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IX. The Judo Master

 

1

S-One turned from the brilliant colors of the enclosed court to his deputy, who said respectfully, "Sir, news of the enemy's latest dispositions." He laid the sheaf of papers on S-One's desk.

S-One glanced from the papers to the display on the opposite wall. He sat back, frowning. The fortified narrow part of the Normandy peninsula was now colored blue. Blue oblongs were moving toward Paris along the narrow lines that represented railroad tracks. Along distant extensions of these railroad tracks, red oblongs were drawing back toward the northeastern part of France.

"Hm," said S-One. "I have to admit, S-Two, that this barbarian has a nasty habit of changing his mind. When did he decide to occupy the Citadel?"

S-Two looked embarrassed. "We don't have any word on that yet, sir. The last we knew, he regarded the Citadel as definitely in Pierrot's province."

"What this means, of course, is that the Americans now have a solid foothold here. How are we going to dislodge them from those fortifications? They can be supplied by their Fleet, from outside. Where is Arakal himself?"

"With the trains, sir."

"We are sure of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is something, at least. You realize, we will have to make a stand somewhere in France."

"Yes, sir."

"Are we prepared?"

"Yes, sir. There is no problem in that."

"Good. Now, you perhaps are aware of a certain disagreement between myself and the Head of Government?"

"Yes, sir."

"I must, of course, accept his decision. But it would be unfortunate if his decision caused any rupture in our deception plan. It would be a help to me, and, I think, a service to the state, if unexpected actions on his part could be avoided, or at least moderated by foreknowledge."

"Certainly, sir. Our latest information is of a meeting between the Head of Government and Marshal Vasilevsky, General Kolbukhin, and General Brusilov. The former plenipotentiary to our occupation forces in America, Smirnov, has also been briefly called in, to answer questions. The tone of the meeting is one of intense concern. Serious reservations have been expressed about our actions so far."

"Our actions? Whose actions?"

"The actions carried out under your direction, sir."

"I see. And what are their conclusions so far?"

"The marshal is confident that he can beat Arakal, and any combination of Arakal and guerrillas. He still thinks it would have been best to have fought Arakal shortly after he arrived."

"What does Brusilov say?"

"That you tried it, and were outmaneuvered."

S-One nodded soberly. "And Kolbukhin?"

"Kolbukhin is in favor of letting Arakal penetrate deeply, so that he can be cut off and exterminated. The danger, he says, is not in Arakal winning the fight, but in his getting away, to come back later and harass us with blows here and there unpredictably."

"And what is the conclusion of the Head of Government?"

"He has expressed no actual conclusion. Our impression is that he is taking care to prepare everything in the event that the deception plan fails. As he does not know what the deception plan actually is, he is under something of a handicap in forming his own plans."

"If I had told him, he might have told Brusilov, or the Marshal. They might then have decided whether or not to intrude. Do they know yet that Arakal has occupied the Normandy Citadel?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is their response to that?"

"The Marshal and General Kolbukhin consider that Arakal is a military amateur to leave so large a proportion of his men behind. General Brusilov is not sure. The other two joke at Brusilov's expense, saying that Arakal could slip on a cowflop and land in a pile of manure, and Brusilov would suspect there was some clever plan behind it."

"And how does Brusilov respond to that?"

"He admits there is some truth in the charge, but says it is an outlook based on experience."

S-One nodded. "Are we receiving reports from the Citadel?"

S-Two hesitated. "Yes and no. We are receiving transmissions."

"Ah, yes. There is a translator shortage?"

"Yes, sir. We have switched more men from the U.K. Sector. But there is still trouble with the accent of Arakal's men, and their particular choice of words. Their outlook also is sometimes difficult to grasp."

"Well, that will clear up. What about Arakal himself?"

"We are almost constantly in touch, now that he is on the train."

"Good. Bring me word of any important decisions as they are made."

 

2

As the clack of the train signaled the passage of the miles, Arakal studied the map, with Pierrot at his elbow, and Slagiron across the table. Outside the window, the green countryside fled past. Arakal caught glimpses of rushing streams, shady glens, and once, in the distance, high on a hill, ruined fortifications from long ago. Pierrot, meanwhile, overflowed with words in his own tongue.

"All France is aflame," he said. "The Soviets are in flight, and we pursue them mercilessly. They flee before us, and we must not flag. Always, always, we must pursue them!"

Arakal said, "Who is this 'we' the Russ are running from?"

"The partisans. The men of the Striking Force for Independence. The guerrilla heroes of the nation."

