The Incompetent

    Chris Butler

The staging lights in the tube began their muted sequencing, color by color, changing quickly from warning red to good-bye green—much too quickly, it seemed to Carsdale. This whole thing was happening too quickly, he wanted time to think, but the ejection tube was already aligning itself, compensating for the FR-127's speed and altitude.

The green light flashed on, once, twice, three times. Carsdale closed his eyes tightly, aware that even his eyelids were trembling and then the tube hatch snapped open and he was sucked outside by the vortex of air currents. He didn't feel much like a super weapon just then . . .

On every radar screen within 1500 kilometers, the bright low level blip that was the FR-127 suddenly jettisoned several tons of mass and abruptly began a forty-five degree climb, accelerating through four mach numbers before toss-bombing a missile toward the factories of the southern Urals. Just before the Balkan laser installations obliterated both blips, the 127 beamed a tight-band compressed laser message toward the Allied synchronous station some 24,000 miles overhead. This was intercepted and upon decoding turned out to be the first hundred and twelve pages of Volume VI of the current Encyclopedia Britannica.

For all intents and purposes then it seemed to have been an unmanned test of Soviet defenses in the Mediterranean, assuming the jettisoned mass was only fuel. Pending investigation of that, the effort could be considered a professional courtesy call, a measure designed to keep an enemy on its toes.

As if there were any need of that. The stalemated war ground on, both antagonists waiting for the next feint.

Several hundred feet under downtown Omaha, General Gary Peters sat before a dimming radar screen, sipping bourbon and water. So Carsdale was on his way, no big deal. The whole idea was preposterous, idiotic, the sort of operation that came from turning warfare over to nonprofessionals—to amateurs. Peters climbed to his feet and waited for his aide to hand him his cap and staff. War was becoming absurd.

The blast of subsonic wind hit Carsdale and spun him, hard. He knew that the drogue popped and stabilized him less than five seconds after ejection, but they hadn't told, him how bad those five seconds could be. It felt like his head was being torn off!

The sound of the drogue opening gave him courage; he opened eyes and saw the ground rushing up at him, accelerating at him, reaching out to smash him. My God, the Btaia I chute hadn't deployed, he was going to be killed! Frantically he fumbled for the manual found the D-ring, yanked it, and found that it was the wrong D-ring. Part of his quick release harness began to pull loose.

Mercifully then, and right on schedule, the timer automatically flung out the spring-loaded main chute. Carsdale had to use all his strength to hold his harness together when the chute deployed but now, just hundreds of feet off the ground, he could see that he was drifting down toward the clearing, right on the money.

Moments later he slammed into the ground and twisted his ankle, trying a trooper's roll in the wrong direction. Bruised, dazed, and in pain, Carsdale pulled in the lines and collapsed the chute. Despite the agony he managed to bury the fabric and crawl into the dark Balkan forests before taking a pain suppressant. As the drug took hold he climbed into his sleeping bag and settled down for a few hours, hoping his foot would be tractable when he woke. He was going to need it.

"Where is he now, Lockwood?" General Peters snapped at his aide. "Hasn't that idiot reported in yet?"

Captain Lockwood spoke softly into the intercom and after a homent flipped it off. "No word yet, sir. Nothing since he landed, sir," the aide mumbled reluctantly. "Eurcom suspects a damaged communicator."

Peters jumped to his feet "Now how the hell can anybody break a C-IV communicator. It can't be done, Lockwood! Damnit, those rigs are shock-tested to 200 Gs! You could run over one with a Breznev tank and not faze it, right?"

"Yes, sir, that's correct, sir. Lab admits they don't understand it, sir." Lockwood quietly poured the general another drink, a double this time, hoping it would calm the old man down.

