Computer War

Chapter I

Number One said, “Coaids, we are in session.”

The murmuring dropped away to be replaced by respectful silence.

With the others, Ross Westley gave full attention to his ultimate leader. He had read somewhere that eventually a person’s character was reflected in his face. Were it true, then Number One was overly fond of the sensual pleasures as well as power. As a young man, he must have been exceptionally handsome; now, at approximately seventy, his face had gone gross, his smile, when it did appear, humorless. His voice, even when addressing these, his closest associates, was empty of inflection save that of command.

It was said, Ross knew, that since the cruelly suppressed revolt of Maximilian Barker, for years Number Two in the Alphaland hierarchy, the Presidor had only one intimate. His vices, did they exist, and his face proclaimed they existed, were enjoyed in solitude. It was said he was a connoisseur of vintages, in spite of the United Temple’s ban on alcoholic beverages, and a gourmet with a staff of half the best chefs on the planet. It was even said he took tobacco, in some form or other.

Number One said now, “Coaid Graves.”

Graves was not a member of the Central Comita and nervously shuffled his papers in this august gathering.

He said, “The computers reveal that Betastan could be reduced with a short, sharp conflict lasting 2.35 months, plus or minus 3.8 days. The cost in casualties would be 17,900 killed and 310,000 wounded, plus or minus 293 killed and 7,021 wounded. The cost would be 127,895,367,400 gold Alphas, plus or minus 6,730,412.”

Number One looked at his Deputy of Finance, who indicated unhappiness.

“Coaid Matheison?”

Deputy Matheison jiggled a stylo. He was obviously in awe of his leader and his voice came in apology. “It seems fantastically expensive for a war lasting two months. Your Leadership is familiar with the state of the treasury.”

Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon, without being called upon, said heavily, “The more mechanized modern warfare becomes, the more expensive. Firepower increases geometrically every decade, but so does the cost of keeping a man in the field.”

Number One looked at him. He said, “We shall hear from you shortly, Marshal Croft-Gordon.”

The Marshal flushed.

Number One said, “Coaid Wilkonson, what does our geopolitician think of the project?”

The nattily goateed Wilkonson was at home in any gathering, from undergraduate students to the highest echelons of the government of his land.

“The Presidor is already cognizant of the situation. Our planet is divided into two major land areas and two major powers, Alphaland and Betastan, and twenty-three minor powers. Geographically, we almost duplicate each other, and, as all know, down through history this has led to neither one being able to dominate the smaller nations. There has been too delicate a balance. If Alphaland were able to bring its rival to its knees, then the world government which Your Leadership foresees would become an immediate reality. It is doubtful that even a confederation of the minor powers could stand before our glorious march.”

Temple Bishop Stockwater murmured unctuously, “Amen.”

Ross Westley, conscious of his comparative youth, seldom spoke at these gatherings. Now he shifted in his chair.

Number One looked at him. “And our Deputy of Propaganda?”

Ross said unhappily, looking at the last speaker, and then over at the computer expert, “The figures deal with a quick war between Alphaland and Betastan. What would happen if some of the neutrals, seeing the handwriting on the wall, entered on the side of the enemy?”

“Well, Coaid?” Number One said to Graves.

Graves shuffled his papers again. “Of the twenty-three, the computers reveal that only twelve could mobilize in time to affect the conflict. Of these twelve, the computers report that four would favor our cause, four favor that of Betastan, and four remain neutral. None of these twelve are strong neutral powers. If the Presidor would like more details…”

“Not now.”

Number One sat and thought. It was a long-time habit of his. Not a sound came from his associates. The story was that almost twenty years ago a deputy had gone into a coughing spasm during one of the Presidor’s retreats into contemplation and had never again attended a command session, losing his office within a matter of weeks.

He said finally, “And our Academician of Socioeconomics?”

Academician Philip McGivern was a very old man, his beard almost identical to that of Wilkonson but a dirty gray rather than black.

He stood to speak, although none of the others had. McGivern was an Old Hand and bore no awe for Number One—they had been through too much together. He looked full into the face of the other and said, “You are acquainted with my opinions, Your Leadership. I assume you merely wish me to fill them in for these, our Coaids. We have reached the crisis that I warned about a full ten years ago. The age of the computer is upon us. Ultimate automation. Our productive capacity alone is sufficient to supply the whole planet with manufactured goods. Our own land is glutted with them and industry is slowing, sometimes shutting down. As our commodities become increasingly cheaper, tariff walls are erected abroad to support the more expensive products of homeland industries. A full sixteen minor countries have all but completely forbidden imports from Alphaland.

“If the present socioeconomic system of Alphaland is to continue, we must have both foreign markets and sources of raw materials. If this war is successful, and world government achieved, our only policy can be one of reducing the economies of Betastan and all the neutral lands to pastoral societies. In the future, they can supply agricultural and mineral needs; we must supply all industrial production.”

The old man finished significantly. “Otherwise, we shall have an industrial collapse within three months, plus or minus 3.2 days.” His eyes turned to Graves. “According to my own computers.”

Ross Westley stirred in his seat again.

Number One looked at him bleakly. “You seem restive, Coaid.”

Ross nodded. “Your Leadership, I know my position isn’t usually involved in the preliminary planning stages; however, that is going to have to be sold not only to the rest of the world, except Betastan, but to our own people as well. In spite of the computers predicting an easy victory, those over 300,000 casualties are going to be real people, our citizens. The civil war hasn’t been over so long but that the people are horrified at the idea of more war. And to sell them a war of aggression at this stage—

Number One interrupted. “My people will go where I lead them.”

“Yes”—Ross nodded unhappily—“but it will not be a simple task for those of us who have to point out the path.”

Number One slumped back into thought.

Afterwards Ross Westley took a pneumatic back to his official quarters. He moved less than briskly through the outer offices, desks and office machines that composed the inner circles of the Commissariat of Information.

His staff, knowing his mood, didn’t intrude, but near his own office he was brought up, his usual way being barred by a gleaming new computer of exotic design. Ross Westley stopped and glared at it.

He snapped at one of the senior secretaries, “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is this?”

She looked mildly shocked at his language, and inadvertently shot a look over her shoulder but then caught herself in the realization that there would be no Temple Monks in the preserves of the Deputy of Propaganda. However, Jet Pirincin sometimes doubted that her chief was as devout as his high position would call for.

Jet said, apologetically, “The technicians are still installing it, Coaid Deputy.”

“I said, what the hell is it? It’s at the point where I can’t get to my own office through the curd this place is littered with.”

“Yes, Coaid Deputy Westley,” Jet said. She was mildly surprised. Ross Westley was usually on the easygoing side, as upper echelon coaids went. “As I understand, sir, it is a new development adapted to our commissariat which, by scanning any printed page, can give a plus or minus percentage of two, on the effect of the publication on the public.”

He looked at her sourly. “What’s new about that, Coaid Pirincin? We’ve got a bank of machines that’ll handle that sort of jetsam.”

“Yes, Coaid Deputy. I wouldn’t know, Coaid. The technicians know all about it. It’s some new departure.”

Ross snorted and sidestepped the new equipment to continue to his office. He muttered, “Why not turn the whole nardy government over to these technicians? They’re the only ones who know what’s going on.”

Jet Pirincin stared after him, more than mildly surprised now. Suppose there had been a Surety Coaid about. Admittedly, Deputy Westley was a member of the Central Comita, though a junior one, but you simply didn’t say such things. It amounted to criticism of the workings of the government. She shook her head. It was her opinion that Ross Westley was a pleasant enough boss to have, and even almost handsome in a craggy sort of way, but she decided it was just as well that his early training to be a teacher of history was thwarted. What might he have taught his students?

Ross growled at the door which opened automatically before him. It had been a long-time irritation. The damned mechanism didn’t read his mind, it read his physical presence. Suppose his desire was to approach the door but not go through it. Suppose his desire was to come up to the door and press his ear against it, so as to eavesdrop on someone within. The damned door wouldn’t let him! It opened, willy-nilly, upon his coming in proximity.

He grunted sourly. At least it was an improvement over the doors of his youth. They couldn’t read individuals and opened on the approach of anyone at all!

He realized he was in a miserable mood. He didn’t like the developments of the Central Comita session this afternoon. He didn’t like them at all. To the extent possible, he had been fighting the trend, but the Deputy of Propaganda was a low man on the totem pole and often not even called on to attend inmost staff sessions.

He sat and stared moodily and unseeingly at his orderbox. Finally he flicked a finger to activate it and said; “Is there anything on my desk?”

A voice answered him in detail and he said, “Switch it to Assistant Deputy Bauserman and cut all calls to me for the next two hours.”

“Yes, Coaid.”

He sat for a moment, then surreptitiously flicked a small stud on the ring on his right little finger, with the thumbnail of his left hand. From the side of his eyes, he observed what would seem to be a star sapphire set in the ring. It gleamed no more than ordinarily.

Evidently, he decided, his complaint of a month or so ago had brought results. If the highly developed little mop he had in the ring was effective, his quarters were no longer bugged. Rank had its privileges, even in the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland.

He got to his feet, went over to what would appear to be a closet door and opened it. The personal pneumatic car inside was strictly a one-man affair. He wedged into it, closed the door behind him, threw the vacuum control, and began dialing his destination. He was too orientated to the transportation method to be distressed by the sudden drop-away and then the surge of acceleration.

The car came to a halt and flicked the green light for him. He threw off the vacuum control, opened the door and stepped out. He was at the entry port of one of Alphacity’s more popular parks. He considered momentarily, but then threw the control which would send his car to a nearby parking area. His station would have allowed him to monopolize the place indefinitely but of recent months Ross Westley was, possibly unbeknownst to himself, becoming unhappy about many of his prerogatives.

He walked toward the park center, as though heading for the famed Interplanetary Zoo, but managed to check, two or three times over, whether or not he was being tailed. As far as he could see, he wasn’t.

He started for his true destination.

Tilly Trice looked up at his entrance into her shop. She winked perkily and blew him a kiss, but didn’t get up from her work.

She was, he told himself all over again, the most unlikely young woman a powerful and wealthy governmental head could ever expect to make himself a fool over. She was tiny. Her figure could hardly have been less, being that of a teenage boy, rather than one of the current TriDi sex symbols. Her face was pert rather than pretty, not to speak of beautiful. Admittedly, her features were clean, her carriage soldier-straight, her voice a dream of gentility.

But by no stretch of the imagination would any historic period of man’s evolution, whether on Mother Earth or out here in the stars, have pinned the label of glamour girl on Tilly Trice.

At best, she would have made the grade as the famed girl next door, a boy’s best pal.