Slagiron studied Pierrot curiously. Unable to understand Pierrot's words, he was considering Pierrot's manner and gestures.

Arakal said, "So far, so good, then. But where are the Russ reserves?"

Pierrot put his hand on the map, forefinger outstretched. "Here, near Metz."

"How strong are they?"

"In physical size they are large important forces."

"Tanks?"

"They have nearly a hundred tanks."

"What about their artillery?"

Slagiron, recognizing the word, "artillerie", looked attentive.

Pierrot, for his part, looked thoughtful. Then he shrugged.

"I am afraid that the great Napoleon taught them a lesson at Friedland—a lesson about artillery—that they have learned only too well. Their artillery is strong and mobile. It is a terrible thing to face their artillery. We must fight in such a way as to avoid that."

Slagiron said, "What does he say?"

"That the Russ have strong reserves near Metz. Amongst other things, these reserves include nearly a hundred tanks, and strong artillery. He says we need to fight in such a way that we keep away from their artillery."

"How do we achieve that?"

Arakal turned to Pierrot.

"Have you thought of some practical means to avoid their artillery?"

Pierrot said, "My men strike unexpectedly and are gone. Pouf! You must do likewise. Speed, decision, the quick blow, and then away! It will not do to trade blows with an opponent made of iron."

Arakal explained this to Slagiron.

Slagiron listened without enthusiasm.

Arakal said to Pierrot, "What is the size of the Russ artillery force? How many guns, of what caliber?"

"Many guns, of all sizes."

Arakal paused, then went on.

"Any airplanes?"

Pierrot shook his head. "Their aircraft usually crash, or cause other troubles. The most recent of these aircraft that I know of flew, but when it came down to land, the wheels would not lower. These aircraft are great eaters of fuel, hard to maintain, and only of odd types left over from the past. They are not practical."

"Are the tanks new?"

"In my belief, they too are left over from the past. But they are maintained in excellent condition."

"And the guns—the artillery?"

"Some are old, some new. All are well maintained and terrible to face."

Arakal summarized for Slagiron, then looked thoughtfully at the map.

"Why pursue the Russ? They're almost out of the country."

"If we do not throw them back, they will advance."

"Why not negotiate with them? After all, they have men in Old Brunswick who are cut off from the mainland. We can allow these men to cross—we could even ferry them across—in return for the Russ going completely back over the border."

"You do not understand their way of thinking. They are masters of all Europe. They will not leave willingly. Either from here or from England."

"Then we had better plan some way to slow them up when they come back. Because what we have here right now isn't going to stop them. Especially if we have to get out of the way every time they bring up the artillery."

"Surely when your main forces come over, then we can deal with the Soviets on at least an equal basis."

Arakal said noncommittally, "What I am talking about is now."

There was a rap on the compartment door.

Arakal called, "Come in."

A corporal of Arakal's army stepped inside, holding a yellow envelope.

"Sir, a message for General Pierrot." The messenger noticeably split the name into two words: "Pier" and "rot." This, at least, was an improvement over the usual pronunciation, "Pure rot."

Arakal, pronouncing carefully, said, "Let General Pierrot have the message, then."

"Yes, sir." The corporal handed Pierrot the message. Pierrot tore it open, read rapidly, then looked up. "This is serious. The enemy is advancing toward the Meuse. He has already passed Gravelotte."

Arakal glanced at the map.

Pierrot said, "We must stop him." He scribbled rapidly on the back of the message, sealed it, and handed it back to Arakal's corporal.

Arakal said, "Give that to General Pierrot's communications officer."

Arakal pronounced "Pierrot" carefully, so that the corporal would again have the advantage of hearing the correct pronunciation. The corporal saluted and went out.

Pierrot said, "Are we one on this? Will you join me in driving back the enemy?"

"We're willing to try," said Arakal. "But I'm not sure it will work."

Pierrot stood up. "We can only try. But we must try."

