition, and ration stocks. Not justour stores, mind, but unit stocks as well. That means we've got to run platoon and section accounts, issued and expended, for the whole six months to get the bottom line. You can really handle that?"

"Yes, sir," the little man said. He turned and trotted back toward Waldstejn's alcove.

"That's a silver lining I didn't expect," the tall officer muttered in English. He led Ortschugin into the counter area where therewere a pair of tube-frame chairs. They left the outer door open. After struggling with the accounts for two hours, it would be relaxing to handle the sort of oddball supply requests that might come up at this time of night.

"I apologize," Ortschugin said. "I know you must be busy, but-" he took a leather-covered flask out of his breast pocket and uncapped it"we know now what we must have, and it is crucial that we learn as soon as possible who we must see to get it." He handed the flask to Waldstejn, shifting his cud of tobacco to his right cheek in preparation for the liquor's return. "We must have a truck power receptor so that we can fly to Praha on broadcast power."

Waldstejn choked on his sip of what seemed to be industrial-strength ethanol. "What?" he said through his coughing. It was not that the request was wholly impossible, but it certainly had not been anything the local man had expected.

The Spacer drank deeply from his own flask and belched. He stared gloomily upward before he resumed speaking. Several of the brighter stars were tremblingly visible through the plastic sheets. "Our powerplant is gone, kaput," the bearded man said at last. "Replacement and patching the hull, those are dockyard jobs. Wecan fly, using the APU to drive the landing thrusters-but minutes, you see, ten, twenty at most before the little bottle ruptures also under load and we make fireworks as pretty as those this morning, yes?" He swigged again, then remembered and offered the flask to Waldstejn-who waved it away. "So we are still sitting when your Republicans take over, yes?" Ortschugin concluded with a wave of his hand.

The Swobodan's flat certainty that the battalion would be overrun chilled Waldstejn. "That may be, I suppose," the local officer said carefully, "but- well, from what you said that night with Fasolini, that you just shuttled cargo, you didn't mess with politics… I wouldn't think it would make much difference to you. The Rubes don't have much time for mercenaries, I'm told, but like you say, you just drive a truck."

Ortschugin did not at first answer. He began craning his neck, trying to look all around him without getting up from his chair. Waldstejn, guessing the ostensible reason for the other's pause, hooked a wastebasket from under the counter. The spaceman spat into it.

The delay had permitted Ortschugin to consider the blunt question at length. He found he had no better response to it than the truth. "You are right, of course. The problem is not-" he gestured with both hands and grimaced- "patriotism, it is mechanics. We can use the broadcast power line to fly to a dockyard-ifwe have a tuned receiver, andif the dockyard is in Praha. Budweis has an adequate dock, surely; but there is no pylon system to Budweis. We must leave now, and for Praha, if theKatynForest is not to lie here until she rusts away… and ourselves, perhaps, with her. I-"

The Swobodan paused again. He made no effort this time to hide his embarrassment at how to proceed. At last he blurted, "We-Pyaneta Lines- can pay you. To save the vessel, they will pay well, only name it. But there are troops guarding the trucks still in camp, and the officer in charge will not deal with me. You are our last hope."

Waldstejn stood and walked idly to the terminal on the counter. He cut it on. "Diedrichson won't deal with you?" he remarked. "Wonder what got into him. It wasn'thonesty, that I'm sure of." He began tapping in a request, using one finger and wondering how Hodicky was doing on the other terminal. "Diedrichson and the Major are close asthat," the Supply Officer concluded, crossing his left index and middle fingers and holding them up. A massive silver ring winked on the middle finger. A crucifix was cast onto the top in place of a stone setting.

The local officer turned again to his visitor. "So," he said in a tone as precise as a headmaster's, "because you couldn't bribe the fellow in charge of the vehicles themselves, you decided to bribe the Supply Officer. Right? Figured I'd be an easier mark than Diedrichson because we'd had a few drinks together? Thatis right, isn't it, Lieutenant… you know, I've forgotten your last name?"

Ortschugin set the flask down with a thump on a shelf beside him. He did not meet Waldstejn's eyes. "Albrecht," he said quietly, "I came to you because I know of nowhere else to go. I am no longer First Officer-" he raised his bearded face- "I am Captain. Her Excellency died in the attack."

The spaceman stood and his voice took on a fierce resonance. "The vessel, the four crewmen who remain, they aremy responsibility. If I must steal to save them, if I must bribe-Iwill save them." He slammed his broad, pale hand down on the counter to punctuate his statement.

