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XI. The Pursuit

 

1

Arakal and Slagiron were with the Fourth Division that night. They had just finished eating, and were in their tent, studying a map by the light of an ill-trimmed lamp with a tendency to smoke. Arakal had turned down the wick, and was waiting to let the mantle burn clean, when a voice spoke from outside.

"Pardon, sir. There's a Captain Jinks out here. He wants to talk to you."

"Send him in," said Arakal.

The tent flap came open. A burly middle-aged man with a tired sad expression let himself in, peered around in the gloom, and saluted Arakal. Arakal returned the salute.

"Have a seat, Captain. What did you find out?"

Jinks sat down, and sighed. "She's a spy, sir. And a novice tripjack artist. On top of that, she brought a plant, and left it in the bunker with you and General Morgan and the rest. Her final story to me, before she cracked, was that she's a French girl—an Old Kebeck girl—struck with hero-worship for you, and that she lied to the chief nurse in order to come with us. That's a lie, like what went before. She's Russ. She belongs to some outfit that supplies spies to some other outfit called 'S'. She's scared of 'S'. This outfit she belongs to is called the 'Professional Assistance Corps'. If 'S' wants a nurse to plant somewhere, or a bricklayer, or a clerk, they go to this Professional Assistance Corps. Everyone in it is trained to do two jobs—the one they're supposed to be expert at, and spying. She is a qualified nurse, and has worked at a hospital in Old Kebeck, here. I got the story out of her without marring her looks, but I'm afraid her spirits are a little dented."

"What was the plan?"

"She only had instructions, and we have to guess at the plan behind them. Her instructions were first to locate you, after getting in using as a mask her occupation of nurse. After you were wounded, her being sent to the right surgeon's tent was pure luck. She had this device to plant in your quarters."

"This was the plant you mentioned?"

"Yes, sir. It's about the size of a man's thumb, with a sticky claylike stuff on the outside. It looks like a lump of clay or dirt. She stuck it to the corner of the wall just inside the room where you were sleeping. It contains fine wires and little things like tiny beads. We don't know what it is. Neither does she. She just did as she was told."

"All right. What next?"

"Next was the tripjack stunt. If possible, she was to get you to make love to her. They instructed her in about forty different alternative approaches to work that. Nobody told her what the idea was. She was just supposed to be mad with hero-worship of you. But except under torture, she was only to admit that to you. To everyone else, you were responsible, you made the arrangements, you took the initiative. Her explanation to you was to be that she was too embarrassed to admit her passion to anyone else. Meanwhile, she was to keep her eyes open, and learn all she could about our arrangements and plans. She wouldn't try to pass that on until 'S' got in touch with her. That covers her instructions. We can guess at parts of the plan, and, just in case, the doctors are checking her over right now, to find out whether possibly she was given some disease she was supposed to pass on during all this love-making."

"If so, she didn't know about it?"

"No, sir. She just did what they told her."

"How did she get in this Professional Assistance Corps?"

"They selected her, and told her how patriotic it was when she expressed some doubts. She was too afraid to object."

Arakal nodded.

Captain Jinks said, "To avoid marking her, I stuck to straight pain, sir. I told her in advance that I was under orders not to mark her, and that I would also avoid deliberately breaking her spirit. I also told her that there was more pain in the world, and she could experience more of it, than she had any idea of. It was a mistake to tell her all that. Looking at her, I thought she would break easy. She didn't. I should have let her worry about her looks. It would have broken her down quicker, and been easier on both of us."

Arakal nodded moodily. "If she hadn't been here as a spy, it wouldn't have happened. Now the problem is, what to do with her."

Slagiron moved uneasily, "Sir, while we deliberate on that, time is passing. There are a great many different ways to get rid of a spy, and if you want me to, I'll take care of it personally. But right now, we have more important things to think of."

Arakal glanced at Jinks. "When will the doctors be through with her?"

Jinks shook his head. "Maybe they know, sir. I don't."

"Do you have any idea what to do with her?"

Jinks frowned. "She's beautiful. She has brains and will. The trouble is that she just happens to be on the wrong side, and the wrong orders were given to her. She is a capable nurse . . . I think I'd ship her back to them."

"Are you sure she finally gave the facts—the whole truth?"

Jinks sat back, frowning. "All the facts. As to her motives, I can't be certain. She resisted longer than I would have thought possible. There had to be a strong motive. I didn't get that out of her."

Arakal nodded. "Well, when the doctors are through, let me know." Arakal got up, and walked the few steps to the front of the tent, and held back the flap. "Watch that tent rope."

"Yes, sir. Thank you. Good night, sir."