It was raining when Carsdale awoke, a light drizzling rain that soaked everything he was wearing. Somehow the water had even managed to get inside the waterproof pouches of the sleeping bag. His dehydrated food parcels had begun to swell and spoil; some of the soup-concentrate had seeped in with his only set of Croatian peasant clothes. For a moment Carsdale lay still, feeling the rain spatter on his face and then he scrambled out, thoroughly disgusted. This was going to make a fine first report to Eurcom. Reaching into his bag, he fumbled for the equipment pouch. It wasn't there! In a panic Carsdale ripped open the bag, scattering the contents. His ankle chose that moment to buckle and he went down painfully, slopping into the cold mud. Had he been one to despair, it would have been an appropriate time. But Carsdale was made of sterner stuff. He made a support bandage out of the ruined peasant clothing and strapped on his stylish pistol anklet extra tight. Forcing himself to think calmly, he realized that the equipment pouch must have come loose when he tried the chute's manual release. That was bad, very bad—it meant loss of his special electronics gear, loss of his native currency and above all it meant the loss of his C-IV communicator. Now he was really on his own.

Looking up into the dismal rain, Carsdale took a deep breath. So be it. He shouldered the wet remains of his equipage and headed through the forest, looking for a highway North.

CARSDALE, ABBOT MARTIN.

Born: March 8, 1973

Present Age: 34

Height: 5'9"

Weight: 147 Ibs.

Distinguishing Features: Freckles, blue eyes ...

For the tenth time General Peters thumbed through the dossier on Carsdale, trying to understand why the Psych-Tech boys had picked him for this mission, and why this mission was being run at all. It didn't make sense! Now maybe he wasn't a psychologist and maybe he couldn't understand all the fancy terminology in the dossier but one thing was clear, even to an old war horse like himself. Carsdale was a bumbling idiot.

Not stupid; certainly Carsdale was intelligent, educated, capable in four languages, a competent mathematician and even a fair musician. He was loyal, had passed the C.I.A. course with flying colors and had audacity. But he was still a bumbling idiot. His dossier was full of incidents that Carsdale had bollixed, inexplicable incidents that negated all his talents.

In the fourteenth grade, as head of his class in differential calculus, Carsdale had been recruited as student aide to his high-school's programming department. Three days later he stumbled at the wrong time and the entire file on the graduating class of 1987 was erased. In an attempt to rectify the situation Carsdale had called upon his considerable knowledge of computer circuitry and attempted to fix the machine.

Three company technicians brought in a quarter ton of equipment to repair the damage but were unable to find the source of the trouble. Carsdale had badgered them with questions and advice until in a fit of exasperation one of them had picked him up bodily and had thrown him out of the room. The impact of Carsdale bouncing off the wall across the hall apparently jolted an intermittent solder break into proper position because the computer immediately resumed normal operation.

What a man to have on your side! And the dossier was packed with similar incidents, some even stranger. General Peters snarled and threw the dossier across the room. It made a satisfying thunk as it hit the wall and its hundred pages scattered about. Then the general flicked on his intercom and barked, "Lockwood, get in here and clean up this mess!"

Standing on the left side of the highway in his gray seersucker suit, Carsdale tried to fabricate an excuse for being so wet and for carrying a sleeping bag. As an ancient turbine truck pulled over for him, he decided to try explaining as little as possible.

The driver looked at him strangely for a moment, then pulled back onto the highway and muttered in broken Russian, "You've got to be a Russian, right?"

Carsdale grinned and nodded.

"Figures. Lately all the weirdos I pick up are Russians."

"Perhaps I should explain—" Carsdale began in Ukrainian.

The driver just laughed and shook his head. "I don't want to know, buddy. I mean, if you're Russian then it has to have something to do with the war. It just has to, you people never come down here for anything else, right?"

Carsdale stopped smiling. "How do you know that?"

"Just always works out that way. You're a spy, right?"

Carsdale reached slowly for the 12mm pistol in his anklet on the pretext of scratching his foot. "What makes you ask that?"

Again the driver laughed. "Comrade, I average three spies a trip on this run.The country's just crawling with them. Americans, Chinese, Russians—" Glancing over at Carsdale, he added, "On a bet I'd say you're really an American, and you got wet coming in off a submarine, right?"

"It's been raining," Carsdale said cautiously, fingering his weapon.