She was fiddling with some red leather and a pot of glue. And it came to him that it was probably real leather. He wondered where she’d imported it from. Holy Ultimate, from Earth? The space freight alone! But then, of course, Tilly Trice’s customers were the most ultra-wealthy the planet provided and were not of Alphaland alone. In fact, she boasted clients in every nation of this world.

She said, that faint mockery in her voice, “Hi, Coaid.”

“Don’t call me that,” he growled.

She went, “Tu, tu, tu. Nardy temper today.”

“Don’t swear,” he growled. “It doesn’t become a half-pint. It sounds incongruous, a four letter word coming out of your mouth.”

“Nardy,” she said righteously, “is a five letter word. I know some four letter ones. You want to hear them?”

“No. Number One held another session today. Graves had the final computer returns.”

She dropped her light air. “Oh,” she said,

“They were as bad as I told you they would be. Graves gives Betastan a little better than two months.”

“Oh, he does!” she said tartly, her attitude suddenly that of a defiant child.

He eyed her unhappily. “Listen, Till, what do your own computers carry on this? You’ve had enough material turned over to you to program…”

She was shaking her head to silence him. She got up and approached one of the dusty bookshelves that lined the shop’s walls. She stared unseeingly at a short row of German language first editions.

Tilly shook her head again. “I won’t give you any jetsam, Rossie. We have a few computers in Betastan, but nothing like the number you have here. None of them have been directed toward the military. Even after my warnings came through.”

“But why not!”

She looked at him. “I think it’s a bit difficult to explain our way of thinking to someone with your background, Rossie. But let me use an example. Back in the very old days on Earth, when the nations were perpetually arming—do you remember their terminology? They were all expending the gigantic sums involved in defense. It was a gobbledygook term. Nobody ever spent money on offense, it was always defense. By the oldest traditions of our race, the oldest teachings, he who lives by the sword, dies by it. And over and over again it was seen that those nations which built large military machines sooner or later found occasion to use them. Sometimes because they were attacked, more often they found occasion to attack—by flimsy excuse, or otherwise.”

“What are you driving at?”

She sighed. “We’re trying a new theory in Betastan.”

“It’s doomed to failure, you cloddies! Why do you think I’ve been acting the traitor for these past months? It’s not just Betastan. Don’t you realize that if this war is lost, the whole planet eventually comes under the domination of Number One?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “The war isn’t lost.”

He gave up.

He looked about the small store in despair. Finally he said, “You know, Till, I’ve sometimes wondered how you manage to transmit the information I’ve been giving you. I’ve known you for five years. For two of these I’ve known you to be connected with Betastan espionage. For the past eight months I’ve been feeding you the innermost secrets of Number One’s private sessions with his deputies and closest coaids.”

She tinkled laughter, but he went on, his forehead wrinkled. “I’ve gone to the trouble of checking out some of the methods our Commissariat of Surety uses to intercept espionage messages, and they’re elaborate far beyond my first conception. Why, Deputy Mark Fielder has more computers devoted to that problem alone than I have in my whole commissariat.”

Tilly Trice wickedly said, “I shouldn’t trust you with this, Rossie, since you’re not very good at keeping secrets. However”—she reached down and picked up a card from her desk—“I just mail a postcard through your post office.”

Chapter II

The Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland—known as Number One throughout the hierarchy—relaxed once he had passed through the doors of his private chambers. Perhaps slumped would have been the better term.

He headed for the moderately large living room which was his true home, and for the bar which sat in the corner there.

“This early in the day?” a voice said gently.

Pater Riggin sat in a leather armchair near the fireplace. He had evidently turned the thermostat down to the point where a fire was desirable. It was, Number One thought wryly, perhaps his lifelong friend’s sole indulgence, sitting before the embers of a primitive blaze.

He spoke from the bar, even as he poured a double shotglass of Metaxa, imported from far Earth. “I sometimes wonder at the advisability of my having given you a key to my rooms. Sooner or later, in one of your typically absentminded moments, you’ll either lose it, or, in one of your more idealistic spells, you’ll decide that the Presidor of Alphaland has at long last become redundant and hand the key over to one of my none too few political opponents.”

The Temple Monk closed the age-flimsy book he had been reading, but held the place with his right forefinger.

He said mildly, “The first is an admitted possibility. But who would know, upon finding it, that the ultra-remote Number One…”

“Don’t call me that, Rig.”

“… excuse me, utilized a device as anachronistic as a lock and key to protect himself? In the second case, I am not a believer in the theory that displacing a dictator ends dictatorship. It merely opens the way to a different dictator, who may well be worse than the one just, eh, liquidated.”

Number One brought his glass back to the fire and slumped into the chair across from his friend. He swallowed a larger amount than was his wont, in a gulp.

“So,” he said, “you think you’d might as well support me.”

The Temple Monk shook his head and sighed, patting his rounded tummy. “Only insofar as I have always supported you, Jim.”

Number One twisted his mouth. “Mark Fielder sent me a report last week which revealed that out in the boonies the common man thinks of you as my alter ego. Sort of a Svengali. When something goes more than ordinarily wrong in Alphaland, that curd of a Temple Monk is behind it.”

Softly, Pater Riggin said, “And what was our good Deputy of Surety’s suggestion?”

“That we shoot you, of course, and satisfy the yokes. They evidently could use a bit of satisfying these days.”

Number One finished his Greek brandy and set the glass on a low table. Instead of immediately sinking back into his chair, he took up a stogie from a humidor. He selected an ancient style match, struck it under the table top, and drew smoke into his mouth and nasal passages.

Pater Riggin had never quite become used to the other’s vice. Somehow, it didn’t seem the thing that one would do, even before one’s closest friend. He looked half away, not noting his companion’s cynical expression.

Even Pater Riggin, Number One suspected, in his secret heart desired the Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth to be a literal, rather than a propaganda, perfect man. He wondered, on occasion, what would happen if at this point in life he took a younger woman in marriage. Would the ultimate reaction lead to his overthrow, in this hypocritical society? He doubted if more than one person in ten among the citizenry realized that he had been married in his early years and that his wife had died on the barricades that accompanied his coming to power. It had been a long time ago, a very long time ago. And now the people thought him a lifelong abstainer from sex, as from every mundane pleasure. Inwardly, he snorted.

“What was decided at the session today, Jim?” the Temple Monk asked.

The other’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “How did you know there was a session of the inmost staff, Rig? That’s strictly surety information.”

The slightly older man laughed gently. “I have known you for, let me see, is it fifty years, or fifty-five, Jim? I would warrant that ten minutes ago you were with your closest advisers and that you didn’t like what developed.”

Number One exhaled smoke through his nostrils. Abruptly he said, “Graves gave his final report. The computers say the war would be over in less than three months. We would take about 330,000 casualties, of which some 18,000 would be deaths.”

“I see. And how many would the defenders of Betastan lose?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You should have,” the Temple Monk said softly.

“Not before such Coaids as Marshal Croft-Gordon and our Surety bloodhound, Mark Fielder. It would be interpreted as an unbelievable weakness in a Presidor.”

Pater Riggin looked at him thoughtfully. “I can anticipate what most of them reported and recommended, Jim. Were any at all in opposition?”

“Ross, perhaps.”

“Franklin’s boy, eh? And what was our Deputy of Propaganda’s position?”

“He thought we were going to have our work cut out selling an aggressive war not only to the neutrals but to our own people. He thinks it all comes too soon after the civil war Max precipitated.”

The Temple Monk shook his head, weariness there. “Would that he were right.”

Number One looked at him, saying nothing.

The Temple Monk opened the book at the page he had been perusing. “Jim, have you ever heard of a writer named Mark Twain?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Early Earth. Many an unthinking person, seeing only his surface, thought him a humorist. Basically, he wasn’t. He was an idealist and crusader who died a very bitter man. Listen to this.” He read.

“’The loud little handful—as usual—will shout for the war. The pulpit will—warily and cautiously—object—at first; the great, big, dull bulk of the nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should be a war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, It is unjust and dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it. Then the handful will shout louder. A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them, and presently the antiwar audience will thin out and lose popularity. Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers—as earlier—but do not dare to say so. And now the whole nation—pulpit and all—will take up the war cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest man who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease to open. Next, the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of these conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception.’”

Pater Riggin looked up, closing the book again.

“It was true in Twain’s time, and much more so today. Given the well disciplined press, given well channeled Tri-Di shows and news broadcasts, given a people that have been raised since earliest childhood in the chauvinistic belief that their country is always right; and even if it isn’t they should support it—given these, and you can have your war, Jim. Of course, if it lasted too long, then there would be reaction. But so long as the man in the street isn’t too badly put out, you can have your war, Number One.”

The other pretended to miss the term. He said, “Rig, you know Phil McGivern.”

The Temple Monk said wryly, “Our authority on socioeconomics.”

“His computers tell him that without new foreign markets and sources of raw material we face an economic collapse in a few months. The system won’t take it, Rig.”

His lifelong companion looked at him unblinkingly.

Number One continued, an undertone of urgency in his voice as though pleading for understanding. “It would mean more civil disorders, Rig. More fighting in the streets. More of the bloodbath we had when Max and his group tried to take over.”

The Temple Monk looked away. He and his present companion had never discussed, more than in passing, the coup d’etat attempted by their mutual friend, Maximilian Barker.

He said gently, “Possibly Max had the right idea and we didn’t realize it at the time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” the Presidor rasped. “You can push our friendship too far, Pater Riggin. Max was a damned rabid Karlist, and you know it!”

Pater Riggin shook his head, unimpressed by the sudden heat. “No, I don’t. All I know is that your Commissariats of Surety and Information branded him such, and over and over again, and loudly, and to the skies. Until, possibly, even you believed them. It’s a dangerous thing, Jim, to believe your own propaganda, but it comes to all men if they listen to it long enough.”

Number One came suddenly to his feet. He threw the half smoked stogie down, missing the ash tray. The long slim cigar hit the table and rolled across it to drop unheeded on the floor beyond.

The ultimate head of Alphaland strode angrily to the bar, took up the bottle from which he had poured earlier, on his first entry into the room, and poured again, this time into a tumbler. He threw the potent brandy back over his palate, grimaced and turned to a bank of dials, levers and buttons set next to a bookcase.

He snarled at his friend, “The ultimate computer. The foolproof adviser. The computer designed for the layman.”

He snatched up a hand mike and roared into it. “In the event that war is not provoked with Betastan within two months, what will the result be so far as the Presidor is concerned?”

The answer came from the speaker so quickly that it would seem that the angry man’s voice had scarcely died away.

“The likelihood of armed revolt against the present occupant of the office is ninety-one point eight percent, Give or take one point four percent.”

“Who would lead such a revolt?”