"Good night, Jinks. Thank you."

Arakal carefully shut the flap.

Slagiron cautiously turned up the lamp, and growled, "Now that we've got shock-resistant mantles, we need smokeproof wicks."

Arakal nodded. "Now, let's see." He looked at the map. "There are enough rivers in this place."

"Yes. And we ought to be able to knock the living daylights out of them at every crossing. But what if the Russ have another army around somewhere?"

"They're bound to," said Arakal. "This isn't their main force. Not only that, we can't hope they'll all be mishandled."

"No," said Slagiron. "But where are the rest? And what are they doing now? Not knowing that, we could get caught with blown bridges behind us, and our supplies cut off."

Arakal frowned at the map. "Let's suppose the worst case—"

 

2

S-One, with General Brusilov beside him, was escorted down the corridor to a big double door with armed guards to right and to left. The lieutenant in charge of the escort went inside, then came out to say to Brusilov, "If you stay right with him, sir, we will remain outside."

Brusilov gave a grunt of assent, and went in with S-One.

Inside, at the big table, flanked by Marshal Vasilevsky and General Kolbukhin, sat the Head of Government. He spoke shortly.

"Come in. Sit directly opposite us."

S-One did as told, without a word. Brusilov glanced questioningly at the Head of Government, and at his nod sat down beside S-One.

The Head of Government, habitually spoken of as "G-One," as a monarch is spoken of as "the king," leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.

"Your precious Andronov is defeated. Reserve France is running from Arakal. There are uprisings in France, Germany, and Poland. We have word of sabotage through all western Europe. The U.K. is in open rebellion. The Americans own the Normandy Citadel. Their fleet has cut our communications to the U.K. All this has followed from your plan." His voice sharpened. "Can you give me one reason why I should not have you torn to bits with red-hot pincers?"

S-One blinked, frowned, then spoke, his voice suddenly calm, with undertones of power.

"That you can speak this way follows from the fact that you are not yet dead, as you would already be if I had chosen to have you killed, and as you will be if I choose now to raise my hand against you. Your only guarantee of safety is my continued good will, which is, I think an excellent reason not to have me torn to pieces with red-hot pincers. A second reason is that neither you nor anyone else in this room has the faintest conception of the S Plan for dealing with Arakal; modesty is a more appropriate attitude for the ignorant than menace. In the third place, your own power, even if I permit you to lay hand on me, is only to burn a corpse, not cause me so much as ten seconds' pain."

G-One's eyes seemed as if lit from within.

"We can test that."

"Think," said S-One coldly. "Do you really wish to test what I have said?" His voice rose very slightly as he spoke, to convey a threat that made the Marshal look up, and G-One pause, halfway to his feet.

S-One spoke again, this time quietly, like a parent to a foolish child:

"Sit down."

G-One, his expression alert and baffled, sat down. Then he shook his head.

"You have gained a minute with your bluff. Go ahead. Talk."

S-One said quietly, "There is no bluff. Don't make the error of laughing at a bear on land because he seems clumsy in water."

"Meaning what?"

"If you judge the S Plan by its military results, you sneer at the bear because he is not a fish. That is a premature judgment. You can judge a creature accurately only in his own element. That applies also to you and me. If you judge me as helpless because as a general I seem ineffectual, you risk a sudden discovery of just what my element is."

G-One looked away a moment, then looked back, directly into S-One's eyes.

"All this is a clever net of words. If you expect to tie me up in it, you are mistaken. Just incidentally, you are the person who, not long ago, professed loyalty to the so-called 'formal power' of my position. We will find out about those red-hot tongs and your power to resist."

S-One said patiently, "Think back, and you will recall what I said. That loyalty is to the person in your position who is fitted by ability to be in that position. It is not a personal loyalty to you. It is loyalty to G-One. If you demonstrate the wrong trait, you cease to command my loyalty. Just so, I must manifest the traits of S-One. Why do you think we use these silly appellations? Because there is a possible difference between the position and the traits it requires, and the individual in that position. Only so long as you manifest the proper traits can you command my loyalty, because that loyalty is not to you personally, but to G-One."

G-One said, "I think I will test what strength is behind this logic."

S-One said coldly, "Do you wish to die suddenly, or would you like it to be long and drawn-out, so that I can explain to you what happened, and why it must be that way?"

Brusilov, listening uneasily, and seeing the Head of Government draw back again, cleared his throat. "May I speak?"

G-One turned slightly, his expression angry and baffled. "Go ahead. But quickly."

"I don't like to say this. But while we sit here, stalemated, Arakal is in action. After the soldiers came, and when S-One was leaving his office, he looked back and said, 'I will miss the flowers.' If S-One could still control events, would he have said that?"