 

3

S-One glanced from the report to the display. Arakal's troop trains were now beyond Paris, on the railroad line to Reims. The symbols on the display were lit, signifying that it was now night for Arakal and his men, just as it was night here, for S-One. It was night, and S-One was tired. It was well past time for bed. But S-One looked at the softly glowing blue outline around the Normandy Citadel. He glanced from the display to the latest report, to read:

 

". . . word from the scene, as well as indications from electronic sources, indicate that Arakal had left behind three divisions, or one-third of his force, to hold the Citadel. These troops now appear to be the 2nd, 5th, and 9th Divisions, known respectively as the Hammerclaw, King Snake, and Sledgehammer Divisions. The 9th, or Sledgehammer Division, is particularly strong in artillery, and might be considered as the heavy artillery of Arakal's army. While it is too early to provide details, indications from the scene suggest that all these troops are being intelligently used to occupy the fortifications. Although Arakal's Divisions are smaller than our own, these units appear to be about thirty percent overstrength; such is the state of automatic control of the Citadel's weapons that there seems little doubt that these troops can man the entire perimeter, while maintaining strong reserves in the interior. It must be emphasized that our experience with these units in America has been unfortunate. The Sledgehammer Division, in particular, is capable of delivering the heaviest sort of blow. The troops in Brusilov's army customarily referred to this division as 'The Scrap Man', from the effect of its heavy artillery on our armored units. It must further be noted that the terrain within the Citadel is ideal for defense, and unfavorable for armor. . . ."

 

S-One glanced up from the report, and delivered himself of a low oath. "The Scrap Man." Who could have expected Arakal to leave this powerhouse behind him? Somewhere in the report, a similar paean of praise appeared for the "King Snake" Division. S-One had no trouble remembering it: ". . . this division appears to serve as a general repository for the most adventurous spirits of Arakal's army. Its name is derived from the zoology of America, where the most dangerous commonly known reptile is the rattlesnake; the king snake kills rattlesnakes . . ."

S-One exhaled a deep breath. The Hammerclaw Division, he had read in here somewhere, was known for its ability to rip out stubborn opposition. The report acknowledged the division's toughness, but considered it only average for Arakal's troops. S-One did not know if this was good or bad, since the report conceded that the Hammerclaw Division was "extremely tough, resourceful, and efficient." If that was the average for the army as a whole, what were the two other divisions in the Citadel like?

S-One sat back, scowling. Brusilov had warned him that "dislocation" followed from the blows of this barbarian. S-One was aware that he was now suffering from a particularly bad case of dislocation. He had no doubt that if he turned the Marshal loose on Arakal, the Marshal would smash him, and then, one way or another, batter his way into the Citadel, provided only that enough troops were put at his disposal. But it would be done at the price of a casualty list S-One did not wish to contemplate, and it might well lead to a continental upheaval even the Marshal would be unable to put down. Meanwhile, Arakal's fleet was loose, and the United Kingdom might well settle accounts with the comparatively small force of troops stationed there, who could be reinforced only by droplets sneaked across in the teeth of a blockade. The Marshal could do nothing about that, and the ultimate outcome was unpredictable. And all this mess followed from Arakal's control of the Citadel. Without that, his fleet would have no nearby base from which it could maintain a blockade. Without that, these divisions left behind in the Citadel would be with Arakal, where, however tough, they could be gotten at. Pierrot should control those guns!

How the devil had this oversight come about?

S-One shook his head. Somehow, those divisions were going to have to be manipulated out of that fortress, before they wrecked everything.

Frowning, S-One sat back, looked at the display, and picked up the interoffice phone.

"S-Two?"

"Sir?"

"We will have to accelerate the attack on Arakal and Pierrot. We will also need to reinforce it."

There was a brief silence, then S-Two's response, obedient but startled:

"Yes, sir. I'll be right in."

 

4

Arakal came awake to a scream of metal on metal, the blast of a whistle, a sudden jolt, and then, as a deafening roar died away, there came the crash of breaking glass, the whine of bullets, and a white glare that lit the inside of the compartment, to show Slagiron stretched out on the opposite seat, automatic in hand, sighting into the glare outside. Arakal barely glimpsed this as he rolled off the bench onto the floor of the compartment. The floor bucked beneath him, there was a sense of the world turning over, and then he was struck as by a heavy club.

Arakal came to in motionless quiet, to hear the tinkle of glass, and then a distant hammer of machine-gun fire. Around him, there was a faint gray light. Slagiron was gone, and the door into the corridor open. From somewhere came a remote sound of shouting. An instant later, there was a fresh hammer of gunfire.

Carefully, Arakal rolled to his feet.

Outside, the corridor was empty. The air was thick with an unfamiliar pungent smell, and the smell of burnt wood. Arakal eased open the door of the compartment across the way, and, staying well back, looked out the broken window. Abruptly, he caught his breath.