“The likelihood is that the revolt would be led by one or a combination of two or more of three men: Deputies Matheison and Fielder and Marshal Croft-Gordon.”

“Would such a revolt be successful?”

“The likelihood of the revolt’s success would be eighty-two percent, give or take three point three percent.”

“In the case of the revolt’s success, what would be the likelihood of a war then being undertaken against Betastan?”

“Ninety-six percent, give or take two point one percent.”

He slammed down the hand mike into its cradle and began to turn to his companion, but then he said, “No!” and took it up again.

“Would the United Temple support the government of the current Presidor if he declared war upon Betastan?”

“The likelihood is ninety-eight point six percent that the United Temple would support the Presidor, give or take one-half of one percent.”

Number One turned back to his only intimate and now his Prussian starched shoulders had slipped into resignation.

“So you see, even the Holy Ultimate, through his representatives on this planet, supports the war. Any ideas, Rig?”

Tilly Trice looked over the newcomer and made a wryly humorous moue.

“You don’t look like much of a soldier, Centurion,” she said.

He said ungraciously, “Neither do you. Isn’t that part of the idea?”

“How old are you, anyway?”

His youthful face was petulant. “That’s none of your business.”

Her fine eyebrows went up. “Tu, tu, tu. You’re talking to a superior officer, Centurion.”

“Yes, sir. I mean…”

The slightly built girl laughed. “I never felt right about that either. However, the correct term is madam.”

“Yes, sir.” The other flushed. “I mean madam. Trouble is, you don’t look like a madam.” He jerked his head in alarm. “That is…”

She laughed again. “All right, let’s cut out this jetsam. Wait’ll I change my clothes, and we’ll get going.” She ran her eyes over him critically. “You look all right.” She thought of something. “Are you carrying a shooter?”

“Of course.”

“Well, ditch it, right here and now. Are you drivel happy? You think you’re going to get into a government building carrying as much metal as that?”

She indicated a desk. “Stick it in there.” She turned to go into the next room, the living quarters behind her store.

He put the gun into a drawer, scowling. “There’s no way of locking this. Anybody snooping around would see it.”

Just before she passed through the door she looked back at him scornfully and said, “Centurion Combs, face reality. If Alphaland Surety ever became suspicious enough to start seriously snooping around this place they’d find so much that the jig’d be up. One shooter, more or less, wouldn’t make an iota.”

She left and he spent the next ten minutes staring at the shelves of books. He had never seen this many outside of a museum. He took one or two down from the shelves and handled them gingerly. He decided it must have been a tedious way of reading.

When Tilly returned he looked at her for a moment, frowning, obviously in lack of recognition.

“Knock it.” She laughed, in a just-short-of giggle. “It’s me.”

He stared at her, his eyes going up and down her masculine costume. Finally, for lack of something else, he demanded, “Where’d you get those buck teeth?”

She snorted, “Centurion, I don’t know where you received your ECE training. Cosmetics can whip up a disguise like this before you could get down a glass of guzzle.”

“I don’t drink,” he said righteously. “Besides, I didn’t study at the Espionage-Counter-Espionage Academy.”

“Come on, let’s get going,” she said, handing him a piece of fruit. “Where did you study?” She headed for the door.

He followed her, looking at the thing in his hand. What’s this? I studied at Partisan Tech.”

There was a sporty looking hover-scooter at the curb.

She said, “You get on back. Keep your eyes open. You’re going to want to learn this town, inside out. If you ever have any spare time, walk or ride up and down the streets, memorizing them. It might mean your life someday.”

“Well, all right. Look, what do we want with a banana?”

“Hang on,” she said, dropping the lift lever. “It’s part of our protective covering. The one little added bit of business that puts us over.”

He was sitting behind her. He rolled his eyes upward, as though surrendering to idiocy on the part of superior authority.

They slammed down the boulevard at a speed that must have been in excess of city ordinances.

“Hey, uh, madam,” he protested finally. “You want to get picked up by some Alpha fuzz-yoke?”

“No,” she told him. “But this is part of the protective coloring, too. Looks authentic.”

She zoomed finally into the parking zone of a monstrous stone building and skittered to a halt.

Tilly vaulted from her seat exuberantly.

“Come on!” she said.

He followed her, more sedate. “This says it’s for Senior Personnel only,” he whispered.

“I know, I know. Let’s go.”

“Hey, you two kids!” a voice called impatiently. “You can’t leave that scooter there.”

“Aw, why not?” Tilly whined.

A uniformed Surety officer came up. He snapped, “Because I said so, damn it.”

Tilly put her hands on her hips belligerently. “Listen, do you know who my father is?”

A weary expression came over his face. He was a heavy, bullyboy type, a quick-draw holster built into his leather jacket where a left pocket might have been.

But obviously this was no occasion for weight being thrown around.

He said, “No, sonny, my heart is pumping curd, but I don’t know who your daddy is. All I know, if Superintendent Nichols comes in here and finds that souped-up scooter in his parking place, he’ll burn off.”

“I’m just gonna be here for a minute,” Tilly whined.

Her companion got into the act. “Aw, come on, Killer,” he said. “Don’t argue with this cloddy. Park it somewhere else.”

The Surety man eyed him unhappily, opened his mouth as though to growl something, but then shrugged it off.

“Snap it up, boys,” he said. “You just can’t leave it here.”

“All right, all right,” Tilly said. “Give me a hand, Bimbo.” She and Combs took hold of the sports hover and pushed it down the line to a public parking zone.

They then headed for the entrance, where two additional Surety men, both with scrambler rifles, stood post. They had lazily been watching the hassle with the parking attendant.

Tilly said, “Peel your banana.” She pulled her own piece of fruit from her pocket and began to eat it.

Combs asked, “Why all that, back there?”

“Protective coloring,” she said.

They climbed the half dozen stone steps and began entering the building.

“Halt!” one of the guards barked.

“Aw, curd,” Tilly sneered, continuing on her way.

“I said halt, damn it! Where do you kids think you’re going?”

Tilly’s face fell into the expression, known since man issued forth from the caves of Cro-Magnon, of the teenager being put upon.

“Aw,” she whined. “I gotta see my old man. Holy Jumping Zen, I don’t have all morning. I gotta lot of things to do. I’m supposed to see my old man.”

The other guard said, “You can’t go in here, buster. This is government…”

The first guard interrupted him. “Who’s your father, and what are you supposed to see him about?”

“He forgot his pills.”

The long-suffering Surety man rubbed his mouth.

Eating his banana, a sneer of superiority on his face, Combs said, “Aw, the hell with it. Killer. Let’s go see if we can scare up a couple mopsies.”

Tilly said, argumentively, “My old lady said I gotta get these pills to my old man. He’ll drop dead, yet, or something. He’s been taking these pills till they run outa his ears. I never seen them do him any good.”

The second guard said, “What’s your father’s name, sonny?”

Combs chucked. “Sonny, yet, he calls you, Killer.”

Tilly said, “My old man’s Assistant Supervisor Hillary. He swings a lot of weight around this crumby joint, fella.”

“I never heard of him,” the first guard said hesitantly.

“I have. I’ll phone up,” the other one said.

“Aw, curd,” Tilly said. “You’ll take halfa the morning. I know where he is. I know everybody in the department. He wanders around a lot between the offices. I can find him.”

“Let him go, let him go!” the one guard said to the other. “Zen, what difference does it make?”

Tilly waited no longer. She and her companion headed for the door again, still eating their bananas. The second guard muttered something, but they were through the entrance.

Combs said, “Whee. Suppose they’d phoned up to this Supervisor Hillary? Is there any such cloddy?”

She shot him an impish grin. “Sure. You think I’m inefficient? I happen to know that Hillary left the building by another entrance and at this moment is being entertained by his mistress, half a dozen kilometers from here. If they phoned up to his office, his secretary, who covers for him, would have said he was wandering around the building, checking on his underlings.”

Combs shook his head.

They moped along down the building’s corridors, drawing only the slightest attention from bustling bureaucrats, secretaries, building maintenance workers, and the others who teemed the halls.

They got to the part of the building which was their destination and had to saunter up and down a couple of times until the way was clear.

Tilly opened a door and they hurried inside. She barred it behind them.

“We’ve got to work moderately fast,” she said. Prove your worth, Centurion.”

“Where in Zen’s the line?”

“Here, help me push this box away. There you are. I assume you can get that open?”

“I can get anything open.” The youthful looking Betastan operative bent down to look at the metal aperture set into the wall “How’d you ever locate this?”

“My dear boy,” Tilly said, “in a country like this, where the gold Alpha is almighty, spreading them around a bit will buy you just about anything at all.”

He was on his knees working at the tiny door. It swung open to reveal wires beyond.

Tilly said, mildly impressed, “How’d you open that?”

“Hairpin,” he said absently.

Combs opened his jerkin and brought forth a device from an inner garment that resembled a many compartmented money belt. He was humming sourly to himself as he worked.

“Don’t think it all goes this easily,” Tilly said. “There isn’t much of a Surety guard about the Commissariat of Information.”

“Hmmmm,” he murmured, not really hearing her.

It was a full two hours later when they emerged from the building maintenance room. Tilly came out first, shot her eyes up and down the corridor.

“Hurry,” she said.

Combs began to emerge, still stuffing some of his equipment back into his compartmented belt.

At that split moment, a uniformed Surety guard, trailing a scrambler gun at ease, rounded the nearest corner of the hall. It was one of the two who had been posted at the entry.

He came to a halt and blinked at them.

“Hey,” he snapped. “What’re you two kids doing, eh? What in Zen’re you still doing in the building?”

Tilly walked toward him. “Aw,” she said. “I couldn’t find my old man at first. He was out gettin’ a bite, or somethin’.”

Combs slouched along behind her. “Yeah,” he sneered. “We’re spendin’ the whole day around this crumby…”

The guard snapped, “What were you doing in that? Tilly dove for his legs, throwing what little heft she had into the attempt to bring him to the floor.

Behind her, Combs leaped, his hands held chopper fashion.

The guard tumbled, too astonished to yell.

One chopper slashed out, and the guard’s larynx collapsed. Combs banged him again, behind the ear this time.

Breathing deep, the two Betastan agents came to their feet.

Tilly was pale. “We’ve got to work fast,” she said. “If we’re caught, they’ve got the perfect excuse to start the war. Public opinion throughout the neutrals…” She let the sentence fade. “Come on.”

She had grabbed one foot of the dead man. He took the other.

“Where’re we going?” he demanded, breathing heavily. “Somebody’ll come along this hall…”

“Here,” she said. They’d reached a stairway.

They pushed the Surety man down, letting him roll over and over again.

“Quick,” she said. The gun.”

