The Mercenary

By

Jerry Pournelle

TO: Sergeant Herman Liech, Regular Army, U.S.A.; and Second Lieutenant Zeneke Asfaw, Kagnew Battalion, Imperial Guard of Ethiopia.

Acknowledgments

The battle in Chapter XIX is based in large part on the actual experience of Lieutenant Zeneke Asfaw, Ethiopian Imperial Guard, during the Korean War.

Author's Note

This novel is part of the series of "future histories" in which The Mote in God's Eye takes place, and it gives the early history of the events in that novel.

NEW WASHINGTON

Chronology

1969    Neil Armstrong sets foot on Earth's Moon.

1990    Series of treaties between U.S. and Soviet Union creates the CoDominium. Military research and development outlawed.

1996    French Foreign Legion forms the basic element of the CoDominium Armed Ser­vices.

2004    Alderson Drive perfected at Cal Tech.

2008    First Alderson Drive exploratory ships leave the Solar System.

2010-2100 CoDominium Intelligence Services engage in serious effort to suppress all research into technologies with military applications. They are aided by zero-growth organiza­tions. Most scientific research ceases.

2010    Inhabitable planets discovered. Commercial exploitation begins.

2020    First interstellar colonies are founded. The CoDominium Space Navy and Marines are created, absorbing the original CoDo­minium Armed Services.

2020    Great Exodus period of colonization be­gins. First colonists are dissidents, mal­contents, and voluntary adventurers.

2030    Sergei Lermontov is born in Moscow.

2040   Bureau of Relocation begins mass outsystem shipment of involuntary colonists.

2043    John Christian Falkenberg is born in Rome, Italy.

2060    Beginnings of nationalistic revival move­ments.

Prologue.

            An oily, acrid smell assaulted him, and the noise was incessant. Hundreds of thousands had passed through the spaceport. Their odor floated through the embarkation hall to blend with the yammer of the current victims crammed into the enclosure.

            The room was long and narrow. White painted concrete walls shut out bright Florida sunshine; but the walls were dingy with film and dirt that had been smeared about and not removed by the Bureau of Relocation's convict laborers. Cold luminescent panels glowed brightly above.

            The smell and sounds and glare blended with his own fears. He didn't belong here, but no one would listen.- No one wanted to. Anything he said was lost in the brutal totality of shouted orders, growls of surly trustee guards in their wire pen running the full length of the long hall; screaming children; the buzz of frightened humanity.

            They marched onward, toward the ship that would take them out of the solar system and toward an unknown fate. A few colonists blustered and argued. Some suppressed rage until it might be of use. Most were ashen-faced, shuffling forward without visible emotion, beyond fear.

            There were red lines painted on the concrete floor, and the colonists stayed carefully inside them. Even the chil­dren had learned to cooperate with BuRelock's guards. The colonists had a sameness about them; shabbily dressed in Welfare Issue clothing sprinkled with finery cast off by taxpayers and gleaned from Reclamation Stores or by begging or from a Welfare District Mission.

            John Christian Falkenberg knew he didn't look much like a typical colonist. He was a gangland youth, already at fifteen approaching six feet in height and thin because he hadn't yet filled out to his latest spurt of growth. No one would take him for a man, no matter how hard he tried to act like one.

            A forelock of sand-colored hair fell across his forehead and threatened to blind him, and he-automatically brushed it aside with a nervous gesture. His bearing and posture set him apart from the others, as did his almost comically serious expression. His clothing was also unusual: it was new, and fit well, and obviously not reclaimed. He wore a brocaded tunic of real wool and cotton, bright flared trousers, a new belt, and a tooled leather purse at his left hip. His clothes had cost more than his father could afford, but they did him little good here. Still he stood straight and tall, his lips set in defiance.

            John stalked forward to keep his place in the long line. His bag, regulation space duffel without tags, lay in front of him and he kicked it forward rather than stoop to pick it up. He thought it would look undignified to bend over, and his dignity was all he had left.

            Ahead of him was a family of five, three screaming children and their apathetic parents -- or, possibly, he thought, not parents. Citizen families were never very stable. BuRelock agents often farmed out their quotas, and their superiors were seldom concerned about the precise identities of those scooped up.

            The disorderly crowds moved inexorably toward the end of the room. Each line terminated at a wire cage con­taining a plastisteel desk. Each family group moved into a cage, the doors were closed, and their interviews began.

            The bored trustee placement officers hardly listened to their clients, and the colonists did not know what to say to them. Most knew nothing about Earth's outsystem worlds. A few had heard that Tanith was hot, Fulson’s World cold, and Sparta a hard place to live, but free. Some understood that Hadley had a good climate and was under the benign protection of American Express and the Colonial Office. For those sentenced to transportation with­out confinement, knowing that little could make a lot of difference to their futures; most didn't know and were shipped off to labor-hungry mining and agricultural worlds, or the hell of Tanith, where their lot would be hard labor, no matter what their sentences might read.

            The fifteen-year-old boy -- he liked to consider himself a man, but he knew many of his emotions were boyish no matter how hard he tried to control them -- had almost reached the interview cage. He felt despair.

            Once past the interview, he'd be packed into a BuRelock transportation ship. John turned again toward the gray-uniformed guard standing casually behind the large-mesh protective screen. “I keep trying to tell you, there's been a mistake! I shouldn’t -“

            "Shut up," the guard answered. He motioned threaten­ingly with the bell-shaped muzzle of his sonic stunner. "It's a mistake for everybody, right? Nobody belongs here. Tell the interview officer, sonny."

            John's lip curled, and he wanted to attack the guard, to make him listen. He fought to control the rising flush of hatred. "Damn you, I -“

            The guard raised the weapon. The Citizen family in front of John huddled together, shoving forward to get away from this mad kid who could get them all tingled. John subsided and sullenly shuffled forward in the line.

            Tri-V commentators said the stunners were painless, but John wasn't eager to have it tried on him. The Tri-V peo­ple said a lot of things. They said most colonists were volunteers, and they said transportees were treated with dignity by the Bureau of Relocation.

            No one believed them. No one believed anything the government told them. They did not believe in the friend­ship among nations that had created the CoDominium, or in the election figures, or --

            He reached the interview cage. The trustee wore the same uniform as the guards, but his gray coveralls had numbers stenciled across back and chest. There were wide gaps between the man's jaggedly pointed teeth, and the teeth showed yellow stains when he smiled. He smiled often, but there was no warmth in the expression.

            “Whatcha got for me?" the trustee asked. "Boy dressed like you can afford anything he wants. Where you want to go, boy?"

            "I'm not a colonist," John insisted. His anger rose. The trustee was no more than a prisoner himself -- what right had he to speak this way? "I demand to speak with a CoDominium officer."

            "One of those, huh?" The trustee's grin vanished. “Tanith for you." He pushed a button and the door on the opposite side of the cage opened. "Get on," he snapped. "Fore I call the guards." His finger poised menacingly over the small console on his desk.

            John took papers out of an inner pocket of his tunic. "I have an appointment to CoDominium Navy Service," he said. "I was ordered to report to Canaveral Embarkation Station for transport by BuRelock ship to Luna Base."

            "Get movin’-- uh?” The trustee stopped himself and the grin reappeared. "Let me see that." He held out agrimy hand.

            "No." John was more sure of himself now. "I'll show them to any CD officer, but you won't get your hands on them. Now call an officer."

            "Sure." The trustee didn't move. "Cost you ten credits."

            "What?"

            "Ten credits. Fifty bucks if you ain't got CD credits. Don't give me that look, kid. You don't pay, you go on the Tanith ship. Maybe they'll put things straight there, maybe they won't, but you'll be late reporting. Best you slip me something."

            John held out a twenty-dollar piece. "That all you got?" the trustee demanded. "O.K., O.K., have to do." He punched a code into the phone, and a minute later a petty officer in blue CoDominium Space Navy coveralls came into the cage

            "What you need, Smiley?"

            "Got one of yours. New middy. Got himself mixed up with the colonists." The trustee laughed as John struggled to control himself.

            The petty officer eyed Smiley with distaste. "Your orders, sir?" he said.

            John handed him the papers, afraid that he would never see them again. The Navy man glanced through them. "John Christian Falkenberg?”

            "Yes."

            "Thank you, sir." He turned to the trustee. "Gimme."

            "Aw, he can afford it."

            "Want me to call the Marines, Smiley?"

            "Jesus,  you hardnosed - “ The  trustee  took  the coin from his pocket and handed it over.

            "This way, please, sir," the Navy man said. He bent to pick up John's duffel. "And here's your money, sir."

            "Thanks. You keep it."

            The petty officer nodded. "Thank you, sir. Smiley, you bite one of our people again and I'll have the Marines look you up when you're off duty. Let's go, sir."

            John followed the spacer out of the cubicle. The petty officer was twice his age, and no one had ever called John "sir" before. It gave John Falkenberg a sense of belonging, a sense of having found something he had searched for all his life. Even the street gangs had been closed to him, and friends he had grown up with had always seemed part of someone else's life, not his own. Now, in seconds, he seemed to have found -- found what, he wondered.

            They went through narrow whitewashed corridors, then into the bright Florida sunshine. A narrow gangway led to the forward end of an enormous winged landing ship that floated at the end of a long pier crowded with colo­nists and cursing guards.

            The petty officer spoke briefly to the Marine sentries at the officers' gangway, then carefully saluted the officer at the head of the boarding gangway. John wanted to do the same, but he knew that you didn't salute in civilian clothing. His father had made him read books on military history and the customs of the Service as soon as he de­cided to find John an appointment to the Academy.

            Babble from the colonists filled the air until they were inside the ship. As the hatch closed behind him the last sounds he heard were the curses of the guards.

            "If you please, sir. This way." The petty officer led him through a maze of steel corridors, airtight bulkheads, lad­ders, pipes, wire races, and other unfamiliar sights. Al­though the CD Navy operated it, most of the ship belonged to BuRelock, and she stank. There were no view ports and John was lost after several turns in the corridors.

            The petty officer led on at a brisk pace until he came to a door that seemed no different from any other. He pressed a button on a panel outside it.

            "Come in," the panel answered.

            The compartment held eight tables, but only three men, all seated at a single booth. In contrast to the gray steel corridors outside, the compartment was almost cheerful, with paintings on the walls, padded furniture, and what seemed like carpets.

            The CoDominium seal hung from the far wall -- Ameri­can eagle and Soviet sickle and hammer, red, white, and blue, white stars and red stars.

            The three men held drinks and seemed relaxed. All wore civilian clothing not much different from John's ex­cept that the older man wore a more conservative tunic. The others seemed about John's age, perhaps a year older; no more.

            "One of ours, sir," the petty officer announced. "New middy got lost with the colonists."

            One of the younger men laughed, but the older cut him off with a curt wave. "All right, coxswain. Thank you. Come in, we don't bite."

            "Thank you, sir," John said. He shuffled uncertainly in the doorway, wondering who these men were. Probably CD officers, he decided. The petty officer wouldn't act that way toward anyone else. Frightened as he was, his analyti­cal, mind continued to work, and his eyes darted around the compartment.

            Definitely CD officers, he decided. Going back up to Luna Base after leave, or perhaps a duty tour in normal gravity. Naturally they'd worn civilian clothing. Wearing the CD uniform off duty earthside was an invitation to be murdered.

            "Lieutenant Hartmann, at your service," the older man introduced himself.

            "And Midshipmen Rolnikov and Bates. Your orders, please?"

            "John Christian Falkenberg, sir," John said. "Midship­man. Or I guess I'm a midshipman. But I'm not sure. I haven't been sworn in or anything."

            All three men laughed at that. "You will be, Mister," Hartmann said. He took John's orders. "But you're one of the damned all the same, swearing in or no."

            He examined the plastic sheet, comparing John's face to the photograph, then reading the bottom lines. He whistled. "Grand Senator Martin Grant. Appointed by the Navy's friend, no less. With him to bat for you, I wouldn't be surprised to see you outrank me in a few years."

            "Senator Grant is a former student of my father's," John said.

            "I see," Hartmann returned the orders and motioned John to sit with them.

            Then he turned to one of the other midshipmen. "As to you, Mister Bates, I fail to see the humor. What is so funny about one of your brother officers becoming lost among the colonists? You have never been lost?"

            Bates squirmed uncomfortably. His voice was high-pitched, and John realized that Bates was no older than himself. "Why didn't he show the guards his taxpayer status card?" Bates demanded. "They would have taken him to an officer. Wouldn't they?"

            Hartmann shrugged.

            "I didn't have one," John said.

            “Um.” Hartmann seemed to withdraw, although he didn't actually move. "Well," he said. "We don't usually get officers from Citizen families -“

            "We are not Citizens," John said quickly. "My father is a CoDominium University professor, and I was born in Rome."

            "Ah," Hartmann said. "Did you live there long?"

            "No, sir. Father prefers to be avisiting faculty member. We have lived in many university towns." The lie came easily now, and John thought that Professor Falkenberg probably believed it after telling it so many times. John knew better: he had seen his father desperate to gain tenure, but always, always making too many enemies.

            He is too blunt and too honest. One explanation. He is a revolting S.O.B. and can't get along with anyone. That's another. I've lived with the situation so long I don't care anymore. But, it would have been nice to have a home. I think.

            Hartmann relaxed slightly. "Well, whatever the reason, Mister Falkenberg, you would have done better to arrange to be born a United States taxpayer. Or a Soviet party member. Unfortunately, you, like me, are doomed to re­main in the lower ranks of the officer corps."

            There was a trace of accent to Hartmann's voice, but John couldn't place it exactly. German, certainly; there were many Germans in the CD fighting services. This was not the usual German, though; John had lived in Heidel­berg long enough to learn many shades of the German speech. East German? Possibly.

            He realized the others were waiting for him to say something. "I thought, sir, I thought there was equality within the CD services."

            Hartmann shrugged. "In theory, yes. In practice -- the generals and admirals, even the captains who command ships, always seem to be Americans or Soviets. It is not the preference of the officer corps, Mister. We have no countries of origin among ourselves and no politics. Ever. The Fleet is our fatherland, and our only fatherland." He glanced at his glass. "Mister Bates, we need more to drink, and a glass for our new comrade. Hop it."

            "Aye, aye, sir." The pudgy middy left the compartment, passing the unattended bar in the corner on his way. He returned a moment later with a full bottle of American whiskey and an empty glass.

            Hartmann poured the glass full and pushed it toward John. "The Navy will teach you many things, Mister Midshipman John Christian Falkenberg. One of them is to drink. We all drink too much. Another thing we will teach you is why we do, but before you learn why, you must learn to do it."

            He lifted the glass. When John raised his and took only a sip, Hartmann frowned. "More," he said. The tone made it an order.

            John drank half the whiskey. He had been drinking beer for years, but his father did not often let him drink spirits. It did not taste good, and it burned his throat and stomach.

            "Now, why have you joined our noble band of broth­ers?" Hartmann asked. His voice carried a warning: he used bantering words, but under that was a more serious mood-perhaps he was not mocking the Service at all when he called it a band of brothers.

            John hoped he was not. He had never had brothers. He had never had friends, or a home, and his father was a harsh schoolmaster, teaching him many things, but never giving him any affection-or friendship.

            "Honesty," Hartmann warned. "I will tell you a secret, the secret of the Fleet. We do not lie to our own." He looked at the other two midshipmen, and they nodded, Rolnikov slightly amused, Bates serious, as if in church.

            "Out there," Hartmann said, "out there they lie, and they cheat, and they use each other. With us this is not true. We are used, yes. But we know that we are used, and we are honest with each other. That is why the men are loyal to us. And why we are loyal to the Fleet."

            And that's significant, John thought, because Hartmann had glanced at the CoDominium banner on the wall, but he said nothing about the CD at all. Only the Fleet. "I'm here because my father wanted me out of the house and was able to get an appointment for me," John blurted.

            "You will find another reason, or you will not stay with us," Hartmann said.

            "Drink up."

            "Yes, sir."

            "The proper response is 'aye aye, sir.' "

            "Aye aye, sir." John drained the glass.

            Hartmann smiled. "Very good." He refilled his glass, then the others. "What is the mission of the CoDominium Navy, Mister Falkenberg?"

            "Sir? To carry out the will of the Grand Senate-"

            "No. It is to exist. And by existing, to keep some measure of peace and order in this corner of the galaxy. To buy enough time for men to get far enough away from Earth that when the damned fools kill themselves they will not have killed the human race. And that is our only mission."

            "Sir?" Midshipman Rolnikov spoke quietly and urgently. "Lieutenant, sir, should you drink so much?"

            "Yes. I should," Hartmann replied. "I thank you for your concern, Mister Rolnikov. But as you see, I am, at present, a passenger. The Service has no regulation against drinking. None at all, Mister Falkenberg. There is a strong prohibition against being unfit for one's duties, but none against drinking. And I have no duties at the moment." He raised his glass. "Save one. To speak to you, Mister Falkenberg, and to tell you the truth, so that you will either run from us or be damned with us for the rest of your life, for we never lie to our own."

            He fell silent for a moment, and Falkenberg wondered just how drunk Hartmann was. The officer seemed to be considering his words more carefully than his father ever had when he was drinking.

            "What do you know of the history of the CoDominium Navy, Mister Falkenberg?" Hartmann demanded.

            Probably more than you, John thought. Father's lecture on the growth of the CoDominium was famous. "It began with detente, and soon there was a web of formal treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union. The treaties did not end the basic enmity between these great powers, but their common interest was greater than their differences; for it was obviously better that there be only two great powers, than for there to be. . . ." No. Hart­mann did not want to hear Professor Falkenberg's lecture. "Very little, sir."

            "We were created out of the French Foreign Legion," Hartmann said. "A legion of strangers, to fight for an artificial alliance of nations that hate each other. How can a man give his soul and life to that, Mister Falkenberg? What heart has an alliance? What power to inspire men's loyalty?"

            "I don't know, sir."

            "Nor do they." Hartmann waved at the other middies, who were carefully leaning back in their seats, acting as if they were listening, as if they were not listening-John couldn't tell. Perhaps they thought Hartmann was crazy drunk. Yet it had been a good question.

            "I don't know," John repeated.

            "Ah. But no one knows, for there is no answer. Men cannot die for an alliance. Yet we do fight. And we do die." .

            "At the Senate's orders," Midshipman Rolnikov said quietly.

            "But we do not love the Senate," Hartmann said. "Do you love the Grand Senate, Mister Rolnikov? Do you, Mister Bates? We know what the Grand Senate is. Corrupt, politicians who lie to each other, and who use us to gather wealth for themselves, power for their own factions. If they can. They do not use us as much as they once did. Drink, gentlemen. Drink."

            The whiskey had taken its effect, and John's head buzzed. He felt sweat break out at his temples and in his armpits, and his stomach rebelled, but he lifted the glass and drank again, in unison with Rolnikov and Bates, and it was more meaningful than the Communion cup had ever been. He tried to ask himself why, but there was only emotion, no thought. He belonged here, with this man, with these men, and he was a man with them.

            As if he had read John's thoughts, Lieutenant Hartmann put his arms out, across the shoulders of the three boys, two on his left, John alone on his right, and he lowered his voice to speak to all of them. "No. We are here be­cause the Fleet is our only fatherland, and our brothers in the Service are our only family. And if the Fleet should ever demand our lives, we give them as men be­cause we have no other place to go."

Twenty-seven years later . . .

            Earth floated eternally lovely above bleak lunar mountains. Daylight lay across California and most of the Pacific, and the glowing ocean made an impossibly blue background for a vortex of bright clouds swirling in a massive tropical storm. Beyond the lunar crags, man's home was a fragile ball amidst the black star-studded velvet of space; a ball that a man might reach out to grasp and crush in his bare hands.

            Grand Admiral Sergei Lermontov looked at the bright viewscreen image and thought how easy it would be for Earth to die. He kept her image on the viewscreen to remind himself of that every time he looked up.

            "That's all we can get you, Sergei." His visitor sat with hands carefully folded in his lap. A photograph would have shown him in a relaxed position, seated comfortably in the big visitor's chair covered with leathers from ani­mals that grew on planets a hundred light-years from Earth. Seen closer, the real man was not relaxed at all. He looked that way from his long experience as a politician.

            "I wish it could be more." Grand Senator Martin Grant shook his head slowly from side to side. "At least it's something."

            "We will lose ships and disband regiments. I cannot operate the Fleet on that budget." Lermontov's voice was flat and precise. He adjusted his rimless spectacles to a comfortable position on his thin nose. His gestures, like his voice, were precise and correct, and it was said in Navy wardrooms that the Grand Admiral practiced in front of a mirror.

            "You'll have to do the best you can. It's not even certain the United Party can survive the next election. God knows we won't be able to if we give any more to the Fleet."

            "But there is enough money for national armies." Lermontov looked significantly at Earth's image on the viewscreen. "Armies that can destroy Earth. Martin, how can we keep the peace if you will not let us have ships and men?"

            "You can't keep the peace if there's no CoDominium." Lermontov frowned.  "Is there a real chance that the United Party will lose, then?"

            Martin Grant's head bobbed in an almost imperceptible movement. "Yes."

            "And the United States will withdraw from the CD." Lermontov thought of all that would mean, for Earth and for the nearly hundred worlds where men lived. "Not many of the colonies will survive without us. It is too soon. If we did not suppress science and research it might be different, but there are so few independent worlds- Martin, we are spread thin across the colony worlds. The CoDominium must help them. We created their problems with our colonial governments. We gave them no chances at all to live without us. We cannot let them go suddenly." Grant sat motionless, saying nothing. "Yes, I am preaching to the converted. But it is the Navy that gave Grand Senate this power over the colonies. I cannot help feeling responsible."

            Senator Grant's head moved slightly again, either a nod or a tremor. "I would have thought there was a lot you could do, Sergei. The Fleet obeys you, not the Senate. I know my nephew has made that clear enough. The warriors respect another warrior, but they've only con­tempt for us politicians."

            "You are inviting treason?"

            "No. Certainly I'm not suggesting that the Fleet try running the show. Military rule hasn't worked very well for us, has it?" Senator Grant turned his head slightly to indicate the globe behind him. Twenty nations on Earth were governed by armies, none of them very well.

            On the other hand, the politicians aren't doing a much better job, he thought. Nobody is. "We don't seem to have any goals, Sergei. We just hang on, hoping that things will get better. Why should they?"

            "I have almost ceased to hope for better conditions," Lermontov replied. "Now I only pray they do not get worse." His lips twitched slightly in a thin smile. "Those prayers are seldom answered."

            "I spoke with my brother yesterday," Grant said. "He's threatening to retire again. I think he means it this time."

            "But he cannot do that!" Lermontov shuddered. "Your brother is one of the few men in the U.S. government who understands how desperate is our need for time."

            "I told him that."

            "And?"

            Grant shook his head. "It's the rat race, Sergei. John doesn't see any end to it. It's all very well to play rear guard, but for what?"

            "Isn't the survival of civilization a worthwhile goal?"

            "If that's where we're headed, yes. But what assurance do we have that we'll achieve even that?"

            The Grand Admiral's smile was wintry. "None, of course. But we may be sure that nothing will survive if we do not have more time. A few years of peace, Martin. Much can happen in a few years. And if nothing does- why, we will have had a few years."

            The wall behind Lermontov was covered with banners and plaques. Centered among them was the CoDominium Seal, American eagle, Soviet sickle and hammer, red stars and white stars. Beneath it was the Navy's official motto: PEACE IS OUR PROFESSION.

            We chose that motto for them, Grant thought. The Senate made the Navy adopt it. Except for Lermontov I wonder how many Fleet officers believe it? What would they have chosen if left to themselves?

            There are always the warriors, and if you don't give them something worthwhile to fight for. . . . But we can't live without them, because there comes a time when you have to have warriors. Like Sergei Lermontov.

            But do we have to have politicians like me? "I'll talk to John again. I've never been sure how serious he is about retiring anyway. You get used to power, and it's hard to lay it down. It only takes a little persuasion, some argu­ment to let you justify keeping it. Power's more addicting than opiates."

            "But you can do nothing about our budget."

            "No. Fact is, there's more problems. We need Bronson's votes, and he's got demands."

            Lermontov's eyes narrowed, and his voice was thick with distaste. "At least we know how to deal with men like Bronson." And it was strange, Lermontov thought, that despicable creatures like Bronson should be so small as problems. They could be bribed. They expected to be bought.

            It was the men of honor who created the real problems. Men like Harmon in the United States and Kaslov in the Soviet Union, men with causes they would die for-they had brought mankind to this.

            But I would rather know Kaslov and Harmon and their friends than Bronson's people who support us.

            "You won't like some of what he's asked for," Grant said. "Isn't Colonel Falkenberg a special favorite of yours?"

            "He is one of our best men. I use him when the situation seems desperate. His men will follow him anywhere, and he does not waste lives in achieving our objectives."

            "He's apparently stepped on Bronson's toes once too often. They want him cashiered."

            "No." Lermontov's voice was firm.

            Martin Grant shook his head. Suddenly he felt very tired, despite the low gravity of the moon. "There's no choice, Sergei. It's not just personal dislike, although there's a lot of that too. Bronson's making up to Harmon, and Harmon thinks Falkenberg's dangerous."

            "Of course he is dangerous. He is a warrior. But he is a danger only to enemies of the CoDominium...."

            "Precisely." Grant sighed again. "Sergei, I know. We're robbing you of your best tools and then expecting you to do the work without them."

            "It is more than that, Martin. How do you control warriors?"

            "I beg your pardon?"