Lieutenant Waldstejn's icy distaste melted. He reached out and laid his hand on the back of the spaceman's, squeezing it. "Hell, I'm sorry, Vladimir," he said. "I'm just pissed because you're getting out of this hole and I probably won't." He drew a deep breath. "There's an antenna in stock; we're set up for some transport maintenance here, you were right. You can have it." Then, "Got anything left in your flask?"

Ortschugin bellowed with delight. He embraced the slighter man. "But of course you can come out with us," he said. "This base, this Smiricky Complex-in days it will be in Republican hands. Who will know?"

The tall Supply Officer snorted bitterly. "I don't think you give the Morale Section all the credit it deserves," he said. "They've saved the Rubes a lot of trouble by shooting people they decide are deserters."

"You are afraid of that?" the spaceman exclaimed. He stepped back and handed Waldstejn the liquor. "No problem. We'll hide you aboard and take you off-planet when we're repaired."

Waldstejn drank, choked, and gave Ortschugin a wry smile. When he could speak again, he said, "Seems to be my night for making speeches. Look, Vladimir, I'm no hero… but I took this job, and I guess I'll stick with everybody else." He shook his head. "Hell, I don't know…," he added, but he did not make his subject clear.

Business-like again, the Lieutenant continued, "I'm doing this for one simple reason, my friend. I want your cargo to be shipped from Praha, not Budweis. And I'm not giving you anantenna, I don't have any authority to alienate government property."

Ortschugin frowned, but he waited for the rest of the explanation.

"Ido have authority," the Supply Officer went on with a grin, "to hire transport in an emergency. I think we can justify the emergency-" he waved at what was left of the roof above them- "and so I'm hiring you to transport one power-beam antenna, surplus to local needs, back to Central Stores in Praha. Now, get your crew here with a wagon. I'd as soon it happened while it's still dark and the folks who might ask questions are in Headquarters."

Ortschugin whooped again. He went out the door, bawling snatches of a song which sounded bawdy even in a language Waldstejn could not guess at.

Someone cleared his throat at the inner doorway. The Lieutenant looked up. Both his subordinates stood there. Hodicky held a long coil of twenty-centimeter computer tape. "Oh," Albrecht Waldstejn said. "He'll be back-the crew of the freighter- to pick up the truck power antenna in a few minutes. Here, I'll okay it right now." He found a request form and began to fill it out, checking the unit number from the terminal display.

"We'll take care of it, sir," Hodicky said. "I've got the figures-" He waved the tape so that it rustled. "Want me to feed it to Headquarters?"

Waldstejn gave the request to Quade and took the tape. "Four bottles, Private," he said after a glance at the print-out."And a morning off if I can swing it." He looked up. "No, I'll carry it over as hard copy. They didn't splice the land-lines cut by the bombs yet, just ran commo wire point to point. Their terminal isn't connected-" the young officer glanced around to see that no one outside was listening- "not that anybody there could be trusted to push the right button for a print-out anyway. Hold the fort, boys," he added as he walked out of the warehouse.

Waldstejn sobered as he walked toward the concrete Headquarters building. Dimly on the eastern horizon were the flickers and rumbling of others trying to hold forts in grimtruth.

And failing.

"Ouch, you butcher!" cried Churchie Dwyer. "Did you learn to use that in a stockyard?"

"You'd bitch if they hanged you with a new rope," Bertinelli replied calmly. Bertinelli was a Corpsman. He carried a gun like everybody else, but he ranked with the sergeants for pay division. He was secure both in the light touch he knew he had and in the fact that nobody else in the Company could handle the medical tasks as well. "It's just like I told you, I learned in a morgue on Banares, putting accident victims back in shape for open cremation. Now, lie back-" he gestured with the debriding glove with which he was clean ing Dwyer's burns- "or I don't answer for what it's going to feel like."

"They sure are doing a lot of talking," said Del Hoybrin. Bertinelli had recleaned the big man's sores first. NowDel knelt with his triceps on the lip of the bunker, staring up at the transponder. The communications gear hung from a balloon tethered a hundred meters over the 522nd's radio shack. Through the night visor of his helmet, the minuscule heating of the transponder's circuits as it broadcast was a yellow glow. Satellite communications had died in showers of space junk at the beginning of the war, but there were other ways to boost tight-beam communications over useful distances.