Down below, facing toward the railroad car, Slagiron, Casey, Pierrot, and several other officers stood with raised hands before four olive-uniformed men cradling what Arakal's men called "bullet-eaters," from their appetite for ammunition, and what others called "tommy-guns." The helmets of the four men below were easily enough recognizable as Russ. Arakal loosened his sword, and looked up.

Both sections of glass in the window were broken, with shards and splinters adhering around a cracked and charred wooden frame, and in a fragile line of shattered blackened wood and glittering splinters across the center.

Arakal freed himself of his cumbersome cloak, quietly drew his sword, studied the men below intently, and drew a deep breath. Suddenly he was through the window, conscious of a burning scrape across his chest and arms. He yelled, and his voice came out high-pitched, an unnatural scream that seemed to come from everywhere at once, as if it had no single point of origin. Then he was living in fractions of seconds, both hands gripping the sword hilt, his mind a maze of angles, inertia, and vulnerable points, of the soft unresisting parts of the bodies that had to be struck, and the hard metal that was to be avoided. Before his gaze, the living soldiers of the enemy dissolved in a butchery so sudden that only the last managed to turn and fire. Then Arakal, his gaze suddenly watery, his ears ringing, could hear Slagiron's voice shouting orders, could hear the sudden sharp crack of an O'Cracy rifle, and he fell into blackness with a sense of harsh gratification that was finally translated into a stinging sharp pain, a sense of fire burning across his chest, a soreness and a weakness, and a male voice saying, "That's the last of the stitches. Move that light back before we upset it."

Arakal opened his eyes, to meet a hard blue gaze that studied him alertly. He was lying on his back on a flat padded table under a dark canvas tent on which drummed a steady heavy rain. The tent was lit by small globular lights that gave an intense white glow. One of these, as he watched, began to turn dark. A thin stream of smoke wavered up. A slim girlish hand reached out from behind Arakal's head, as if to adjust the lamp—and then hesitated. Absently, the surgeon reached over and adjusted the light. Arakal glanced at the surgeon. His voice was a whisper, and he had to try again.

"Can I get up?"

"How do you feel?"

"I don't know."

"I've just dug one bullet and a shell fragment out of you, and God alone knows how many splinters of glass. You've lost a good deal of blood, and you have bruises all over your body. If you want to try to get up, I can't stop you; but take it slow."

Arakal rested his hands on the side of the cot, tried to swing his feet over the edge, and the room faded out. He was vaguely conscious of the thud of his head falling back against the pad. He came to, looking up at the canvas. The surgeon shook his head.

"Better get some rest."

"Where are we?"

"That I don't know. Somewhere in Old Kebeck, about a mile from the iron road."

"What happened?"

The surgeon looked at him, frowning. "You've forgotten?"

"I remember going to sleep, waking up when the train was stopped, and jumping through a window to fight some Russ. After that, I must have passed out. What's the situation?"

The surgeon shook his head. "I'll get someone who can give you a better account than I can."

Arakal lay back, and a cool, soft hand rested on his forehead, and remained there a moment. He looked up at a vision of milk-white skin, blue eyes, and soft golden hair. This vision smiled down at him, then the ruby-red lips parted, and a sweet, soothing voice spoke softly, in the accents of Old Kebeck. Arakal's mind belatedly translated the words, so that at first they were a strange and incomprehensible murmur in a delightful voice, and then they came across clearly, the meaning obscuring the voice:

"Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."

"Let an impure blood soak our furrows."

The sound of rain grew briefly louder, and Slagiron stepped in, looked gravely toward Arakal, and raised his hand in salute. Arakal saw the movement, out of the corner of his eye, but his gaze was fixed intently on the blue and gold vision above him. Like everyone else in his army, Arakal felt protective toward the nurses. But this girl was not one of them. He saw her blink in momentary confusion, then smile. The smile was delightful. But this was no one he had seen before.

Arakal said, "Is anyone else waiting for the surgeon?"

She shook her head, and spoke clearly, but with a slight and pleasant accent. "No, sir."

"Good." Arakal glanced at Slagiron. What's the situation?"

Slagiron said, "We're in rolling low hills. There's a forest in the distance, across a river. We're dug in amongst the hills, overlooking the river and the iron road. The iron road crosses the river not far from here. Near that bridge, on the side away from us, there's a second bridge that carries a highway across the river."

"Where are the Russ?"

"They've got a bridgehead that takes in this end of both bridges, and the last we saw before the rain started, they were bringing up reinforcements on the other side of the river."

"How deep is the Russ bridgehead?"

"I'd say about six hundred yards."

"Much artillery?"