            "I asked, 'How do you control warriors?'" Lermontov adjusted his spectacles with the tips of the fingers of both hands. "By earning their respect, of course. But what happens if that respect is forfeit? There will be no con­trolling him; and you are speaking of one of the best military minds alive. You may live to regret this decision, Martin."

            "Can't be helped.  Sergei, do you think I like  telling you to dump a good man for a snake like Bronson? But it doesn't matter. The Patriot Party's ready to make a big thing out of this,  and Falkenberg couldn't survive that kind of political pressure  anyway,  you know that. No officer can. His career's finished no matter what."

            "You have always supported him in the past."

            "God damn it, Sergei, I appointed him to the Academy in the first place. I cannot support him, and you can't either. He goes, or we lose Bronson's vote on the budget."

            "But why?" Lermontov demanded. "The real reason."

            Grant shrugged. "Bronson's or Harmon's? Bronson has hated Colonel Falkenberg ever since that business on Kennecott. The Bronson family lost a lot of money there, and it didn't help that Bronson had to vote in favor of giving Falkenberg his medals either. I doubt there's any more to it than that.

            "Harmon's a different matter. He really believes that Falkenberg might lead his troops against Earth. And once he asks for Falkenberg's scalp as a favor from Bronson-"

            "I see. But Harmon's reasons are ludicrous. At least at the moment they are ludicrous-"

            "If he's that damned dangerous, kill him," Grant said. He saw the look on Lermontov's face. "I don't really mean that, Sergei, but you'll have to do something."

            "I will."

            "Harmon thinks you might order Falkenberg to march on Earth."

            Lermontov looked up in surprise.

            "Yes. It's come to that. Not even Bronson's ready to ask for your scalp. Yet. But it's another reason why your special favorites have to take a low profile right now."

            "You speak of our best men."

            Grant's look was full of pain and sadness. "Sure. Any­one who's effective scares hell out of the Patriots. They want the CD eliminated entirely, and if they can't get that, they'll weaken it. They'll keep chewing away, too, getting rid of our most competent officers, and there's not a lot we can do. Maybe in a few years things will be better."

            "And perhaps they will be worse," Lermontov said.

            "Yeah. There's always that, too."

            Sergei Lermontov stared at the viewscreen long after Grand Senator Grant had left the office. Darkness crept slowly across the Pacific, leaving Hawaii in shadow, and still Lermontov sat without moving, his fingers drumming restlessly on the polished wood desk top.

            I knew it would come to this, he thought. Not so soon, though, not so soon. There is still so much to do before we can let go.

            And yet it will not be long before we have no choice. Perhaps we should act now.

            Lermontov recalled his youth in Moscow, when the Generals controlled the Presidium,  and  shuddered.  No, he thought. The military virtues are useless for governing civilians. But the politicians are doing no better.

            If we had not suppressed scientific research. But that was done in the name of the peace. Prevent development of new weapons. Keep control of technology in the hands of the government, prevent technology from dictating policy-to all of us; it had seemed so reasonable, and be­sides, the policy was very old now. There were few trained scientists, because no one wanted to live under the restric­tions of the Bureau of Technology.

            What is done is done, he thought, and looked around the office. Open cabinets held shelves covered with the mementos of a dozen worlds. Exotic shells lay next to reptilian stuffed figures and were framed by gleaming rocks that could bring fabulous prices if he cared to sell.

            Impulsively he reached toward the desk console and turned the selector switch. Images flashed across the view-screen until he saw a column of-men marching through a great open bubble of rock. They seemed dwarfed by the enormous cave.

            A detachment of CoDominium Marines marching through the central area of Luna Base. Senate chamber and government offices were far below the cavern, buried so deeply into rock that no weapon could destroy the CoDominium's leaders by surprise. Above them were the warriors who guarded, and this group was marching to relieve the guard.

            Lermontov turned the sound pickup but heard no more than the precise measured tramp of marching boots. They walked carefully in low gravity, their pace modified to accommodate their low weight; and they would, he knew, be just as precise on a high-gravity world.

            They wore uniforms of blue and scarlet, with gleaming buttons of gold, badges of the dark rich bronze alloys found on Kennicott, berets made from some reptile that swam in Tanith's seas. Like the Grand Admiral's office, the CoDominium Marines showed the influence of worlds light-years away. "Sound off!"

            The order came through the pickup so loud that it startled the Admiral, and he turned down the volume as the men began to sing.

            Lermontov smiled to himself. That song was officially forbidden, and it was certainly not an appropriate choice for the guard mount about to take posts outside the Grand Senate chambers. It was also very nearly the official marching song of the Marines. And that, Admiral Ler­montov thought, ought to tell something to any Senator listening.

            If Senators ever listened to anything from the military people.

            The measured verses came through, slowly, in time with the sinister gliding step of the troops.

            "We've left blood in the dirt of twenty-five worlds, we've built roads on a dozen more, and all that we have at the end of our hitch, buys a night with a second-class whore.

            "The Senate decrees, the Grand Admiral calls, the orders come down from on high, It's 'On Full Kits' and sound 'Board Ships,' We're sending you where you can die.

            "The lands that we take, the Senate gives back, rather more often than not, so the more that are killed, the less share the loot, and we won't be back to this spot

            "We'll break the hearts of your women and girls, we may break your arse as well, Then the Line Marines with their banners unfurled, will follow those banners to Hell.

            "We know the devil, his pomps and his works, Ah yes! we know them well! When we've served out our hitch as Line Marines, we can bugger the Senate of Hell!

            "Then we'll drink with our comrades and lay down our packs, we'll rest ten years on the flat of our backs, then it's 'On Full Kits' and 'Out of Your Racks,' you must build a new road through Hell!

            "The Fleet is our country, we sleep with a rifle, no one ever begot a son on his rifle, they pay us in gin and curse when we sin, there's not one that can stand us unless we're down wind, we're shot when we lose and turned out when we win, but we bury our comrades wherever they fall, and there's none that can face us though we've nothing at all."

            The verse ended with a flurry of drums, and Lermontov gently changed the selector back to the turning Earth.

            Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps there's hope, but only if we have time.

            Can the politicians buy enough time?

II

            The honorable John Rogers Grant laid a palm across a winking light on his desk console and it went out, shutting off the security phone to Luna Base. His face held an expression of pleasure and distaste, as it always did when he was through talking with his brother.

            I don't think I've ever won an argument with Martin, he thought. Maybe it's because he knows me better than I know myself.

            Grant turned toward the Tri-V, where the speaker was in full form. The speech had begun quietly as Harmon's speeches always did, full of resonant tones and appeals to reason. The quiet voice had asked for attention, but now it had grown louder and demanded it.

            The background behind him changed as well, so that Harmon stood before the stars and stripes covering the hemisphere, with an American eagle splendid over the capitol. Harmon was working himself into one of his famous frenzies, and his face was contorted with emotion.

            "Honor? It is a word that Lipscomb no longer under­stands! Whatever he might have been-and my friends, we all know how great he once was-he is no longer one of us! His cronies, the dark little men who whisper to him, have corrupted even as great a man as President Lipscomb!

            "And our nation bleeds! She bleeds from a thousand wounds! People of America, hear me! She bleeds from the running sores of these men and their CoDominium!

            "They say that if we leave the CoDominium it will mean war. I pray God it will not, but if it does, why these are hard times. Many of us will be killed, but we would die as men! Today our friends and allies, the people of Hun­gary, the people of Rumania, the Czechs, the Slovaks, the Poles, all of them groan under the oppression of their Communist masters. Who keeps them there? We do! Our CoDominium!

            “We have become no more than slave masters. Better to die as men.”

            "But it will not come to that. The Russians will never fight. They are soft, as soft as we, their government is riddled with the same corruptions as ours. People of America, hear me! People of America, listen!"

            Grant spoke softly and the Tri-V turned itself off. A walnut panel slid over the darkened screen, and Grant spoke again.

            The desk opened to offer a small bottle of milk. There was nothing he could do for his ulcer despite the advances in medical science. Money was no problem, but there was never time for surgery and weeks with the regeneration stimulators.

            He leafed through papers on his desk. Most were reports with bright red security covers, and Grant closed his eyes for a moment. Harmon's speech was important and would probably affect the upcoming elections. The man is getting to be a nuisance, Grant thought.

            I should do something about him.

            He put the thought aside with a shudder. Harmon had been a friend, once. Lord, what have we come to? He opened the first report.

            There had been a riot at the International Federation of Labor convention. Three killed and the smooth plans for the re-election of Matt Brady thrown into confusion. Grant grimaced again and drank more milk. The Intelligence people had assured him this one would be easy.

            He dug through the reports and found that three of Harvey Bertram's child crusaders were responsible. They'd bugged Brady's suite. The idiot hadn't known better than to make deals in his room. Now Bertram's people had enough evidence of sell-outs to inflame floor sentiment in a dozen conventions.

            The report ended with a recommendation that the gov­ernment drop Brady and concentrate support on MacKnight, who had a good reputation and whose file in the CIA building bulged with information. MacKnight would be easy to control. Grant nodded to himself and scrawled his signature on the action form.

            He threw it into the "Top Secret: Out" tray and watched it vanish. There was no point in wasting time. Then he wondered idly what would happen to Brady. Matt Brady had been a good United Party man; blast Bertram's people anyway.

            He took up the next file, but before he could open it his secretary came in. Grant looked up and smiled, glad of his decision to ignore the electronics. Some executives never saw their secretaries for weeks at a time.

            "Your appointment, sir," she said. "And it's time for your nerve tonic."

            He grunted. "I'd rather die." But he let her pour a shot glass of evil-tasting stuff, and he tossed it off and chased it with milk. Then he glanced at his watch, but that wasn't necessary. Miss Ackridge knew the travel time to every Washington office. There'd be no time to start another report, which suited Grant fine.

            He let her help him into his black coat and brush off a few silver hairs. He didn't feel sixty-five, but he looked it now. It happened all at once. Five years ago he could pass for forty. John saw the girl in the mirror behind him and knew that she loved him, but it wouldn't work.

            And why the hell not? he wondered. It isn't as if you're pining away for Priscilla. By the time she died you were praying it would happen, and we married late to begin with. So, why the hell do you act as if the great love of your life has gone out forever? All you'd have to do is turn around, say five words, and-and what? She wouldn't be the perfect secretary any longer, and secretaries are harder to find than mistresses. Let it alone.

            She stood there a moment longer, then moved away. "Your daughter wants to see you this evening," she told him. "She's driving down this afternoon and says it's important."

            "Know why?" Grant asked. Ackridge knew more about Sharon than Grant did. Possibly a lot more.

            "I can guess. I think her young man has asked her."

            John nodded. It wasn't unexpected, but still it hurt. So soon, so soon. They grow so fast when you're an old man. John Jr. was a commander in the CoDominium Navy, soon to be a captain with a ship of his own. Frederick was dead in the same accident as his mother. And now Sharon, the baby, had found another life . .. not that they'd been close since he'd taken this job.

            "Run his name through CIA, Flora. I meant to do that months ago. They won't find anything, but we'll need it for the records."

            "Yes, sir. You'd better be on your way now. Your drivers are outside."

            He scooped up his briefcase. "I won't be back tonight. Have my car sent around to the White House, will you? I'll drive myself home tonight."

            He acknowledged the salutes of the driver and armed mechanic with a cheery wave and followed them to the elevator at the end of the long corridor. Paintings and photographs of ancient battles hung along both sides of the hall, and there was carpet on the floor, but otherwise it was like a cave. Blasted Pentagon, he thought for the hundredth time. Silliest building ever constructed. Nobody can find anything, and it can't be guarded at any price. Why couldn't someone have bombed it?

            They took a surface car to the White House. A flight would have been another detail to worry about, and be­sides, this way he got to see the cherry trees and flower beds around the Jefferson. The Potomac was a sludgy brown mess. You could swim in it if you had a strong stomach, but the Army Engineers had "improved" it a few administrations back. They'd given it concrete banks. Now they were ripping them out, and it brought down mudslides.

            They drove through rows of government buildings, some abandoned. Urban renewal had given Washington all the office space the Government would ever need, and more, so that there were these empty buildings as relics of the time when D.C. was the most crime-ridden city in the world. Sometime in Grant's youth, though, they'd hustled everyone out of Washington who didn't work there, with bulldozers quickly following to demolish the tenements. For political reasons the offices had gone in as quickly as the other buildings were torn down.

            They passed the Population Control Bureau and drove around the Ellipse and past Old State to the gate. The guard carefully checked his identity and made him put his palm on the little scanning plate. Then they entered the tunnel to the White House basement.

            The President stood when Grant entered the Oval Office, and the others shot to their feet as if they had ejec­tion charges under them. Grant shook hands around but looked closely at Lipscomb. The President was feeling the strain, no question about it. Well, they all were.

            The secretary of defense wasn't there, but then he never was. The secretary was a political hack who controlled a bloc of Aerospace Guild votes and an even larger bloc of aerospace industry stocks. As long as government contracts kept his companies busy employing his men, he didn't give a damn about policy. He could sit in on formal Cabinet sessions where nothing was ever said, and no one would know the difference. John Grant was Defense as much as he was CIA.

            Few of the men in the Oval Office were well known to the public. Except for the President any one of them could have walked the streets of any city except Washington without fear of recognition. But the power they controlled, as assistants and deputies, was immense, and they all knew it. There was no need to pretend here.

            The servitor brought drinks and Grant accepted Scotch. Some of the others didn't trust a man who wouldn't drink with them. His ulcer would give him hell, and his doctor more, but doctors and ulcers didn't understand the reali­ties of power. Neither, thought Grant, do I or any of us, but we've got it.

            "Mr. Karins, would you begin?" the President asked. Heads swiveled to the west wall where Karins stood at the briefing screen. To his right a polar projection of Earth glowed with lights showing the status of the forces that the President ordered, but Grant controlled.

            Karins stood confidently, his paunch spilling out over his belt. The fat was an obscenity in so young a man. Herman Karins was the second youngest man in the room, assistant director of the office of management and budget, and said to be one of the most brilliant economists Yale had ever produced. He was also the best political techni­cian in the country, but he hadn't learned that at Yale.

            He activated the screen to show a set of figures. "I have the latest poll results," Karins said too loudly. "This is the real stuff, not the slop we give the press. It stinks."

            Grant nodded. It certainly did. The Unity Party was hovering around thirty-eight percent, just about evenly divided between the Republican and Democratic wings. Harmon's Patriot Party had just over twenty-five. Millington's violently left wing Liberation Party had its usual ten, but the real shocker was Bertram's Freedom Party. Bertram's popularity stood at an unbelievable twenty per­cent of the population.

            "These are figures for those who have an opinion and might vote," Karins said. "Of course there's the usual gang that doesn't give a damn, but we know how they split off. They go to whomever got to 'em last anyway. You see the bad news."

            "You're sure of this?" the assistant postmaster general asked. He was the leader of the Republican wing of Unity, and it hadn't been six months since he had told them they could forget Bertram.

            "Yes, sir," Karins said. "And it's growing. Those riots at the labor convention probably gave 'em another five points we don't show. Give Bertram six months and he'll be ahead of us. How you like them apples, boys and girls?"

            "There is no need to be flippant, Mr. Karins," the President said.

            "Sorry, Mr. President." Karins wasn't sorry at all and he grinned at the assistant postmaster general with triumph. Then he flipped the switches to show new charts.

            "Soft and hard," Karins said. "You'll notice Bertram's vote is pretty soft, but solidifying. Harmon's is so hard you couldn't get 'em away from him without you use nukes. And ours is a little like butter. Mr. President, I can't even guarantee we'll be the largest party after the election, much less that we can hold a majority."

            "Incredible," the chairman of the joint chiefs muttered.

            "Worse than incredible." The commerce rep shook her head in disbelief. "A disaster. Who will win?"

            Karins shrugged. "Toss-up, but if I had to say, I'd pick Bertram. He's getting more of our vote than Harmon." .

            "You've been quiet, John," the President said. "What are your thoughts here?"

            "Well, sir, it's fairly obvious what the result will be no matter who wins as long as it isn't us." Grant lifted his Scotch and sipped with relish. He decided to have another and to hell with the ulcer. "If Harmon wins, he pulls out of the CoDominium, and we have war. If Bertram takes over, he relaxes security, Harmon drives him out with his storm troopers, and we have war anyway."

            Karins nodded. "I don't figure Bertram could hold power more'n a year, probably not that long. Man's too honest."

            The President sighed loudly. "I can recall a time when men said that about me, Mr. Karins."

            "It's still true, Mr. President." Karins spoke hurriedly. "But you're realistic enough to let us do what we have to do. Bertram wouldn't."

            "So what do we do about it?" the President asked gently.

            "Rig the election," Karins answered quickly. "I give out the popularity figures here." He produced a chart indicating a majority popularity for Unity. "Then we keep pumping out more faked stuff while Mr. Grant's people work on the vote-counting computers. Hell, it's been done before."

            "Won't work this time." They turned to look at the youngest man in the room. Larry Moriarty, assistant to the President, and sometimes called the "resident heretic," blushed at the attention. "The people know better. Bertram's people are already taking jobs in the computer centers, aren't they, Mr. Grant? They'll see it in a minute."

            Grant nodded. He'd sent the report over the day before; interesting that Moriarty had already digested it.

            "You make this a straight rigged election, and you'll have to use CoDominium Marines to keep order," Mor­iarty continued.

            "The day I need CoDominium Marines to put down riots in the United States is the day I resign," the President said coldly. "I may be a realist, but there are limits to what I will do. You'll need a new chief, gentlemen."

            "That's easy to say, Mr. President," Grant said. He wanted his pipe, but the doctors had forbidden it. To hell with them, he thought, and took a cigarette from a pack on the table. "It's easy to say, but you can't do it."

            The President frowned. "Why not?"

            Grant shook his head. "The Unity Party supports the CoDominium, and the CoDominium keeps the peace. An ugly peace, but by God, peace. I wish we hadn't got support for the CoDominium treaties tied so thoroughly to the Unity Party, but it is and that's that. And you know damn well that even in the Party it's only a thin majority that supports the CoDominium. Right, Harry?"

            The assistant postmaster general nodded. "But don't forget, there's support for the CD in Bertram's group."

            "Sure, but they hate our guts," Moriarty said. "They say we're corrupt. And they're right."

            "So flipping what if they're right?" Karins snapped. "We're in, they're out. Anybody who's in for long is corrupt. If he isn't, he's not in."

            "I fail to see the point of this discussion," the President interrupted. "I for one do not enjoy being reminded of all the things I have done to keep this office. The question is, what are we going to do? I feel it only fair to warn you that nothing could make me happier than to have Mr. Bertram sit in this chair. I've been President for a long time, and I'm tired. I don't want the job anymore."

III

            Everyone spoke at once, shouting to the President, murmuring to their neighbors, until Grant cleared his throat loudly. "Mr. President," he said, using the tone of command he'd been taught during his brief tour inthe Army Reserve. "Mr. President, if you will pardon me, that is a ludicrous suggestion. There is no one else in the Unity Party who has even a ghost of a chance of winning. You alone remain popular. Even Mr. Harmon speaks as well of you as he does of anyone not in his group. You cannot resign without dragging the Unity Party with you, and you cannot give that chair to Mr. Bertram because he couldn't hold it six months."

            "Would that be so bad?" President Lipscomb leaned toward Grant with the confidential manner he used in his fireside chats to the people. "Are we really so sure that only we can save the human race, John? Or do we only wish to keep power?"

            "Both, I suppose," Grant said. "Not that I'd mind retiring myself."

            "Retire!" Karins snorted. "You let Bertram's clean babies in the files for two hours, and none of us will retire to anything better'n a CD prison planet. You got to be kidding, retire."

            "That may be true," the President said.

            "There's other ways," Karins suggested.

            "General, what happens if Harmon takes power and starts his war?"

            "Mr. Grant knows better than I do," General Carpenter said. When the others stared at him, Carpenter continued. "No one has ever fought a nuclear war. Why should the uniform make me more of an expert than you? Maybe we could win. Heavy casualties, very heavy, but our de­fenses are good."

            Carpenter gestured at the moving lights on the wall projection. "We have better technology than the Russki's. Our laser guns ought to get most of their missiles. CD Fleet won't let either of us use space weapons. We might win."

            "We might." Lipscomb was grim. "John?"

            "We might not win. We might kill more than half the human race. We might get more. How in God's name do I know what happens when we throw nuclear weapons around?"       

            "But the Russians aren't prepared," Commerce said. "If we hit them without warning-people never change governments in the middle of a war." 

            President Lipscomb sighed. "I am not going to start a nuclear war to retain power. Whatever I have done, I have done to keep peace. That is my last excuse. I could not live with myself if I sacrifice peace to keep power."

            Grant cleared his throat gently. "We couldn't do it anyway. If we start converting defensive missiles to offen­sive, CoDominium Intelligence would hear about it in ten days. The Treaty prevents that, you know."

            He lit another cigarette. "We aren't the only threat to the CD, anyway. There's always Kaslov."

            Kaslov was a pure Stalinist, who wanted to liberate Earth for Communism. Some called him the last Com­munist, but of course he wasn't the last. He had plenty of followers. Grant could remember a secret conference with Ambassador Chernikov only weeks ago.

            The Soviet was a polished diplomat, but it was obvious that he wanted something desperately. He wanted the United States to keep the pressure on, not relax her de­fenses at the borders of the U.S. sphere of influence, because if the Communist probes ever took anything from the U.S. without a hard fight, Kaslov would gain more influence at home. He might even win control of the Presidium.

            "Nationalism everywhere," the President sighed. "Why?"

            No one had an answer to that. Harmon gained power in the U.S. and Kaslov in the Soviet Union; while a dozen petty nationalist leaders gained power in a dozen other countries. Some thought it started with Japan's nationalistic revival.

            "This is all nonsense," said the Assistant Postmaster General. "We aren't going to quit and we aren't starting any wars. Now what does it take to get the support away from Mr. Clean Bertram and funnel it back to us where it belongs? A good scandal, right? Find Bertram's dirtier than we are, right? Worked plenty of times before. You can steal people blind if you scream loud enough about how the other guy's a crook."

            "Such as?" Karins prompted.

            "Working with the Japs. Giving the Japs nukes, maybe. Supporting Meiji's independence movement. I'm sure Mr. Grant can arrange something."

            Karins nodded vigorously. "That might do it. Disillusion his organizers. The pro-CoDominium people in his outfit would come to us like a shot."

            Karins paused and chuckled. "Course some of them will head for Millington's bunch, too."

            They all laughed. No one worried about Millington's Liberation Party. His madmen caused riots and kept the taxpayers afraid, and made a number of security arrange­ments highly popular. The Liberation Party gave the police some heads to crack, nice riots for Tri-V to keep the Citizens amused and the taxpayers happy.

            "I think we can safely leave the details to Mr. Grant." Karins grinned broadly.

            "What will you do, John?" the President asked..

            "Do you really want to know, Mr. President?" Moriarty interrupted. "I don't."

            "Nor do I, but if I can condone it, I can at least find out what it is. What will you do, John?"

            "Frame-up, I suppose. Get a plot going, then uncover it."

            "That?" Moriarty shook his head. "It's got to be good. The people are beginning to wonder about all these plots."

            Grant nodded. "There will be evidence. Hard-core evidence. A secret arsenal of nuclear weapons."

            There was a gasp. Then Karins grinned widely again. "Oh, man, that's tore it. Hidden nukes. Real ones, I suppose?"

            "Of course." Grant looked with distaste at the fat youth. What would be the point of fake nuclear weapons? But Karins lived in a world of deception, so much so that fake weapons might be appropriate in it.

            "Better have lots of cops when you break that story," Karins said. "People hear that, they'll tear Bertram apart."

            True enough, Grant thought. It was a point he'd have to remember. Protection of those kids wouldn't be easy. Not since one militant group atom-bombed Bakersfield, California, and a criminal syndicate tried to hold Seattle for a hundred million ransom. People no longer thought of private stocks of atomic weapons as something to laugh at.

            "We won't involve Mr. Bertram personally," the Presi­dent said grimly. "Not under any circumstances. Is that understood?"

            "Yes, sir," John answered quickly. He hadn't liked the idea either. "Just some of his top aides." Grant stubbed out the cigarette. It, or something, had left a foul taste in his mouth. "I'll have them end up with the CD for final custody. Sentenced to transportation. My brother can arrange it so they don't have hard sentences."

            "Sure. They can be independent planters on Tanith if they'll cooperate," Karins said. "You can see they don't suffer."

            Like hell, Grant thought. Life on Tanith was no joy under the best conditions.

            "There's one more thing," the President said. "I under­stand Grand Senator Bronson wants something from the CD. Some officer was a little too efficient at uncovering the Bronson family deals, and they want him removed." The President looked as if he'd tasted sour milk. "I hate this, John. I hate it, but we need Bronson's support. Can you speak to your brother?"

            "I already have," Grant said. "It will be arranged."

            Grant left the meeting a few minutes later. The others could continue in endless discussion, but Grant saw no point to them. The action needed was clear, and the longer they waited the more time Bertram would have to assemble his supporters and harden his support. If some­thing were to be done, it should be now.

            Grant had found all his life that the wrong action taken decisively and in time was better than the right action taken later. After he reached the Pentagon he summoned his deputies and issued orders. It took no more than an hour to set the machinery in motion.