"Well, you might at least give me something for the pain," Churchie grumbled. He lowered himself again onto the cot that doubled as an operating table.

"I'mgoing to give you something," Bertinelli said. "I'm going to give you a square meter less skin if you don't shut up and lie still." He touched the deep burn over Dwyer's right shoulder blade. The mesh of sensors and tiny hooks in the glove's pad began to purr. Under the control of a microprocessor in the wristlet, the glove was lifting off dead tissue to prepare the area for antiseptic and a covering of spray skin. In the same mild voice, the Corpsman added, "I can see the bombs starting fires and blowing the trash into your shelter. But I'mdamned if I see why you thought you had to lie in it. And I'd like to know what you found to bathe in that had such a pong, too."

"Do you suppose we'll get paid again before we move, Churchie?"Del asked. "I'd like to-for the girls again, you know. Usually there aren't girls where we go." There was a troupe of prostitutes at Smiricky #4, intended for the contract miners but available to the garrison as well.

"Think we'll be pulling back soon, then?" Bertinelli asked with just a hint of tension. He lifted the glove and began to spray the debrided area.

"Sometimes,"Del said in a neutral voice. "They're doing a lot of talking."

Churchie snorted. He continued to lie flat with his eyes closed. "Happen to notice which direction the transponder dish was pointed, baby?" he asked.

Delturned to his companions. The featureless visor was a stage beyond even the big man's usual moon-faced innocence. "East, Churchie," he said.

"Right, my dear," Churchie agreed. "And does that tell you anything?"

The Corpsman had stiffened, but after a moment he went on with his work in silence.

"No, Churchie," saidDel.

"Right again, sweetheart," Churchie bantered with his eyes closed. "Well, it might mean that they're talking to the Federal commander at the Front, that's true… but they haven't any business doing that, we're not under Second Army control, we're handled by Central from Praha… And Praha's west of here, unless they moved it since last night. So, and seeing how high they lifted that balloon before they started to jaw… I'd put pretty good money that our local friends have opened negotiations with the other side."

Bertinelli began to curse under his breath. He moved the glove to his patient's left shoulder.

Delresumed his observation of the transponder balloon. "What does that mean, Churchie?" he asked.

His friend snorted again. All the humor was gone from his voice as hereplied, "Wish to hell I knew, darling. Wish to hell. What I'm afraid it means is that Fasolini's Company is deep in shit."

The only light in theOperationsCenter was the green glow of the phosphor screen. It emphasized the wrinkled anger of Colonel Fasolini's face as he said, "Gibberish! Goddamgibberish!"

Sookie Foyle snapped her fingers in frustration. "Look, Colonel," she said, "I'm a Communicator, not a magician. You get me a copy of the code pad the indigs are using, and I'll let you know what they've got to say. Otherwise it's garbage-" she waved at the groups of meaningless letters which continued to crawl across the screen-"and it's going to stay garbage."

The three sergeants-Mboko, Hummel, and Jensen-stirred restively in the darkness. They were the tacticians of the Company, but the present situation was too amorphous for their skills to be of any use. Lieutenant ben Mehdi bent forward and said, "We don't have to read the transmissions to know what they're saying, do we, Guido? The only thing we don't know is the exact terms the Major's holding out for-and that doesn't matter to us, because we ought to be making terms with the Republicans for ourselves, right now, before it all hits the fan. Otherwise, we wind up taking whatever we're offered."

There was silence again in the OC. The Communicator looked at Fasolini. The skin at the corners of her eyes was tracked with sudden crow's feet. She did not speak.

"If it's the contract you're worried about," ben Mehdi went on, "theforce majeure provision clearly-"

"Shut up!"the Colonel snapped. His subordinates froze. "Sorry, Hussein," Fasolini went on in a tired voice. He rubbed his face with his palms. "You see, I tried that before I called you in, bounced a signal to the Rube CinC, Yorck, on his internal push." The stocky man managed a smile and squeezed Foyle's shoulder. The Communicator beamed.

"They won't deal," Fasolini went on, "not on any terms we can take. They don't like meres, they don't use them themselves… and they like us even less than most."

"They wouldn't deal onany terms?" ben Mehdi pressed with a frown.