Combs scurried back and got the scrambler. They tossed it after their victim.

“Just a minute. I thought of something,” Tilly whispered. She scurried back to the room they had just left, while Combs’ eyes darted up and down the deserted hallway. It was lunch time, but you never knew.

She came back, one of the banana skins in her hands.

She put it on the top step, put her foot over it and rubbed it flat, as though it had been stepped upon accidentally.

“Come on, Centurion, let’s get out of here,” she said.

He looked at her, even as they scurried from the scene. “That was no joke when I called you Killer,” he said.

Chapter III

The guard at the door clicked his heels and said, “Coaid Deputy Ross Westley.”

Number One looked up from the work on his desk.

Ross entered and came to attention, even though he was dressed in mufti.

“Your Leadership,” he said.

The guard closed the door behind him.

Number One nodded. “Sit down, Ross.”

“Yes, Your Leadership.” Ross Westley crossed nearer to the quarter acre of desk behind which his ultimate superior sat, and found himself a chair. He had heard once that Number One deliberately had the chairs in his sanctum sanctorum constructed to be uncomfortable—possibly working on the theory that he didn’t want people about him to be at ease, physically or mentally. Ross didn’t know, but uncomfortable the chairs were.

Number One looked at him bleakly. “The decision has been made. Your commissariat has exactly one month in which to prepare the people for our crusade against Betastan.”

“A month!” Ross blurted.

“We can afford no more. I wish your father were still alive, Ross, but since he isn’t I trust your own ability to handle this.”

“Your Leadership,” Ross said tightly. “I doubt if my father, even, could have drummed up a war fever in this country in as short a period as one month. What possible approach…”

The Presidor eyed him grimly. “That is the problem of your offices, Coaid. You will receive full cooperation from all departments.”

Ross Westley’s mouth worked, but he could think of nothing to say.

“Snap out of it,” the other rumbled in sudden irritation. “There are thousands of approaches. Consult your staff. Bauserman would have a dozen suggestions by this time.”

A dozen? Ross thought bitterly. A double-score was more like it. Each more repulsive than the last.

Number One now said, “One suggestion of my own. The United Temple is fully behind this crusade. In fact”—he smiled his humorless smile—“His Holiness himself suggested that we call it just that, a Crusade. You realize that in the past century, in particular, the Betastani have drifted away from the more orthodox dogmas of the United Temple. I would play upon the fact, concentrate upon it, that our most basic desire in the war to defend ourselves against the Betastan aggressors is to bring back the true faith to that benighted land.”

Ross winced. “Isn’t that going to be a bit hard to swallow? Not on the part of the Betastani, of course. They don’t count. But the neutrals?”

“That is your task, Ross. Your commissariat had carte blanche. The computers have put your budget at approximately sixty-three million Alphas.”

The Presidor took a deep breath. “I suppose that is all for the moment. We shall have a session of the inmost coaids this afternoon and shall devote part of it to your propaganda campaign. By then, I assume you will have at least a skeletal program to present to us.”

Ross Westley came to his feet. Yes, Your Leadership. With your permission.”

“Until this afternoon,” Number One said.

Ross Westley slumped at the head of the table while his assistant, Job Bauserman, briefed department heads of the Commissariat of Information on the orders which had come directly from Number One.

He followed Assistant Deputy Bauserman sourly. The other was a full ten years the senior of Ross Westley and had come up in the governmental branch from the near bottom. He was lean and fanatic, had a gleaming eye and an overpowering ambition—and hated his superior’s guts.

It had been, of course, a matter of nepotism. Franklin Westley, the father of Ross, had been one of the Old Hands—those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Number One on the barricades of the first rebellion. He was one of those who had remained true when the Max Barker revolt burst into flames and even the Old Hands had been split.

The Old Hands took care of their own. When Franklin Westley died, Ross had been given his position as Deputy of the Commissariat of Information, known in party circles as the Department of Propaganda. At the time he received the appointment, shortly after taking his doctor’s degree in ancient history, his knowledge of the office was exactly nil. In time he had learned, but it was Job Bauserman and the others who were long-time pros upon whom he had to lean. He knew it and they knew it. And most of them hated him. Surely, Job did.

The other turned to Ross finally and, forced respect in his voice, said, “Have you anything to add to my summary, Coaid Deputy?*”

Ross shook his head and sat more erect. His assistant took his chair.

Ross said, “One month. I needn’t tell you that we’re going to need every second of it. This afternoon, there’s a meeting of the Central Comita. I’ve got to have at least a skeleton program to present. All right, ideas, please.”

Pater Ian said, “The United Temple has in its infinite wisdom long foreseen this development. The erring brethren of Betastan must be brought back into the fold. Of recent months we have been studying the workings of a historic organization which, under somewhat similar circumstances, proved highly effective. It was called the Holy Office. However, this plan of operation will not be practical until the collapse of the Betastani resistance. Meanwhile, the United Temple plans to open a full drive, not only in Alphaland and Betaland, but among the neutrals as well, revealing the extent to which the Betastani government has allowed atheism and agnosticism to undermine the faith of the people. If you will find time, Coaid Deputy, I shall go over in detail our broadcasts, publications and so forth, detailing the campaign.

Ross nodded. “Tomorrow morning, please.” He turned to another department head. “Coaid Taylor?”

Martha Taylor was the dry, neuter-sex type prevalent in governmental higher ranks.

She said, “I think I have something good. The Amish.”

Ross scowled at her. “The Amish?”

“To brief you, Coaid Deputy, I found this in my department’s data banks, somewhat to my surprise. It would seem that when the planet was first being colonized from Mother Earth, one ship’s complement was composed of a somewhat discriminated against religious group which settled in the back areas of Betastan near the Tatra Mountains. Later, elements of this group diffused over the planet, though few came to Alphaland.”

“Never heard of them,” somebody growled. “What’s this got to do with drumming up war fever against the damned Betastan funkers?”

She rewarded the speaker with a scornful eye, but went on. “The reason they had been discriminated against soon became obvious. They stuck together against all outside pressures. They went into such fields as finance and merchandising, soon gaining all but monopolies not only in Betastan but in several other nations. They also gained high governmental offices, though usually inconspicuous ones. Evidently, from my data, they are the power behind the Betastan administration.”

Ross was frowning. “The Amish?”

“That is the common name given their pseudo-religious group, Coaid Deputy,” she said stiffly.

Ross said, shaking his head, “When I was a boy, I went once to the Tatra Mountains on a vacation. skiing. I didn’t get to know any personally, but I failed to gain your picture of these people. They were rather drably dressed and not overly gregarious perhaps…”

“That’s what I am saying, Coaid. Evidently they’re almost like misers, hoarding their finances, associating only with each other. And, to top it all, they have their own false religion, not abiding by the benevolent guidance of the United Temple.”

“Hmmmm,” Pater Ian injected. “It seems to me that I have vaguely heard of this group. However, I didn’t think their powers extended as far as you report.”

The data banks hardly lie, Pater,” she said primly.

“No, of course not,” The Temple Monk said.

Assistant Deputy Bauserman came into it, his eyes gleaming. “It’s a natural. There’s absolutely nothing like religion to get people steamed up to the boiling point. Remember the Hindus and Moslems, back on Earth? Supposedly, a Hindu wouldn’t swat a mosquito since it would be breaking the taboo against” taking life, but given religious troubles with the Moslems and they slaughtered and were slaughtered by the millions. Or take the centuries-long wars and massacres between the Christian sects; all in the name of the gentle Jesus, they butchered each other wholesale. Or take the Christian prosecution of the Jews, down through the millennia. No, religion is the perfect background for butchery.”

“My son,” Pater Ian said in mild protest.

Bauserman looked at him. “Oh, I didn’t mean the Holy United Temple, Pater Ian. Obviously, at long last man has evolved to the perfect intermediary between himself and God. However, from what Coaid Taylor says, this Amish scum doesn’t even observe the leadership of the United Temple in matters religious. They are fair game in this holy crusade we are about to embark upon.”

The Temple Monk nodded thoughtfully. “It would seem so.”

Ross exhaled air. He had no alternative. He said, “All right, Coaid Taylor. I will expect your department to launch a full denouncement of these Amish. For three weeks you will exploit every opportunity to expose them. At the end of the period, stress the sacred need for all believers in the true religion to seek these Amish out and destroy them.”

Bauserman broke in. “You might also continually hint that they are actually part of the Karlist conspiracy.”

Ross looked at him. “What Karlist conspiracy, Job?” He seldom used the other’s first name, knowing Bauserman’s objection to anything less than the strictest form, but it had come out in his surprise.

His Assistant Deputy turned to him. “I was about to brief you on this phase, Coaid Deputy Westley. Obviously, we are going to have to devote a major part of our propaganda campaign to the Karlist threat. It will be particularly effective among the neutrals. Just the mention of the word is enough to set governments trembling in half the nations on the planet. We’ll push the line that the Betastan government is infiltrated with Amish and Karlists. That there’s a scheme underfoot to allow the Karlists to take over the government and then subvert the rest of the world.”

Somebody muttered, “I thought there weren’t enough Karlists left in the world to hold a committee meeting.”

Bauserman looked at the speaker coldly. “Coaid, the ends justify the means. The holy crusade to bring the whole planet under the aegis of our inspired Presidor is an effort so worthy that nothing done to achieve its success can be thought of as less than the truth in the ultimate sense of the word.”

“I could not have stated it better myself,” Pater Ian said unctuously.

“All right,” Ross sighed. “You can go over this with me later in detail, Coaid Bauserman. And now, what else do we have as possible propaganda against the Betastani?”

A uniformed colonel said, “Off and on, over the years, we’ve had touches of border trouble. It could be allowed to come to a boil.”

“How?”

The colonel looked at his superior as though the other were stupid, then caught himself and his face went militarily blank.

“Several ways, Coaid Deputy. We could precipitate a clash with their border guards, and then claim they had started it. We could escalate the clash, over and over again—always assuming the funkers would resist at all.

“Or, we could infiltrate a few score of our ECE men, armed with mortars, at one of the least populated border points, and let them shell one of our own garrisons or towns. The mortar shells, of course, would be Betastan calibers and we would make sure some of them failed to explode. We could then bring a planet-wide committee to see the effects of the shelling, the dead and wounded civilians, old men, women, children—that sort of thing. A hospital would be good. A shelled hospital is particularly effective in the way of horrifying non-combatants. I’ve never quite figured out why.”

The Temple Monk said gently, “My sons, couldn’t some more kindly tactics be devised? Not that I wish to inject a note that interferes with secular affairs. The United Temple is involved only with man’s most spiritual concerns.”

They ignored him.

Bauserman, his eyes gleaming, said, “A natural, Colonel!”