            Grant's colleagues always said he was rash, too quick to take action without examining the consequences. They also conceded that he was lucky. To Grant it wasn't luck, and he did consider the consequences; but he anticipated events rather than reacted to crisis. He had known that Bertram's support was growing alarmingly for weeks and had made contingency plans long before going to the conference with the President.

            Now it was clear that action must be taken immediately. Within days there would be leaks from the conference. Nothing about the actions to be taken, but there would be rumors about the alarm and concern. A secretary would notice that Grant had come back to the Pentagon after dismissing his driver. Another would see that Karins chuckled more than usual when he left the Oval Office, or that two political enemies came out together and went off to have a drink. Another would hear talk about Ber­tram, and soon it would be all over Washington: the President was worried about Bertram's popularity.

            Since the leaks were inevitable, he should act while this might work. Grant dismissed his aides with a sense of satisfaction. He had been ready, and the crisis would be over before it began. It was only after he was alone that he crossed the paneled room to the teak cabinet and poured a double Scotch.

            The Maryland countryside slipped past far below as the Cadillac cruised on autopilot. A ribbon antenna ran almost to Grant's house, and he watched the twilight scene with as much relaxation as he ever achieved lately. House lights blinked below, and a few surface cars ran along the roads. Behind him was the sprawling mass ofColum­bia Welfare Island where most of those displaced from Washington had gone. Now the inhabitants were third generation and had never known any other life.

            He grimaced. Welfare Islands were lumps of concrete buildings and roof parks, containers for the seething resentment of useless lives kept placid by Government furnished supplies of Tanith hashpot and borloi and American cheap booze. A man born in one of those complexes could stay there all his life, and many did.

            Grant tried to imagine what it would be like there, but he couldn't. Reports from his agents gave an intellectual picture, but there was no way to identify with those people. He could not feel the hopelessness and dulled senses, burning hatreds, terrors, bitter pride of street gangs.

            Karins knew, though. Karins had begun his life in a Welfare Island somewhere in the Midwest. Karins clawed his way through the schools to a scholarship and a ticket out forever. He'd resisted stimulants and dope and Tri-V. Was it worth it? Grant wondered. And of course there was another way out of Welfare, as a voluntary colonist; but so few took that route now. Once there had been a lot of them.

            The speaker on the dash suddenly came to life cutting off Beethoven in mid bar. "WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING A GUARDED AREA. UNAUTHO­RIZED CRAFT WILL BE DESTROYED WITHOUT FURTHER WARNING. IF YOU HAVE LEGITIMATE ERRANDS IN THIS RESTRICTED AREA, FOLLOW THE GUIDE BEAM TO THE POLICE CHECK STATION. THIS IS A FINAL WARNING."

            The Cadillac automatically turned off course to ride the beam down to State Police headquarters, and Grant cursed. He activated the mike and spoke softly. "This is John Grant of Peachem's Bay. Something seems to be wrong with my transponder."

            There was a short pause, then a soft feminine voice came from the dash speaker. "We are very sorry, Mr. Grant. Your signal is correct. Our identification unit is out of order. Please proceed to your home."

            "Get that damned thing fixed before it shoots down a taxpayer," Grant said. Ann Arundel County was a Unity stronghold. How long would that last after an accident like that? He took the manual controls and cut across country, ignoring regulations. They could only give him a ticket now that they knew who he was, and his banking computer would pay it without bothering to tell him of it.

            It brought a grim smile to his face. Traffic regulations were broken, computers noted it and levied fines, other computers paid them, and no human ever became aware of them. It was only if there were enough tickets accumulated to bring a warning of license suspension that a taxpayer learned of the things-unless he liked checking his bank statements himself.

            His home lay ahead, a big rambling early twentieth-century place on the cove. His yacht was anchored off­shore, and it gave him a guilty twinge. She wasn't neglected, but she was too much in the hands of paid crew, too long without attention from her owner.

            Carver, the chauffeur, rushed out to help Grant down from the Cadillac. Hapwood was waiting in the big library with a glass of sherry. Prince Bismark, shivering in the presence of his god, put his Doberman head on Grant's lap, ready to leap into the fire at command.

            There was irony in the situation, Grant thought.  At home he enjoyed the power of a feudal lord, but it was limited by how strongly the staff wanted to stay out of Welfare. But he only had to lift the Security phone in the corner, and his real power, completely invisible and limited only by what the President wanted to find out, would operate. Money gave him the visible power, hered­ity gave him the power over the dog; what gave him the real power of the Security phone?

            "What time would you like dinner, sir?" Hapwood asked. "And Miss Sharon is here with a guest."

            "A guest?"

            "Yes, sir. A young man, Mr. Allan Torrey, sir."

            "Have they eaten?"

            "Yes, sir. Miss Ackridge called to say that you would be late for dinner."

            "All right, Hapwood. I'll eat now and see Miss Grant and her guest afterwards."

            "Very good, sir. I will inform the cook." Hapwood left the room invisibly.

            Grant smiled again. Hapwood was another figure from Welfare and had grown up speaking a dialect Grant would never recognize. For some reason he had been impressed by English butlers he'd seen on Tri-V and cultivated their manner-and now he was known all over the county as the perfect household manager.

            Hapwood didn't know it, but Grant had a record of every cent his butler took in: kickbacks from grocers and caterers, contributions from the gardeners, and the surprisingly well-managed investment portfolio. Hapwood could easily retire to his own house and live the life of a taxpayer investor.

            Why? Grant wondered idly. Why does he stay on? It makes life easier for me, but why? It had intrigued Grant enough to have his agents look into Hapwood, but the man had no politics other than staunch support for Unity. The only suspicious thing about his contacts was the re­finement with which he extracted money from every trans­action involving Grant's house. Hapwood had no children, and his sexual needs were satisfied by infrequent visits to the fringe areas around Welfare.

            Grant ate mechanically, hurrying to be through and see his daughter, yet he was afraid to meet the boy she had brought home. For a moment he thought of using the Security phone to find out more about him, but he shook his head angrily. Too much security thinking wasn't good.

            For once he was going to be a parent, meeting his daughter's intended and nothing more.

            He left his dinner unfinished without thinking how much the remnants of steak would have cost, or that Hapwood would probably sell them somewhere, and went to the library. He sat behind the massive Oriental fruitwood desk and had a brandy.

            Behind him and to both sides the walls were lined with book shelves, immaculate dust-free accounts of the people of dead empires. It had been years since he had read one. Now all his reading was confined to reports with bright red covers. The reports told live stories about living people, but sometimes, late at night, Grant wondered if his coun­try were not as dead as the empires in his books.

            Grant loved his country but hated her people, all of them: Karins and the new breed, the tranquilized Citizens in their Welfare Islands, the smug taxpayers grimly hold­ing on to their privileges. What, then, do I love? he won­dered. Only our history, and the greatness that once was the United States, and that's found only in those books and in old buildings, never in the security reports.

            Where are the patriots? All of them have become Patriots, stupid men and women following a leader to­ward nothing. Not even glory.

            Then Sharon came in. She was a lovely girl, far prettier than her mother had ever been, but she lacked her mother's poise. She ushered in a tall boy in his early twenties.

            Grant studied the newcomer as they came toward him. Nice-looking boy. Long hair, neatly trimmed, conservative mustache for these times. Blue and violet tunic, red scarf ... a little flashy, but even John Jr. went in for flashy clothes when he got out of CD uniform.

            The boy walked hesitantly, almost timidly, and Grant wondered if it were fear of him and his position in the government, or only the natural nervousness of a young man about to meet his fiancйe’s wealthy father. The tiny diamond on Sharon's hand sparkled in the yellow light from the fireplace, and she held the hand in an unnatural position.

            "Daddy, I ... I've talked so much about him, this is Allan. He's just asked me to marry him!" She sparkled, Grant saw; and she spoke trustingly, sure of his approval, never thinking he might object. Grant wondered if Sharon weren't the only person in the country who didn't fear him. Except for John Jr., who didn't have to be afraid.

            John was out of the reach of Grant's Security phone. The CD Fleet takes care of its own.

            At least he's asked her to marry him. He might have simply moved in with her. Or has he already? Grant stood and extended his hand. "Hello, Allan."

            Torrey's grip was firm, but his eyes avoided Grant's. "So you want to marry my daughter." Grant glanced pointedly at her left hand. "It appears that she approves the idea."

            "Yes, sir. Uh, sir, she wanted to wait and ask you, but I insisted. It's my fault, sir." Torrey looked up at him this time, almost in defiance.

            "Yes." Grant sat again. "Well, Sharon, as long as you're home for the evening, I wish you'd speak to Hapwood about Prince Bismark. I do not think the animal is prop­erly fed."

            "You mean right now?" she asked. She tightened her small mouth into a pout. "Really, Daddy, this is Victorian! Sending me out of the room while you talk to my fiancйe!"

            "Yes, it is, isn't it?" Grant said nothing else, and finally she turned away.

            Then: "Don't let him frighten you, Allan. He's about as dangerous as that-as that moosehead in the trophy room!" She fled before there could be any reply.

IV

            They sat awkwardly. Grant left his desk to sit near the fire with Torrey. Drinks, offer of a smoke, all the usual amenities-he did them all; but finally Hapwood had brought their refreshments and the door was closed.

            "All right, Allan," John Grant began. "Let us be trite and get it over with. How do you intend to support her?"

            Torrey looked straight at him this time. His eyes danced with what Grant was certain was concealed amusement. "I expect to be appointed to a good post in the Department of the Interior. I'm a trained engineer."

            "Interior?" Grant thought for a second. The answer surprised him-he hadn't thought the boy was another office seeker. "I suppose it can be arranged."

            Torrey grinned. It was an infectious grin, and Grant liked it. "Well, sir, it's already arranged. I wasn't asking for a job."

            "Oh?" Grant shrugged. "I hadn't heard."

            "Deputy Assistant Secretary for Natural Resources. I took a master's in ecology."

            "That's interesting, but I would have thought I'd have heard of your coming appointment."

            "It won't be official yet, sir. Not until Mr. Bertram is elected President. For the moment I'm on his staff." The grin was still there, and it was friendly, not hostile. The boy thought politics was a game. He wanted to win, but it was only a game.

            And he's seen real polls, Grant thought. "Just what do you do for Mr. Bertram, then?"

            Allan shrugged. "Write speeches, carry the mail, run the Xerox-you've been in campaign headquarters. I'm the guy who gets the jobs no one else wants."

            Grant laughed. "I did start as a gopher, but I soon hired my own out of what I once contributed to the Party. They did not try that trick again with me. I don't suppose that course is open to you."

            "No, sir. My father's a taxpayer, but paying taxes is pretty tough just now-"

            "Yes." Well, at least he wasn't from a Citizen family. Grant would learn the details from Ackridge tomorrow, for now the important thing was to get to know the boy.

            It was difficult. Allan was frank and relaxed, and Grant was pleased to see that he refused a third drink, but there was little to talk about. Torrey had no conception of the realities of politics. He was one of Bertram's child cru­saders, and he was out to save the United States from people like John Grant, although he was too polite to say so.

            And I was once that young, Grant thought. I wanted to save the world, but it was so different then. No one wanted to end the CoDominium when I was young. We were too happy to have the Second Cold War over with. What happened to the great sense of relief when we could stop worrying about atomic wars? When I was young that was all we thought of, that we would be the last generation. Now they take it for granted that we'll have peace forever. Is peace such a little thing?

            "There's so much to do," Torrey was saying. "The Baja Project, thermal pollution of the Sea of Cortez. They're killing off a whole ecology just to create estates for the taxpayers.

            "I know it isn't your department, sir, you probably don't even know what they're doing. But Lipscomb has been in office too long! Corruption, special interests, it's time we had a genuine two-party system again instead of things going back and forth between the wings of Unity. It's time for a change, and Mr. Bertram's the right man, I know he is."

            Grant's smile was thin, but he managed it. "You'll hard­ly expect me to agree with you," Grant said.

            "No, sir."

            Grant sighed. "But perhaps you're right at that. I must say I wouldn't mind retiring, so that I could live in this house instead of merely visiting it on weekends."

            What was the point? Grant wondered. He'd never con­vince this boy, and Sharon wanted him. Torrey would drop Bertram after the scandals broke.

            And what explanations were there anyway? The Baja Project was developed to aid a syndicate of taxpayers in the six states of the old former Republic of Mexico. The Government needed them, and they didn't care about whales and fish. Shortsighted, yes, and Grant had tried to argue them into changing the project, but they wouldn't, and politics is the art of the possible.

            Finally, painfully, the interview, ended. Sharon came in, grinning sheepishly because she was engaged to one of Bertram's people, but she understood that no better than Allan Torrey. It was only a game. Bertram would win and Grant would retire, and no one would be hurt.

            How could he tell them that it didn't work that way any longer? Unity wasn't the cleanest party in the world, but at least it had no fanatics-and all over the world the causes were rising again. The Friends of the People were on the move, and it had all happened before, it was all told time and again in those aseptically clean books on the shelves above him.

            BERTRAM AIDES ARRESTED BY INTER­CONTINENTAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGA­TION!! IBI RAIDS SECRET WEAPONS CACHE IN BERTRAM HEADQUARTERS. NUCLEAR WEAPONS HINTED!!!

            Chicago, May 15, (UPI)-IBI agents here have arrested five top aides to Senator Harvey Bertram in what government officials call one of the most de­spicable plots ever discovered....

            Grant read the transcript on his desk screen without satisfaction. It had all gone according to plan, and there was nothing left to do, but he hated it.

            At least it was clean. The evidence was there. Bertram's people could have their trial, challenge jurors, challenge judges. The Government would waive its rights under the Thirty-first Amendment and let the case be tried under the old adversary rules. It wouldn't matter.

            Then he read the small type below. "Arrested were Grigory Kalamintor, nineteen, press secretary to Bertram; Timothy Giordano, twenty-two, secretary; Allan Torrey, twenty-two, executive assistant-" The page blurred, and Grant dropped his face into his hands.

            "My God, what have we done?"

            He hadn't moved when Miss, Ackridge buzzed. "Your daughter on four, sir. She seems upset."

            "Yes." Grant punched savagely at the button. Sharon's face swam into view. Her makeup was ruined by long streaks of tears. She looked older, much like her mother during one of their-

            "Daddy! They've arrested Allan! And I know it isn't true, he wouldn't have anything to do with nuclear weap­ons! A lot of Mr. Bertram's people said there would never be an honest election in this country. They said John Grant would see to that! I told him they were wrong, but they weren't, were they? You've done this to stop the election, haven't you?"

            There was nothing to say because she was right. But who might be listening? "I don't know what you're talking about. I've only seen the Tri-V casts about Allan's arrest, nothing more. Come home, kitten, and we'll talk about it."

            "Oh no! You're not getting me where Dr. Pollard can give me a nice friendly little shot and make me forget about Allan! No! I'm staying with my friends, and I won't be home, Daddy. And when I go to the newspapers, I think they'll listen to me. I don't know what to tell them yet, but I'm sure Mr. Bertram's people will think of some­thing. How do you like that, Mr. God?"

            "Anything you tell the press will be lies, Sharon. You know nothing." One of his assistants had come in and now left the office.

            "Lies? Where did I learn to lie?" The screen went blank.

            And is it that thin? he wondered. All the trust and love, could it vanish that fast, was it that thin?

            "Sir?" It was Hartman, his assistant.

            "Yes?"

            "She was calling from Champaign, Illinois. A Bertram headquarters they think we don't know about. The phone had one of those guaranteed no-trace devices."

            "Trusting lot, aren't they?" Grant said. "Have some good men watch that house, but leave her alone." He stood and felt a wave of nausea so strong that he had to hold the edge of the desk. "MAKE DAMNED SURE THEY LEAVE HER ALONE. DO YOU UNDER­STAND?" he shouted.

            Hartman went as pale as Grant. The chief hadn't raised his voice to one of his own people in five years. "Yes, sir, I understand."

            "Then get out of here." Grant spoke carefully, in low tones, and the cold mechanical voice was more terrifying than the shout.

            He sat alone and stared at the telephone. What use was its power now?

            What can we do? It wasn't generally known that Sharon was engaged to the boy. He'd talked them out of a formal engagement until the banns could be announced in the National Cathedral and they could hold a big social party. It had been something to do for them at the time, but...

            But what? He couldn't have the boy released. Not that boy. He wouldn't keep silent as the price of his own free­dom. He'd take Sharon to a newspaper within five minutes of his release, and the resulting headlines would bring down Lipscomb, Unity, the CoDominium-and the peace. Newsmen would listen to the daughter of the top secret policeman in the country.

            Grant punched a code on the communicator, then an­other. Grand Admiral Lermontov appeared on the screen.

            "Yes, Mr. Grant?"

            "Are you alone?"

            "Yes."

            The conversation was painful, and the long delay while the signals reached the moon and returned didn't make it easier.

            "When is the next CD warship going outsystem? Not a colony ship, and most especially not a prison ship. A war­ship."

            Another long pause, longer even than the delay. "I suppose anything could be arranged," the Admiral said. "What do you need?"

            "I want . . ." Grant hesitated, but there was no time to be lost. No time at all. "I want space for two very impor­tant political prisoners. A married couple. The crew is not to know their identity, and anyone who does learn their identity must stay outsystem for at least five years. And I want them set down on a good colony world, a decent place. Sparta, perhaps. No one ever returns from Sparta. Can you arrange that?"

            Grant could see the changes in Lermontov's face as the words reached him. The Admiral frowned. "It can be done if it is important enough. It will not be easy."

            "It's important enough. My brother Martin will explain everything you'll need to know later. The prisoners will be delivered tonight, Sergei. Please have the ship ready. And -and it better not be Saratoga. My son's in that one and he-he will know one of the prisoners." Grant swallowed hard. 'There should be a chaplain aboard. The kids will be getting married."

            Lermontov frowned again, as if wondering ifJohnGrant had gone insane. Yet he needed the Grants, both of them, and certainly John Grant would not ask such a favor if it were not vital.

            "It will be done," Lermontov said.

            "Thank you. I'll also appreciate it if you will see they have a good estate on Sparta. They are not to know who arranged it. Just have it taken care of and send the bill to me."

            It was all so very simple. Direct his agents to arrest Sharon and conduct her to CD Intelligence. He wouldn't want to see her first. The attorney general would send Torrey to the same place and announce that he had escaped.

            It wasn't as neat as having all of them convicted in open court, but it would do, and having one of them a fugitive from justice would even help. It would be an admission of guilt.

            Something inside him screamed again and again that this was his little girl, the only person in the world who wasn't afraid of him, but Grant refused to listen. He leaned back in the chair and almost calmly dictated his orders.

            He took the flimsy sheet from the writer and his hand didn't tremble at all as he signed it.

            All right, Martin, he thought. All right. I've bought the time you asked for, you and Sergei Lermontov. Now can you do something with it?

2087 A.D.

            The landing boat fell away from the orbiting warship. When it had drifted to a safe distance, retros fired, and after it had entered the thin reaches of the planet's upper atmosphere, scoops opened in the bows. The thin air was drawn in and compressed until the stagnation temperature in the ramjet chamber was high enough for ignition.

            The engines lit with a roar of flame. Wings swung out to provide lift at hypersonic speeds, and the space plane turned to streak over empty ocean toward the continental land mass two thousand kilometers away.

            The ship circled over craggy mountains twelve kilo­meters high, then dropped low over thickly forested plains. It slowed until it was no longer a danger to the thin strip of inhabited lands along the ocean shores. The planet's great ocean was joined to a smaller sea by a nearly land­locked channel no more than five kilometers across at its widest point, and nearly all of the colonists lived near the junction of the waters.

            Hadley's capital city nestled on a long peninsula' at the mouth of that channel, and the two natural harbors, one in the sea, the other in the ocean, gave the city the fitting name of Refuge. The name suggested a tranquility the city no longer possessed.

            The ship extended its wings to their fullest reach and floated low over the calm water of the channel harbor. It touched and settled in. Tugboats raced across clear blue water. Sweating seamen threw lines and towed the landing craft to the dock where they secured it.

            A long line of CoDominium Marines in garrison uni­form marched out of the boat. They gathered on the gray concrete piers into neat brightly colored lines. Two men in civilian clothing followed the Marines from the flyer.

            They blinked at the unaccustomed blue-white of Hadley's sun. The sun was so far away that it would have been only a small point if either of them were foolish enough to look directly at it. The apparent small size was only an illusion caused by distance; Hadley received as much illumination from its hotter sun as Earth does from Sol.

            Both men were tall and stood as straight as the Marines in front of them, so that except for their clothing they might have been mistaken for a part of the disembarking battalion. The shorter of the two carried luggage for both of them, and stood respectfully behind; although older he was obviously a subordinate. They watched as two younger men came uncertainly along the pier. The newcomers' unadorned blue uniforms contrasted sharply with the bright reds and golds of the CoDominium Marines milling around them. Already the Marines were scurrying back into the flyer to carry out barracks bags, weapons, and all the other personal gear of a light infantry battalion.

            The taller of the two civilians faced the uniformed newcomers. "I take it you're here to meet us?" he asked pleasantly. His voice rang through the noise on the pier, and it carried easily although he had not shouted. His accent was neutral, the nearly universal English of non-Russian officers in the CoDominium Service, and it marked his profession almost as certainly as did his posture and the tone of command.

            The newcomers were uncertain even so. There were a lot of ex-officers of the CoDominium Space Navy on the beach lately. CD budgets were lower every year. "I think so," one finally said. "Are you John Christian Falken­berg?"

            His name was actually John Christian Falkenberg III, and he suspected that his grandfather would have insisted on the distinction. "Right. And Sergeant Major Calvin."

            "Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Lieutenant Banners, and this is Ensign Mowrer. We're on President Budreau's staff." Banners looked around as if expecting other men, but there were none except the uniformed Marines. He gave Falkenberg a slightly puzzled look, then added, "We have transportation for you, but I'm afraid your men will have to walk. It's about eleven miles."

            "Miles." Falkenberg smiled to himself. This was out in the boondocks. "I see no reason why ten healthy mercenaries can't march eighteen kilometers, Lieutenant." He turned to face the black shape of the landing boat's entry port and called to someone inside. "Captain Fast. There is no transportation, but someone will show you where to march the men. Have them carry all gear."

            "Uh, sir, that won't be necessary," the lieutenant pro­tested. "We can get-well, we have horse-drawn transport for baggage." He looked at Falkenberg as if he expected him to laugh.

            "That's hardly unusual on colony worlds," Falkenberg said. Horses and mules could be carried as frozen embryos, and they didn't require high-technology industries to pro­duce more, nor did they need an industrial base to fuel them.

            "Ensign Mowrer will attend to it," Lieutenant Banners said. He paused again and looked thoughtful as if uncer­tain how to tell Falkenberg something. Finally he shook his head. "I think it would be wise if you issued your men their personal weapons, sir. There shouldn't be any trouble on their way to barracks, but-anyway, ten armed men certainly won't have any problems."

            "I see. Perhaps I should go with my troops, Lieutenant. I hadn't known things were quite this bad on Hadley." Falkenberg's voice was calm and even, but he watched the junior officers carefully.

            "No, sir. They aren't, really. . . . But there's no point in taking chances." He waved Ensign Mowrer to the land­ing craft and turned back to Falkenberg. A large black shape rose from the water outboard of the landing craft. It splashed and vanished. Banners seemed not to notice, but the Marines shouted excitedly. "I'm sure the ensign and your officers can handle the disembarkation, and the President would like to see you immediately, sir."

            "No doubt. All right, Banners, lead on. I'll bring Ser­geant Major Calvin with me." He followed Banners down the pier.

            There's no point to this farce, Falkenberg thought. Any­one seeing ten armed men conducted by a Presidential ensign will know they're mercenary troops, civilian clothes or not. Another case of wrong information.

            Falkenberg had been told to keep the status of himself and his men a secret, but it wasn't going to work. He wondered if this would make it more difficult to keep his own secrets.

            Banners ushered them quickly through the bustling CoDominium Marine barracks, past bored guards who half-saluted the Presidential Guard uniform. The Marine for­tress was a blur of activity, every open space crammed with packs and weapons; the signs of a military force about to move on to another station.

            As they were leaving the building, Falkenberg saw an elderly Naval officer. "Excuse me a moment, Banners." He turned to the CoDominium Navy captain. "They sent someone for me. Thanks, Ed."

            "No problem. I'll report your arrival to the Admiral. He wants to keep track of you. Unofficially, of course. Good luck, John. God knows you need some right now. It was a rotten deal."

            "It's the way it goes."

            "Yeah, but the Fleet used to take better care of its own than that. I'm beginning to wonder if anyone is safe. Damn Senator-"

            "Forget it," Falkenberg interrupted. He glanced back to be sure Lieutenant Banners was out of earshot. "Pay my respects to the rest of your officers. You run a good ship."

            The captain smiled thinly. "Thanks.  From you that's quite a compliment." He held out his hand and gripped John's firmly. "Look, we pull out in a couple of days, no more than that. If you need a ride on somewhere I can arrange it. The goddam Senate won't have to know. We can fix you a hitch to anywhere in CD territory."

            "Thanks, but I guess I'll stay."

            "Could be rough here," the captain said.

            "And it won't be everywhere else in the CoDominium?" Falkenberg asked. "Thanks again, Ed." He gave a half-salute and checked himself.

            Banners and Calvin were waiting for him, and Falken­berg turned away. Calvin lifted three personal effects bags as if they were empty and pushed the door open in a smooth motion. The CD captain watched until they had left the building, but Falkenberg did not look back.

            "Damn them," the captain muttered. "Damn the lot of them."