Colonel Fasolini looked up. After a moment, he said, "No terms we can take. They're real unhappy about their starship this morning." The only sound in the OC was the sigh of the fan in the communications terminal. "They know it was us that did it. They want the whole gun crew-" Fasolini neither raised his voice nor looked at Sergeant Jensen- "and every tenth man at random from the rest of the Company. The others they'll give passage off-planet without guns or equipment." He shrugged. "I told Yorck if he showed himself within a klick of the compound, I'd personally blow him a new asshole."

"O-kay," said Sergeant Hummel. She appeared to be looking at nothing in particular, certainly not the Sergeant-Gunner beside her. "Let's don't wait around. Two trucks'll hold the personnel, the equipment we ditch and put in a claim for it at Praha."

"Lichtenstein's got a guard on the trucks," objected Sergeant Mboko. The sheen of his smooth, black face stood out above the absorptive cloth of his uniform.

"So he's got a bloody guard!" Hummel snapped. "They're the least of our problems. We grease themquiet, load the trucks, andbam! we're out of the compound and heading west before the indigs know what hit them. They can't shut off the power, because the pylons are energized from both ends of the line."

"Theguards may not be a problem," retorted Sergeant Mboko, "but the bunkers on the perimeter are. There's a straight line of sight right down the pylons for what-three kilometers? Every bunker's got anti-tank rockets. Do you really think even the indigs are going to miss straight no-deflection shots with wire-guided missiles?"

Sergeant Jensen cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since Fasolini had dropped his bombshell. "It was not the crew who shot down their ship, Colonel," said the big blond. "It was me alone. Perhaps if you offer me, General Yorck will- will be…" Jensen's voice caught.

"Shut the hell up, Roland," Lieutenantben Mehdi muttered.

"Well, all this may be a lot of fuss over nothing," said Colonel Fasolini. "It's just a matter of dealing with Lichtenstein when he gets the bottom line himself. And Lichtenstein willdeal, no trouble there. I just thought you all had better know how the land lies in case we need to move fast."

The Colonel stood up. He was by a decade the oldest person in the shelter. Just now, as he shrugged his crossbelts out of the creases their weight drew over his collar bones, he felt his age. "Wish to all the saints that we knew how thereal land lies," he said bleakly. "Waldstejn, their Supply Officer, he was complaining the other day that one of his convoys had managed to route itself to some old working thirty klicks from here. They had one truck go off when they were turning around and they just left it there. Now, if we could findthat and get it on track again… But we've got jack-shit for a bearing, and I don't see wandering around Cecach till the Rubes find time to round us up and shoot us. I guess we wait."

"Colonel," said Communicator Foyle. She pointed toward the terminal. "Distant input-must be Yorck."

Garbled characters were crawling across the bottom of the screen again, leaving phosphor ghosts of themselves as each line shifted up to make room for the next.

"Better get to my section," Sergeant Hummel said. She picked up her weapon, carrying it at the balance instead of slinging it.

"Yeah," said Colonel Fasolini. "Maybe we don't wait too long."

The doors and curtains of the Headquarters building were closed, but the bombing had stripped the black-out shutters from one of the front windows. Waldstejn had not bothered to pick up night goggles when he left the warehouse. Enough light still shone through the curtains within to show him the squad on guard. There were two non-coms present, Sergeants Breisach and Ondru, though presumably only one of them had the duty officially. They had approached him with an offer shortly after he took over as Supply Officer. Waldstejn was not sure whether the pair of themwere genuinely dim-witted, or, more likely, that they were so crooked that they made the rest of the 522nd look good. Under that assumption, the Sergeants thought that Waldstejn had cleaned house on his subordinates in order to have all the graft for himself.

Albrecht Waldstejn had disabused them in a tirade which he believed had impressed even that pair.

At the moment, Sergeant Ondru was having a loud argument with one of the Signals staff. Rather, Ondru and his men were grinning as a signalman shouted and waved the envelope he carried. "Sorry," the non-com said, "I've got orders not to pass anybody. Major wouldn't like it. Now, maybe if you'd giveme this important message you're so hot to deliver, I could decide if it's really important enough to disturb the brass."

"Why don't you start doing your job, Ondru," the tall officer said as he joined the group, "and stop poking your nose into things that are none of your business."

The infantry squad stiffened. One man even stood up. Sullenly, Sergeant Ondru said, "I've got my orders."

"I've got my orders, sir!" Waldstejn snapped back.