Grinning broadly, the driver, said, "Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't tell me, what do I care? Me, I like trucking just fine. You boys go ahead and run your war. I wish you luck, I really do. Besides," he added with a wink, "it's good for business. Know what I mean?"

Carsdale grinned weakly and left the pistol where it was. The first Eurasian he'd ever encountered, a dumb trick driver yet, and already his cover was destroyed. He sighed and sat back in the seat, listening as the driver rattled on about himself.

A thousand kilometers to the north the truck pulled over aad Carsdale climbed out, confused. According to the driver, life under the Communists was sweet. It seemed that the war took up most of the Russians' time, leaving the lesser powers to provide economic support. That meant jobs for everybody and health services and even local self-government, since running a world war and governing twenty-two other countries was beyond the Russians' resources. Technology was booming, pollution was being halted in an effort to increase production and birth control was becoming feasible with the threat of instant annihilation hanging over everyone's head.

Carsdale was skeptical because it didn't quite agree with what the C.I.A. boys had told him, but he politely refrained from saying so. One thing he did ask. "Say, uhh, Comrade—" he began, stepping down from the truck and scratching his foot again. "If I were by some strange chance an Americas spy, how do I know that you won't go to the authorities and report me as soon as you drive off?" Carsdale attempted to cock the pistol through his pants leg.

The driver just laughed. "Hey, who pays any attention to spies, huh? Who cares, they're everywhere! So have yourself a good war buddy. And get yourself something to eat," he added, handing Carsdale a twenty ruble note.

"Thanks," Carsdale mumbled as the truck drove off. He barely remembered to uncock the pistol before walking to a restaurant.

Sitting in an aluminum tub with the agitator turned to high, Peters pondered his war. Almost automatically he rolled an unlit cigar around in his mouth, thinking. His dress cap still perched on his head and would until he had to wash his hair; it helped to remind him of who he was, in the midst of all this.

Twenty years the Third World War had lasted now—twenty strange years. Peters remembered how excited he'd been in '87 when the disarmament talks at Potsdam had broken up with the Allied and Soviet ministers handing each other formal declarations of war. The world had been stunned—the war it had been dreading for forty years was then a reality. For a world it implied a new era, full of greater fear and destruction than any other era in history, but to a young captain in the U.S. Army it signified the beginning of great happenings, of promotions and glory and finally getting something done! Those were the days.

Somewhere along the line it had all soured, though. The war had cost nearly five trillion dollars so far and things weren't getting any cheaper. Total casualties for twenty years of fighting—nobody knew for sure. The figure must have run into the dozens, though, Peters thought sarcastically. Why, every week somebody fell off a gantry and died in the defense of his country. And the war dragged on.

But now Peters had a chance to change all that. Through daring and imagination he had made known his willingness to fight his country's battles and carry her banner. He'd risen as high as a career officer could and still his patriotic fervor for the good fight hadn't waned, not a bit! At last, as Chief of Allied Offensives, it was his personal responsibility to bring this action to a speedy and victorious conclusion. His responsibility, his alone . . .

Peters gazed beyond the porcelain and linoleum of the Staff Bath, seeing visions known only to himself.

Carsdale sat in the darkest corner of the small roadside restaurant, looking at no one, his confidence shaken by the ride. After a moment a girl came to take his order and he asked for borscht, black bread with smyetana and a glass of vodka, using his thickest Ukrainian accent. The girl nodded and walked away, smiling. Carsdale saw her give the order to the chef and whisper something in his ear. Both of them glanced at him and then hurriedly looked away, suppressing their laughter.