            "The car's here." Banners opened the rear door of a battered ground effects vehicle of no discoverable make. It had been cannibalized from a dozen other machines, and some parts were obviously cut-and-try jobs done by an uncertain machinist. Banners climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. It coughed twice, then ran smoothly, and they drove away in a cloud of black smoke.

            They drove past another dock where a landing craft with wings as large as the entire Marine landing boat was unloading an endless stream of civilian passengers. Chil­dren screamed, and long lines of men and women stared about uncertainly until they were ungently hustled along by guards in uniforms matching Banners'. The sour smell of unwashed humanity mingled with the crisp clean salt air from the ocean beyond. Banners rolled up the windows with an expression of distaste.

            "Always like that," Calvin commented to no one in particular. "Water discipline in them CoDominium prison ships bein' what it is, takes weeks dirtside to get clean again."

            "Have you ever been in one of those ships?" Banners asked.

            "No, sir," Calvin replied. "Been in Marine assault boats just about as bad, I reckon. But I can't say I fancy being stuffed into no cubicle with ten, fifteen thousand civilians for six months."

            "We may all see the inside of one of those," Falken­berg said. "And be glad of the chance. Tell me about the situation here, Banners."

            "I don't even know where to start, sir," the lieutenant answered. "I-do you know about Hadley?".

            "Assume I don't," Falkenberg said. May as well see what kind of estimate of the situation the President's offi­cers can make, he thought. He could feel the Fleet Intelli­gence report bulging in an inner pocket of his tunic, but those reports always left out important details; and the attitudes of the Presidential Guard could be important to his plans.

            "Yes, sir. Well, to begin with, we're a long way from the nearest shipping lanes-but I guess you knew that. The only real reason we had any merchant trade was the mines. Thorium, richest veins known anywhere for a while, until they started to run out.

            "For the first few years that's all we had. The mines are up in the hills, about eighty miles over that way." He pointed to a thin blue line just visible at the horizon.

            "Must be pretty high mountains," Falkenberg said. "What's the diameter of Hadley? About eighty percent of Earth? Something like that. The horizon ought to be pret­ty close."

            "Yes, sir. They are high mountains. Hadley is small, but we've got bigger and better everything here." There was pride in the young officer's voice.

            "Them bags seem pretty heavy for a planet this small," Calvin said.

            "Hadley's very dense," Banners answered. "Gravity nearly ninety percent standard. Anyway, the mines are over there, and they have their own spaceport at a lake nearby. Refuge-that's this city-was founded by the American Express Company. They brought in the first colonists, quite a lot of them."

            "Volunteers?" Falkenberg asked.

            "Yes. All volunteers. The usual misfits. I suppose my father was typical enough, an engineer who couldn't keep up with the rat race and was tired of Bureau of Tech­nology restrictions on what he could learn. They were the first wave, and they took the best land. They founded the city and got an economy going. American Express was paid back all advances within twenty years." Banners' pride was evident, and Falkenberg knew it had been a difficult job.

            "That was, what, fifty years ago?" Falkenberg asked.

            "Yes."

            They were driving through crowded streets lined with wooden houses and a few stone buildings. There were rooming houses, bars, sailors' brothels, all the usual estab­lishments of a dock street, but there were no other cars on the road. Instead the traffic was all horses and oxen pulling carts, bicycles, and pedestrians.

            The sky above Refuge was clear. There was no trace of smog or industrial wastes. Out in the harbor tugboats moved with the silent efficiency of electric power, and there were also wind-driven sailing ships, lobster boats powered by oars, even a topsail schooner lovely against clean blue water. She threw up white spume as she raced out to sea. A three-masted, full-rigged ship was drawn up to a wharf where men loaded her by hand with huge bales of what might have been cotton.

            They passed a wagonload of melons. A gaily dressed young couple waved cheerfully at them, then the man snapped a long whip at the team of horses that pulled their wagon. Falkenberg studied the primitive scene and said, "It doesn't look like you've been here fifty years."

            "No." Banners gave them a bitter look. Then he swerved to avoid a group of shapeless teenagers lounging in the dockside street. He had to swerve again to avoid the barricade of paving stones that they had masked. The car jounced wildly. Banners gunned it to lift it higher and headed for a low place in the barricade. It scraped as it went over the top, then he accelerated away.

            Falkenberg took his hand from inside his shirt jacket. Behind him Calvin was inspecting a submachine gun that had appeared from the oversized barracks bag he'd brought into the car with him. When Banners said nothing about the incident, Falkenberg frowned and leaned back in his seat, listening. The Intelligence reports mentioned lawless­ness, but this was as bad as a Welfare Island on Earth.

            "No, we're not much industrialized," Banners continued. "At first there wasn't any need to develop basic industries. The mines made everyone rich, so we imported everything we needed. The farmers sold fresh produce to the miners, for enormous prices. Refuge was a service industry town. People who worked here could soon afford farm animals, and they scattered out across the plains and into the forests."

            Falkenberg nodded. "Many of them wouldn't care for cities."

            "Precisely. They didn't want industry, they'd come here to escape it." Banners drove in silence for a moment. "Then some blasted CoDominium bureaucrat read the ecology reports about Hadley. The Population Control Bureau in Washington decided this was a perfect place for involuntary colonization. The ships were coming here for the thorium anyway, so instead of luxuries and machinery they were ordered to carry convicts. Hundreds of thousands of them, Colonel Falkenberg. For the last ten years there have been better than fifty thousand people a year dumped in on us."

            "And you couldn't support them all," Falkenberg said gently.

            "No, sir." Banners' face tightened. He seemed to be fighting tears. "God knows we try. Every erg the fusion generators can make goes into converting petroleum into basic protocarb just to feed them. But they're not like the original colonists! They don't know anything, they won't do anything! Oh, not really, of course. Some of them work. Some of our best citizens are transportees. But there are so many of the other kind."

            "Why'n't you tell 'em to work or starve?" Calvin asked bluntly. Falkenberg gave him a cold look, and the sergeant nodded slightly and sank back into his seat. "Because the CD wouldn't let us!" Banners shouted. "Damn it, we didn't have self-government. The CD Bureau of Relocation people told us what to do. They ran everything ..."

            "We know," Falkenberg said gently. "We've seen the results of Humanity League influence over BuRelock. My sergeant major wasn't asking you a question, he was ex­pressing an opinion. Nevertheless, I am surprised. I would have thought your farms could support the urban popula­tion."

            "They should be able to, sir." Banners drove in grim silence for a long minute. "But there's no transportation. The people are here, and most of the agricultural land is five hundred miles inland. There's arable land closer, but it isn't cleared. Our settlers wanted to get away from Ref­uge and BuRelock. We have a railroad, but bandit gangs keep blowing it up. We can't rely on Hadley's produce to keep Refuge alive. There are a million people on Hadley, and half of them are crammed into this one ungovernable city.'

            They were approaching an enormous bowl-shaped struc­ture attached to a massive square stone fortress. Falken­berg studied the buildings carefully, then asked what they were.

            "Our stadium," Banners replied. There was no pride in his voice now. "The CD built it for us. We'd rather have had a new fusion plant, but we got a stadium that can hold a hundred thousand people."

            "Built by the GLC Construction and Development Company, I presume," Falkenberg said.

            "Yes ... how did you know?"

            "I think I saw it somewhere." He hadn't, but it was an easy guess: GLC was owned by a holding company that was in turn owned by the Bronson family. It was easy enough to understand why aid sent by the CD Grand Senate would end up used for something GLC might par­ticipate in.

            "We have very fine sports teams and racehorses," Ban­ners said bitterly. "The building next to it is the Presiden­tial Palace. Its architecture is quite functional." The Palace loomed up before them, squat and massive; it looked more fortress than capital building. The city was more thickly populated as they approached the Palace. The buildings here were mostly stone and poured concrete instead of wood. Few were more than three stories high, so that Refuge sprawled far along the shore. The population density increased rapidly beyond the stadium-palace complex. Banners was watchful as he drove along the wide streets, but he seemed less nervous than he had been at dockside.

            Refuge was a city of contrasts. The streets were straight and wide, and there was evidently a good waste-disposal system, but the lower floors of the buildings were open shops, and the sidewalks were clogged with market stalls. Clouds of pedestrians moved through the kiosks and shops.

            There was still no motor traffic and no moving ped-ways. Horse troughs and hitching posts had been con­structed at frequent intervals along with starkly functional street lights and water distribution towers. The few signs of technology contrasted strongly with the general primi­tive air of the city.

            A contingent of uniformed men thrust their way through the crowd at a street crossing. Falkenberg looked at them closely, then at Banners. "Your troops?"

            "No, sir. That's the livery of Glenn Foster's household. Officially they're unorganized reserves of the President's Guard, but they're household troops all the same." Ban­ners laughed bitterly. "Sounds like something out of a history book, doesn't it? We're nearly back to feudalism, Colonel Falkenberg. Anyone rich enough keeps hired bodyguards. They have to. The criminal gangs are so strong the police don't try to catch anyone under organized protection, and the judges wouldn't punish them if they were caught."

            "And the private bodyguards become gangs in their own right, I suppose,"

            Banners looked at him sharply. "Yes, sir. Have you seen it before?"

            "Yes. I've seen it before." Banners was unable to make out the expression on Falkenberg's lips.

VI

            They drove into the Presidential Palace and received the salutes of the blue uniformed troopers. Falkenberg noted the polished weapons and precise drill of the Presidential Guard. There were well-trained men on duty here, but the unit was small. Falkenberg wondered if they could fight as well as stand guard. They were local citizens, loyal to Hadley, and would be unlike the CoDominium Marines he was accustomed to.

            He was conducted through a series of rooms in the stone fortress. Each had heavy metal doors, and several were guardrooms. Falkenberg saw no signs of government ac­tivity until they had passed through the outer layers of the enormous palace into an open courtyard, and through that to an inner building.

            Here there was plenty of activity. Clerks bustled through the halls, and girls in the draped togas fashionable years before on Earth sat at desks in offices. Most seemed to be packing desk contents into boxes, and other people scurried through the corridors. Some offices were empty, their desks covered with fine dust, and there were plasti-board moving boxes stacked outside them.

            There were two anterooms to the President's office. President Budreau was a tall, thin man with a red pencil mustache and quick gestures. As they were ushered into the overly ornate room the President looked up from a sheaf of papers, but his eyes did not focus immediately on his visitors. His face was a mask of worry and con­centration.

            "Colonel John Christian Falkenberg, sir," Lieutenant Banners said. "And Sergeant Major Calvin."

            Budreau got to his feet. "Pleased to see you, Falkenberg." His expression told them differently; he looked at his visitors with faint distaste and motioned Banners out of the room. When the door closed he asked, "How many men did you bring with you?"

            "Ten, Mr. President. All we could bring aboard the carrier without arousing suspicion. We were lucky to get that many. The Grand Senate had an inspector at theload­ing docks to check for violation of the anti-mercenary codes. If we hadn't bribed a port official to distract him we wouldn't be here at all. Calvin and I would be on Tanith as involuntary colonists."

            "I see." From his expression he wasn't surprised. John thought Budreau would have been more pleased if the inspector had caught them. The President tapped the desk nervously. "Perhaps that will be enough. I understand the ship you came with also brought the Marines who have volunteered to settle on Hadley. They should provide the nucleus of an excellent constabulary. Good troops?"

            "It was a demobilized battalion," Falkenberg replied. "Those are the troops the CD didn't want anymore. Could be the scrapings of every guardhouse on twenty planets. We'll be lucky if there's a real trooper in the lot."

            Budreau's face relaxed into its former mask of depres­sion. Hope visibly drained from him.

            "Surely you have troops of your own," Falkenberg said.

            Budreau picked up a sheaf of papers. "It's all here. I was just looking it over when you came in." He handed the report to Falkenberg. "There's little encouragement in it, Colonel. I have never thought there was any military solution to Hadley's problems, and this confirms that fear. If you have only ten men plus a battalion of forced-labor Marines, the military answer isn't even worth considering."

            Budreau returned to his seat. His hands moved restlessly over the sea of papers on his desk. "If I were you, Falken­berg, I'd get back on that Navy boat and forget Hadley."

            "Why don't you?"

            "Because Hadley's my home! No rabble is going to drive me off the plantation my grandfather built with his own hands. They will not make me run out." Budreau clasped his hands together until the knuckles were white with the strain, but when he spoke again his voice was calm. "You have no stake here. I do."

            Falkenberg took the report from the desk and leafed through the pages before handing it to Calvin. "We've come a long way, Mr. President. You may as well tell me what the problem is before I leave."

            Budreau nodded sourly. The red mustache twitched and he ran the back of his hand across it. "It's simple enough. The ostensible reason you're here, the reason we gave the Colonial Office for letting us recruit a planetary constabu­lary, is the bandit gangs out in the hills. No one knows how many of them there are, but they are strong enough to raid farms. They also cut communications between Refuge and the countryside whenever they want to."

            "Yes." Falkenberg stood in front of the desk because he hadn't been invited to sit. If that bothered him it did not show. "Guerrilla gangsters have no real chance if they've no political base."

            Budreau nodded. "But, as I am sure Vice President Bradford told you, they are not the real problem." The President's voice was strong, but there was a querulous note in it, as if he was accustomed to having his conclusions argued against and was waiting for Falkenberg to begin. "Actually, we could live with the bandits, but they get political support from the Freedom Party. My Pro­gressive Party is larger than the Freedom Party, but the Progressives are scattered all over the planet. The FP is concentrated right here in Refuge, and they have God knows how many voters and about forty thousand loyalists they can concentrate whenever they want to stage a riot."

            "Do you have riots very often?" John asked.

            'Too often. There's not much to control them with. I have three hundred men in the Presidential Guard, but they're CD recruited and trained like young Banners. They're not much use at riot control, and they're loyal to the job, not to me anyway. The FP's got men inside the guard."

            "So we can scratch the President's Guard when it comes to controlling the Freedom Party," John observed.

            "Yes." Budreau smiled without amusement. "Then there's my police force. My police were all commanded by CD officers who are pulling out. My administrative staff was recruited and trained by BuRelock, and all the com­petent people have been recalled to Earth."

            "I can see that would create a problem."

            "Problem? It's impossible," Budreau said. "There's no­body left with skill enough to govern, but I've got the job and everybody else wants it. I might be able to scrape up a thousand Progressive partisans and another fifteen thou­sand party workers who would fight for us in a pinch, but they have no training. How can they face the FP's forty thousand?"

            'You seriously believe the Freedom Party will revolt?"

            "As soon as the CD's out, you can count on it. They've demanded a new constitutional convention to assemble just after the CoDominium Governor leaves. If we don't give them the convention they'll rebel and carry a lot of un­decided with them. After all, what's unreasonable about a convention when the colonial governor has gone?"

            "I see."

            "And if we do give them the convention they want, they'll drag things out until there's nobody left in it but their people. My Party is composed of working voters. How can they stay on day after day? The FP's unemployed will sit it out until they can throw the Progressives out of office. Once they get in they'll ruin the planet. Under the circumstances I don't see what a military man can do for us, but Vice President Bradford insisted that we hire you."

            "Perhaps we can think of something," Falkenberg said smoothly. "I've no experience in administration as such, but Hadley is not unique. I take it the Progressive Party is mostly old settlers?"

            "Yes and no. The Progressive Party wants to indus­trialize Hadley, and some of our farm families oppose that. But we want to do it slowly. We'll close most of the mines and take out only as much thorium as we have to sell to get the basic industrial equipment. I want to keep the rest for our own fusion generators, because we'll need it later.

            "We want to develop agriculture and transport, and cut the basic citizen ration so that we'll have the fusion power available for our new industries. I want to close out con­venience and consumer manufacturing and keep it closed until we can afford it." Budreau's voice rose and his eyes shone; it was easier to see why he had become popular. He believed in his cause.

            "We want to build the tools of a self-sustaining world and get along without the CoDominium until we can rejoin the human race as equals!" Budreau caught himself and frowned. "Sorry. Didn't mean to make a speech. Have a seat, won't you?"

            "Thank you." Falkenberg sat in a heavy leather chair and looked around the room. The furnishings were ornate, and the office decor had cost a fortune to bring from Earth; but most of it was tasteless-spectacular rather than elegant. The Colonial Office did that sort of thing a lot, and Falkenberg wondered which Grand Senator owned the firm that supplied office furnishings. "What does the opposition want?"

            "I suppose you really do need to know all this." Budreau frowned and his mustache twitched nervously. He made an effort to relax, and John thought the President had probably been an impressive man once. "The Freedom Party's slogan is 'Service to the People.' Service to them means consumer goods now. They want strip mining. That's got the miners' support, you can bet. The FP will rape this planet to buy goods from other systems, and to hell with how they're paid for. Runaway inflation will be only one of the problems they'll create."

            "They sound ambitious."

            "Yes. They even want to introduce internal combustion engine economy. God knows how, there's no support technology here, but there's oil. We'd have to buy all that from off planet, there's no heavy industry here to make engines even if the ecology could absorb them, but that doesn't matter to the FP. They promise cars for everyone. Instant modernization. More food, robotic factories, en­tertainment, in short, paradise and right now."

            "Do they mean it, or is that just slogans?"

            "I think most of them mean it," Budreau answered. "It's hard to believe, but I think they do."

            "Where do they say they'll get the money?"

            "Soaking the rich, as if there were enough wealthy people here to matter. Total confiscation of everything everyone owns wouldn't pay for all they promise. Those people have no idea of the realities of our situation, and their leaders are ready to blame anything that's wrong on the Progressive Party, CoDominium administrators, anything but admit that what they promise just isn't possible. Some of the Party leaders may know better, but they don't admit it if they do."

            "I take it that program has gathered support."

            "Of course it has," Budreau fumed. "And every BuRelock ship brings thousands more ready to vote the FP line."

            Budreau got up from his desk and went to a cabinet on the opposite wall. He took out a bottle of brandy and three glasses and poured, handing them to Calvin and Falkenberg. Then he ignored the sergeant but waited for Falkenberg to lift his glass.

            "Cheers." Budreau drained the glass at one gulp. "Some of the oldest families on Hadley have joined the damned Freedom Party. They're worried about the taxes I've proposed! The FP won't leave them anything at all, but they still join the opposition in hopes of making deals. You don't look surprised."

            "No, sir. It's a story as old as history, and a military man reads history."

            Budreau looked up in surprise. "Really?"

            "A smart soldier wants to know the causes of wars. Also how to end them. After all, war is the normal state of affairs, isn't it? Peace is the name of the ideal we deduce from the fact that there have been interludes between wars." Before Budreau could answer, Falkenberg said, "No mat­ter. I take it you expect armed resistance immediately after the CD pulls out."

            "I hoped to prevent it. Bradford thought you might be able to do something, and I'm gifted at the art of persua­sion." The President sighed. "But it seems hopeless. They don't want to compromise. They think they can get a total victory."

            "I wouldn't think they'd have much of a record to run on," Falkenberg said.

            Budreau laughed. "The FP partisans claim credit for driving the CoDominium out, Colonel."

            They laughed together. The CoDominium was leaving because the mines were no longer worth enough to make it pay to govern Hadley. If the mines were as productive as they'd been in the past, no partisans would drive the Marines away.

            Budreau nodded as if reading his thoughts. "Well, they have people believing it anyway. There was a campaign of terrorism for years, nothing very serious. It didn't threaten the mine shipments, or the Marines would have put a stop to it. But they have demoralized the capital police. Out in the bush people administer their own justice, but here in Refuge the FP gangs control a lot of the city."

            Budreau pointed to a stack of papers on one corner of the desk. "Those are resignations from the force. I don't even know how many police I'll have left when the CD pulls out." Budreau's fist tightened as if he wanted to pound on the desk, but he sat rigidly still. "Pulls out. For years they ran everything, and now they're leaving us to clean up. I'm President by courtesy of the CoDominium. They put me in office, and now they're leaving."

            "At least you're in charge," Falkenberg said. "The BuRelock people wanted someone else. Bradford talked them out of it."

            "Sure. And it cost us a lot of money. For what? Maybe it would have been better the other way."

            "I thought you said their policies would ruin Hadley."

            "I did say that. I believe it. But the policy issues came after the split, I think."

            Budreau was talking to himself as much as to John. "Now they hate us so much they oppose anything we want out of pure spite. And we do the same thing."

            "Sounds like CoDominium politics. Russkis and US in the Grand Senate. Just like home." There was no humor in the polite laugh that followed.

            Budreau opened a desk drawer and took out a parch­ment. "I'll keep the agreement, of course. Here's your commission as commander of the constabulary. But I still think you might be better off taking the next ship out. Hadley's problems can't be solved by military consultants."

            Sergeant Major Calvin snorted. The sound was almost inaudible, but Falkenberg knew what he was thinking. Budreau shrank from the bald term "mercenary," as if "military consultant" were easier on his conscience. John finished his drink and stood.

            "Mr. Bradford wants to see you," Budreau said. "Lieu­tenant Banners will be outside to show you to his office."

            "Thank you, sir." Falkenberg strode from the big room. As he closed the door he saw Budreau going back to the liquor cabinet.

            Vice President Ernest Bradford was a small man with a smile that never seemed to fade. He worked at being liked, but it didn't always work. Still, he had gathered a following of dedicated party workers, and he fancied himself an accomplished politician.

            When Banners showed Falkenberg into the office, Brad­ford smiled even more broadly, but he suggested that Banners should take Calvin on a tour of the Palace guard­rooms. Falkenberg nodded and let them go.

            The Vice President's office was starkly functional. The desks and chairs were made of local woods with an in­different finish, and a solitary rose in a crystal vase pro­vided the only color. Bradford was dressed in the same manner, shapeless clothing bought from a cheap store.

            "Thank God you're here," Bradford said when the door was closed. "But I'm told you only brought ten men. We can't do anything with just ten men! You were supposed to bring over a hundred men loyal to us!" He bounced up excitedly from his chair, then sat again. "Can you do something?"

            "There were ten men in the Navy ship with me," Falkenberg said. "When you show me where I'm to train the regiment I'll find the rest of the mercenaries."

            Bradford gave him a broad wink and beamed. "Then you did bring more! We'll show them-all of them. We'll win yet. What did you think of Budreau?"

            "He seems sincere enough. Worried, of course. I think I would be in his place."

            Bradford shook his head. "He can't make up his mind. About anything! He wasn't so bad before, but lately he's had to be forced into making every decision. Why did the Colonial Office pick him? I thought you were going to arrange for me to be President. We gave you enough money."

            "One thing at a time," Falkenberg said. "The Under­secretary couldn't justify you to the Minister. We can't get to everyone, you know. It was hard enough for Profes­sor Whitlock to get them to approve Budreau, let alone you. We sweated blood just getting them to let go of having a Freedom Party President."

            Bradford's head bobbed up and down like a puppet's. "I knew I could trust you," he said. His smile was warm, but despite all his efforts to be sincere it did not come through. "You have kept your part of the bargain, anyway. And once the CD is gone-"

            "We'll have a free hand, of course."

            Bradford smiled again. "You are a very strange man, Colonel Falkenberg. The talk was that you were utterly loyal to the CoDominium. When Dr. Whitlock suggested that you might be available I was astounded."

            "I had very little choice," Falkenberg reminded him.

            "Yes." Bradford didn't say that Falkenberg had little more now, but it was obvious that he thought it. His smile expanded confidentially. "Well, we have to let Mr. Hamner meet you now. He's the Second Vice President. Then we can go to the Warner estate. I've arranged for your troops to be quartered there, it's what you wanted for a training ground. No one will bother you. You can say your other men are local volunteers."

            Falkenberg nodded. "I'll manage. I'm getting rather good at cover stories lately."

            "Sure," Bradford beamed again.. "By God, we'll win this yet." He touched a button on his desk. "Ask Mr. Hamner to come in, please." He winked at Falkenberg and said, "Can't spend too long alone. Might give someone the idea that we have a conspiracy."

            "How does Hamner fit in?" Falkenberg asked,

            "Wait until you see him. Budreau trusts him, and he's dangerous. He represents the technology people in the Progressive Party. We can't do without him, but his poli­cies are ridiculous. He wants to turn loose of everything. If he has his way, there won't be any government. And his people take credit for everything-as if technology was all there was to government. He doesn't know the first thing about governing. All the people we have to keep happy, the meetings, he thinks that's all silly, that you can build a party by working like an engineer."

            "In other words, he doesn't understand the political realities," Falkenberg said.

            "Just so. I suppose he has to go, then."

            Bradford nodded, smiling again. "Eventually. But we do need his influence with the technicians at the moment. And of course, he knows nothing about any arrangements you and I have made."

            "Of course." Falkenberg sat easily and studied maps until the intercom announced that Hamner was outside. He wondered idly if the office were safe to talk in. Brad­ford was the most likely man to plant devices in other people's offices, but he couldn't be the only one who'd benefit from eavesdropping, and no place could be ab­solutely safe.

            There isn't much I can do if it is, Falkenberg decided. And it's probably clean.

            George Hamner was a large man, taller than Falkenberg and even heavier than Sergeant Major Calvin. He had the relaxed movements of a big man, and much of the easy confidence that massive size usually wins. People didn't pick fights with George Hamner. His grip was gentle when they shook hands, but he closed his fist relentlessly, testing Falkenberg carefully. As he felt answering pres­sure he looked surprised, and the two men stood in silence for a long moment before Hamner relaxed and waved to Bradford.

            "So you're our new colonel of constabulary," Hamner said. "Hope you know what you're getting into. I should say I hope you don't know. If you know about our prob­lems and take the job anyway, we'll have to wonder if you're sane."