"I've got my orders sir," the non-com parroted. He stepped aside. Either he had been told to pass the Supply Officer, or he had decided not to make an issue of it. At best, there were too many ways that the young officer could make life unpleasant for the soldiers who drew their supplies from him. At worst-well, nobody really thought that Waldstejn would be trying to crash a staff meeting to which he had not been summoned.

The signalman plucked at Lieutenant Waldstejn's sleeve. The officer recognized him by sight, but the only name he could think of was 'Porky', the pudgy man's nickname. "Sir," the signalman pleaded, prodding Waldstejn with the envelope he carried, "the land-line's out, somebody must've tripped over it, and I'vegot to get this message to Major Lichtenstein. Can…?"

It did not sound like something a Supply Officer should be getting involved with. Waldstejn did not touch the envelope. "Put it on the air, then," he suggested. "Somebody in there surely has a working receiver."

Porky nodded like a man trying to duck his head out of a noose. "Lieutenant," he said, "they do, but the meres have them too. I don'tdare put this on the air in clear." He swallowed. Despite the rapt silence of the squad on guard, he added, "It's from the… it's from east of here."

Waldstejn took the envelope in the hand that held his own print-out. "All right," he said, "I'll deliver it to the Major."

His face was still as he opened the door into the building. Maybe itwas something that a Supply Officer got involved in. At least, if the Supply Officer had friends among a group of mercenaries that might be set for a long fall.

"Look," Captain Tetour said abruptly, "what if they won't take any offer? We'd be better off fighting than surrendering. You know the stories that all Federal officers are executed in the field."

Brionca, the Operations Officer, sneezed out her snuff and slapped the table for emphasis. "We've been through that, dammit, we can't fight, the armored regiment they'll send will plow us under. What we need to think about is how we'll sweeten the pot so they'vegot to deal."

"Well, I've been thinking some more about that," said Captain Strojnowski. He watched the point of his stylus click on the table instead of looking around at the others. Strojnowski's Third Company was perhaps closer to being a military unit than was Tetour's First, and the Captain himself had shown promise in line service before discrepancies had shown up in his pay vouchers. "We've been talking as if they'll just swarm down the valley with tanks and troop carriers. But they won't risk that against Fasolini's men; and besides, we've got the two laser cannon-"

"Which gave us so much air defense," Brionca thundered, "that they weren't even switchedon until after the ship had blown up. Want to betyour life it'll be any better when it's tanks ripping us apart?"

"Now wait a goddam minute," said Stoessel, the young lieutenant in charge of the lasers. He had been included in the council of war even though he was not a member of the 522nd Garrison Battalion. The guns were detached from Central to Smiricky #4, but their chain of command still ran directly to Praha. "You guys give me a target," the lieutenant continued in a high voice, "and I'll hit it. But there's no acquisition system in the universe that'll hit a starship that's in normal space only a-" He broke off, suddenly aware of the disdain on all the faces watching him. "Not that Iwant to engage tanks," he concluded lamely. "I mean, they mount lasers too, and they're armored.

…"

"Then don't worry about it until somebody tells you to," snapped Captain Khlesl, the Intelligence officer who cradled a handset between his shoulder and ear. He turned to the Battalion Commander on the chair beside him. "Major," he said, tapping the handset without taking it away from his ear, "I think the damned thing's broken again. Maybe we'd better send one of the guards over to Signals and see-"

Someone knocked on the door to the outer office. An officer swore. Major Lichtenstein himself began to rise from his seat with an expression of fury. His face smoothed into mere sourness when a voice, muffled by the door panel, announced, "Sir, Lieutenant Waldstejn with the figures you requested. Also a message from the Signals Sectionthey say the line's gone down again."

Captain Brionca was closest to the door. She pulled it open without any need to be asked. Smoke and warm air swirled from the meeting room. The draft from the outer office felt cooler because that within had been heated for hours by eight bodies. "Give me that," she said, reaching for the papers the Supply Officer held. Other staff officers were getting up.

"Sit down, Brionca," rumbled Major Lichtenstein. "Bring them here, Waldstejn."

The Lieutenant stepped briskly to the head of the table and attempted to salute his commanding officer. Lichtenstein ignored that and snatched the sheaf of papers from the other's hand. "Not this crap," he muttered as he slid aside the supply print-outs. His staff was tense. "Here we are, Marylove us," the Major went on in a caressing voice. He ripped open the envelope from Signals.