"Not on this side. It's practically hub-to-hub across the river."

"Are we all here?"

"Except for the men we left back around Cherbourg."

"None of our trains were shunted onto any other track?"

"No, sir."

"Where's Pierrot?"

"Gone."

"Gone where?"

"That's something we don't know. His whole outfit ran for it while we were fighting the Russ."

Arakal glanced absently at the girl, then looked back at Slagiron. "This leaves us with the iron road solidly blocked with trains reaching back how far?"

"We sent the trains back."

"Good. Now, what happened? The Russ blew up the tracks? Then hit us?"

"It's the only thing that seems to make sense, but it doesn't make sense. Our information from Pierrot on the location of the Russ was wrong, and the way we walked into that trap, we should have been hurt a lot worse. The first thing I knew, there was an explosion. I have a vague memory of taking a shot at something—at someone with his arm back to sling something. The next thing I knew, the train was stopped, and I jumped down, to see what was going on. It was just getting light. Casey came out, in as much of a daze as I was, and the natural thing happened. Some Russ with bullet-eaters turned up, and surprised us. I was damning myself for being so stupid when, from down the line of cars I heard someone shout, "We have your leaders. Come out with your hands raised." Just then, you came through the window, landed almost on the back of the first Russ soldier, finished him, and tore into the rest. At practically the same time, down the line, all hell broke loose. Right then, Pierrot took to his heels. It was all over in a minute. The Russ had some machine-guns back from the tracks, but they weren't dug in, and our men picked off their gunners. That was all there was to it. As nearly as I can figure it, they blocked the track, then blew up the embankment beside the track, using a charge too weak to really damage the train. Well, maybe somehow that was somebody's mistake. But then they've got artillery enough near here. Why not bombard the train when it was stopped? Next, why tell men to come out, when they're still armed? Why not at least dig in the machine-guns, and then, when we're stopped, just open fire?"

"Or," said Arakal, "let us start to cross the river, then blow up the bridge when we're on it?"

Slagiron nodded. "They could have done any number of things. This business makes no sense. It was planned. But it was planned wrong."

Arakal said, "Ease me up, if you can. The last time I tried, I passed out."

Slagiron put an arm behind Arakal's back, and lifted carefully.

This time, with only a dizzy throb in the head, Arakal found himself sitting on the table, his feet over the edge. He sat still a moment, listening to the pouring rain. He hurt all over, and his left leg throbbed painfully. But he felt no overpowering weakness. He had felt worse than this on the ship. He glanced around, to see the nurse watching him. He cleared his throat.

"My uniform?"

She looked around, and handed him a pile of crumpled, badly torn, wet and bloody garments. The left leg of the trousers had been cut off, and the remnants included in the pile.

As Arakal, partly supported by Slagiron, put on the remains of his uniform, he saw his sword in its scabbard in the corner of the tent, and buckled it on.

Slagiron said, "We'll have a fresh uniform for you, sir."

Arakal nodded his thanks, then realized with a shock that he had been overlooking something. He glanced at Slagiron, and, briefly, his voice was harsh.

"How many killed?"

"We lost three killed, twenty-seven wounded. Mostly when their machine-guns opened up."

Arakal blinked. "And how many of the Russ?"

"I'd say around thirty or forty. Some may just have been wounded, and gotten away, or been picked up by their own people, afterward. It was all over quick, and they never had men enough there to win it, anyway."

Arakal was thinking back to that brief moment when he had seen the Russ holding his officers captive. He shook his head.

"We will still have to bury the dead."

Slagiron nodded. "But not just now."

Arakal pulled open the flap of the tent. The rain was coming down so hard that at a glance it seemed a good question whether there was more air outside, or more water. "No," he said, "we can't dig in that." He shut the tent flap. "There's a command tent near here?"

Slagiron permitted himself a faint smile.

"We're with the First Division, sir."

"Ah," said Arakal. He glanced at the girl. "You can take care of these lamps?"

She nodded.

Arakal turned to Slagiron. "I don't dare try to run. Go ahead if you want. I'll be right behind you."

"No, I'll go with you, sir. Watch your step."

 

5

S-One rested his eyes on the garden, then looked back at the report. Lack of sleep the night before did nothing to improve his mood now. He tossed the report onto the desk, and sat back, frowning. The situation summarized in the report was by no means the worst that it might be. But there were touches in it that did nothing to ease his sense of discomfort:

". . . this moment the enemy commander tore his way out through the broken window of the railway car, sword in hand, and, moving with indescribable rapidity, killed four of our men armed with submachine guns. It is believed that one shot was let off, but it is not certain if anyone was hit . . ."