            "I keep hearing about how severe Hadley's problems are," Falkenberg said. "If enough of you keep saying it, maybe I'll believe it's hopeless, but right now I don't see it. So we're outnumbered by the Freedom Party people. What kind of weapons do they have to make trouble with?"

            Hamner laughed. "Direct sort of guy, aren't you? I like that. There's nothing spectacular about their weapons, just a lot of them. Enough small problems make a big problem, right? But the CD hasn't permitted any big stuff. No tanks or armored cars, hell, there aren't enough cars of any kind to make any difference. No fuel or power distribution net ever built, so no way cars would be use­ful. We've got a subway, couple of monorails for in-city stuff, and what's left of the railroad . . . you didn't ask for a lecture on transportation, did you."

            "No."

            Hamner laughed. "It's my pet worry at the moment. We don't have enough. Let's see, weapons. . . ." The big man sprawled into a chair. He hooked one leg over the arm and ran his fingers through thick hair just receding from his large brows. "No military aircraft, hardly any aircraft at all except for a few choppers. No artillery, machine guns, heavy weapons in general. Mostly light-caliber hunting rifles and shotguns. Some police weapons. Military rifles and bayonets, a few, and we have almost all of them. Out in the streets you can find anything Colonel, and I mean literally anything. Bows and arrows, knives, swords, axes, hammers, you name it."

            "He doesn't need to know about obsolete things like that," Bradford said. His voice was heavy with contempt, but he still wore his smile.

            "No weapon is ever really obsolete," Falkenberg said. "Not in the hands of a man who'll use it. What about body armor? How good a supply of Nemourlon do you have?"

            Hamner looked thoughtful for a second. "There's some body armor in the streets, and the police have some. The President's Guard doesn't use the stuff. I can supply you with Nemourlon, but you'll have to make your own armor out of it. Can you do that?"

            Falkenberg nodded. "Yes. I brought an excellent technician and  some tools. Gentlemen, the situation's about what I expected. I can't see why everyone is so worried. We have a battalion of CD Marines, not the best Marines perhaps, but they're trained soldiers. With the weapons of a light infantry battalion and the training I can give the recruits we'll add to the battalion, I'll undertake to face your forty thousand Freedom Party people. The guerrilla problem will be somewhat more severe, but we control all the food distribution in the city. With ration cards and identity papers it should not be difficult to set up con­trols."

            Hamner laughed. It was a bitter laugh. "You want to tell him, Ernie?"

            Bradford looked confused. "Tell him what?" Hamner laughed again.

            "Not doing your homework. It's in the morning report for a couple of days ago. The Colonial Office has decided, on the advice of BuRelock, that Hadley does not need any military weapons. The CD Marines will be lucky to keep their rifles and bayonets. All the rest of their gear goes out with the CD ships."

            "But this is insane," Bradford protested. He turned to Falkenberg. "Why would they do that?"

            Falkenberg shrugged. "Perhaps some Freedom Party manager got to a Colonial Office official. I assume they are not above bribery?"

            "Of course not," Bradford said. "We've got to do some­thing!"

            "If we can. I suspect it will not be easy." Falkenberg pursed his lips into a tight line. "I hadn't counted on this. It means that if we tighten up control through food ration­ing and identity documents, we face armed rebellion. How well organized are these FP partisans, anyway?"

            "Well organized and well financed," Hamner said. "And I'm not so sure about ration cards being the answer to the guerrilla problem anyway. The CoDominium was able to put up with a lot of sabotage because they weren't inter­ested in anything but the mines, but we can't live with the level of terror we have right now in this city. Some way or other we have to restore order-and justice, for that matter."

            "Justice isn't something soldiers ordinarily deal with," Falkenberg said. "Order's another matter. That I think we can supply."

            "With a few hundred men?" Hamner’s voice was incredulous. "But I like your attitude. At least you don't sit around and whine for somebody to help you. Or sit and think and never make up your mind."

            "We will see what we can do," Falkenberg said.

            "Yeah." Hamner got up and went to the door. "Well, I wanted to meet you, Colonel. Now I have. I'vegot work to do. I'd think Ernie does too, but I don't notice him doing much of it." He didn't look at them again, but went out, leaving the door open.

            "You see," Bradford said. He closed the door gently. His smile was knowing. "He is useless. We'll find some­one to deal with the technicians as soon as you've got everything else under control."

            "He seemed to be right on some points," Falkenberg said. "For example, he knows it won't be easy to get proper police protection established. I saw an example of what goes on in Refuge on the way here, and if it's that bad all over-"

            "You'll find a way," Bradford said. He seemed certain. "You can recruit quite a large force, you know. And a lot of the lawlessness is nothing more than teenage street gangs. They're not loyal to anything, Freedom Party, us, the CD, or anything else. They merely want to control the block they live on."

            "Sure. But they're hardly the whole problem."

            "No. But you'll find a way. And forget Hamner. His whole group is rotten. They're not real Progressives, that's all." His voice was emphatic, and his eyes seemed to shine. Bradford lowered his voice and leaned forward. "Hamner used to be in the Freedom Party, you know. He claims to have broken with them over technology policies, but you can never trust a man like that."

            "I see. Fortunately, I don't have to trust him."

            Bradford beamed. "Precisely. Now let's get you started. You have a lot of work, and don't forget now, you've already agreed to train some party troops for me."

VII

            The estate was large, nearly five kilometers on a side, located in low hills a day's march from the city of Refuge. There was a central house and barns, all made of local wood that resembled oak. The buildings nestled in a wooded bowl in the center of the estate.

            "You're sure you won't need anything more?" Lieu­tenant Banners asked.

            "No, thank you," Falkenberg said. "The few men we have with us carry their own gear. We'll have to arrange for food and fuel when the others come, but for now we'll make do."

            "All right, sir," Banners said. "I'll go back with Mowrer and leave you the car, then. And you've the animals...."

            "Yes. Thank you, Lieutenant."

            Banners saluted and got into the car. He started to say something else, but Falkenberg had turned away and Banners drove off the estate.

            Calvin watched him leave. "That's a curious one," he said. "Reckon he'd like to know more about what we're doing."

            Falkenberg's lips twitched into a thin smile. "I expect he would at that. You will see to it that he learns no more than we want him to."

            "Aye aye, sir. Colonel, what was that Mr. Bradford was saying about Party troopers? We going to have many of them?"

            "I think so." Falkenberg walked up the wide lawn to­ward the big ranch house. Captain Fast and several or the others were waiting on the porch, and there was a bottle of whiskey on the table.

            Falkenberg poured a drink and tossed it off. "I think we'll have quite a few Progressive Party loyalists here once we start, Calvin. I'm not looking forward to it, but they were inevitable."

            "Sir?" Captain Fast had been listening quietly.

            Falkenberg gave him a half-smile. "Do you really think the governing authorities are going to hand over a monop­oly of military force to us?"

            "You think they don't trust us."

            "Amos, would you trust us?"

            "No sir," Captain Fast said. "But we could hope."

            "We will not accomplish our mission on hope, Captain. Sergeant Major."

            "Sir."

            "I have an errand for you later this evening. For the moment, find someone to take me to my quarters and then see about our dinner."

            "Sir."

            Falkenberg woke to a soft rapping on the door of his room. He opened his eyes and put his hand on the pistol under his pillow, but made no other movement.

            The rap came again. "Yes," Falkenberg called softly.

            "I'm back, Colonel," Calvin answered.

            "Right. Come in." Falkenberg swung his feet out of his bunk and pulled on his boots. He was fully dressed otherwise.

            Sergeant Major Calvin came in. He was dressed in the light leather tunic and trousers of the CD Marine battle-dress. The total black of a night combat coverall protruded from the war bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a pistol on his belt, and a heavy trench knife was slung in a holster on his left breast.

            A short wiry man with a thin brown mustache came in with Calvin.

            "Glad to see you," Falkenberg said. "Have any trouble?"

            "Gang of toughs tried to stir up something as we was coming through the city, Colonel," Calvin replied. He grinned wolfishly. "Didn't last long enough to set any records."

            "Anyone hurt?"

            "None that couldn't walk away."

            "Good. Any problem at the relocation barracks?"

            "No, sir," Calvin replied. "They don't guard them places! Anybody wants to get away from BuRelock's charity, they let 'em go. Without ration cards, of course. This was just involuntary colonists, not convicts."

            As he took Calvin's report, Falkenberg was inspecting the man who had come in with him. Major Jeremy Savage looked tired and much older than his forty-five years. He was thinner than John remembered him.

            "Bad as I've heard?" Falkenberg asked him.

            "No picnic," Savage replied in the clipped accents he'd learned when he grew up on Churchill. "Didn't expect it to be. We're here, John Christian."

            "Yes, and thank God. Nobody spotted you? The men behave all right?"

            "Yes, sir. We were treated no differently from any other involuntary colonists. The men behaved splendidly, and a week or two of hard exercise should get us all back in shape. Sergeant Major tells me the battalion arrived in­tact."

            "Yes. They're still at Marine barracks. That's our weak link, Jeremy. I want them out here where we control who they talk to, and as soon as possible."

            "You've got the best ones. I think they'll be all right."

            Falkenberg nodded. "But keep your eyes open, Jerry, and be careful with the men until the CD pulls out. I've hired Dr. Whitlock to check things for us. He hasn't reported in yet, but I assume he's on Hadley."

            Savage acknowledged Falkenberg's wave and sat in the room's single chair. He took a glass of whiskey from Calvin with a nod of thanks.

            "Going all out hiring experts, eh? He's said to be the best available. . . . My, that's good. They don't have any­thing to drink on those BuRelock ships."

            "When Whitlock reports in we'll have a full staff meet­ing," Falkenberg said. "Until then, stay with the plan. Bradford is supposed to send the battalion out tomorrow, and soon after that he'll begin collecting volunteers from his party. We're supposed to train them. Of course, they'll all be loyal to Bradford. Not to the Party and certainly not to us."

            Savage nodded and held out the glass to Calvin for a refill.

            "Now tell me a bit about those toughs you fought on the way here, Sergeant Major," Falkenberg said.

            "Street gang, Colonel. Not bad at individual fightin', but no organization. Hardly no match for near a hundred of us."

            "Street gang." John pulled his lower lip speculatively, then grinned.  "How many of our battalion used to be punks just like them, Sergeant Major?"

            "Half anyway, sir. Includin' me."

            Falkenberg nodded. "I think it might be a good thing if the Marines got to meet some of those kids, Sergeant Major. Informally, you know."

            "Sir!" Calvin's square face beamed with anticipation.

            "Now," Falkenberg continued. "Recruits will be our real problem. You can bet some of them will try to get chummy with the troops. They'll want to pump the men about their backgrounds and outfits. And the men will drink, and when they drink they talk. How will you handle that, Top Soldier?"

            Calvin looked thoughtful. "Won't be no trick for a while. We'll keep the recruits away from the men except drill instructors, and DI's don't talk to recruits. Once they've passed basic it'll get a bit stickier, but hell, Colonel, troops like to lie about their campaigns. We'll just en­courage 'em to fluff it up a bit. The stories'll be so tall nobody'll believe 'em."

            "Right. I don't have to tell both of you we're skating on pretty thin ice for a while."

            "We'll manage, Colonel." Calvin was positive. He'd been with Falkenberg a long time, and although any man can make mistakes, it was Calvin's experience that Fal­kenberg would find a way out of any hole they dropped into.

            And if they didn't-well, over every CD orderly room door was a sign. It said, "You are Marines in order to die, and the Fleet will send you where you can die." Calvin had walked under that sign to enlist, and thousands of times since.

            "That's it, then, Jeremy," Falkenberg said.

            "Yes, sir," Savage said crisply. He stood and saluted. "Damned if it doesn't feel good to be doing this again, sir." Years fell away from his face.

            "Good to have you back aboard," Falkenberg replied. He stood to return the salute. "And thanks, Jerry. For everything...."

            The Marine battalion arrived the next day. They were marched to the camp by regular CD Marine officers, who turned them over to Falkenberg. The captain in charge of the detail wanted to stay around and watch, but Falkenberg found an errand for him and sent Major Savage along to keep him company. An hour later there was no one in the camp but Falkenberg's people.

            Two hours later the troops were at work constructing their own base camp.

            Falkenberg watched from the porch of the ranch house. "Any problems, Sergeant Major?" he asked.

            Calvin fingered the stubble on his square jaw. He shaved twice a day on garrison duty, and at the moment he was wondering if he needed his second. "Nothing a trooper's blast won't cure, Colonel. With your permission I'll draw a few barrels of whiskey tonight and let 'em tie one on before the recruits come in."

            "Granted."

            "They won't be fit for much before noon tomorrow, but we're on schedule now. The extra work'll be good for 'em."

            "How many will run?"

            Calvin shrugged. "Maybe none, Colonel. We got enough to keep 'em busy, and they don't know this place very well. Recruits'll be a different story, and once they get in we may have a couple take off."

            "Yes. Well, see what you can do. We're going to need every man. You heard President Budreau's assessment of the situation."

            "Yes, sir. That'll make the troops happy. Sounds like a good fight comin' up."

            "I think you can safely promise the men some hard fighting, Sergeant Major. They'd also better understand that there's no place to go if we don't win this one. No pickups on this tour."

            "No pickups on half the missions we've been on, Colonel. I better see Cap'n Fast about the brandy. Join us about midnight, sir? The men would like that."

            "I'll be along, Sergeant Major."

            Calvin's prediction was wrong: the troops were useless throughout the entire next day. The recruits arrived the day after.

            The camp was a flurry of activity. The Marines relearned lessons of basic training. Each  maniple of five men cooked for itself, did its own laundry, made its own shelters from woven synthetics and rope, and contributed men for work on the encampment revetments and palisades.

            The recruits did the same kind of work under the supervision of Falkenberg's mercenary officers and NCO's as well.

            [?]"Your training is too hard. Those are loyal men, and loyalty is important here!"

            Falkenberg smiled softly. "Agreed. But I'd rather have one battalion of good men I can trust than a regiment of  troops who might break under fire. After I've a bare minimum of first-class troops, I'll consider taking on others, for garrison duties. Right now the need is for men who can fight."

            "And you don't have them yet-those Marines seemed well disciplined."

            "In ranks, certainly. But do you really think the CD would let go of reliable troops?"

            "Maybe not," Bradford conceded. "O.K. You're the expert. But where the hell are you getting the other recruits? Jailbirds, kids with police records. You keep them while you let my Progressives run!"

            "Yes, sir." Falkenberg signaled for another round ofdrinks. "Mr. Vice President-"

            "Since when have we become that formal?" Bradford asked. His smile was back.

            "Sorry. I thought you were here to read me out."

            "No, of course not. But I've got to answer to President Budreau, you know. And Hamner. I've managed to get your activities assigned to my department, but it doesn't mean I can tell the Cabinet to blow it."

            "Right,"  Falkenberg said. "Well, about  the  recruits. We take what we can get. It takes time to train green men, and if the street warriors stand up better than you party toughs, I can't help it. You can tell the Cabinet that when we've a cadre we can trust, we'll be easier on volunteers. We can even form some kind of part-time militia. But right now the need is for men tough enough to win this fight coming up, and I don't know any better way to do it."

            After that Falkenberg found himself summoned report to the Palace every week. Usually he met only Bradford and Hamner; President Budreau had made it clear that he considered the military force as an evil whose necessity was not established, and only Bradford's insistence kept the regiment supplied.

            At one conference Falkenberg met Chief Horgan of Refuge police.

            "The Chief's got a complaint, Colonel," President Budreau said.

            "Yes sir?" Falkenberg asked.

            "It's those damned Marines," Horgan said. He rubbed the point of his chin. "They're raising hell in the city at night. We've never hauled any of them in because Mr. Bradford wants us to go easy, but it's getting rough."

            "What are they doing?" Falkenberg asked.

            "You name it. They've taken over a couple of taverns and won't let anybody in without their permission, for one thing. And they have fights with street gangs every night.

            "We could live with all that, but they go to other parts of town, too. Lots of them. They go into taverns and drink all night, then say they can't pay. If the owner gets sticky, they wreck the place...."

            "And they're gone before your patrols get there," Falkenberg finished for him. "It's an old tradition. They call it System D, and more planning effort goes into that operation than I can ever get them to put out in combat. I'll try to put a stop to System D, anyway."

            "It woul            d help. Another thing. Your guys go into the toughest parts of town and start fights whenever they can find anyone to mix with."

            "How are they doing?" Falkenberg asked interestedly.

            Horgan grinned, then caught himself after a stern look from Budreau. "Pretty well. I understand they've never been beaten. But it raises hell with the citizens, Colonel. And another trick of theirs is driving people crazy! They march through the streets fifty strong at all hours of the night playing bagpipes! Bagpipes in the wee hours, Colonel, can be a frightening thing."

            Falkenberg thought he saw a tiny flutter in Horgan's left eye, and the police chief was holding back a wry smile.

            "I wanted to ask you about that, Colonel," Second Vice President Hamner said. "This is hardly a Scots outfit, why do they have bagpipes anyway?"

            Falkenberg shrugged. "Pipes are standard with many Marine regiments. Since the Russki CD outfits started taking up Cossack customs, the Western bloc regiments adopted their own. After all, the Marines were formed out of a number of old military units. Foreign Legion, Highlanders-a lot of men like the pipes. I'll confess I do myself."

            "Sure, but not in my city in the middle of the night," Horgan said.

            John grinned openly at the chief of police. "I'll try to keep the pipers off the streets at night. I can imagine they're not good for civilian morale. But as to keeping the Marines in camp, how do I do it? We need every one of them, and they're volunteers. They can get on the CD carrier and ship out when the rest go, and there's not one damned thing we can do about it."

            'There's less than a month until they haul down that CoDominium flag," Bradford added with satisfaction. He glanced at the CD banner on its staff outside. Eagle with red shield and black sickle and hammer on its breast; red stars and blue stars around it. Bradford nodded in satisfaction. It wouldn't be long.

            That flag meant little to the people of Hadley. On Earth it was enough to cause riots in nationalistic cities in both the U.S. and the Soviet Union, while in other countries it was a symbol of the alliance that kept any other nation from rising above second-class status. To Earth the Co­Dominium Alliance represented peace at a high price, too high for many.

            For Falkenberg it represented nearly thirty years of service ended by court martial.

            Two weeks  to go. Then the CoDominium  Governor would leave, and Hadley would be officially independent. Vice President Bradley visited the camp to speak to the recruits.

            He told them of the value of loyalty to the government, and the rewards they would all have as soon as the Progressive Party was officially in power. Better pay, more liberties, and the opportunity for promotion in an expanding army; bonuses and soft duty. His speech was full of promises, and Bradford was quite proud of it.

            When he had finished, Falkenberg took the Vice President into a private room in the Officers' Mess and slammed the door.

            "Damn you, you don't ever make offers to my troops without my permission." John Falkenberg's face was cold| with anger.

            "I'll do as I please with my army, Colonel," Bradford replied smugly. The little smile on his face was completely without warmth. "Don't get snappy with me, Colonel  Falkenberg. Without my influence Budreau would dismiss you in an instant."

            Then his mood changed, and Bradford took a flask of brandy from his pocket. "Here, Colonel, have a drink." The little smile was replaced with something more genu­ine. "We have to work together, John. There's too much to do, even with both of us working it won't all get done. Sorry, I'll ask your advice in future, but don't you think the troops should get to know me? I'll be President soon." He looked to Falkenberg for confirmation.

            "Yes, sir." John took the flask and held it up for a toast. "To the new President of Hadley. I shouldn't have snapped at you, but don't make offers to troops who haven't proved themselves. If you give men reason to think they're good when they're not, you'll never have an army worth its pay."

            "But they've done well in training. You said so."

            "Sure, but you don't tell them that. Work them until they've nothing more to give, and let them know that's just barely satisfactory. Then one day they'll give you more than they knew they had in them. That's the day you can offer rewards, only by then you won't need to." Bradford nodded grudging agreement. "If you say so. But I wouldn't have thought-"

            "Listen," Falkenberg said. A party of recruits and their drill masters marched past outside. They were singing and their words came in the open window.

            "When you've blue'd your last tosser, on the brothel and the booze, and you're out in the cold on your ear, you hump your bundle on the rough, and tell the sergeant that you're tough, and you'll do him the favor of his life. He will cry and he will scream, and he'll curse his rotten luck, and he'll ask why he was ever born. If you're lucky he will take you, and he'll do his best to break you, and they'll feed you rotten monkey on a knife."

            "Double time, heaow!" The song broke off as the men ran across the central parade ground.

            Bradford turned away from the window. "That sort of thing is all very well for the jailbirds, Colonel, but I insist on keeping my loyalists as well. In future you will dismiss no Progressive without my approval. Is that understood?"

            Falkenberg nodded. He'd seen this coming for some time. "In that case, sir, it might be better to form a sepa­rate battalion. I will transfer all of your people into the Fourth Battalion and put them under the officers you've appointed. Will that be satisfactory?"

            "If you'll supervise their training, yes."

            "Certainly," Falkenberg said.

            "Good." Bradford's smile broadened, but it wasn't meant for Falkenberg. "I will also expect you to consult me about any promotions in that battalion. You agree to that, of course."

            "Yes, sir. There may be some problems about finding locals to fill the senior NCO slots. You've got potential monitors and corporals, but they've not the experience to be sergeants and centurions."

            "You'll find a way, I'm sure," Bradford said carefully. "I have some rather, uh, special duties for the Fourth Battalion, Colonel. I'd prefer it to be entirely staffed by Party loyalists of my choosing. Your men should only be there to supervise training, not as their commanders. Is this agreed?"

            "Yes, sir."

            Bradford's smile was genuine as he left the camp.

            Day after day the troops sweated in the bright blue-tinted sunlight. Riot control, bayonet drill, use of armor in defense and attacks against men with body armor, and more complex exercises as well. There were forced marches under the relentless direction of Major Savage, the harsh shouts of sergeants and centurions, Captain Amos Fast with his tiny swagger stick and biting sarcasm....

            Yet the number leaving the regiment was smaller now, and there was still a flow of recruits from the Marines' nocturnal expeditions. The recruiting officers could even be selective, although they seldom were. The Marines, like, the Legion before it, took anyone willing to fight; and Falkenberg's officers were all Marine trained.

            Each night groups of Marines sneaked past sentries to drink and carouse with the field hands of nearby ranchers. They gambled and shouted in local taverns, and they paid little attention to their officers. There were many com­plaints, and Bradford's protests became stronger.

            Falkenberg always gave the same answer. "They always come back, and they don't have to stay here. How do you suggest I control them? Flogging?"

            The constabulary army had a definite split personality with recruits treated harsher than veterans. Meanwhile the Fourth Battalion grew larger each day.

VIII

            George Hamner tried to get home for dinner every night, no matter what it might cost him in night work later. He thought he owed at least that to his family.

            His walled estate was just outside the Palace district. It had been built by his grandfather with money borrowed from American Express. The old man had been proud of paying back every cent before it was due. It was a big comfortable place which cunningly combined local ma­terials and imported luxuries, and George was always glad to return there.

            At home he felt he was master of something, that at least one thing was under his control. It was the only place in Refuge where he could feel that way.

            In less than a week the CoDominium Governor would leave. Independence was near, and it should be a time of hope, but George Hamner felt only dread. Problems of public order were not officially his problem. He held the Ministry of Technology, but the breakdown in law and order couldn't be ignored. Already half of Refuge was un­touched by government.

            There were large areas where the police went only in squads or not at all, and maintenance crews had to be protected or they couldn't enter. For now the CoDominium Marines escorted George's men, but what would it be like when the Marines were gone?

            George sat in the paneled study and watched lengthen­ing shadows in the groves outside. They made dancing patterns through the trees and across neatly clipped lawns. The outside walls spoiled the view of Raceway Channel below, and Hamner cursed them.

            Why must we have walls? Walls and a dozen armed men to patrol them. I can remember when I sat in this room with my father, I was no more than six, and we could watch boats in the Channel. And later, we had such big dreams for Hadley. Grandfather telling why he had left Earth, and what we could do here. Freedom and plenty. We had a paradise, and Lord, Lord, what have we done with it?

            He worked for an hour, but accomplished little. There weren't any solutions, only chains of problems that led back into a circle. Solve one and all would fall into place, but none were soluble without the others. And yet, if we had a few years, he thought. A few years, but we aren't going to get them.

            In a few years the farms will support the urban popula­tion if we can move people out of the agricultural interior and get them working-but they won't leave Refuge, and we can't make them do it.

            If we could, though. If the city's population could be thinned, the power we divert to food manufacture can be used to build a transport net. Then we can get more to live in the interior, and we can get more food into the city. We could make enough things to keep country life pleasant, and people will want to leave Refuge. But there's no way to the first step. The people don't want to move and the Freedom Party promises they won't have to.

            George shook his head. Can Falkenberg's army make them leave? If he gets enough soldiers can he forcibly evacuate part of the city? Hamner shuddered at the thought. There would be resistance, slaughter, civil war. Hadley's independence can't be built on a foundation of blood. No.

            His other problems were similar. The government was bandaging Hadley's wounds, but that's all. Treating symp­toms because there was never enough control over events to treat causes.

            He picked up a report on the fusion generators. They needed spare parts, and he wondered how long even this crazy standoff would last. He couldn't really expect more than a few years even if everything went well. A few years, and then famine because the transport net couldn't be built fast enough. And when the generators failed, the city's food supplies would be gone, sanitation services crippled . . . famine and plague. Were those horsemen better than conquest and war?