Major Wolfgang Lichtenstein was much of an age and build with Colonel Fasolini, his mercenary counterpart. Liquor had broken the veins of his face and brought him to the command of the 522nd. He had been drinking this night as well, but it was tension and not alcohol which had kept the Major in a state of nearly comatose silence during most of the staff meeting. His fingers trembled. He had to lay the sheet of message paper on the table to unfold it after he had teased it from the envelope.

"ForGod's sake, what is it?" blurted the artillery lieutenant.

"Mary and the blessed saints!" the Major wheezed. He slumped back in his chair as if relief had severed his spine. "They've made an offer we can live with. Mary, Mother of God!"

The Intelligence Officer snatched up the document before Captain Brionca could reach it from the other side. "Why," he said, "they'll accept the battalion as a unit and integrate it into their own forces! We've won! Officers may be reassigned, but no prison or executions!"

"Don't know that I want to be Rube cannon fodder either," someone muttered. He was answered at once by a waspish, "Have you looked at the choice?"

"But what's the catch?" Captain Tetour objected. "They know they've got our balls in a vise!"

"No catch," insisted Captain Khlesl, holding up the message form." 'No quarrel with fellow citizens of Cecach, only with the government of idolators in Praha.'" He slapped the paper down. "All we have to do is to turn over the Complex unharmed. And to disarm the mercenaries and turn them over too."

There was abrupt silence around the table. "What do youmean, no catch?" Strojnowski said sourly. "Fasolini may have ideas of his own about turning in his guns."

"Wait a minute," someone said in amazement. When the others turned, they saw the speaker was Albrecht Waldstejn. The Supply Officer had not left the room. "Why are we concerned about the terms the Rubes might offer? There's twenty-three ore haulers empty in the compound right now. They'll hold all the troops and most of the civilians- and if we move fast, we can be clear before they cut the pylon line."

"Get him the hell out of here," Captain Tetour said.

Lieutenant Dyk commanded the Second Company since the regular CO had been invalided out with bull-head clap. Dyk had not spoken during the meeting proper. Now, faced with a chance to score off Waldstejn, he said, "Because we've got orders from Praha to hold to the last man! If we retreat, Morale Section will have every one of us shot. Every officer for sure."

"Frantisak's right, though," Brionca said. "We can't just waltz over to the meres and say, 'AH right hand over-' "

"Goddamn it!" Waldstejn shouted. His hands were clenched. "Ifwe can't go, we can putthem on a truck before we surrender. That'smurder!"

"You damned fool!" Dyk shouted back. "Those foreigners are the only thing between you and me and a firing squad!"

"Another word from him," said the Major as he lurched to his feet, "and they won't have to shoot him." A flush and the shadows of the overhead i light hid the patterning of Lichtenstein's face. His right hand was fumbling at the flap of his pistol holster. The motion seemed almost undirected and the fingers never did touch the gun butt. "You're out of uniform, Lieutenant," he muttered. His hand fell away from the holster. Taking a deep breath, the Major shouted, "Guard! Guard!"

Lieutenant Stoessel sprang up to fetch someone, but his zeal was unnecessary. Sergeant Ondru rushed into the outer office with his slung rifle clattering on the door jamb. More formally, the non-com paced the three steps to the inner doorway and saluted. "Sir?" he said. Members of his squad were peering through the open doors.

"Have three men take Waldstejn here to his quarters," the battalion commander said, gesturing with a heavy thumb. "Tie him to a goddam chair and make sure he stays in it."

The Supply officer turned and slammed a fist into the wall. He did not speak.

"If you're real lucky, Lieutenant," Lichtenstein snarled at the younger man's back, "I'll have you untied when all this is over."

Waldstejn walked past the Sergeant. He shrugged his arm away from the hand with which Ondru would have gripped his upper arm.

"He doesn't talk to anybody!" the Major shouted. Everyone else in the office was silent, watching. "He tries any crap, shoot him!"

Sergeant Ondru carefully closed the building's outer door behind him. "Breisach, you take over here for me," he told his startled companion. "Doubek, Janko, come on-we're going to escort our prisoner here to his quarters." He prodded Waldstejn between the shoulder blades with a stiff finger.

"And make sure your night goggles are on," the Sergeant added. "We just might get a chance to shoot an escapee." He prodded the Lieutenant again. This time he used the muzzle of his rifle.

"Halt!" cried the first of the guards to see him.

Colonel Fasolini flipped up the visor of his helmet. "It's me, Fasolini," he said inCzech. "Your CO just sent for me."