Ross Westley left his pneumatic car at the park entry and, ignoring his usual precautions, made his way in the direction of the bookshop and binding service presided over by Tilly Trice. He didn’t notice the two unobtrusive men in civilian clothing who drifted after him.

After he had disappeared into her tiny store, one of the two tails looked at the other, eyebrows raised.

The second one said, “Better report.”

“What’ve we got to report? The chief said to follow him. All he’s done is go into an antique bookstore.”

“Listen, if you were in the frame of mind he oughta be in these days, would you be going into a bookstore? Some bootleg auto-bar, yeah. Even a mopsy-house, yeah. But an antique bookstore?”

The other grunted.

The first said contemptuously, “The flat. No precautions at all. Doesn’t even look over his shoulder.”

The other said sourly, “Which indicates he wasn’t thinking in terms of having anything to hide.”

“Well, let’s go report. There’s something funny about that old bookshop. Come to think of it, that’s one of the places Admiral Korshak used to go before he committed suicide.”

“He did! Holy Ultimate, let’s get to a communicator.”

The other looked around nervously. “Watch your lip, Larry. Just because you’re Surety doesn’t mean some Temple Monk cloddy might not nail you for blasphemy.”

They started back the way they had come.

The one who had been contemptuous of Ross Westley’s lack of caution could have taken a lesson from his own teachings. Neither of the two Surety agents had noticed the three teen-agers who had been strolling across the street from them but in the same direction, even though the three loudly dressed youngsters had been noisy enough, conspicuous enough.

Nor did they see the three close in behind them.

Nor did they see the one who raised to his lips what seemed to be a bean-shooter.

Tilly Trice pouted at him. “Nope, lover-mine, I told you. I can’t marry you until this crisis is past. Even then, I’m still thinking about it. Your passion, fella, is obvious. But any girl should know that first passion can pass. How’ll you be in the long pull, Rossie, my friend?”

“Look,” he blurted, “you know damn well you’re the only girl that ever made any difference to me.”

“Tu, tu, tu. And now who’s using four letter words?”

He looked at her blankly.

“Damn,” she said.

He tried to follow along with her lighter mood, knowing full well that in her presence he was apt to become miserably dull, absorbed in his need for her.

“I thought it was a three letter word,” he said. He crossed her heart and pointed upward. “May the Holy Ultimate strike me dead if I ever use a four letter word to you again.”

Her eyebrows rose, even as she put the book she had been recovering to the side. “Your stock just went up,” she said. “I thought you were a fully indoctrinated follower of the United Temple.”

He growled, “That’s for the yokes.”

“Oh? Is that the common belief among you deputies? I understood that Number One in particular was never without a Temple Monk by his side.”

Ross scoffed contempt. “It’s my department that spreads that bit of gobbledygook. Actually, Pater Riggin is an old-time friend of the Presidor’s. They bat the breeze around about top decisions but so far as religion is concerned, I doubt if either of them has attended conclave for the past ten years.”

She said suddenly, “What develops, Rossie?”

He looked at her, his face sullen now. “It’s set. One month to go. Listen, Till, get out from under. Marry me. Call it all quits. I can cover for you indefinitely. Betastan is sunk. According to Marshal Croft-Gordon we have the military and industrial potential to take Betastan three times over. Three times, Till! What you’ve got to do is use what influence you’ve got to get your country to capitulate. Otherwise, when the initial missile and air attack takes place, Betastan has had it to the tune of millions of casualties.”

Her eyes were first narrow, but her expression faded into the thoughtful.

“If I’m reading you correctly, Rossie, there’s to be a sneak attack.”

“I shouldn’t have revealed that,” he said, still sullen. “But you might have guessed.”

“Where do you draw the line?” She laughed mockingly at him. “You’ve been giving me information for months.”

“Trying to enable you to get out from under. But now it’s getting to the point where there’s no alternative. Each man’s got to take his stand, Till. And Betastan hasn’t got a chance. I was a fool to help you at all.”

She said, after pursing her lips, “I’ll tell you, Rossie. Maybe you’ve got a point. But it’d be a mistake, the sneak attack. Bad propaganda. You should know that, it’s your field. You ought to give some slight warning. Any warning at all would look better to the neutrals. At least it gives us the chance to back down before your, uh, might.”

“You’re right!” Ross said. “I’ll have to bring that up. Then you think there’s a chance your government will capitulate? But look, why don’t you drop it all and marry me?”

She looked down at her meager figure as though in surprise. “What is there about little Tilly Trice that moves the overgrown cloddy just so?”

“It’s no joke, Till!”

She let her bright face go serious. “I know, Rossie, but that’s the way the water flows. As I told you, when all this trouble is over, well, then possibly there’ll be me.”

Chapter IV

It was the last session of the Central Comita of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland previous to C-Day, the day during which the Crusade, the liberation of Betastan from its depraved Karlist-Amish government, would commence.

Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon, using his swagger stick to point out on small scale military charts the points of attack, had been holding forth. His talk was punctuated with the figures his computers had come up with, plus or minus this amount, plus or minus that percentage. The Marshal, it was obvious, was in fine fettle. A man does not study a science, if the military be science, for a lifetime without yearning to put his pet theories into practice.

He came to an end, at long last, hit his swagger stick against his leggings with a quick double rap, and said, “Questions, Coaids?”

Number One said, very evenly, “You will address me, Coaid Marshal. I shall decide whether or not at this point we shall have a session of questions.”

Croft-Gordon flushed darkly. “Yes, Your Leadership. That is what I meant. Does Your Leadership have any questions to ask?”

Number One looked at him thoughtfully and for a long moment. Once the dogs of war are let loose, he well knew, none can say what will transpire before they are in leash again. And the military mind is ever ambitious. Number One was not so naive as not to know that Marshal Croft-Gordon dreamed of ultimate power, and that various of the deputies supported him in their secret hearts. Number One had no need of a computer to tell him that.

He took in the unhappy face of Ross Westley.

“Coaid, you wish to speak? I hope your contribution is somewhat more efficacious than the farce your commissariat precipitated in regard to the so-called Amish threat.”

Ross shook his head. “Your Leadership, perhaps we can all take a lesson from that—not to underestimate the enemy.”

“Jetsam,” Mark Fielder of Surety snorted.

Ross looked at him. “It was no easy romp on the part of the Betastani to infiltrate the Commissariat of Information and feed false data into our banks. We proceeded on the basis of that data. How were we to know that in actuality the Amish are small in number in Betastan, invariably well-thought-of by their neighbors, not interested in accumulating large amounts of property and having no interest whatsoever in government? The worst result of our misinformation, of course, was neither in Alphaland or Betastan, but in the two or three neutral nations where there are large Amish elements.”

He directed his gaze, somewhat apologetically, at the Presidor, and held up a report tape.

“Your Leadership, immediately before entering this meeting I received final news on the overthrow of the pro-Alphaland government of Moravia. The revolt is completely successful and the new regime leans toward Betastan. We have, of course, branded it Karlist.”

Number One said, “Ordinarily, we would have sent in airborne marines to preserve liberty, but at this point we can afford to divert no considerable number of effectives. We shall have to deal with Moravia following the Crusade.”

Deputy Matheison jiggled his stylo. “Are they really Karlists?”

Ross shook his head. “No, Coaid. But the new government is so liberal that it just misses being so labeled. The more notorious anti-Alphaland elements all support it.”

Number One said, “I assume the point you wished to raise didn’t deal with this now past matter of the anti-Amish propaganda.”

Ross turned back to his ultimate superior. “No, Your Leadership. I rose to protest the sneak attack the Marshal proposes. The plan to strike all their most important cities, industrial complexes and military bases without warning.”

“What!” Croft-Gordon barked. “Our whole campaign… !”

Number One held up a hand. “That will be all, Co-aid Marshal.”

He turned back to Ross. “Develop your point, Coaid Westley.”

Ross went on doggedly. “We have already had a bad start on our propaganda meant to influence our own people, the neutrals and dissatisfied elements among the Betastani. An attack without a previous formal declaration of war will unite the Betastani, shock our own people who are poorly prepared for this aggressive war at any rate, and will certainly turn the neutrals against us.”

The Central Comita broke into mutterings.

Number One said, “Marshal?”

The Marshal said heatedly, “The plans have all been explained. The computers have worked on the basis of such a surprise… I resent the Coaid Deputy’s use of the term ‘sneak attack.’ Without it we would still triumph easily, of course, but the cost in casualties and finances would inevitably be higher.”

Ross said, “It will be higher still if the neutrals enter the war on the side of Betastan.”

“You heard the report Graves gave on that. They won’t have the time to mobilize, even if they did want to enter. The war will be over in weeks.”

Number One was irritated by the overriding inflection of his military chief. He said, thoughtfully, “We could send them an ultimatum concerning their unprovoked attacks upon our border stations. It could be worded in such a way that they wouldn’t actually expect us to attack. However, we could hold a secret session of the Peoples Parliament and declare war and have our missiles and bombers on the way within minutes. Public opinion would be satisfied, but at the same time the attack would have practically the same effect as if no warning had been given.”

He looked about at his Comita members. “If there are no other opinions, I so rule.”

The Marshal opened his mouth angrily, shut it again and shook his head.

Number One said, “Are there further questions at this point?”

Deputy Mark Fielder of the Commissariat of Surety came easily to his feet.

“This bears on the present issue only obliquely, Your Leadership. However, since Coaid Westley was the last speaker…” He took up a report from before him.

“There has been so obvious an increase in enemy ECE, Espionage-Counter-Espionage, so many leaks of our innermost secrets to Betastan, that I have taken the freedom to check upon all elements who might possibly be involved. Even, Your Leadership, to the point of, ah, keeping tabs upon our membership.”

There was the sound of inhaled air throughout the council room.

Number One’s eyes were cold. “We have been through this before, Coaid Fielder. You seem to have ignored my earlier directives.”

Fielder said smoothly, “If so, inadvertently, Your Leadership. Please hear me out. Purely as routine check I assigned two of my most discreet men to observe the activities of each of us.”

“Including yourself, I assume,” the Presidor said. “Go on, Coaid. I suppose you found Coaid Wilkonson, or possibly Academician McGivern, secretly supplying information to the Betastan espionage.”

Fielder was not upset. He shook his head. “No, Your Leadership, but something equally strange. The two Surety agents who were assigned to Coaid Westley disappeared while on duty and were eventually found trampled beyond easy recognition in the pachyderm exhibit at the Interplanetary Zoo.”

“What’s a pachyderm?” someone said.