            He thought of his interview with the Freedom Party leaders. They didn't care about the generators because they were sure that Earth wouldn't allow famines on Hadley. They thought Hadley could use her own helplessness as a weapon to extract payments from the CoDominium.

            George cursed under his breath. They were wrong. Earth didn't care, and Hadley was too far away to interest anyone. But even if they were right they were selling Hadley's independence, and for what? Didn't real independence mean anything to them?

            Laura came in with a pack of shouting children.

            "Already time for bed?" he asked. The four-year-old picked up his pocket calculator and sat on his lap, punch­ing buttons and watching the numbers and lights flash.

            George kissed them all and sent them out, wondering as he did what kind of future they had.

            I should get out of politics, he told himself. I'm not doing any good, and I'll get Laura and the kids finished along with me. But what happens if we let go? What future will they have then?

            "You look worried." Laura was back after putting the children to bed. "It's only a few days-"

            "Yeah."

            "And what really happens then?" she asked. "Not the promises we keep hearing. What really happens when the CD leaves? It's going to be bad, isn't it?"

            He pulled her to him, feeling her warmth, and tried to draw comfort from her nearness. She huddled against him for a moment, then pulled away.

            "George, shouldn't we take what we can and go east? We wouldn't have much, but you'd be alive."

            "It won't be that bad," he told her. He tried to chuckle, as if she'd made a joke, but the sound was hollow. She didn't laugh with him.

            "There'll be time for that later," he told her. "If things don't work. But it should be all right at first. We've got a planetary constabulary. It should be enough to protect the government-but I'm moving all of you into the palace in a couple of days."

            "The army," she said with plenty of contempt. "Some army, George. Bradford's volunteers who'd kill you-and don't think he wouldn't like to see you dead, either. And those Marines! You said yourself they were the scum of space."

            "I said it. I wonder if I believe it. There's something strange happening here, Laura. Something I don't under­stand."

            She sat on the couch near his desk and curled her legs under herself. He'd always liked that pose. She looked up, her eyes wide with interest. She never looked at anyone else that way.

            "I went to see Major Karantov today," George said. "Thought I'd presume on an old friend to get a little in­formation about this man Falkenberg. Boris wasn't in his office, but one of the junior lieutenants, fellow named Kleist-"

            "I've met him," Laura said. "Nice boy. A little young."

            "Yes. Anyway, we got into a conversation about what happens after independence. We discussed street fighting, and the mob riots, you know, and I said I wished we had some reliable Marines instead of the demobilized outfit they were leaving here. He looked funny and asked just what did I want, the Grand Admiral's Guard?"

            "That's strange."

            "Yes, and when Boris came in and I asked what Kleist meant, Boris said the kid was new and didn't know what he was talking about."

            "And you think he did?" Laura asked. "Boris wouldn't lie to you. Stop that!" she added hastily. "You have an appointment."

            "It can wait."

            "With only a couple of dozen cars on this whole planet and one of them coming for you, you will not keep it waiting while you make love to your wife, George Hamner!" Her eyes flashed, but not with anger. "Besides, I want to know what Boris told you." She danced away from him, and he went back to the desk.

            "It's not just that," George said. "I've been thinking about it. Those troops don't look like misfits to me. Off duty they drink, and they've got the field hands locking their wives and daughters up, but you know, come morning they're out on that drill field. And Falkenberg doesn't strike me as the type who'd put up with undisciplined men."

            "But-"

            He nodded. "But it doesn't make sense. And there's the matter of the officers. He's got too many, and they're not from Hadley. That's why I'm going out there tonight, without Bradford."

            "Have you asked Ernie about it?"

            "Sure. He says he's got some Party loyalists training as officers. I'm a little slow, Laura, but I'm not that stupid. I may not notice everything, but if there were fifty Progres­sives with military experience I'd know. Bradford is lying, and why?"

            Laura looked thoughtful and pulled her lower lip in a gesture that Hamner hardly noticed now, although he'd kidded her about it before they were married. "He lies for practice," she said. "But his wife has been talking about independence, and she let something slip about when Ernie would be President she'd make some changes."

            "Well, Ernie expects to succeed Budreau."

            "No," Laura said. "She acted like it would be soon. Very soon."

            George Hamner shook his massive head. "He hasn't the guts for a coup," he said firmly. "And the technicians would walk out in a second. They can't stand him and he knows it."

            "Ernest Bradford has never recognized any limitations," Laura said. "He really believes he can make anyone like him if he'll just put out the effort. No matter how many times he's kicked a man, he thinks a few smiles and apologies will fix it. But what did Boris tell you about Falkenberg?"

            "Said he was as good as we can get. A top Marine commander, started as a Navy man and went over to Marines because he couldn't get fast enough promotions in the Navy."

            "An ambitious man. How ambitious?"

            "Don't know."

            "Is he married?"

            "I gather he once was, but not for a long time. I got the scoop on the court martial. There weren't any slots open for promotion. But when a review board passed Falkenberg over for a promotion that the admiral couldn't have given him in the first place, Falkenberg made such a fuss about it that he was dismissed for insubordination."

            "Can you trust him, then?" Laura asked. "His men may be the only thing keeping you alive-"

            "I know. And you, and Jimmy, and Christie, and Peter. ... I asked Boris that, and he said there's no better man available. You can't hire CD men from active duty. Boris recommends him highly. Says troops love him, he's a brilliant tactician, has experience in troop command and staff work as well-"

            "Sounds like quite a catch."

            "Yes. But Laura, if he's all that valuable, why did they boot him out? My God, it all sounds so trivial-"

            The interphone buzzed, and Hamner answered it ab­sently. It was the butler to announce that his car and driver were waiting. "I'll be late, sweetheart. Don't wait up for me. But you might think about it ... I swear Falkenberg is the key to something, and I wish I knew what."

            "Do you like him?" Laura asked.

            "He isn't a man who tries to be liked."

            "I asked if you like him."

            "Yes. And there's no reason to. I like him, but can I trust him?"

            As he went out he thought about that. Could he trust Falkenberg? With Laura's life . . . and the kids . . . and for that matter, with a whole planet that seemed headed for hell and no way out.

            The troops were camped in an orderly square. Earth ramparts had been thrown up around the perimeter, and the tents were pitched in lines that might have been laid with a transit.

            The equipment was scrubbed and polished, blanket rolls were tight, each item in the same place inside the two-man tents . . . but the men were milling about, shouting, gambling openly in front of the campfires. There were plenty of bottles in evidence even from the outer gates.

            "Halt! Who's there?"

            Hamner started. The car had stopped at the barricaded gate, but Hamner hadn't seen the sentry. This was his first visit to the camp at night, and he was edgy. "Vice Presi­dent Hamner," he answered.

            A strong light played on his face from the opposite side of the car. Two sentries, then, and both invisible until he'd come on them. "Good evening, sir," the first sentry said. "I'll pass the word you're here."

            He raised a small communicator to his lips. "Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Five." Then he shouted the same thing, the call ringing clear in the night. A few heads around campfires turned toward the gate, then went back to their other activities.

            Hamner was escorted across the camp to officers' row. The huts and tent stood across a wide parade ground from the densely packed company streets of the troops and had their own guards.

            Over in the company area the men were singing, and Hamner paused to listen.

            "I've a head like a concertina, and I think I'm ready to die, and I'm here in the clink for a thundrin' drink and blacking the Corporal's eye. With another man's cloak underneath of my head and a beautiful view of the yard, it's the crapaud for me, and no more System D, I was Drunk and Resistin' the Guard! Mad drunk and resistin' the guard!"

            Falkenberg came out of his hut. "Good evening, sir. What brings you here?"

            I'll just bet you'd like to know, Hamner thought. "I - have a few things to discuss with you, Colonel. About the organization of the constabulary."

            "Certainly." Falkenberg was crisp and seemed slightly nervous. Hamner wondered if he were drunk. "Shall we go to the Mess?" Falkenberg asked. "More comfortable there, and I haven't got my quarters made up for visitors."

            Or you've got something here I shouldn't see, George thought. Something or someone. Local girl? What differ­ence does it make? God, I wish I could trust this man.

            Falkenberg led the way to the ranch house in the center of officers row. The troops were still shouting and singing, and a group was chasing each other on the parade ground. Most were dressed in the blue and yellow garrison uniforms. Falkenberg had designed, but others trotted past in synthi-leather battledress. They carried rifles and heavy packs.

            "Punishment detail," Falkenberg explained. "Not as many of those as there used to be."

            Sound crashed from the Officers' Mess building: drums and bagpipes, a wild sound of war mingled with shouted laughter. Inside, two dozen men sat at a long table as white-coated stewards moved briskly about with whiskey bottles and glasses.

            Kilted bandsmen marched around the table with pipes. Drummers stood in one corner. The deafening noise stopped as Falkenberg entered, and everyone got to his feet. Some were quite unsteady.

            "Carry on," Falkenberg said, but no one did. They eyed Hamner nervously, and at a wave from the mess president at the head of the table the pipers and drummers went outside. Several stewards with bottles followed them. The other officers sat and talked in low tones. After all the noise the room seemed very quiet.

            "We'll sit over here, shall we?" the colonel asked. He led Hamner to a small table in one corner. A steward brought two glasses of whiskey and set them down.

            The room seemed curiously bare to Hamner. A few banners, some paintings; very little else. Somehow, he thought, there ought to be more. As if they're waiting. But that's ridiculous.

            Most of the officers were strangers, but George rec­ognized half a dozen Progressives, the highest rank a first lieutenant. He waved at the ones he knew and received brief smiles that seemed almost guilty before the Party volunteers turned back to their companions.

            "Yes, sir?" Falkenberg prompted.

.          

            "Just who are these men?" George demanded. "I know they're not native to Hadley. Where did they come from?"

            "CoDominium officers on the beach," Falkenberg an­swered promptly. "Reduction in force. Lots of good men got riffed into early retirement. Some of them heard I was coming here and chose to give up their reserve ranks. They came out on the colony ship on the chance I'd hire them."

            "And you did."

            "Naturally I jumped at the chance to get experienced men at prices we could afford."

            "But why all the secrecy? Why haven't I heard about them before?"

            Falkenberg shrugged. "We've violated several of the Grand Senate's regulations on mercenaries, you know. It's best not to talk about these things until the CD has defi­nitely gone. After that, the men are committed. They'll have to stay loyal to Hadley." Falkenberg lifted his whiskey glass. "Vice President Bradford knew all about it."

            "I'll bet he did." Hamner lifted his own glass. "Cheers."

            "Cheers."

            And I wonder what else that little snake knows about, Hamner wondered. Without his support Falkenberg would be out of here in a minute . . . and what then? "Colonel, your organization charts came to my office yesterday. You've kept all the Marines in one battalion with these newly hired officers. Then you've got three battalions of locals, but all the Party stalwarts are in the Fourth. The Second and Third are local recruits, but under your own men."

            'That's a fair enough description, yes, sir," Falkenberg said.

            And you know my question, George thought. "Why, Colonel? A suspicious man would say that you've got your own little army here, with a structure set so that you can take complete - control if there's ever a difference of opinion between you and the government."

            "A suspicious man might say that," Falkenberg agreed. He drained his glass and waited for George to do the same. A steward came over with freshly filled glasses.

            "But a practical man might say something else," Falken­berg continued. "Do you expect me to put green officers in command of those guardhouse troops? Or your good-hearted Progressives in command of green recruits?"

            "But you've done just that-"

            "On Mr. Bradford's orders I've kept the Fourth Bat­talion as free of my mercenaries as possible. That isn't helping their training, either. But Mr. Bradford seems to have the same complaint as you."

            "I haven't complained."

            "I thought you had," Falkenberg said. "In any event, you have your Party force, if you wish to use it to con­trol me. Actually you have all the control you need any­way. You hold the purse strings. Without supplies to feed these men and money to pay them, I couldn't hold them an hour."

            "Troops have found it easier to rob the paymaster than fight for him before now," Hamner observed. "Cheers." He drained the glass, then suppressed a cough. The stuff was strong, and he wasn't used to drinking neat whiskey. He wondered what would happen if he ordered something else, beer, or a mixed drink. Somehow it didn't seem to go with the party.

            "I might have expected that remark from Bradford," Falkenberg said.

            Hamner nodded. Bradford was always suspicious of something. There were times when George wondered if the First Vice President were quite sane, but that was silly. Still, when the pressure was on, Ernie Bradford did manage to get on people's nerves with his suspicions, and he would rather see nothing done than give up control of anything.

            "How am I supposed to organize this coup?" Falkenberg demanded. "I have a handful of men loyal to me. The rest are mercenaries, or your locals. You've paid a lot to bring me and my staff here. You want us to fight impossible odds with nonexistent equipment. If you also insist on your own organization of forces, I cannot accept the responsibility."

            "I didn't say that."

            Falkenberg shrugged. "If President Budreau so orders, and he would on your recommendation, I'll turn command over to anyone he names."

            And he'd name Bradford, Hamner thought. I'd rather trust Falkenberg. Whatever Falkenberg does will at least be competently done; with Ernie there was no assurance he wasn't up to something, and none that he'd be able to accomplish anything if he wasn't.

            But. "What do you want out of this, Colonel Falken­berg?"

            The question seemed to surprise the colonel. "Money, of course," Falkenberg answered. "A little glory, perhaps, although that's not a word much used nowadays. A position of responsibility commensurate with my abilities. I've al­ways been a soldier, and I know nothing else."

            "And why didn't you stay with the CD?"

            "It is in the record," Falkenberg said coldly. "Surely you know."

            "But I don't." Hamner was calm, but the whiskey was enough to make him bolder than he'd intended to be, even in this camp surrounded by Falkenberg's men. "I don't know at all. It makes no sense as I've been told it. You had no reason to complain about promotion, and the Ad­miral had no reason to prefer charges. It looks as if you had yourself cashiered."

            Falkenberg nodded. "You're nearly correct. Astute of you." The soldier's lips were tight and his gray eyes bored into Hamner. "I suppose you are entitled to an answer. Grand Senator Bronson has sworn to ruin me for reasons you needn't know. If I hadn't been dismissed for a trivial charge of technical insubordination, I'd have faced a series of trumped-up charges. At least this way I'm out with a clean record."

            A clean record and a lot of bitterness. "And that's all there is to it?"

            "That's all." It was plausible. So was everything else Falkenberg said.

            Yet Hamner was sure that Falkenberg was lying. Not lying directly, but not telling everything either. Hamner felt that if he knew the right questions he could get the answers, but there weren't any questions to ask.

            And, Hamner thought, I must either trust this man or get rid of him; and to irritate him while keeping him is the stupidest policy of all.

            The pipers came back in, and the mess president looked to Falkenberg. "Something more?" Falkenberg asked.

            "No."

            "Thank you." The colonel nodded to the junior officer. The mess president waved approval to the pipe major. Pipe major raised his mace, and the drums crashed. The pipers began, standing in place at first, then marching around the table. Officers shouted, and the room was filled with martial cries. The party was on again.

            George looked for one of his own appointees and dis­covered that every Progressive officer in the room was one of his own. There wasn't a single man from Bradford's wing of the Party. Was that significant?

            He rose and caught the eye of a Progressive lieutenant. "I'll let Farquhar escort me out, Colonel," Hamner said.

            "As you please."

            The noise followed them out of the building and along the regimental street. There were more sounds from the parade ground and the camp beyond. Fires burned brightly in the night.

            "All right, Jamie, what's going on here?" Hamner demanded.

            "Going on, sir? Nothing that I know of. If you mean the party, we're celebrating the men's graduation from basic training. Tomorrow they'll start advanced work."

            "Maybe I meant the party," Hamner said. "You seem pretty friendly with the other officers."

            "Yes, sir." Hamner noted the enthusiasm in Jamie Farquhar's voice. The boy was young enough to be caught up in the military mystique, and George felt sorry for him. "They're good men," Jamie said.

            "Yes, I suppose so. Where are the others? Mr. Brad­ford's people?"

            "They had a field problem that kept them out of camp until late," Farquhar said. "Mr. Bradford came around about dinner time and asked that they be sent to a meet­ing somewhere. He spends a lot of time with them."

            "I expect he does," Hamner said. "Look, you've been around the Marines Jamie. Where are those men from? What CD outfits?"

            "I really don't know, sir. Colonel Falkenberg has for­bidden us to ask. He says that the men start with a clean record here."

            Hamner noted the tone Farquhar used when he men­tioned Falkenberg. More than respect. Awe, perhaps. "Have any of them served with the colonel before?"

            "I think so, yes, sir. They don't like him. Curse the col­onel quite openly. But they're afraid of that big sergeant major of his. Calvin has offered to whip any two men in the camp, and they can choose the rules. A few of the newcomers tried it, but none of the Marines would. Not one."

            "And you say the colonel's not popular with the men?"

            Farquhar was thoughtful for a moment. "I wouldn't say he was popular, no sir."

            Yet, Hamner thought, Boris had said he was. Whiskey buzzed in George's head. "Who is popular?"

            "Major Savage, sir. The men like him. And Captain Fast, the Marines particularly respect him. He's the adjutant."

            "All right. Look, can this outfit fight? Have we got a chance after the CD leaves?" They stood and watched the scenes around the campfires. Men were drinking heavily, shouting and singing and chasing each other through the camp. There was a fist fight in front of one tent, and no officer moved to stop it.

            "Do you allow that?" Hamner demanded.

            "We try not to interfere too much," Farquhar said. "The colonel says half an officer's training is learning what not to see. Anyway, the sergeants have broken up the fight, see?"

            "But you let the men drink."

            "Sir, there's no regulation against drinking. Only against being unfit for duty. And these men are tough. They obey orders and they can fight. I think we'll do rather well."

            Pride. They've put some pride into Jamie Farquhar, and maybe into some of those jailbirds out there too. "All right, Jamie. Go back to your party. I'll find my driver."

            As he was driven away, George Hamner felt better about Hadley's future, but he was still convinced something was wrong; and he had no idea what it was.

IX

            The stadium had been built to hold one hundred thou­sand people. There were at least that many jammed inside it now, and an equal number swarmed about the market squares and streets adjacent to it. The full CoDominium Marine garrison was on duty to keep order, but it wasn't needed.

            The celebration was boisterous, but there wouldn't be any trouble today. The Freedom Party was as anxious to avoid an incident as the Marines on this, the greatest day for Hadley since Discovery. The CoDominium was turning over power to local authority and getting out; and nothing must spoil that.

            Hamner and Falkenberg watched from the upper tiers of the Stadium. Row after row of plastisteel seats cascaded like a giant staircase down from their perch to the central grassy field below. Every seat was filled, so that the Sta­dium was a riot of color.

            President Budreau and Governor Flaherty stood in the Presidential box directly across from Falkenberg and Ham­ner. The President's Guard, in blue uniforms, and the Co­Dominium Marines, in their scarlet and gold, stood at rigid attention around the officials.

            The President's box was shared by Vice President Brad­ford, the Freedom Party opposition leaders, Progressive officials, officers of the retiring CoDominium government, and everyone else who could beg an invitation. George knew that some of them were wondering where he had got off to.

            Bradford would particularly notice Hamner's absence. He might, George thought, even think the Second Vice President was out stirring up opposition or rebellion. Ernie Bradford had lately been accusing Hamner of every kind of disloyalty to the Progressive Party, and it wouldn't be long before he demanded that Budreau dismiss him.

            To the devil with the little man! George thought. He hated crowds, and the thought of standing there and listen­ing to all those speeches, of being polite to party officials whom he detested, was just too much. When he'd sug­gested watching from another vantage point, Falkenberg had quickly agreed. The soldier didn't seem to care too much for formal ceremonies either. Civilian ceremonies, Hamner corrected himself; Falkenberg seemed to like military parades.

            The ritual was almost over. The CD Marine bands had marched through the field, the speeches had been made, presents delivered and accepted. A hundred thousand peo­ple had cheered, and it was an awesome sound. The raw power was frightening.

            Hamner glanced at his watch. As he did the Marine band broke into a roar of drums. The massed drummers ceased to beat one by one until there was but a single drum roll that went on and on and on, until finally it too stopped. The entire Stadium waited.

            One trumpet, no more. A clear call, plaintive but trium­phant, the final salute to the CoDominium banner above the Palace. The notes hung in Hadley's airlike something tangible, and slowly, deliberately, the crimson and blue banner floated down from the flagpole as Hadley's blazing gold and green arose.

            Across the city uniformed men saluted these flags, one rising, the other setting. The blue uniforms of Hadley saluted with smiles, the red-uniformed Marines with in­difference. The CoDominium banner rose and fell across two hundred light-years and seventy worlds in this year of Grace; what difference would one minor planet make?

            Hamner glanced at John Falkenberg. The colonel had no eyes for the rising banners of Hadley. His rigid salute was given to the CD flag, and as the last note of the final trumpet salute died away Hamner thought he saw Falken­berg wipe his eyes.

            The gesture was so startling that George looked again, but there was nothing more to see, and he decided that he had been mistaken.

            "That's it, then," Falkenberg snapped. His voice was strained. "I suppose we ought to join the party. Can't keep His Nibs waiting."

            Hamner nodded. The Presidential box connected directly to the Palace, and the officials would arrive at the re­ception quickly while Falkenberg and Hamner had the entire width of the crowded Stadium to traverse. People were already streaming out to join the festive crowds on the grass in the center of the bowl.

            "Let's go this way," George said. He led Falkenberg to the top of the Stadium and into a small alcove where he used a key to open an inconspicuous door. "Tunnel sys­tem takes us right into the Palace, across and under the Stadium," he told Falkenberg. "Not exactly secret, but we don't want the people to know about it because they'd demand we open it to the public. Built for maintenance crews, mostly." He locked the door behind them and waved expressively at the wide interior corridor. "Place was pretty well designed, actually."

            The grudging tone of admiration wasn't natural to him. If a thing was well done, it was well done . . . but lately he found himself talking that way about CoDominium projects. He resented the whole CD administration and the men who'd dumped the job of governing after creating problems no one could solve.

            They wound down stairways and through more passages, then up to another set of locked doors. Through those was the Palace courtyard. The celebrations were already under way, and it would be a long night.

            George wondered what would come now. In the morn­ing the last CD boat would rise, and the CoDominium would be gone. Tomorrow, Hadley would be alone with her problems.

            "Tensh-Hut!" Sergeant Major Calvin's crisp command cut through the babble.

            "Please be seated, gentlemen." Falkenberg took his place at the head of the long table in the command room of what had been the central headquarters for the Co­Dominium Marines.

            Except for the uniforms and banners there were few changes from what people already called "the old days." The officers were seated in the usual places for a regimen­tal staff meeting. Maps hung along one wall, and a com­puter output screen dominated another. Stewards in white coats brought coffee and discreetly retired behind the armed sentries outside.

            Falkenberg looked at the familiar scene and knew the constabulary had occupied the Marine barracks for two days; the Marines had been there twenty years.

            A civilian lounged in the seat reserved for the regi­mental intelligence officer. His tunic was a riot of colors; he was dressed in current Earth fashions, with a brilliant cravat and baggy sleeves. A long sash took the place of a belt and concealed his pocket calculator. Hadley's upper classes were only just beginning to wear such finery.

            "You all know why we're here," Falkenberg told the assembled officers. "Those of you who've served with me before know I don't hold many staff councils. They are customary among mercenary units, however. Sergeant Major Calvin will represent the enlisted personnel of the regiment."

            There were faint titters. Calvin had been associated with John Falkenberg for eighteen standard years. Presumably they had differences of opinion, but no one ever saw them. The idea of the RSM opposing his colonel in the name of the troops was amusing. On the other hand, no colonel could afford to ignore the views of his sergeants' mess.

            Falkenberg's frozen features relaxed slightly as if he appreciated his own joke. His eyes went from face to face. Everyone in the room was a former Marine, and all but a very few had served with him before. The Progressive officers were on duty elsewhere-and it had taken careful planning by the adjutant to accomplish that without sus­picion.

            Falkenberg turned to the civilian. "Dr. Whitlock, you've been on Hadley for sixty-seven days. That's not very long to make a planetary study, but it's about all the time we have. Have you reached any conclusions?"

            "Yeah." Whitlock spoke with an exaggerated drawl that most agreed was affected. "Not much different from Fleet's evaluation, Colonel. Can't think why you went to the ex­pense of bringin' me out here. Your Intelligence people know their jobs about as well as I know mine."

            Whitlock sprawled back in his seat and looked very re­laxed and casual in the midst of the others military for­mality. There was no contempt in his manner. The military had one set of rules and he had another, and he worked well with soldiers.

            "Your conclusions are similar to Fleet's, then," Falken­berg said.

            "With the limits of analysis, yes, sir. Doubt any competent man could reach a different conclusion. This planet's headed for barbarism within a generation."

            There was no sound from the other officers but several were startled. Good training kept them from showing it.

            Whitlock produced a cigar from a sleeve pocket and in­spected it carefully.

            "You want the analysis?" he asked.

            "A summary, please." Falkenberg looked at each face again. Major Savage and Captain Fast weren't surprised; they'd known before they came to Hadley. Some of the junior officers and company commanders had obviously guessed.

            "Simple enough," Whitlock said. "There's no self-sus­taining technology for a population half this size. Without imports the standard of livin's bound to fall. Some places they could take that, but not here.

            "Here, when they can't get their pretty gadgets, 'stead of workin' the people here in Refuge will demand the Government do something about it. Guv'mint's in no position to refuse, either. Not strong enough.