It was disconcerting, to say the least. He tried to sit lower in his chair, to be less noticeable, wondering how this could be happening to him. He'd had three years of intensive training at the C.I.A. Institute, could handle Russian dialects like a native and was a highly competent actor when he needed to be. Besides which he was a super weapon, so how was all this possible? A little boy brought over his food. Carsdale smiled at the youngster and tried to pat him on the head, but the kid giggled and jumped back excitedly. For a second they stared at each other and then the boy ran back behind the counter, leaving Carsdale to his dinner. Good lord, even kids knew—

Well into his third glass of vodka, Carsdale began contemplating his status as a super weapon. It was a moment of self-doubt, of wondering what the C.I.A. had seen in him to think him a superior human being and a specially-equipped warrior. Without being egotistical he realized that he was a truly gifted individual, highly intelligent, talented, clever, diversely trained, even good looking if you could accept the fact that a thin body was functionally superior to a heavy one. So he was many notches above the common, man; even so, did that make him a super weapon?

As the Intelligence people had explained, it, he was better off not knowing the nature of his peculiar talent. That way he would be more capable of using it naturally and, in the unlikely event he was captured, he would be unable to pass on top secret information to his interrogators. That made sense, in a strange way.

Still, he couldn't help wishing they'd been more specific in his assignment, instead of just telling him to work his way north, infiltrate the Russian defense operation and let nature take her course. Apparently they were certain he'd be able to cope with any situation that arose, to send him in with so little instruction. They had a lot of confidence in him and in his quick wittedness, and rightly so, Carsdale realized. He wouldn't fail them.

The kid tugged on his sleeve just then and presented him with a bill. Carsdale snapped out of his reverie and reached into his pocket for money.

"Gospodeen, gospodeen," the kid said in a shrill voice, giggling.

"Da, malcheek?" Carsdale responded cheerfully.

"Gospodeen, ou vass yest micro-feelm?" the boy asked with an excited smile.

Carsdale slammed the twenty ruble note on the table and stalked past the kid, muttering, "Drop dead, brat." It wasn't until he was ouside that he realized he'd spoken in English.

"General, we have news on the Carsdale mission," Lockwood said as he brought dinner on a tray into the general's bedroom. Peters put down his book and looked up, mildly interested.

"Oh, really? Has he been captured, tried and shot yet?" he asked as he picked up the glass of bourbon. Captain Lockwood held back a smile. "No, sir, not quite. He seems to have worked his way to the southern Urals, according to Intelligence. One of our boys spotted him a short while ago, hitchhiking in the vicinity this morning."

Peters raised his eyebrows. "You're kidding, Lockwood. You mean to tell me he's got that far and the Ruskies haven't spotted him yet?"

"Not exactly, sir. We're pretty sure the Poles, Yugoslavs, Hungarians and Russians know he's there as a spy, and we suspect the Chinese will know shortly."

The general gagged on his bourbon and snorted to clear his nose. "So why in thunderation don't they pick him up and execute him? All this suspense isn't helping my ulcer a bit, damnit!"

"They will, sir, after they've watched him for a while. That is, they'll pick him up."

"And execute him?" Peters asked hopefully.

"Possibly, but I doubt it, sir."

"Why not? He's a spy, it's a war, they're perfectly within their rights . . ."

"Yes, sir, I know," Lockwood interrupted. "But this is a strange war, sir. Perhaps I should explain the role of a spy—" The general put down his drink and sat up.

"Yes, please do, Captain." Peters was beginning to feel confused.

Stepping out of the pneumatic subway, Carsdale smiled to himself. In spite of all odds and even though a hundred people had guessed he was a spy, he'd made it to his objective. He'd survived a full week among conquered peoples, in the midst of a war, having only his native cunning and wit to rely upon. It was a good feeling.

Stepping into the sunlight, he squinted and hailed a black and red cab. "To the Bolshevik Peoples' Propulsion Plant," he ordered in flawless Russian.

The cab driver nodded and pulled out into the traffic. "Very good, sir," he answered in Russian. "And welcome to the Soviet Peoples' Republic, Mr. Carsdale."

With one fluid motion Carsdale reached down, grabbed bis pistol and held it to the cabbie's ear. The driver just clucked his tongue disapprovingly. Something in the tone of the clucking told Carsdale that blowing the driver's brains out at that time wasn't a good idea. Not knowing why, he sighed and handed over his pistol.