The Surety head looked at the speaker. “A large Earthside animal, now extinct except for specimens in zoos.” He brought his eyes back to Number One. “But that is not all. In spite of the condition of the bodies, an autopsy was performed. Both contained elements of the drug popularly known as Come-Along, an ultra-effective hypnotic.”

Number One took in Ross Westley from the side of his eyes. The young propaganda chief was sitting in mute astonishment, his mouth half open. In the decision of his ultimate superior, who considered himself a judge of men, the younger deputy was as taken aback as anyone present.

Number One said, his voice harsh, “Your recommendation, Coaid Deputy Fielder?”

“That Coaid Westley be put under Scop and questioned.”

Number One lapsed into thought and the murmuring immediately hushed. For long minutes they stayed that way, Deputy Fielder still on his feet, but hesitant even to sink into his chair.

Ross Westley felt the cold go through him. Given Scop, he would betray not only himself, but Tilly as well. There was no question of that. No man resisted the insidiousness of the truth serum. He must think of some out! He must think of some escape.

But there was no thinking, there was no out!

Number One, though his face was expressionless, was in a fury. Mark Fielder and Marshal Croft-Gordon were becoming increasingly bold in their formerly subtle opposition to his supreme command. Nothing overt thus far, but when the pressures of the war were on Alphaland, to what extent would they continue to undermine his authority? They must be sat upon, and quickly. He considered, momentarily, relieving them both of their positions. But no, a purge at this time would be disastrous. The effects upon the people, immediately before an unpopular war, could only be a blow to morale. It had been such a long time since the Central Comita had suffered a purge that many thought them a thing of the past.

At long last, the Presidor spoke again, his voice deceptively mild.

“Coaid Fielder, only a short time ago it was brought to our attention that you had seen fit to bug the offices and living quarters of even these, your most intimate Coaids. At that time I pointed out that if my regime rested upon the shoulders of Coaids who had to be kept under surveillance by the Commissariat of Surety, then the government of the Free Democratic Commonwealth was built upon foundations of sand. Coaid Westley, young and possibly somewhat inexperienced as he may be, is the son of Franklin Westley, one of the Old Hands. Perhaps the term is meaningless to you, but it is not to such Coaids present as McGivern and Wilkonson, both of whom stood shoulder to shoulder with Franklin Westley in the decisive days. The son of Franklin Westley will not be given Scop in my behalf, nor will any of the Central Comita.”

There was a murmuring of applause through the chamber.

Temple Bishop Stockwater said soothingly, “Undoubtedly, whilst about their duties, the two Surety operatives of whom Coaid Fielder tells us ran into criminals or enemy agents, and in dealing with them met their untimely ends.”

“Undoubtedly,” Fielder muttered. He bowed his head in submission to the Presidor’s decision.

Ross Westley burst into the tiny shop devoted to first editions, old prints, bookbinding and the literature of the past.

He called, “Tilly, Till!” heading for the back rooms.

He had crossed the shop and pushed through into her private quarters before she fully realized his presence.

Tilly Trice was in the process of pulling a masculine shirt over the top of her head and the upper part of her diminutive, elfin figure.

He came to a quick halt and blinked at the woman he loved.

She turned her back and finished tucking the garment into her trousers.

“Why, Coaid Westley,” she said, mockery behind the scolding, “aren’t you a bit impetuous?” She took up a jerkin and began shrugging into it.

Ross began to stutter an apology but then cut himself short. Against the table leaned a long bow, and on it rested a quiver of arrows.

He said, “What in the world are you doing in that get-up, and what’s wrong with your teeth?”

She pursed her lips, and there was a mischievous quality in the look she shot him from the side of her eyes.

“Life-long ambition,” she said. “Archery.”

“But… but what are you doing in that outfit? And what’s wrong with your teeth? You look like a buck-toothed juvenile delinquent.”

She said, “Suppose I make it all very simple, Rossie. Let’s say the only archery club worthwhile in this town is for boys only. No curves allowed. So, what could be simpler? I pretend I’m a teen-age boy. The teeth? Oh, it’s an added disguise. Otherwise, somebody might recognize me.”

In a way, he was hearing the truth—stretched a bit—but he brushed it aside impatiently. “You’ve got to get out of here, Till. Fielder had me followed the other day when I came to see you. Something happened to the two Surety men, but I’ve got no way of knowing whether they reported back or not—or if he knows I’ve been coming here. Till, you’ve got to go back to Betastan.”

She laughed at him. “For a member of the Central Comita, you’re certainly weak on developments, Rossie. The border’s been closed for a week.”

“But surely you must have some secret way of getting your agents in and out. Don’t tell me there are no Betastan agents in this country besides yourself. From what Fielder and Croft-Gordon report, Alphaland must be swarming with them.”

“Yes, but I’m a cloddy when it comes to swimming.” she said. “Even with flippers and snorkel.”

“Swimming?”

“My sweet Rossie, in this day of radar and warning systems of a double-dozen types, do you think a Betastan agent could sneak across your borders, laden down with cloak and dagger espionage devices? Do you think he could cross the borders in a hopper, or parachute down, even though he started as high up as an artificial satellite? Perish the thought, lover-mine. That military machine Number One and Marshal Croft-Gordon have bled Alphaland white by building, has every last gismo known to the shoot-’em-up boys throughout United Planets. I don’t think we could get a carrier pigeon with a metal capsule on his leg across the Marshal’s warning system.”

He shook his head, scowling. “I suppose you’re right, but how do your agents get in, then? I know perfectly well they’re increasing in number.”

She laughed at him again and took up her quiver to sling it over her shoulder. “They swim in from specially designed, wooden, foot-powered, submarines, laddy-buck. Nude. And if the good Coaid Marshal can figure out some way of telling the difference between a man and one of the numerous sea-going mammals of this planet, he’s welcome to intercept them.”

Suddenly she dropped her bantering tone and stood before him. Her small hands went up to rest on his shoulders.

“Thanks for the warning, Rossie. However, I have reason to believe that Mark Fielder’s Surety people still don’t know of this place. I’ll stick it out for awhile. I’ve got work to do.”

Till, look. Why don’t you marry me? You’ve spent too many years at this sort of thing, instead of looking into a woman’s real place in life. What you need is love, Till. A home, children, a… a husband to look after. You’ve kept your nose to this espionage grindstone too long. You’ve had no experience in… well, in romance, in love. It’s time you learned…”

She put a finger to his lips.

“When this is over, Rossie, perhaps things will be different.” Her face went Chaplinesque. “I’m glad to know you’re so up on such matters. Because you’re quite right, I’ve never had much time for such things as romance, Rossie. Someday I’ll be glad to have you give me the benefit of your long, hard experience.”

Chapter V

Tilly Trice, bow slung over her shoulder, marched smartly up the thirty and more stone steps toward the impressive edifice ahead. Behind her, two by two and in moderately good order, came a full score of similarly garbed, similarly armed seeming youngsters. Surely, the oldest appeared to be no more than eighteen; some, such as Tilly herself, a mere fifteen.

Each carried a quiver of arrows in such a manner that the feathered ends projected over the left shoulder for a quick draw. The bow was slung, almost as though it were a rifle, over the right shoulder. On each head was worn a natty cap, somewhat reminiscent of Robin Hood.

Tilly marched briskly at the fore, a brassard of the Alphaland national colors around her right upper arm, a proud tilt to her head.

The four guards who stood at the top went bug-eyed at the approaching troop—which didn’t hesitate for a moment, keeping correct cadence all the way.

At the top, Tilly saluted the Lance Corporal smartly. “Honorary Ensign Lee, reporting for the audience with Deputy Matheison.”

He goggled at her blankly.

“Who?” he said. “Now, wait a minute. Who in Zen are you kids? What’re you doing here?”

His fellow guards stood in their assigned positions, matching him gape for gape.

Tilly saluted again. “Yes, sir,” she said snappily. Bridgetown’s Own, First Troop of the Alpha Scouts, reporting for the audience with Deputy Matheison of the Commissariat of Finance.”

The Lance Corporal shook his head. “Listen, boy, I never even heard of Bridgetown, let alone the Alpha Scouts. “What’re you selling?”

Tilly looked at him reproachfully.

“We’re supposed to have an interview and get some sort of engraved plaque for our headquarters.”

The corporal looked over his shoulder. “You fellas heard anything about this?”

Two of them shook their heads in utter denial. The other was the type who had to insert himself, whatever.

He said, “Well, Corporal, it seems to me I saw something on the Tri-Di news. Something about the Deputy being going to give some kinds an award, like. Yeah. It seems to me I saw something like that. I could be wrong.”

The corporal looked at Tilly in doubt.

“What’re those things you got over your backs?”

“We’re Alpha Scouts” she said, as though that explained everything.

“Alpha Scouts?” he said dimly.

Tilly said: “Come wend the wild wi’ me, “Venture shall ever be.”

The lance corporal blinked. He bit his under lip.

“We ain’t never had no delegates of Alpha Scouts before,” he admitted.

Tilly said, “I’ll come inside and show you my things, and you can phone the Deputy’s office and they’ll tell you all about it, I guess.” Her mouth trembled infinitesimally. “They couldn’t have forgot about the award,” she said miserably. “Not after we came all the way from Bridgetown.”

“Okay, kid,” the guard said hurriedly. “Come on in.”

He had meant only Tilly, but the others filed along behind.

One of the three remaining guards shook his head. “Sooner or later,” he said, “you see everything. Hey, you know what those things they was carrying over their backs was? Bows and arrows.”

“What’s a bows’n’arrows?” one of the others said disinterestedly.

“Don’t you ever watch the historic shows on Tri-Di?”

“Naw. I like those burlesque revivals with all the mopsies taking their clothes off all the time.”

“Bows and arrows are like the cowboys used to shoot at the Indians. Fella, those were the times. Burning down the wagon trains and rustling the buffalo.”

“Wrestling the buffalo?”

An Alpha Scout stuck his head outside the entry and called, “The corporal says for one of you to come in.”

One of the guards shrugged and went through the tall opaque door. On the other side, Centurion Combs slapped him behind the ear efficiently with a sap.

Tilly Trice went outside again and said shrilly, “Hey, something’s wrong in here. The corporal’s sick. He’s got some kind of attack.”

The remaining two guards made a beeline for the door, the pseudo-knowledgeable one saying, “I always thought he looked like he had a bad ticker, or something.”

They pushed on through, their guns comfortably bolstered, their minds free of suspicion—and ran into the hands of two so-called Alpha Scouts apiece. They were grabbed efficiently, and Comb’s sap thudded once again.

But then with a roar and burst of brawn, the second bashed his two slightly-built assailants together, threw them aside, and was down the corridor, running hard, at the same time tearing at his handgun, opening his mouth to shout a warning.

Tilly called, “Bernal!”