"You're alone, then?" Sergeant Breisach demanded. "We were told therewas two of you." The whole squad was on its feet and tense.

There was reason enough to be tense, the squat mercenary knew; but perhaps these local troops were reacting only to the morning's raid. "No, I'm alone," Fasolini said. "I make the decisions for the Company by myself." He entered the building at the Sergeant's assenting nod.

Fasolini stood out like a wrestler in a law office among the battalion staff. His helmet and the grim burden of his crossbelts made him utterly alien. Chairs scraped as Federal officers rose to greet the mercenary. "Glad you were so quick, Colonel," said Captain Khlesl. The little Intelligence Officer had been chosen to make the presentation. Now he reached across the table to shake the mercenary's hand. "Do sit down. A drink?"

The Colonel seated himself in the chair left vacant for him. Captain Strojnowski across the table would not meet his eyes. "No drink," the Colonel said."Maybe later."

"Right," agreed Khlesl, "right." He smiled, continuing to stand. "You see, Colonel," he continued, "the strategic situation has deteriorated very sharply in the past twenty hours. The-I'll call them the enemy-has broken through-"

"I know what the Rubes've done," Colonel Fasolini said bluntly. "At the moment, I'm more concerned about what you propose to do about it. I assure you, me and my boys'll agree to any reasonable suggestion."

Major Lichtenstein belched, then looked around as if he suspected someone else of making the sound. The room was silent.

"Well," Captain Khlesl said, "yes. The truth of it is, Colonel, that the plan we have decided to implement is surrender. We have some reason to believe that General Yorck will be quite generous in his terms… though of course we'll have to disarm all the troops in the compound first. We-we here are as good patriots as any on Cecach, but with Republican armored columns certain to encircle us within another day at most, well… There's no point in causing needless slaughter, is there?"

"After all," put in Captain Tetour, "the garrison was put here to keep the civilians in order and to keep the Rubes from making some sort of raid on it. Well, we've done that. But they've got tanks fromTerra!"

"Sure, I can see that," the mercenary agreed with a smile that slashed, then slumped back to stark reality. "Thing is, we've got a notion that General Yorck may not be quite so generous to mercs as he might be to… brothers and sisters of the Cecach soil. Eh?" He smiled again, a reflex and not a real plea. Captain Khlesl's grin had stiffened into a bright rictus.

"Now, I wouldn't be surprised if some of you people kept off-planet bank accounts," Fasolini continued. "Doesn't mean you're not patriotic, it's just common sense, spreading the risk." He gestured with both hands, palms down, fingers splayed. "The rest, you can get an account easy enough. Now, what I'm offering is a pre-accepted order on my agents on Valunta to transfer-" his eyes counted- "thirty-one thousand Valuntan pesos, that's over twelve thousand crowns, intoeach of your private accounts. All you have to do to get that money is to give us one truck and one hour. It's that simple."

Major Lichtenstein rolled forward in his chair. He planted both palms meatily on the table. "How about your life instead?" he said. His voice rode down the buzz of talk that had followed the mercenary's offer.

"Come on, now," the Major cajoled heavily, "that's a fair deal, isn't it? Man to man. We hide you, save your ass when the Rubes roll in-which you and me couldn't stop if we wanted to. You're clear. Your gear's gone, but that's gone anyhow. And Mary and the Saints, you won't have any trouble finding gallows bait to replace what you leave here, will you? Come on, man to man-what do you say?"

"Well, there's a whole lot of truth in that," Colonel Fasolini said. He leaned back in his chair, his tension apparently submerged by the new consideration. "A lot of truth," he repeated. "You know, Major, I think I can buy into that. I mean, businessman's got to know when to cut his losses, don't he?"

Fasolini stood up. "Tell you what, gents-" he nodded to Brionca"Captain, I'm going to myOperationsCenter now to pick up a few items. I'll be back in an hour and give my troops the order to disarm from here." He smiled. "Okay?"

"Take all the time you need, Colonel," Major Lichtenstein agreed. "Glad you're a reasonable man."

The mercenary closed the inner door behind him. Captain Brionca jumped to her feet. Lichtenstein's face was a mask of fury. He nodded to his Operations officer. "The bastard's lying," he said. "He's going to double-cross us."

Brionca caught the handle of the outside door just as it closed. She snatched it open, throwing her shadow forward on a fan of yellow light."Kill him!" she called to the guards.