"You see, General, war is a good thing, a very good thing for a country, provided of course that country doesn't lose or get invaded."

Peters nodded. Yes, of course, that was basic. "Get on with it, Lockwood," he ordered.

Captain Lockwood coughed selfconsciously and continued. "Well, sir, now that the art of warfare is so advanced, both sides have achieved a state of technological equality. Anything they can throw at us we can throw back at them, and we can knock down anything they throw. It's a stalemate, a complete standoff, but it has a good side. It's stimulating the hell out of our economies, sir."

"Yes, yes, of course, I realize all that," the general muttered irritably. Then he leaned forward and stared his aide squarely in the face. "But I realize something else, too, Lockwood. Those Ruskies would murder us in our sleep if we gave them half a chance."

"Quite possibly they would, sir, if the opportunity ever arose. But that could happen only if one side grew lax in its defense, or if one side developed a new weapon that the other side couldn't counter."

"Lockwood, I'm a general, I know all of this. Quit lecturing me and tell me what all this has to do with spies. And how the hell is an idiot like Carsdale important?" Peters picked up his bourbon and sipped angrily. Who did Lockwood think he was, anyway?

"I'm getting to that, sir." Lockwood responded. He sighed and continued. "Spying is what holds it all together, sir. There are so many spies involved in this war that you just wouldn't believe me, if I told you—"

"Cut the dramatics, Lockwood." Lockwood stiffened. "Yes, sir. Sir, There are nearly half a million Russian spies in the United States alone, and at least that many Americans in Russia. Sir, we don't even know where all ours are, much less theirs, General!"

Peters set down his glass of bourbon, spilling some of it. "A half million?" he asked weakly.

"Yes, sir. Five hundred thousand, sir. And that's why the war goes on, sir. There are no secret weapons because there just aren't any secrets anymore."

Numbly the general reached for his cigar and his drink. Lockwood hurried over to freshen the bourbon, then continued his explanation.

"The Carsdale mission was dreamed up by the Psych-Tech boys, as an experiment, sir. You see, since the Russians know every action we plan against them, we had to throw at them something we didn't quite understand ourselves. Like playing intuitive chess—"

"Chess," Peters mumbled. "Chess. What has Carsdale got to do with chess, Captain? The man is a bumbling idiot, Lockwood! He's never done the right thing in his whole life!"

"Yes, sir," Lockwood smiled. "That's precisely it" General Peters groaned audibly.

Two guards met the cab at the plant and saluted politely; Carsdale started to salute back but stopped himself. This was war. The cab driver wished him a pleasant stay and drove off, whistling a song from "Oklahoma." If Carsdale had had his pistol just then, he would have pointed it between his vacuous eyes and ended this insanity. As things were, the guards led him gently to an elevator and they began dropping hundreds of feet into the ground.

A jovial fat gentleman greeted him when the doors finally opened. "Welcome, Mr. Carsdale, and congratulations on reaching your objective. You are presently standing in the People's Black Sea Operations Room. You've made it, Gospodeen Carsdale!"

Carsdale returned the handshake feebly. "Do I get shot now or later?" His host smiled amiably. "Ahh, you have a sense of humor. That's good, that's very good. Ha ha."

Ha ha. Carsdale looked around the operations room numbly. It was huge, nearly the size of a football field and there were hundreds of uniformed Russians working here, each undoubtedly intent upon the total destruction of the United States and what she stood for. He felt helpless, disgustingly helpless. "Ahh, Mr. Carsdale, allow me to introduce myself. I am Alexandreii Dubroff, in charge of this center's Psychological Warfare department. But call me Alexii," he said and clapped Carsdale affectionately on the shoulder. Arm in arm they walked through the maze of machinery toward a small, isolated console. One man sat at that console and from the amount of chrome on his uniform Carsdale could tell that this was a man to be reckoned with. As they approached, the officer looked up disinterestedly.