The arrow caught the fleeing guard in the upper spine and he was dead before his body hit the marble flooring.

Tilly snapped, “All right, Combs, Bernal, Altshuler, Zimmerman. You and your men, double time. You know your posts. Take them! Gonzales, stick close to me. Let’s go!”

On the run, they sped down corridors that seemed no strangers to them. On the several occasions that they came against Surety guards, or civilian-dressed employees of the Commissariat, the reaction of the others was such that the critical initial seconds of contact were their undoing. The halls were littered with Alphaland citizenry, either battered to insensibility or transfixed with lethal arrows.

Tilly finally stopped. “This is it, isn’t it, Manuel?”

“Should be. Let’s hurry.” The other looked like a kid in no more than his late teens, unless inspection came close enough to take in the wrinkles in his forehead, the depth of intelligence in his eyes. He wore heavy contact lenses. Of them all, he alone seemed nervous, as though the pace of action was unaccustomed.

Tilly whispered urgently, “On your toes, boys. There’ll be action here.”

She banged her slight shoulder against the massive door.

Beyond, two Surety men were hurrying toward them, one with gun in hand, the other in the process of drawing.

An arrow winged its deadliness past Tilly, missing her by less than six inches. It sped halfway through the lead guard’s throat, projecting its bloodiness behind, as the man crumbled forward to his knees, and then, gurgling, flat on his face, his feet drumming agony against the heavy carpeting.

The second guard got one bolt off before being transfixed with three more arrows, then he too went down.

“All right,” Tilly said. “Gonzales, it’s all yours. Fast now. We’ll hold until you’re through. But according to your speed, or lack of it, we’ll get out of here or not.”

Manuel Gonzales unslung a purse-like affair from over his shoulder. He put it down carefully on a heavy table and began hurriedly bringing its contents forth, to lay them in semi-orderly rows on the table. His mouth was dry and he licked his lips often, with little result.

He held an extension cord over his shoulder without looking to see who might take it. “Plug this in,” he said, his voice high. He cleared his throat. His hands were flying.

Tilly was standing in the middle of the large room, her bow in hand, an arrow on the string.

Combs, cool as winter wind, came to the assistance of Manuel Gonzales, who was occasionally fumbling his gadgets.

Combs said, soothingly, “How’s it work, Manuel?”

Gonzales spoke, even as he tinkered. “It discharges a condenser-bank through a small coil, generating a very powerful magnetic pulse; then a charge of high explosive is rigged to implode the resultant magnetic field to produce an empire-size flux density. Just a single two-microsecond pulse—but it makes every computer-magnetic-memory within half a mile ‘forget’ all its information and the data stored in the machine at the time, necessitating complete reprogramming. It also whips most of the magnetic tape around, lousing up records no end.”

Admiration in his voice, Combs said, “You lost me somewhere back there, but it sounds swell. We should’ve tried to get it into the War Ministry.”

Tilly, still standing, arrow still on string, said, “No. Finance is even better. You don’t fight wars with soldiers anymore, not primarily.”

Altshuler came in from the corridor, his face strained. He said, “Zimmerman copped one. That single bolt the guard got off.”

Tilly looked at the two technicians. “Try to hurry it, fellows.” She went out into the hall.

Several of the so-called Alpha Scouts, their bows at the ready, were standing guard. Two of them were bent over Zimmerman, who was propped up in a sitting position against the wall. His face was unnaturally pale and blood had already soaked through the improvised bandages.

“How bad is it, Zim?” Tilly asked.

“It’s pretty bad,” he grated. “I’ll never make it.”

Tilly told those working on him, “When we run for it, you two carry him. The rest of us will cover.”

Zimmerman shook his head. “It’d jeopardize everybody. Besides, if they got me, they’d stick me under Scop and I’d betray half our people in town. I’m expendable, Till. Finish me.”

Her lips thinned back over her artificial buckteeth. She stared down at him.

Finally she said, “Anything you want passed back home?”

He shook his head again. “No. I said my famous last words when I left to come over here. I knew there was fat chance of ever coming back.”

“All right,” she said, so low as hardly to be heard. Her eyes went suddenly to Bernal. “It’s an order, Bernal!”

An arrow smashed the heart of the fallen guerrilla.

Gonzales and Combs came running from the inner room.

“Let’s go!” Combs yelled.

They dashed down the corridors, back the way they had come. Their other groups merged with them as they progressed, coming on the run from the different points to which they had scattered when first entering the building. Three were missing, besides Zimmerman.

They sped out the entry through which they had come a scant ten minutes earlier, and down the stone steps. There were shouts and sounds of confusion behind them, but none bothered to turn head to check the pursuit.

At the bottom of the steps, a supposed tourist hover-bus edged up to the curb, even as they approached. They piled into it—on the surface a gang of teen-agers, costumed as though some sort of club.

Combs was last, almost missing the bus as it took off, being pulled in the door at the last moment by Tilly Trice.

“Thanks,” he puffed. “Remind me to marry you someday. Like your style.”

“Tu, tu, tu,” she told him. “Already spoken for.”

He looked at her sourly. “Oh, too bad.”

The bus sped around a corner, barreled at full speed down a boulevard, spun around another corner.

Altshuler, at the rear, called, “Uh-oh, some kind of Surety car.”

Tilly yelled back to him, “Noise makes no difference now. Take it!

A moment later a shattering blast tore up the street behind them.

Altshuler looked admiringly down at a small grenade in his hand, the twin of the one he had just thrown. “Zen!” he said. “Ordinance is really turning them out these days.”

Tilly clucked. “Watch your patriotism, Alt. Those aren’t the products of our ordinance plants. They were liberated from a local armory. How d’ya think we’d ever get such equipment over the borders with the kind of security they have here?”

Chapter VI

Number One was doing his best to relax in the comforting presence of Pater Riggin. He sipped at a glass of amontillado, imported for his sole use from a far land once called Spain.

The Temple Monk said softly, “So the die is cast and there is no return.”

Number One shifted in his comfortable chair. “Was there ever a return, Rig?”

“Possibly that’s according to where you start from, Jim.”

The other shook his heavy head. “There is never return, Rig. No matter how seemingly powerful you are, it’s an illusion. You’re pushed, you don’t march bravely forth.”

“I’m not so sure I follow you,” the plumpish Temple Monk said. They were seated in the living room of the Presidor’s private quarters, as before, an old-fashioned wood fire in the fireplace.

Number One looked at him strangely. “Do you think that Caesar could have changed his mind and not crossed the Rubicon?”

Pater Riggin looked at him for a long moment. “You didn’t want power, Jim?”

“No. It was thrust upon me. When the collapse of the past regime came, power lay there on the streets for anyone at all to take up. Should I have left it to the Karlists, or some other crackpot group?”

The Temple Monk patted his rounded tummy and said mildly, “I have heard the story before, Jim. ‘If I didn’t do it, somebody else would.’ Also, ‘I did it for the sake of others.’ ”

Number One scowled. “Sometimes I wonder what you really think about me, Rig. And more often I realize I don’t want to know. You’re the one man I feel I can talk to. But, carrying out along this line, what could I have done otherwise? You know my career as well as I do. Where could I have taken this turning, rather than that one?”

Pater Riggin shook his head. “I doubt if you have ever read of a Yugoslavian named Djilas. However…”

“Yugoslavian?”

“A small country in Europe in the old days. During the Second War, it went Communist. Djilas was one of its top revolutionists, the right-hand man of the dictator-to-be, Tito. Djilas spent years in the government prisons, later fought for more years in the mountains as a partisan. When the war was over and his people in power, he was aghast. His comrades were quickly enriching themselves, entrenching themselves in lucrative government jobs for which they were often unsuited. Tito himself lived like an Oriental potentate. When Djilas, still the idealist, refused to conduct himself similarly and attempted to expose this New Class that had arisen from among the supposedly selfless leaders of the proletariat, he was imprisoned for his pains.”

“Your point?” the Presidor growled, finishing his wine and reaching for the humidor.

“I’m not sure I have one,” his old friend said wryly, “but I find in history few idealists who can resist wealth and power, once they are in grasp. It applies, of course, not only to political figures. Have you ever seen a religion which, once come to acceptance, does not indulge its leadership? My studies tell me most of the great religions were founded by men who foreswore material goods, but, once the religion was established, their following priests were seldom to be found among the poverty-stricken.”

Number One looked at him thoughtfully. “I sometimes wonder that the United Temple puts up with you, Rig.”

His companion chuckled. “You should be able to figure that out, Jim. I am your closest companion. My immediate Bishop, and his Holiness himself, might occasionally become impatient, but they can’t afford to bar from conclave the man who has Number One’s ear.”

“I’ve told you I don’t like that term,” The Presidor growled.

Before the other could answer, a light flickered on the door and the screen there hummed.

Number One glowered at it. “What is this, a shuttle station? I gave orders not to be disturbed. Once this damned war begins, I’ll be fortunate to sleep four hours a night.”

“Ignore it.” Pater Riggin shrugged plump shoulders. “Why do you have deputies?”

The other grunted, pressed a button set into the arm of his chair and came to his feet, scowling, to face the door.

It came open and Jon Matheison, close pressed behind by Mark Fielder, came hurrying through. The former’s face was livid with anger—anger and what would seem to be despair.

Number One was curt. “What is the meaning of this intrusion, Coaids? The Crusade is scheduled in a few days. I have need of time for rest and contemplation.”

His Deputy of Finance began to say something, but Mark Fielder cut in, even as his eyes shifted about the apartment, taking in this, taking in that, resting briefly on Pater Riggin.

The Surety man said, “The war, evidently, is already on.”

“What! You mean they’ve attacked first!”

Matheison said, “An unprovoked attack on my commissariat. I have still not completely evaluated the disaster.”

Number One was glaring. “Make sense, you two! What has happened?”

His financial head took a deep breath. “As far as we can make out, a group of a hundred or more Betastani, armed with bows and arrows, broke into the Treasury Building this afternoon. They…”

“Armed with what ?”

“Bows and arrows,” Fielder said grimly. “Their value as a secret weapon applies not only to this romp. The damned things don’t make a sound, produce no muzzle-flash, don’t affect capacitance-alarm circuits so they can be back-trajectoried to locate their source. They ring no alarms, since they’re of wood rather than metal. The funkers even had hard plastic arrowheads on the nardy things.”

“The Treasury!” Pater Riggin blurted. “Why the Treasury? You mean they made off with…”

Matheison shot a contemptuous look at him. “Gold? No, of course not. Even if there had been a good many more of them they couldn’t have taken off enough gold to make any difference, and even that’s if they could have gotten down into the vaults, which would have been impossible.”

“Then what did they do?” Number One rasped.