S-One considered first the words, "the enemy commander tore his way out the window of the railway car, sword in hand . . ." Here, he told himself, were four men armed with submachine guns. Supposedly, they all must have had their backs to the train. That was a serious error in itself. But there were four of them. With this sword, he dispatched four men armed with submachine guns?

One bullet only, from any of those guns, would stop and perhaps kill him. And right there was another miscalculation. Considering the special orders given, how had it come about that Arakal was in physical danger in an operation designed to shock, not kill him? It could only be that he was traveling near the head of the train, when any sensible commander would be further back. No word of this important fact had been reported in advance.

Next, there was the behavior of the enemy troops. Stunned, caught at the earliest light of dawn in the sights of machine guns supposedly dug in, from inside of the wrecked train they had opened fire with such murderous accuracy that it was all over in a few minutes. What did the report say? ". . . accuracy of fire was such as to suggest that the weapons were equipped with special sights for night fighting . . ."

Now, here were these barbarians, clearly less advanced than their opponents, who had stopped them for the administration of a swift bloody nose, followed by quick withdrawal. But their opponents, reporting the disastrous outcome, attributed superior technological skills to the barbarians to explain away what had happened.

S-One shook his head, put the report in his desk, and took out a slightly slimmer report, which omitted all mention of the special instructions, and treated only the strictly military aspects of the clash. He called in General Brusilov, handed him this second report, and sat back to watch him read it.

When, at last, he saw Brusilov's eyes widen, then narrow, S-One said, "You didn't tell me Arakal had supernatural powers."

Brusilov looked up, frowning, then his face cleared. "Oh, you mean his prowess as a fighter? That isn't what bothers me. What bothers me is the depth of this bridgehead, and that apparently it's Arakal who has the high ground. They're underestimating him again. Let them either give up the bridgehead, or else expand it. But whatever they do, do it quick. This isn't going to work."

"But that he should jump out this window, and kill four men before they can react—"

Brusilov shook his head. "It doesn't matter to me if he can bite steel-jacketed bullets in half with his teeth. Pump two or three shots into him in the right place, and that's all over with. You make a man desperate enough, and if he's in good physical shape, you'll be surprised what he can do. That's neither here nor there. But these dispositions are an invitation to ruin. That matters."

"What's wrong with them?"

"That bridgehead isn't deep enough. Arakal can put the bridges under a murderous fire. We can't reinforce the men on his side of the river without running a gauntlet."

"You think he might destroy the bridges, and capture the men on that side of the river?"

"No, that is what I might have been afraid of once. But I've had experience of him. That is not it."

"Well, then, what?"

"What if he does not destroy the bridges?"

"Then we can reinforce."

"We can?"

"Why not? We have the bridges. And we have artillery such that not only can Arakal be placed under fire where he is, and his own artillery smothered, but if he attempts to attack the bridgehead, we can intervene in that fight, too, with our artillery fire." S-One sat back, thinking over the arrangements, and finding that everything seemed to hold together. "You see," he said, "Arakal must be made to feel his lack of the so-called Sledgehammer Division, by opposing to him an overwhelming force of artillery, and placing him at a disadvantage. Then he will send for that division. That will remove it from Cherbourg and the Normandy Citadel."

Brusilov sat still a moment, then looked at S-One.

"We are now making our dispositions in order to lead him to undo his dispositions, previously arrived at?"

"Yes," said S-One. "In judo, the opponent is placed off-balance. In seeking to recover his balance, he is led to make the misstep that we aim at, and that enables us to further put him off-balance."

"Is the marshal in command of our troops at that river?"

S-One looked startled. "Of course not."

Brusilov shook his head.

"Possibly I am mistaken. But I have already seen the result of one such clever plan. That is why I am here now, instead of in America."

S-One smiled, and Brusilov stiffened at the peculiar snakelike quality of the smile.

S-One said, "That is not the only provision we have made."

 

6

Arakal, in a deep exhausted sleep, breathing the cool fresh air somehow led into the bunker by the craft of the Groundmole Division, turned restlessly as his hearing, somewhat blunted by too much exposure to loud and continuous sounds, nevertheless detected a rustle, as of silk, that was alien to his surroundings.

The cool air brought to his nostrils a faint delicious perfume.

Arakal was suddenly wide awake.

In the darkness, something came closer.

 

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