            "So they'll have to divert investment capital into con­sumer goods. There'll be a decrease in technological effi­ciency, and then fewer goods, leadin' to more demands, and another cycle just like before. Hard to predict just what comes after that, but it can't be good.

            "Afore long, then, they won't have the technological re­sources to cope even if they could get better organized. It's not a new pattern, Colonel. Fleet saw it comin' a while back. I'm surprised you didn't take their word for it."

            Falkenberg nodded. "I did, but with something this im­portant I thought I better get another opinion. You've met the Freedom Party leaders, Dr. Whitlock. Is there any chance they could keep civilization if they governed?"

            Whitlock laughed. It was a long drawn-out laugh, re­laxed, totally out of place in a military council. “Bout as much chance as for a 'gator to turn loose of a hog, Colonel. Even assumin' they know what to do, how can they do it? Suppose they get a vision and try to change their policies? Somebody'll start a new party along the lines of the Freedom Party's present thinkin'.

            "Colonel, you will never convince all them people there's things the Guv'mint just cain't do. They don't want to believe it, and there's always goin' to be slick talkers willin' to say it's all a plot. Now, if the Progressive Party, which has the right ideas already, was to set up to rule strong, they might be able to keep something goin' a while longer."

            "Do you think they can?" Major Savage asked.

            "Nope. They might have fun tryin'," Whitlock an­swered. "Problem is that independent countryside. There's not enough support for what they'd have to do in city or country. Eventually that's all got to change, but the revolu­tion that gives this country a real powerful government's going to be one bloody mess, I can tell you. A long drawn-out bloody mess at that."

            "Haven't they any hope at all?" The questioner was a junior officer newly promoted to company commander.

            Whitlock sighed. "Every place you look, you see prob­lems. City's vulnerable to any sabotage that stops the food plants, for instance. And the fusion generators ain't exactly eternal, either. They're runnin' 'em hard without enough time off for maintenance. Hadley's operating on its capital, not its income, and pretty soon there's not goin' to be any capital to operate off of."

            "And that's your conclusion," Falkenberg said. "It doesn't sound precisely like the perfect place for us to retire to."

            "Sure doesn't," Whitlock agreed. He stretched elaborate­ly. "Cut it any way you want to, this place isn't going to be self-sufficient without a lot of blood spilled."

            "Could they ask for help from American Express?" the junior officer asked.

            "They could ask, but they won't get it," Whitlock said. "Son, this planet was neutralized by agreement way back when the CD Governor came aboard. Now the Russians aren't going to let a U.S. company like AmEx take it back into the U.S. sphere, same as the U.S. won't let the Com­mies come in and set up shop. Grand Senate would order a quarantine on this system just like that." The historian snapped his fingers. "Whole purpose of the CoDominium."

            "One thing bothers me," Captain Fast said. "You've been assuming that the CD will simply let Hadley revert to barbarism. Won't BuRelock and the Colonial Office come back if things get that desperate?"

            "No."

            "You seem rather positive," Major Savage observed.

            "I'm  positive,"  Dr. Whitlock said. "Budgets got cut again this year. They don't have the resources to take on a place like Hadley. BuRelock's got its own worries."

            "But-" The lieutenant who'd asked the questions earlier sounded worried.  "Colonel, what could happen to the Bureau of Relocation?"

            "As Dr. Whitlock says, no budget," Falkenberg an­swered. "Gentlemen, I shouldn't have to tell you about that. You've seen what the Grand Senate did to the Fleet. That's why you're demobilized. And Kaslov's people have several new seats on the Presidium next year, just as Harmon's gang has won some minor elections in the States. Both those outfits want to abolish the CD, and they've had enough influence to get everyone's appropriations cut to the bone."

            "But population control has to ship people out, sir," the lieutenant protested.

            "Yes." Falkenberg's face was grim; perhaps he was re­calling his own experiences with population control's methods. "But they have to employ worlds closer to Earth, regardless of the problems that may cause for the colonists. Marginal exploitation ventures like Hadley's mines are being shut down. This isn't the only planet the CD's aban­doning this year." His voice took on a note of thick irony. "Excuse me. Granting independence."

            "So they can't rely on CoDominium help," Captain Fast said.

            "No. If Hadley's going to reach takeoff, it's got to do it on its own."

            "Which Dr. Whitlock says is impossible," Major Savage observed. "John, we've got ourselves into a cleft stick, haven't we?"

            "I said it was unlikely, not that it was impossible," Whitlock reminded them. "It'll take a government stronger than anything Hadley's liable to get, though. And some smart people making the right moves. Or maybe there'll be some luck. Like a good, selective plague. Now that'd do it. Plague to kill off the right people-but if it got too many, there wouldn't be enough left to take advantage of the technology, so I don't suppose that's the answer either."

            Falkenberg nodded grimly. "Thank you, Dr. Whitlock. Now, gentlemen, I want battalion commanders and head­quarters officers to read Dr. Whitlock's report. Meanwhile, we have another item. Major Savage will shortly make a report to the Progressive Party Cabinet, and I want you to pay attention. We will have a critique after his pre­sentation. Major?"

            Savage stood and went to the readout screen. "Gentlemen." He used the wall console to bring an organization chart onto the screen.

            'The regiment consists of approximately two thousand officers and men. Of these, five hundred are former Marines, and another five hundred are Progressive parti­sans organized under officers appointed by Mr. Vice Presi­dent Bradford.

            "The other thousand are general recruits. Some of them are passable mercenaries, and some are local youngsters who want to play soldier and would be better off in a na­tional guard. All recruits have received basic training com­parable to CD Marine ground basic without assault, fleet, or jump schooling. Their performance has been somewhat better' than we might expect from a comparable number of Marine recruits in CD service.

            "This morning, Mr. Bradford ordered the Colonel to remove the last of our officers and non-coms from the Fourth Battalion, and as of this p.m. the Fourth will be totally under the control of officers appointed by First Vice President Bradford. He has not informed us of the reason for this order."

            Falkenberg nodded. "In your estimate, Major, are the troops ready for combat duties?" Falkenberg listened idly as he drank coffee. The briefing was rehearsed, and he knew what Savage would answer. The men were trained, but they did not as yet make up a combat unit. Falken­berg waited until Savage had finished the presentation.

            "Recommendations?"

            "Recommend that the Second Battalion be integrated with the First, sir. Normal practice is to form each mani­ple with one recruit, three privates, and a monitor in charge. With equal numbers of new men and veterans we will have a higher proportion of recruits, but this will give us two battalions of men under our veteran NCO's, with Marine privates for leavening.

            "We will thus break up the provisional training organi­zation and set up the regiment with a new permanent structure, First and Second Battalions for combat duties, Third composed of locals with former Marine officers to be held in reserve. The Fourth will not be under our com­mand."

            "Your reasons for this organization?" Falkenberg asked.

            "Morale, sir. The new troops feel discriminated against. 'They're under harsher discipline than the former Marines, and they resent it. Putting them in the same maniples with the Marines will stop that."

            "Let's see the new structure."

            Savage manipulated the input console and charts swam across the screen. The administrative structure was stan­dard, based in part on the CD Marines and the rest on the national armies of Churchill. That wasn't the important part. It wasn't obvious, but the structure demanded that all the key posts be held by Falkenberg's mercenaries.

            The best Progressive appointees were either in the Third or Fourth Battalions, and there were no locals with the proper experience in command; so went the justification. It looked good to Falkenberg, and there was no sound military reason to question it. Bradford would be so pleased about his new control of the Fourth that he wouldn't look at the rest; not yet, anyway. The others didn't know enough to question it.

            Yes, Falkenberg thought. It ought to work. He waited until Savage was finished and thanked him, then addressed the others. "Gentlemen, if you have criticisms, let's hear them now. I want a solid front when we get to the Cabi­net meeting tomorrow, and I want every one of you ready to answer any question. I don't have to tell you how im­portant it is that they buy this." They all nodded.

            "And another thing," Falkenberg said. "Sergeant Ma­jor."

            "Sir!"

            "As soon as the Cabinet has bought off on this new organization plan, I want this regiment under normal dis­cipline."

            "Sir!"

            "Break it to 'em hard, Top Soldier. Tell the Forty-second the act's over. From here on recruits and old hands get treated alike, and the next man who gives me trouble will wish he hadn't been born."

            "Sir!" Calvin smiled happily. The last months had been a strain for everyone. Now the colonel was taking over again, thank God. The men had lost some of the edge, but he'd soon put it back again. It was time to take off the masks, and Calvin for one was glad of it.

X

            The sound of fifty thousand people shouting in unison can be terrifying. It raises fears at a level below thought; creates a panic older than the fear of nuclear weapons and the whole panoply of technology. It is raw, naked power from a cauldron of sound.

            Everyone in the Palace listened to the chanting crowd. The Government people were outwardly calm, but they moved quietly through the halls, and spoke in low tones- or shouted for no reason. The Palace was filled with a nameless fear.

            The Cabinet meeting started at dawn and continued until late in the morning. It had gone on and on without set­tling anything. Just before noon Vice President Bradford stood at his place at the council table with his lips tight in rage. He pointed a trembling finger at George Hamner.

            "It's your fault!" Bradford shouted. "Now the techni­cians have joined in the demand for a new constitution, and you control them. I've always said you were a traitor to the Progressive Party!"

            "Gentlemen, please," President Budreau insisted. His voice held infinite weariness. "Come now, that sort of language-"

            "Traitor?" Hamner demanded. "If your blasted officials would pay a little attention to the technicians, this wouldn't have happened. In three months you've managed to con­vert the techs from the staunchest supporters of this Party into allies of the rebels despite everything I could do."

            "We need strong government," Bradford said. His voice was contemptuous, and the little half-smile had returned.

            George Hamner made a strong effort to control his anger. "You won't get it this way. You've herded my techs around like cattle, worked them overtime for no extra pay, and set those damned soldiers of yours onto them when they protested. It's worth a man's life to have your con­stabulary mad at him."

            "Resisting the police," Bradford said. "We can't permit that."

            "You don't know what government is!" Hamner said. His control vanished and he stood, towering above Brad­ford. The little man retreated a step, and his smile froze. "You've got the nerve to call me a traitor after all you've done! I ought to break your neck!"

            "Gentlemen!" Budreau stood at his place at the head of the table. "Stop it!" There was a roar from the Sta­dium. The Palace seemed to vibrate to the shouts of the constitutional convention.

            The Cabinet room became silent for a moment. Wearily, Budreau continued. "This isn't getting us anywhere. I sug­gest we adjourn for half an hour to allow tempers to cool."

            There was murmured agreement from the others.

            "And I want no more of these accusations and threats when we convene again," President Budreau said. "Is that understood?"

            Grudgingly the others agreed. Budreau left alone. Then Bradford, followed by a handful of his closest supporters. Other ministers rushed to be seen leaving with him, as if it might be dangerous to be thought in opposition to the First Vice President.

            George Hamner found himself alone in the room. He shrugged, and went out. Ernest Bradford had been joined by a man in uniform. Hamner recognized Lieutenant Colonel Cordova, commander of the Fourth Battalion of constabulary, and a fanatic Bradford supporter. Hamner remembered when Bradford had first proposed a com­mission for Cordova, and how unimportant it had seemed then.

            Bradford's group went down the hall. They seemed to be whispering something together and making a point of excluding the Second Vice President. Hamner merely shrugged.

            "Buy you a coffee?" The voice came from behind and startled George. He turned to see Falkenberg.

            "Sure. Not that it's going to do any good. We're in trouble, Colonel."

            "Anything decided?" Falkenberg asked. "It's been a long wait."

            "And a useless one. They ought to invite you into the Cabinet meetings. You might have some good advice. There's sure as hell no reason to keep you waiting in an anteroom while we yell at each other. I've tried to change that policy, but I'm not too popular right now." There was another shout from the Stadium.

            "Whole government's not too popular," Falkenberg said. "And when that convention gets through...."

            "Another thing I tried to stop last week," George told him. "But Budreau didn't have the guts to stand up to them. So now we've got fifty thousand drifters, with nothing better to do, sitting as an assembly of the people. That ought to produce quite a constitution."

            Falkenberg shrugged. He might have been about to say something, George thought, but if he were, he changed his mind. They reached the executive dining room and took seats near one wall. Bradford's group had a table across the room from them, and all of Bradford's people looked at them with suspicion.

            "You'll get tagged as a traitor for sitting with me, Col­onel." Hamner laughed, but his voice was serious. "I think I meant that, you know. Bradford's blaming me for our problems with the techs, and between us he's also insist­ing that you aren't doing enough to restore order in the city."

            Falkenberg ordered coffee. "Do I need to explain to you why we haven't?"

            "No." George Hamner's huge hand engulfed a water glass. "God knows you've been given almost no support the last couple of months. Impossible orders, and you've never been allowed to do anything decisive. I see you've stopped the raids on rebel headquarters."

            Falkenberg nodded. "We weren't catching anyone. Too many leaks in the Palace. And most of the time the Fourth Battalion had already muddied the waters. If they'd let us do our job instead of having to ask permission through channels for every operation we undertake, maybe the enemy wouldn't know as much about what we're going to do. Now I've quit asking."

            "You've done pretty well with the railroad."

            "Yes. That's one success, anyway. Things are pretty quiet out in the country where we're on our own. Odd, isn't it, that the closer we are to the expert supervision of the government, the less effective my men seem to be?"

            "But can't you control Cordova's men? They're causing more people to desert us for the rebels than you can count. I can't believe unrestrained brutality is useful."

            "Nor I. Unless there's a purpose to it, force isn't a very effective instrument of government. But surely you know, Mr. Hamner, that I have no control over the Fourth. Mr. Bradford has been expanding it since he took control, and it's now almost as large as the rest of the regiment-and totally under his control, not mine."

            "Bradford accused me of being a traitor," Hamner said carefully. "With his own army, he might have something planned...."

            "You once thought that of me," Falkenberg said.

            "This is very serious," Hamner said. "Ernie Bradford has built an army only he controls, and he's making wild accusations."

            Falkenberg smiled grimly. "I wouldn't worry about it too much."

            "You wouldn't? No. You wouldn't. But I'm scared, Colonel. I've got my family to think of, and I'm plenty scared." Well, George thought, now it's out in the open; can I trust him not to be Ernie Bradford's man?

            "You believe Bradford is planning an illegal move?" Falkenberg asked.

            "I don't know." Suddenly George was afraid again. He saw no sympathy in the other man's eyes. And just who can I trust? Who? Anyone?

            "Would you feel safer if your family were in our regi­mental barracks?" Falkenberg asked. "It could be ar­ranged."

            "It's about time we had something out," George said at last. "Yes, I'd feel safer with my wife and children under protection. But I'd feel safer yet if you'd level with me."

            "About what?" Falkenberg's expression didn't change.

            "Those Marines of yours, to begin with," George said. "Those aren't penal battalion men. I've watched them, they're too well disciplined. And the battle banners they carry weren't won in any peanut actions, on this planet or anywhere else. Just who are those men, Colonel?"

            John Falkenberg smiled thinly. "I've been wondering when you'd ask. Why haven't you brought this up with President Budreau?"

            "I don't know. I think because I trust you more than Bradford, and the President would only ask him. . . besides, if the President dismissed you there'd be nobody able to oppose Ernie. If you will oppose him that is-but you can stand up to him, anyway."

            "What makes you think I would?" Falkenberg asked. "I obey the lawful orders of the civilian government-"

            "Yeah, sure. Hadley's going downhill so fast another conspiracy more or less can't make any difference any­way. . . you haven't answered my question."

            "The battle banners are from the Forty-second CDMarine Regiment," Falkenberg answered slowly. "It was decommissioned as part of the budget cuts."

"Forty-second." Hamner thought for a second. He searched through his mental files to find the information he'd seen on Falkenberg. "That was your regiment."

"Certainly."

            "You brought it with you."

            "A battalion of it," John Falkenberg agreed. "Their women are waiting to join them when we get settled. When the Forty-second was decommissioned, the men decided to stay together if they could."

            "So you brought not only the officers, but the men as well."

            "Yes." There was still no change in Falkenberg's ex­pression, although Hamner searched the other man's face closely.

            George felt both fear and relief. If those were Falken­berg's men-"What is your game, Colonel? You want more than just pay for your troops. I wonder if I shouldn't be more afraid of you than of Bradford."

            Falkenberg shrugged. "Decisions you have to make, Mr. Hamner. I could give you my word that we mean you no harm, but what would that be worth? I will pledge to take care of your family. If you want us to."

            There was another shout from the Stadium, louder this time. Bradford and Lieutenant Colonel Cordova left their table, still talking in low tones. The conversation was animated, with violent gestures, as if Cordova were trying to talk Bradford into something. As they left, Bradford agreed.

            George watched them leave the room. The mob shouted again, making up his mind for him. "I'll send Laura and the kids over to your headquarters this afternoon."

            "Better make it immediately," Falkenberg said calmly. George frowned. "You mean there's not much time? Whatever you've got planned, it'll have to be quick, but this afternoon?"

            John shook his head. "You seem to think I have some kind of master plan, Mr. Vice President. No. I suggest you get your wife to our barracks before I'm ordered not to undertake her protection, that's all. For the rest, I'm only a soldier in a political situation."

            "With Professor Whitlock to advise you," Hamner said. He looked closely at Falkenberg.

            "Surprised you with that one, didn't I?" Hamner de­manded. "I've seen Whitlock moving around and wondered why he didn't come to the President. He must have fifty political agents in the convention right now."

            "You do seem observant," Falkenberg said.

            "Sure." Hamner was bitter. "What the hell good does it do me? I don't understand anything that's going on, and I don't trust anybody. I see pieces of the puzzle, but I can't put them together. Sometimes I think I should use what influence I've got left to get you out of the picture anyway."

            "As you will." Falkenberg's smile was coldly polite. "Whom do you suggest as guards for your family after that? The Chief of Police? Listen."

            The Stadium roared again in an angry sound that swelled in volume.

            "You win." Hamner left the table and walked slowly back to the council room. His head swirled.

            Only one thing stood out clearly. John Christian Falken­berg controlled the only military force on Hadley that could oppose Bradford's people-and the Freedom Party gangsters, who were the original enemies in the first place. Can't forget them just because I'm getting scared of Ernie, George thought.

            He turned away from the council room and went down­stairs to the apartment he'd been assigned. The sooner Laura was in the Marine barracks, the safer he'd feel.

            But am I sending her to my enemies? O God, can I trust anyone at all? Boris said he was an honorable man. Keep remembering that, keep remembering that. Honor. Falkenberg has honor, and Ernie Bradford has none.

            And me? What have I got for leaving the Freedom Party and bringing my technicians over to the Progressives? A meaningless title as Second Vice President, and-The crowd screamed again. "POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"

            George heard and walked faster.

            Bradford's grin was back. It was the first thing George noticed as he came into the council chamber. The little man stood at the table with an amused smile. It seemed quite genuine, and more than a little frightening.

            "Ah, here is our noble Minister of Technology and Second Vice President," Bradford grinned. "Just in time. Mr. President, that gang out there is threatening the city. I am sure you will all be pleased to know that I've taken steps to end the situation."

            "What have you done?" George demanded.

            Bradford's smile broadened even more. "At this moment, Colonel Cordova is arresting the leaders of the opposition. Including, Mr. President, the leaders of the Engineers' and Technicians Association who have joined them. This rebellion will be over within the hour."

            Hamner stared at the man. "You fool! You'll have every technician in the city joining the Freedom Party gang! And the techs control the power plants, our last influence over the crowd. You bloody damned fool!"

            Bradford spoke with exaggerated politeness. "I thought you would be pleased, George, to see the rebellion end so easily. Naturally I've sent men to secure the power plants. Ah, listen."

            The crowd outside wasn't chanting anymore. There was a confused babble, then a welling of sound that turned ugly. No coherent words reached them, only the ugly, angry roars. Then there was a rapid fusillade of shots.

            "My God!" President Budreau stared wildly in confu­sion. "What's happening? Who are they shooting at? Have you started open war?"

            "It takes stern measures, Mr. President," Bradford said. "Perhaps too stern for you?" He shook his head slightly. "The time has come for harsh measures, Mr. President. Hadley cannot be governed by weak-willed men. Our future belongs to those who have the will to grasp it!"

            George Hamner turned toward the door. Before he could reach it, Bradford called to him. "Please, George." His voice was filled with concern. "I'm afraid you can't leave just yet. It wouldn't be safe for you. I took the liberty of ordering Colonel Cordova's men to, uh, guard this room while my troops restore order."

            An uneasy quiet had settled on the Stadium, and they waited for a long time. Then there were screams and more shots.

            The sounds moved closer, as if they were outside the Stadium as well as in it. Bradford frowned, but no one said anything. They waited for what seemed a lifetime as the firing continued. Guns, shouts, screams, sirens, and alarms -those and more, all in confusion.

            The door burst open. Cordova came in. He now wore the insignia of a full colonel. He looked around the room until he found Bradford. "Sir, could you come outside a moment, please?"

            "You will make your report to the Cabinet," President Budreau ordered. Cordova glanced at Bradford. "Now, sir."

            Cordova still looked to Bradford. The Vice President nodded slightly.

            "Very well, sir," the young officer said. "As directed by the Vice President, elements of the Fourth Battalion pro­ceeded to the Stadium and arrested some fifty leaders of the so-called constitutional convention.

            "Our plan was to enter quickly and take the men out through the Presidential box and into the Palace. However, when we attempted to make the arrests we were opposed by armed men, many in the uniforms of household guards. We were told there were no weapons in the Stadium, but this was in error.

            "The crowd overpowered my officers and released their prisoners. When we attempted to recover them, we were attacked by the mob and forced to fight our way out of the Stadium."

            "Good Lord," Budreau sighed. "How many hurt?"

            "The power plants,  Did you secure them?" Hamner demanded.

            Cordova looked miserable. "No, sir. My men were not admitted. A council of technicians and engineers holds the power plants, and they threaten to destroy them if we attempt forcible entry. We have tried to seal them off from outside support, but I don't think we can keep order with only my battalion. We will need all the constabulary army to-"

            "Idiot." Hamner clutched at his left fist with his right, and squeezed until it hurt. A council of technicians. I'll know most of them. My friends. Or they used to be. Will any of them trust me now? At least Bradford didn't con­trol the fusion plants.

            "What is the current status outside?" President Budreau demanded. They could still hear firing in the streets.

            "Uh, there's a mob barricaded in the market, and an­other in the theater across from the Palace, sir. My troops are trying to dislodge them." Cordova's voice was apol­ogetic.

            "Trying. I take it they aren't likely to succeed." Budreau rose and went to the anteroom door. "Colonel Falkenberg?" he called.

            "Yes, sir?" Falkenberg entered the room as the President beckoned.

            "Colonel, are you familiar with the situation outside?"

            "Yes, Mr. President."

            "Damn it, man, can you do something?"

            "What does the President suggest I do?" Falkenberg looked at the Cabinet members. "For three months we have attempted to preserve order in this city. We were not able to do so even with the cooperation of the techni­cians."

            "It wasn't my fault-" Lieutenant Colonel Cordova began.

            "I did not invite you to speak." Falkenberg's lips were set in a grim line. "Gentlemen, you now have open rebel­lion and simultaneously have alienated one of the most powerful blocs within your Party. We no longer control either the power plants or the food processing centers. I repeat, what does the President suggest I do?"

            Budreau nodded. "A fair enough criticism."

            He was interrupted by Bradford. "Drive that mob off the streets! Use those precious troops of yours to fight, that's what you're here for."

            "Certainly," Falkenberg said. "Will the President sign a proclamation of martial law?"

            Budreau nodded reluctantly. "I suppose I have to."

            "Very well," Falkenberg said.

            Hamner looked up suddenly. What had he detected in Falkenberg's voice and manner? Something important?

            "It is standard for politicians to get themselves into a situation that only the military can get them out of. It is also standard for them to blame the military afterwards," Falkenberg said. "I am willing to accept responsibility for enforcing martial law, but I must have command of all government forces. I will not attempt to restore order when some of the troops are not responsive to my policies."

            "No!" Bradford leaped to his feet. The chair crashed to the floor behind him. "I see what you're doing! You're against me too! That's why it was never time to move, never time for me to be President, you want control of this planet for yourself! Well, you won't get away with it, you cheap dictator. Cordova, arrest that man!"

            Cordova licked his lips and looked at Falkenberg. Both soldiers were armed. Cordova decided not to chance it. "Lieutenant Hargreave!" he called. The door to the ante­room opened wider.

            No one came in. "Hargreave!" Cordova shouted again. He put his hand on the pistol holstered at his belt. "You're under arrest, Colonel Falkenberg."

            "Indeed?"

            "This is absurd," Budreau shouted. "Colonel Cordova, take your hand off that weapon! I will not have my Cabinet meeting turned into a farce."

            For a moment nothing happened. The room was very still, and Cordova looked from Budreau to Bradford, wondering what to do now.

            Then Bradford faced the President. "You too, old man? Arrest Mr. Budreau as well, Colonel Cordova. As for you, Mr. Traitor George Hamner, you'll get what's coming to you. I have men all through this Palace. I knew I might have to do this."

            "You knew-what is this, Ernest?" President Budreau seemed bewildered, and his voice was plaintive. "What are you doing?"

            "Oh, shut up, old man," Bradford snarled. "I suppose you'll have to be shot as well."

            "I think we have heard enough," Falkenberg said dis­tinctly. His voice rang through the room although he hadn't shouted. "And I refuse to be arrested."