Uninvited, the Deputy of Finance sank down onto a couch. He shook his head unbelievingly. “They used some sort of device I didn’t even know could exist. I don’t know how it works. I don’t really know what they did. But all out data banks are scrambled. Scrambled, I tell you. We have nothing. Nothing we can depend on.”

Number One felt a certain relief. He hadn’t known what sort of emergency, what tragedy to the Alphaland cause, had been brought before him. This seemed comparatively picayune.

He went over to the bar and poured a drink, brought it back and handed it to his visitor. “Drink this,” he growled. “You’re upset.” He switched his eyes to his Deputy of Surety. “Just what happened? You two don’t make much sense.”

“The details aren’t in,” Fielder said, his voice returning to its usual suavity. “However, it would seem that a large body of Betastani agents, carrying weapons deliberately designed not to affect our Surety alarms, invaded Coaid Matheison’s offices in the records wing of Finance.”

“Are government offices that vulnerable!”

Fielder made a gesture of helplessness with manicured hands. “One wouldn’t expect an attack to take place at such a point. The romp was unprecedented in any case, but the last locale one would expect would be the innocuous records offices of the Finance Commissariat.”

“Go on!”

“They killed several of the few guards who are posted at Finance, and then set up a device that has wiped every memory tape within blocks.”

“Did you catch any of them?”

Fielder shook his head, his expression empty. “They must have been highly picked men. Dedicated. They”—he hesitated—“they finished off their own wounded.”

A look of distaste went over Pater Riggin’s face.

Number One came back to his finance chief. “All right, what does it mean? What difference does it make? Why’d they bother to go to the trouble?”

Matheison stared at him as though unbelieving. “What difference does it make?” For once his indignation overrode his awe of his leader. “But they were the banks of all our records. There are no others.”

“Bring it down to a layman’s understanding, and cut out all this jetsam!” Number One growled.

Matheison took a deep breath. “Your Leadership, the Alphaland monetary system is based on the gold Alpha. In ancient times when a coinage system was first hit upon on Mother Earth—in Lydia, Asia Minor, to be exact, about 700 B.C.—it was very simple. The coinage, both gold and silver, was literally worth the weight of the precious metal involved. Even when paper money evolved, the bills were backed by gold, or silver. Thus a person holding a piece of paper money could go to the treasury that had issued it and demand the amount of gold.”

“I am not a schoolboy,” Number One rumbled. “Get to the point.”

“Your Leadership, as matters financial became more elaborate what with a burgeoning commerce, international trade, and so forth, we ceased dealing, more and more, with gold or silver itself and most transactions took place on paper. But always with the gold in the background; buried away in vaults, but always ultimately backing banking transactions. Centuries ago, the credit card began to evolve, slowly at first, but with growing speed as business machines, computers and data-processing developed. And now, today, actual coinage is practically unknown. Even an employee is not paid directly now. His salary automatically goes into his account. When he spends money, he simply presents his universal credit card, and the sum is deducted from the proper account.”

The Presidor’s eyes began to widen.

“Everything, but everything, is handled by our computers and their auxiliaries. In actuality, only some fifteen percent of Alphaland’s currency is backed by the gold in our vaults, but that has been deemed enough. If a foreign nation finds itself holding a considerable credit of Alphas, it can demand, and receive, the amount in gold bullion. But don’t you see what has happened? The magnitude of it? There were no records whatsoever except those we kept in our data banks. A common yoke who had savings of no more than five Alphas to his credit now has no record to prove it; the wealthiest banker with credits of a hundred million Alphas is in the same position. Nobody has any record.”

“What it amounts to,” Mark Fielder broke in with, “is that these Betastan criminals have robbed the nation of endless billions of gold Alphas. At the present time, for all practical purposes, every citizen in Alphaland is bankrupt!”

“That’s not exactly the way I’d put it,” Matheison said weakly.

Marshal Croft-Gordon, in full rage, stormed into the room without announcing himself.

“What in the name of Zen is all this! How can you prosecute a war without funds! We’re no longer in an age when the citizenry simply grab up their own swords and spears and dash out to confront the enemy! My forces expend half a billion a week just remaining at peace! What is this?”

Number One didn’t remember to glare at the cavalier intrusion.

It was Pater Riggin who ejaculated, “Holy Ultimate!”

They stood before the charts in Number One’s secret command post.

Number One said grimly, checking his wrist chronom-Croft-Gordon. Deputer Mark Fielder of the Commissariat of Surety. Temple Bishop Stockwater. Academician Philip McGivern of the Department of Socioeconomics. Deputy Jon Matheison of Finance. Ross Westley of the Commissariat of Information. All except the last being the inmost associates of the Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland.

Number One said grimly, checking his wrist chronometer, “Very well, the ultimatum has been issued. I assume, Marshal, that your forces are ready to move.”

Marshal Croft-Gordon cracked his swagger stick against his leg. “And have been for two months. My own opinion is that this ultimatum is a mistake. We should have struck as I suggested in my original plans, based on the first computer results.”

Number One looked at him expressionlessly. “Nobody asked for your own opinion, Marshal. Please bear in mind that the ultimate command of the Alphaland military is in the hands of the Presidor. This seems increasingly to escape you, Marshal.”

“Yes, Your Leadership,” the Marshal said stiffly.

Number One said as an afterthought, “Coaid Fielder, I assume you have taken the precaution of rounding up all nationals of Betastan.”

For the moment, the Surety Deputy said nothing and all eyes went to him.

“Well?” his leader growled.

“Your Leadership, it has been obvious for some time that the war was inevitable. For that reason, undoubtedly, a large number of enemy aliens have long since departed. When my men took the obvious steps of arresting those remaining, they found only a handful of elderly people and a few score of infants.”

The United Temple representative to the Central Comita said in complete surprise, “But, my son, there are thousands of Betastani resident in this city alone.”

Mark Fielder looked at the Temple Bishop. “There were, but no longer.”

The aged Philip McGivern rubbed his graying goatee and muttered impatiently, “Without doubt, the majority have fled to the countryside in anticipation of Betastan bombing.”

Marshal Croft-Gordon said, “There’ll be no enemy bombing of Alphacity. They’ll never get through our border defenses, not to speak of those of the city.”

Fielder said easily, “At any rate, those of the enemy nationals still in Alphaland will be seized soon enough. They can’t hide for any appreciable time. Among other things, the patriotism of our own civilians will prevent them from keeping under cover.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ross said.

Number One looked at him bleakly. “Clarify that, Coaid!”

Ross said doggedly, “I warned you that a month was insufficient time to prepare our people for a war of aggression.”

“War of aggression?” Temple Bishop Stockwater protested. “My son, your term is most distressing. This Crusade against the ungodly is to repel aggression and come to the aid of those who would throw off the bonds of the evil Amish-Karlist regime that now subverts the freedom of the Betastani people.”

Ross said, “We’ve dropped that Amish bit, Your Blessedness. Or, at least, we’re phasing it out as rapidly as we can.”

“But these Amish are nonbelievers,” the Temple Bishop said in indignation.

Number One rumbled, “Let’s stop all this jetsam!” He looked at his chronometer. “Ten minutes to go.” He turned to his military chief. “You are confident of complete destruction of the primary targets?”

Marshal Croft-Gordon blew out his cheeks. “The computers indicate a three time overkill. The ten most populous cities, including the capital, New Betatown. The ten largest industrial complexes. The forty largest airports, both military and civilian. All military bases with a personnel of more than one thousand.”

“I am aware of the targets,” Number One rumbled. “But are you positive of complete destruction?”

“A three time overkill, Your Leadership.”

The aged Academician McGivern said musingly, “It will provide an excellent basis for their economy of the future. A pastoral economy. We should never, Your Leadership, allow them to recover from this destruction of both their cities and industrial complexes. Our own population centers, so our good Marshal assures us, will remain untouched by what remaining aircraft and missiles they might possess. In the future, we will supply what manufactured products the Betastani need.”

There was a humming of the door and an aide went to check it.

He returned with a confused looking colonel who snapped to attention upon confronting the Marshal of the Armies. “Sir, a report.”

Number One growled, “You will render your report directly to me, Captain.”

The newcomer looked at him, startled. “Uh, it’s Colonel, Your Leadership.”

“Your mistake. From now on, it’s Captain. In the future, I suggest that in my presence you address me first, not one of my Coaids, Captain.”

“Yes, Your Leadership.”

“Now, what’s your damned message? It had better be important.”

“Your Leadership, there has been a response to your ultimatum. In fact, the response is being broadcast by every means from the Betastani to the whole planet.”

“A response? So soon? Impossible!”

Number One darted a glare at his Marshal “Are the missiles and bombers on their way?”

“No, Your Leadership. We had another five or six minutes to go.” The Marshal looked blank. He shot a look at the military charts on the walls. The points marked in red were to have been struck. He banged his uniform leg with his swagger stick in irritation.

Number One turned his glare back to the ex-colonel, now captain.

“What kind of response, confound it?”

The captain brought up a military report. “Your Leadership, they have declared their ten largest population centers open cities. Each of these cities has surrendered to you.”

“Surrendered!” the Marshal barked. “We haven’t even landed a single man!”

“Silence!” Number One said curtly. He turned his rage on the captain. “What else? I can see there is something else!”

“Your Leadership, a whole series of industrial complexes—industries, mills, mines—have also surrendered. Declared themselves open areas, the equivalent of open cities.”

“You mean the Betastan government has surrendered?” Number One demanded unbelievingly!

“Praise to the Holy Ultimate,” The Temple Bishop intoned reverently.

“Shut up, confound it!”

The captain swallowed. “No, sir. That doesn’t seem to be it. It’s just these individual cities and industrial complexes have declared themselves open and have surrendered. They’re awaiting your occupation forces, Your Leadership. All military units have been withdrawn into the countryside.”

Number One, for once, was uncomprehending. For a moment it looked as though he were about to lapse into one of his characteristic moods of contemplation, but then he tossed his heavy head abruptly. He turned to Marshal Croft-Gordon and Deputy Fielder.

“Your opinions, Coaids?”

Croft-Gordon bit out, “Send the bombers! This is a trick. Level them!”

Ross Westley, with formerly unknown vigor snapped, “No! Didn’t you hear this man? The Betastani have broadcast their surrender to the whole planet. Not a person of good will, not only in the neutral countries but in Alphaland itself, would stand for an attack upon those cities now!”

“All the largest cities have surrendered?” McGivern said in shocked tones. “Why, the computers said the war would be over in less than three months, but at this rate, they won’t last three weeks.”

“At this rate, they won’t last three days,” Mark Fielder amended. “There’s something awfully wrong, here. I don’t like it.”