"Marshal Yanoff, I would like to present Mr. Abbot Martin Carsdale, American super weapon and a nice fellow, too, I might add." The marshal seemed unimpressed. "Mr, Carsdale, this is Marshall Mikhail Sergeeivitch Yanoff, defense director for the entire People's Central Republic. We've been waiting for you." It was too much for him, Carsdale had to do something, anything! He couldn't be so close to the seat of Soviet power and do nothing! Desperately he reached inside his pocket and pretended to finger a mechanism. "All right, nobody move! I've got a bomb in my pocket!"

Alexeii smiled encouragingly. "You see, Marshal, he is very quick witted. And a sense of humor, too, I might add" Marshal Yanoff took a sip of tea, frowning.

"Everybody up against the wall, feet apart, hands over head. Now, move!" Carsdale ordered menacingly.

"Please, Mr. Carsdale, you don't have a bomb. You lost your bomb when you parachuted into our country, yes?"

Now how did they know that? "Uh-h-h, yeah, but I got another one from a revolutionary I met—"

"No, Mr. Carsdale, you didn't. We haye no revolutionaries anymore and besides, nobody gets by the alarms with weapons. There are metal detectors, you see."

"Yeah, well, this is plastic and it's about to go off!"

"Mr. Carsdale," Alexeii implored, "please, as a friend I ask you to sit down. There are things we must discuss."

"You don't believe me?"

"I'm sorry, but no." Carsdale muttered "Rats," and reluctantly sat down.

Peters was sitting at his console, gargling bourbon and looking at all the bright red launch buttons when Lockwood brought in the latest report on the Carsdale mission.

"They've brought him to their main defense center in central Russia, sir. He's actually in their control center right now."

"By God! You mean one of our boys has infiltrated their setup?" Peters put down his drink and stared at his young aide. "We've got a boy on the inside?"

"Not exactly, sir."

"What's that supposed to mean, Lockwood?"

"Well, he's there, sir, he's definitely there but our sources say he's pretty well guarded. They've captured him, sir."

"Then why in blazes did they take him to their most important military installation?"

"We really don't quite understand it, General. It seems they're giving him a tour—"

"What kind of a crack is that supposed to be, Captain?"

"Well, sir, as near as we can figure it, the Russians don't know what Carsdale is yet. They have all the information on him that we have, but they don't seem to understand why we sent him. I suppose they're curious to see what he can do."

General Peters pondered that. Carsdale was incapable of doing anything, anything at all. It had been absurd to send him in the first place. "Lockwood—"

"Yes, General?"

"Ah-h-h, Lockwood, explain something."

"If I can, sir."

"Tell me again why we sent Carsdale to Russia? Please?"

"No reason, sir. The Psych-Tech boys were looking for a new angle, something really new, and one of them dreamed up this nonmission mission. I believe the idea's based on Carsdale's bad karma, and how his planets are lined up strangely. I never quite understood it either."

"Captain," Peters mumbled, gazing numbly at the rows of red buttons in front of him. "Why don't you fix us both a drink?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Karma. Astrology. Carsdale. Whatever happened to warfare, Peters wondered vaguely. Killing and winning and guts. Simple homespun warfare—

"Now, Mr. Carsdale, please try to meet us halfway. That's fair, isn't it?"

Carsdale looked at Alexeii, perplexed. "But this is war, isn't it? I'd be a traitor to give away any secrets, right?"

The little fat man sighed and nodded. "Yes, that is true. But you don't have any secrets, and as far as that goes, we've shown you our best secret, this control room. So does that make us traitors, too? Does that make me and Marshal Yanoff traitors?"

Confused, Carsdale shook his head. "I don't think it does."

"Fine, fine, we agree on something. Now Mr. Carsdale, just answer one question. What are you supposed to do?"

Looking miserably at his feet, Carsdale muttered, "They didn't tell me that."

Yanoff snorted contemptuously. Carsdale sat up, offended, and said vehemently. "Well, they didn't They didn't have to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alexeii asked.

"Just that. They figured I could work it all out myself, all by myself," Carsdale replied smugly.

"Idiotic," Yanoff rumbled.