            "Kill him!" Bradford shouted. He reached under his tunic.

            Cordova drew his pistol. It had not cleared the holster when there were shots from  the doorway. Their sharp barks filled the room, and Hamner's ears rang from the muzzle blast.

            Bradford spun toward the door with a surprised look. Then his eyes glazed and he slid to the floor, the half-smile still on his lips. There were more shots and the crash of automatic weapons, and Cordova was flung  against the wall of the council chamber. He was held there by the smashing bullets. Bright red blotches spurted across his uniform.

            Sergeant Major Calvin came into the room with three Marines in battle dress, leather over bulging body armor. Their helmets were dull in the bright blue-tinted sunlight streaming through the chamber's windows.

            Falkenberg nodded and holstered his pistol. "All secure, Sergeant Major?"

            "Sir!"

            Falkenberg nodded again. "To quote Mr. Bradford, I took the liberty of securing the corridors, Mr. President. Now, sir, if you will issue that proclamation, I'll see to the situation in the streets outside. Sergeant Major."

            "Sir!"

            "Do you have the proclamation of martial law that Captain Fast drew up?"

            "Sir." Calvin removed a rolled document from a pocket of his leather tunic. Falkenberg took it and laid it on the table in front of President Budreau.

            "But-" Budreau's tone was hopeless. "All right. Not that there's much chance." He looked at Bradford's body and shuddered. "He was ready to kill me," Budreau mut­tered. The President seemed confused. Too much had happened, and there was too much to do.

            The battle sounds outside were louder, and the council room was filled with the sharp copper odor of fresh blood. Budreau drew the parchment toward himself and glanced at it, then took out a pen from his pocket. He scrawled his signature across it and handed it to Hamner to witness.

            "You'd better speak to the President's Guard," Falken­berg said. "They won't know what to do."

            "Aren't you going to use them in the street fight?" Hamner asked.

            Falkenberg shook his head. "I doubt if they'd fight. They have too many friends among the rebels. They'll protect the Palace, but they won't be reliable for anything else."

            "Have we got a chance?" Hamner asked. Budreau looked up from his reverie at the head of the table. "Yes. Have we?"

            "Possibly," Falkenberg said. "Depends on how good the people we're fighting are. If their commander is half as good as I think he is, we won't win this battle."

XI

            "God damn it, we won't do it!" Lieutenant Martin Latham stared in horror at Captain Fast. "That market's a death trap. These men didn't join to attack across open streets against rioters in safe positions-"

            "No. You joined to be glorified police," Captain Fast said calmly. "Now you've let things get out of hand. Who better to put them right again?"

            "The Fourth Battalion takes orders from Colonel Cordova, not you." Latham looked around for support. Several squads of the Fourth were within hearing, and he felt reassured.

            They stood in a deep indentation of the Palace wall. Just outside and around the corner of the indentation they could hear sporadic firing as the other units of the regi­ment kept the rebels occupied. Latham felt safe here, but out there-

            "No," he repeated. "It's suicide."

            "So is refusal to obey orders," Amos Fast said quietly. "Don't look around and don't raise your voice. Now, glance behind me at the Palace walls."

            Latham saw them. A flash from a gun barrel; blurs as leather-clad figures settled in on the walls and in the win­dows overlooking the niche.

            "If you don't make the attack, you will be disarmed and tried for cowardice in the face of the enemy," Fast said quietly. "There can be only one outcome of that trial. And only one penalty. You're better off making the assault. We'll support you in that."

            "Why are you doing this?" Martin Latham demanded.

            "You caused the problem," Fast said. "Now get ready.

            “When you've entered the market square the rest of the outfit will move up in support."

            The assault was successful, but it cost the Fourth heavily. After that came another series of fierce attacks. When they were finished the rioters had been driven from the immediate area of the Palace, but Falkenberg's regiment paid for every meter gained.

            Whenever they took a building, the enemy left it blazing. When the regiment trapped one large group of rebels, Falkenberg was forced to abandon the assault to aid in evacuating a hospital that the enemy put to the torch. Within three hours, fires were raging all around the Palace.

            There was no one in the council chamber with Budreau and Hamner. The bodies had been removed, and the floor mopped, but it seemed to George Hamner that the room would always smell of death; and he could not keep his eyes from straying from time to time, from staring at the neat line of holes stitched at chest height along the rich wood paneling.

            Falkenberg came in. "Your family is safe, Mr. Hamner." He turned to the President. "Ready to report, sir."

            Budreau looked up with haunted eyes. The sound of gunfire was faint, but still audible.

            "They have good leaders," Falkenberg reported. "When they left the Stadium they went immediately to the police barracks. They took the weapons and distributed them to their allies, after butchering the police."

            "They murdered-"

            "Certainly," Falkenberg said. "They wanted the police building as a fortress. And we are not fighting a mere mob out there, Mr. President. We have repeatedly run against well-armed men with training. Household forces. I will attempt another assault in the morning, but for now, Mr. President, we don't hold much more than a kilometer around the Palace."

            The fires burned all night, but there was little fighting. The regiment held the Palace, with bivouac in the court­yard; and if anyone questioned why the Fourth was en­camped in the center of the courtyard with other troops all around them, they did so silently.

            Lieutenant Martin Latham might have had an answer for any such questioner, but he lay under Hadley's flag in the honor hall outside the hospital.

            In the morning the assaults began again. The regiment moved out in thin streams, infiltrating weak spots, by­passing strong, until it had cleared a large area outside the Palace again. Then it came against another well-fortified position.

            An hour later the regiment was heavily engaged against roof-top snipers, barricaded streets, and everywhere burn­ing buildings. Maniples and squads attempted to get through and into the buildings beyond but were turned back.

            The Fourth was decimated in repeated assaults against the barricades.

            George Hamner had come with Falkenberg and stood in the field headquarters. He watched another platoon assault of the Fourth beaten back. "They're pretty good men," he mused.

            "They'll do. Now." Falkenberg said.

            "But you've used them up pretty fast."

            "Not entirely by choice," Falkenberg said. "The Presi­dent has ordered me to break the enemy resistance. That squanders soldiers. I'd as soon use the Fourth as blunt the fighting edge of the rest of the regiment."

            "But we're not getting anywhere."

            "No. The opposition's too good, and there are too many of them. We can't get them concentrated for a set battle, and when we do catch them they set fire to part of the city and retreat under cover of the flames."

            A communications corporal beckoned urgently, and Falkenberg went to the low table with its array of electron­ics. He took the offered earphone and listened, then raised a mike.

            "Fall back to the Palace," Falkenberg ordered.

            "You're retreating?" Hamner demanded.

            Falkenberg shrugged. "I have no choice. I can't hold this thin a perimeter, and I have only two battalions. Plus what's left of the Fourth."

            "Where's the Third? The Progressive partisans? My people?"

            "Out at the power plants and food centers," Falken­berg answered. "We can't break in without giving the techs time to wreck the place, but we can keep any more rebels from getting in. The Third isn't as well trained as the rest of the regiment-and besides, the techs may trust them."

            They walked back through burned-out streets. The sounds of fighting followed them as the regiment retreated. Civilian workers fought the fires and cared for the wounded and dead.

            Hopeless, George Hamner thought. Hopeless. I don't know why I thought Falkenberg would pull some kind of rabbit out of the hat once Bradford was gone. What could he do? What can anyone do?

            Worried-looking Presidential Guards let them into the Palace and swung the heavy doors shut behind them. The guards held the Palace, but would not go outside.

            President Budreau was in his ornate office with Lieuten­ant Banners. "I was going to send for you," Budreau said. "We can't win this, can we?"

            "Not the way it's going," Falkenberg answered. Hamner nodded agreement.

            Budreau nodded rapidly, as if to himself. His face was a mask of lost hopes. "That's what I thought. Pull your men back to barracks, Colonel. I'm going to surrender."

            "But you can't," George protested. "Everything we've dreamed of ... You'll doom Hadley. The Freedom Party can't govern."

            "Precisely. And you see it too, don't you, George? How much governing are we doing? Before it came to ah open break, perhaps we had a chance. Not now. Bring your men back to the Palace, Colonel Falkenberg. Or are you going to refuse?"

            "No, sir. The men are retreating already. They'll be here in half an hour."

            Budreau sighed loudly. "I told you the military answer wouldn't work here, Falkenberg."

            "We might have accomplished something in the past months if we'd been given the chance."

            "You might." The President was too tired to argue. "But putting the blame on poor Ernie won't help. He must have been insane.

            "But this isn't three months ago, Colonel. It's not even yesterday. I might have reached a compromise before the fighting started, but I didn't, and you've lost. You're not doing much besides burning down the city. . . at least I can spare Hadley that. Banners, go tell the Freedom Party leaders I can't take anymore."

            The Guard officer saluted and left, his face an un­readable mask. Budreau watched him leave the office. His eyes focused far beyond the walls with their Earth decorations.

            "So you're resigning," Falkenberg said slowly.

            Budreau nodded.

            "Have you resigned, sir?" Falkenberg demanded.

            "Yes, blast you. Banners has my resignation."

            "And what will you do now?" George Hamner asked. His voice held both contempt and amazement. He had always admired and respected Budreau. And now what had Hadley's great leader left them?

            "Banners has promised to get me out of here," Budreau said. "He has a boat in the harbor. We'll sail up the coast and land, then go inland to the mines. There'll be a star-ship there next week, and I can get out on that with my family. You'd better come with me, George." The Presi­dent put both hands over his face, then looked up. "There's a lot of relief in giving in, did you know? What will you do, Colonel Falkenberg?"

            "We'll manage. There are plenty of boats in the harbor if we need one. But it is very likely that the new govern­ment will need trained soldiers."

            "The perfect mercenary," Budreau said with contempt. He sighed, then sent his eyes searching around the office, lingering on familiar objects. "It's a relief. I don't have to decide things anymore." He stood and his shoulders were no longer stooped. "I'll get the family. You'd better be moving too, George."

            "I'll be along, sir. Don't wait for us. As the Colonel says, there are plenty of boats." He waited until Budreau had left the office, then turned to Falkenberg. "All right, what now?"

            "Now we do what we came here to do," Falkenberg said. He went to the President's desk and examined the phones, but rejected them for a pocket communicator. He lifted it and spoke at length.

            "Just what are you doing?" Hamner demanded.

            "You're not President yet," Falkenberg said. "You won't be until you're sworn in, and that won't happen until I've finished. And there's nobody to accept your resignation, either."

            "What the hell?" Hamner looked closely at Falkenberg, but he could not read the officer's expression. "You do have an idea. Let's hear it."

            "You're not President yet," Falkenberg said. "Under Budreau's proclamation of martial law, I am to take whatever actions I think are required to restore order in Refuge. That order is valid until a new President removes it. And at the moment there's no President."

            "But Budreau's surrendered! The Freedom Party will elect a President."

            "Under Hadley's constitution only the Senate and As­sembly in joint session' can alter the order of succession. They're scattered across the city and their meeting cham­bers have been burned."

            Sergeant Major Calvin and several of Falkenberg's aides came to the door. They stood, waiting.

            "I'm playing guardhouse lawyer," Falkenberg said. "But President Budreau doesn't have the authority to appoint a new President. With Bradford dead, you're in charge here, but not until you appear before a magistrate and take the oath of office."

            "This doesn't make sense," Hamner protested. "How long do you think you can stay in control here, anyway?"

            "As long as I have to." Falkenberg turned to an aide. "Corporal, I want Mr. Hamner to stay with me and you with him. You will treat him with respect, but he goes nowhere and-sees no one without my permission. Under­stood?"

            "Sir!"

"And now what?" Hamner asked.

            "And now we wait," John Falkenberg said softly. "But not too long..."

            George Hamner sat in the council chambers with his back to the stained and punctured wall. He tried to forget those stains, but he couldn't.

            Falkenberg was across from him, and his aides sat at the far end of the table. Communications gear had been spread across one side table, but there was no situation map; Falkenberg had not moved his command post here.

            From time to time officers brought him battle reports, but Falkenberg hardly listened to them. However, when one of the aides reported that Dr. Whitlock was calling, Falkenberg took the earphones immediately.

            George couldn't hear what Whitlock was saying and Falkenberg's end of the conversation consisted of mono­syllables. The only thing George was sure of was that Falkenberg was very interested in what his political agent was doing.

            The regiment had fought its way back to the Palace and was now in the courtyard. The Palace entrances were held by the  Presidential Guard, and the fighting had stopped. The rebels left the guardsmen alone, and an uneasy truce settled across the city of Refuge.

            "They're going into the Stadium, sir," Captain Fast reported. "That cheer you heard was when Banners gave ‘em the President's resignation."

            "I see. Thank you, Captain." Falkenberg motioned for more coffee. He offered a cup to George, but the Vice President didn't want any.

            "How long does this go on?" George demanded.

            "Not much longer. Hear them cheering?"

            They sat for another hour, Falkenberg with outward calm, Hamner with growing tension. Then Dr. Whitlock came to the council room.

            The tall civilian looked at Falkenberg and Hamner, then sat easily in the President's chair. "Don't reckon I'll have another chance to sit in the seat of the mighty," he grinned.

            "But what is happening?" Hamner demanded.

            Whitlock shrugged. "It's 'bout like Colonel Falkenberg figured. Mob's moved right into the Stadium. Nobody wants to be left out now they think they've won. They've rounded up what senators they could find and now they're fixin' to elect themselves a new President."

            "But that election won't be valid," Hamner said.

            "No, suh, but that don't seem to slow 'em down a bit. They figure they won the right, I guess. And the Guard has already said they're goin' to honor the people's choice." Whitlock smiled ironically.

"How many of my technicians are out there in that mob?" Hamner asked. "They'd listen to me, I know they would."

            "They might at that," Whitlock said. "But there's not so many as there used to be. Most of 'em couldn't stomach the burnin' and looting. Still, there's a fair number."

            "Can you get them out?" Falkenberg asked.

            "Doin" that right now," Whitlock grinned. "One reason I come up here was to get Mr. Hamner to help with that. I got my people goin' round tellin' the technicians they already got Mr. Hamner as President, so why they want somebody else? It's workin' too, but a few words from their leader here might help."

            "Right," Falkenberg said. "Well, sir?"

            "I don't know what to say," George protested.

Falkenberg went to the wall control panel. "Mr. Vice President, I can't give you orders, but I'd suggest you simply make a few promises. Tell them you will shortly assume command, and that things will be different. Then order them to go home or face charges as rebels. Or ask them to go home as a favor to you. Whatever you think will work."

            It wasn't much of a speech, and from the roar outside the crowd did not hear much of it anyway. George prom­ised amnesty for anyone who left the Stadium and tried to appeal to the Progressives who were caught up in the rebellion. When he put down the microphone, Falkenberg seemed pleased.

            "Half an hour, Dr. Whitlock?" Falkenberg asked.

            "About that," the historian agreed. "All that's leavin' will be gone by then."

            "Let's go, Mr. President." Falkenberg was insistent.

            "Where?" Hamner asked.

            "To see the end of this. Do you want to watch, or would you rather join your family? You can go anywhere you like except to a magistrate-or to someone who might accept your resignation."

            "Colonel, this is ridiculous! You can't force me to be President, and I don't understand what's going on."

            Falkenberg's smile was grim. "Nor do I want you to understand. Yet. You'll have enough trouble living with yourself as it is. Let's go."

            George Hamner followed. His throat was dry, and his guts felt as if they'd knotted themselves into a tight ball.

            The First and Second Battalions were assembled in the Palace courtyard. The men stood in ranks. There syrithi-leather battledress was stained with dirt and smoke from the street fighting. Armor bulged under their uniforms.

            The men were silent, and Hamner thought they might have been carved from stone.

            "Follow me," Falkenberg ordered. He led the way to the Stadium entrance.

            Lieutenant Banners stood in the doorway.

            "Halt," Banners commanded.

            "Really, Lieutenant? Would you fight my troops?" Falkenberg indicated the grim lines behind him.

            Lieutenant Banners gulped. Hamner thought the Guard officer looked very young. "No, sir," Banners protested. "But we have barred the doors. The emergency meeting of the Assembly and Senate is electing a new President out there,  and we will not permit your mercenaries to interfere."

            "They have not elected anyone," Falkenberg said.

            "No, sir, but when they do, the Guard will be under his command."

            "I have orders from Vice President Hamner to arrest the leaders of the rebellion, and a valid proclamation of martial law," Falkenberg insisted.

            "I'm sorry, sir." Banners seemed to mean it. "Our council of officers has decided that President Budreau's surrender is valid. We intend to honor it."

            "I see." Falkenberg withdrew. He motioned to his aides, and Hamner joined the group. No one objected.

            "Hadn't expected this," Falkenberg said. "It would take a week to fight through those guardrooms." He thought for a moment. "Give me your keys," he snapped at Hamner.

            Bewildered, George took them out. Falkenberg grinned widely. "There's another way into there, you know. Major Savage! Take G and H Companies of Second Battalion to secure the Stadium exits. Dig yourselves in and set up all weapons. Arrest anyone who comes out."

            "Sir."

            "Dig in pretty good, Jeremy. They may be coming out fighting. But I don't expect them to be well organized."

            "Do we fire on armed men?"

            "Without warning, Major. Without warning. Sergeant Major, bring the rest of the troops with me. Major, you'll have twenty minutes."

            Falkenberg led his troops across the courtyard to the tunnel entrance and used Hamner's keys to unlock the doors.

            Falkenberg ignored him. He led the troops down the stairway and across, under the field.

            George Hamner stayed close to Falkenberg. He could hear the long column of armed men tramp behind him. They moved up stairways on the other side, marching briskly until George was panting. The men didn't seem to notice. Gravity difference, Hamner thought. And train­ing.

            They reached the top and deployed along the passage­ways. Falkenberg stationed men at each exit and came back to the center doors. Then he waited. The tension grew.

            "But-"

            Falkenberg shook his head. His look demanded silence. He stood, waiting, while the seconds ticked past.

            "MOVE OUT!" Falkenberg commanded.

            The doors burst open. The armed troopers moved quickly across the top of the Stadium. Most of the mob was below, and a few unarmed men were struck down when they tried to oppose the regiment. Rifle butts swung, then there was a moment of calm. Falkenberg took a speaker from his corporal attendant.

            "ATTENTION. ATTENTION. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE MARTIAL LAW PROCLAMATION OF PRESIDENT BUDREAU. LAY DOWN ALL WEAPONS AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. IF YOU RESIST, YOU WILL BE KILLED."

            There was a moment of silence, then shouts as the mob realized what Falkenberg had said. Some laughed. Then shots came from the field and the lower seats of the Stadium. Hamner heard the flat snap of a bullet as it rushed past his ear. Then he heard the crack of the rifle.

            One of the leaders on the field below had a speaker. He shouted to the others.

            "ATTACK THEM! THERE AREN'T MORE THAN A THOUSAND OF THEM, WE'RE THIRTY THOUSAND STRONG. ATTACK, KILL THEM!"

            There were more shots. Some of Falkenberg's men fell. The others stood immobile, waiting for orders.

            Falkenberg raised the speaker again. "PREPARE FOR VOLLEY FIRE. MAKE READY. TAKE AIM. IN VOLLEY, FIRE!"

            Seven hundred rifles crashed as one.

            "FIRE!" Someone screamed, a long drawn-out cry, a plea without words.

            "FIRE!"

            The line of men clambering up the seats toward them wavered and broke. Men screamed, some pushed back, dove under seats, tried to hide behind their friends, tried to get anywhere but under the unwavering muzzles of the rifles.

            "FIRE!"

            It was like one shot, very loud, lasting far longer than a rifle shot ought to, but it was impossible to hear in­dividual weapons. "FIRE!"

            There were more screams from below. "In the name of God-"

            "THE FORTY-SECOND WILL ADVANCE. FIX BAYONETS. FORWARD, MOVE. FIRE. FIRE AT WILL."

            Now there was a continuous crackle of weapons. The leather-clad lines moved forward and down, over the stadium seats, flowing down inexorably toward the press below on the field.

            "Sergeant Major!"

            "SIR!"

            "Marksmen and experts will fall out and take station. They will fire on all armed men."

            "Sir!"

            Calvin spoke into his communicator. Men dropped out of each section and took position behind seats. They began to fire, carefully but rapidly. Anyone below who raised a weapon died. The regiment advanced onward.

            Hamner was sick. The screams of wounded could be heard everywhere. God, make it stop, make it stop, he prayed.

            "GRENADIERS WILL PREPARE TO THROW." Falkenberg's voice boomed from the speaker. "THROW!"

            A hundred grenades arched out from the advancing line. They fell into the milling crowds below. The muffled explosions were masked by screams of terror.

            "IN VOLLEY, FIRE!"

            The regiment advanced until it made contact with the mob. There was a brief struggle. Rifles fired, and bayonets flashed red. The line halted but momentarily. Then it moved on, leaving behind a ghastly trail.

            Men and women jammed in the Stadium exits. Others frantically tried to get out, clambering over the fallen, tearing women out of their way to push past, trampling each other in their scramble to escape. There was a rattle of gunfire from outside. Those in the gates recoiled, to be crushed beneath others trying to get out.

            "You won't even let them out!" Hamner screamed at Falkenberg.

            "Not armed. And not to escape." The Colonel's face was hard and cold, the eyes narrowed to slits. He watched the slaughter impassively, looking at the entire scene with­out expression.

            "Are you going to kill them all?"

            "All who resist."

            "But they don't deserve this!" George Hamner felt his voice breaking. "They don't!"

            "No one does, George. SERGEANT MAJOR!"

            "SIR!"

            "HALT,the marksmen may concentrate on the leaders now."

            "SIR!" Calvin spoke quietly into his command set. The snipers concentrated their fire on the Presidential box across from them. Centurions ran up and down the line of hidden troops, pointing out targets. The marksmen kept up a steady fire.

            The leather lines of armored men advanced inexorably. They had almost reached the lower tier of seats. There was less firing now, but the scarlet-painted bayonets flashed in the afternoon sun.

            Another section fell out of line and moved to guard a tiny number of prisoners at the end of the Stadium. The rest of the line moved on, advancing over seats made slick with blood.

            When the regiment reached ground level their progress was slower. There was little opposition, but the sheer mass of people in front of them held up the troopers. There were a few pockets of active resistance, and flying squads rushed there to reinforce the line. More grenades were thrown. Falkenberg watched the battle calmly, and seldom spoke into his communicator. Below, more men died.

            A company of troopers formed and rushed up a stair­way on the opposite side of the Stadium. They fanned out across the top. Then their rifles leveled, and crashed in another terrible series of volleys.

            Suddenly it was over. There was no opposition. There were only screaming crowds. Men threw away weapons to run with their hands in the air. Others fell to their knees to beg for their lives. There was one final volley, then a deathly stillness fell over the Stadium.,

            But it wasn't quiet, Hamner discovered. The guns were silent, men no longer shouted orders, but there was sound. There were screams from the wounded. There were pleas for help, whimpers, a racking cough that went on and on as someone tried to clear punctured lungs.

            Falkenberg nodded grimly. "Now we can find a magis­trate, Mr. President. Now."

            "I-O my  God!" Hamner  stood  at  the top   of  the Stadium. He clutched a column to steady his weakened legs. The scene below seemed unreal. There was too much blood, rivers of blood, blood cascading down the steps, blood pouring down stairwells to soak the grassy field below.

            "It's over," Falkenberg said gently. "For all of us. The regiment will be leaving as soon as you're properly in command. You shouldn't have any trouble with your power plants. Your technicians will trust you now that Bradford's gone. And without their leaders, the city people won't resist.

            "You can ship as many as you have to out to the interior. Disperse them among the loyalists where they won't do you any harm. That amnesty of yours-it's only a suggestion, but I'd renew it."

            Hamner turned dazed eyes toward Falkenberg. "Yes. There's been too much slaughter today. Who are you, Falkenberg?"

            "A mercenary soldier, Mr. President. Nothing more."

            "But-then who are you working for?"

            "That's the question nobody asked before. Grand Ad­miral Lermontov."

            "Lermontov? But you were drummed out of the Co-Dominium! You mean that you were hired-by the admiral? As a mercenary?"

            "More or less." Falkenberg nodded coldly. "The Fleet's a little sick of being used to mess up people's lives without having a chance to-to leave things in working order."

            "And now you're leaving?"

            "Yes. We couldn't stay here, George. Nobody is going to forget today. You couldn't keep us on and build a government that works. I'll take First and Second Bat­talions, and what's left of the Fourth. There's more work for us."

            "And the others?"

            "Third will stay on to help you," Falkenberg said. "We put all the married locals, the solid people, inThird, and sent it off to the power plants. They weren't involved in the fighting." He looked across the stadium, then back to Hamner. "Blame it all on us, George. You weren't in command. You can say Bradford ordered this slaughter and killed himself in remorse. People will want to believe that. They'll want to think somebody was punished for- for this." He waved toward the field below. A child was sobbing out there somewhere.

            "It had to be done," Falkenberg insisted. "Didn't it? There was no way out, nothing you could do to keep civilization. . . . Dr. Whitlock estimated a third of the population would die when things collapsed. Fleet Intelligence put it higher than that. Now you have a chance."

            Falkenberg was speaking rapidly, and George wondered whom he was trying to convince.

            "Move them out," Falkenberg said. "Move them out while they're still dazed. You won't need much help for that. They won't resist now. And we got the railroads running for you. Use the railroads and ship people out to the farms. It'll be rough with no preparation, but it's a long time until winter-"