"Not so idiotic," Carsdale sneered. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, of course," Alexeii murmured, trying to calm the pair down. "But, I might add, you are under . . . shall we say ... our supervision. Yes?"

Carsdale didn't have an answer for that one.

Yanoff stood up, towering over Carsdale contemptuously. "Hey, you, American super weapon, come here. Sit down in my chair."

"I don't want to," Carsdale muttered.

"Sit!" Carsdale shuffled over and sat down. "Now, you see red buttons? Push one, and nuclear rocket is fired. Anywhere in world. You want fire rocket, super weapon? Sure, go ahead, push. Push!"

Carsdale was skeptical. "Which one is aimed at Moscow?" he asked bitterly. Without hesitating Yanoff pointed to one of the buttons and clicked on several wall screens. One showed a launching pad, the other a laser installation outside Moscow.

"Push, super weapon, push!"

"You're kidding," Carsdale murmured.

"Push, now!!"

"O.K., Pops," Carsdale smiled and pushed the button. Seconds later a missile rose beyond camera range of the first screen. Almost immediately the second screen showed an automatic laser swinging around. A beam of intense light was emitted for all of a half second and then the laser swung back to its originalposition. That was all; Carsdale was disappointed, somehow.

Maybe it was the bourbon he'd been drinking all day but when the boards showed a Russian missile streaking toward Moscow and then being shot down, General Peters couldn't get interested. So the Russians were shooting at themselves. Why not, it was that kind of a war. "Lockwood?"

His aide was also feeling the effects of Peters' bourbon but stood stiffly at attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Got any idea what that was all about, Lockwood?"

"Not really, sir," the aide said, struggling to maintain his balance. "On a bet I'd say it has something to do with the tour Carsdale is getting."

"Tour," Peters muttered.

"Yes, sir." Lockwood sat down.

"Lockwood," Peters began. The aide stood up again reluctantly and saluted. "Tell me something, son. Do you think anybody's really trying to win this war? Really?"

"We're making every effort, sir." Captain Lockwood murmured reassuringly.

"You really believe that?"

"Yes, sir. Without an all-out effort on our part, the Russians would eventually get ahead of us somehow. Then it would be all over, sir."

"You know, that's the way I always saw it, Captain. But now I'm not. so sure—"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"There haven't been any results, damnit. No victories, no deaths, nothing to let you know there's a war on. Just a wartime economy, and a fat one at that."

"It's not much of a war, is it, sir?"

"It's the worst war I've ever been in, Lockwood. It makes me want to turn in my stars, I feel so helpless."

"Now, General," Captain Lock-wood said softly, "what would happen to us if we didn't have soldiers like you to keep us on our toes?"

Peters thought about that for a moment and then he sighed. "I suppose you're right, son."

"You see, Mr. Carsdale," Alexeii began, "our defenses are quite good. You could press all the buttons in this center and it would do no good. So now, perhaps, you could tell us why you were sent at all?"

It had been a hard day, hard physically, hard on his wits, but above all hard on his ego. Carsdale found himself sobbing. "I don't know, I don't know, they just told me to do what I could and win the war and—"

Yanoff motioned for the guards to take him away and two of them took Carsdale by the shoulders to help him to his feet. Shaking with his sobs, Carsdale got up out of the marshal's chair, and inadvertently knocked the marshal's cup of tea into the marshal's console. He was about to apologize when the room went dark and Central Russia was suddenly without a command post.

Eight thousand miles away the display board depicting the status of Central Russian defense installations began to dim, as one light after another winked out. Within ten seconds after the first one turned off, the entire board was a dull unlit green. General Peters stiffened, quivering. "What . . . what does this mean, Captain Lockwood?"

But Captain Lockwood didn't answer. Captain Lockwood was in the process of fainting.

Amid the chaos and uproar of a command post going berserk, one man remained at his post, performing his patriotic duty. He sat there, smiling slightly, pushing one red button after another until there were no more buttons for him to push. And then he sat back in his chair to watch the board begin to light up again.

"Good old Carsdale," he murmured happily."