Across the table, G-One's face cleared, and he turned toward the door.

S-One spoke flatly, "I said that because I expected to be rudely dismissed, not assassinated."

G-One, partly risen, as if to call out to the troops on the far side of the door, sat down again. A look of astonishment washed across his face.

"What you say now is that if I say, 'You're fired,' you will offer no resistance?"

S-One's face slowly suffused with color. He leaned forward. "How many times do I have to say it to you? If you dismiss me, I am dismissed. We have been all over this! What did we talk about the other day?"

"I thought there were threats in your words. You said that my real power—"

"The real power of your position."

"You said that it depended on your loyalty!"

"That is true."

"Then what power—"

"It is a statement of fact. There is no threat, because that loyalty is assured. To G-One."

"But it is up to you to decide!"

Across the table, Marshal Vasilevsky glanced at General Brusilov and shook his head ever so slightly, then settled back with a glazed expression, eyes half-shut, like a student in an over-heated classroom.

S-One said, "This is no personal matter that I may warp to my advantage in a struggle for power. It is a question like that of the blacksmith who judges the readiness of the iron by the color of its glow. But I will say it plainly: You may dismiss me. That is a question purely up to your pleasure. You may do this as long as you hold the position of G-One. If I should decide that you are unfit to be G-One, I may remove you. But those selected to fill the position of S-One are not chosen for their fitness to fill the role of Attila the Hun. Neither are they selected for their capacity to lick boots. I will defer to the formal power of your position. In that lies your safety. Just incidentally, if I am dismissed, there is no assurance that whoever follows me will be any more to your taste."

"Your deputy will succeed you?"

"Not likely. An S-Two is selected for different reasons than an S-One."

"Then we are still in this asinine stalemate!"

"You may end it at any time."

"Only to have the same thing with someone else."

S-One frowned. "One moment. The crux is not a personal matter. It is simply a question of the S Plan for dealing with Arakal."

G-One looked away, and swallowed.

S-One leaned forward, and spoke earnestly. "I mean no offense to anyone at this table. But I can explain that plan only to the Head of Government, personally, and to no one else. I will talk about it, very generally, if you wish, in the presence of others, but I will only explain the plan itself to you if you promise not to reveal it to anyone else. The reason for this is that this S Plan is not a military plan. But it depends on the actions of military people. For the military to understand the plan would be a complicating factor the effects of which I cannot predict."

G-One slammed his fist down on the table. He got up, walked the length of the room, walked back, spun his chair around, and sat down, astride the chair. His voice was intense.

"Let us talk about this S Plan generally, then. If it works, will it recover everything we have lost to Arakal so far?"

"Everything but the Normandy Citadel, and whatever depends on it, such as the blockade of the Channel."

"What will happen to Arakal?"

"He will no longer be of any concern."

"And America? Will we regain America?"

"We did not have complete control of America. The plan is a method to penetrate America, just as we penetrated Europe, but more slowly. Finally, we should have complete control."

"And the Fleet?"

"We will not control the Fleet. The Americans will control it. But we will control the Americans."

G-One looked at S-One wonderingly. "It encompasses all that?"

"Yes. But let me point out that it is a plan only. It depends on the reactions of people, and we do not understand completely the reactions of Arakal or of his men. The bullfighter's dominance in the ring depends on his practical understanding of the psychology of the bull. We believe this plan will work, but this is a different breed of bull. There are obvious risks."

Marshal Vasilevsky's eyes came wide-open, and he laughed. "We could get gored, eh?"

S-One said, very seriously, "We could."

G-One said, "Has the plan failed yet?"

"In the case of the Normandy Citadel, yes. No, otherwise."

"What about Andronov's retreat?"

"No, that is not failure."

"And the uprisings?"

"They were anticipated, let me say, and do not represent a failure of the plan."

"In your opinion, does the plan underestimate our opponent?"

S-One thought a moment.

"It may. I underestimated him."

"If so, are we in danger?"

"It depends on unknowns. Arakal and his men are in very great danger. We are in some danger. There are opportunities and risks for both sides. In my opinion, the opportunities for us are far greater, and the risks far less. I may be mistaken."

Across the big table, G-One stood up, swung his chair around, and sat down again. He exhaled sharply. "This is of interest, but too general to rely on. And we cannot continue in this deadlock forever."

S-One shrugged. "The initiative is with you."

"That is not my meaning."

"Then what is your meaning?"

"I hesitate to say, lest more time pass in talk."

Marshal Vasilevsky moved slightly in his seat. His voice was quiet, and his tone noncommittal. "I take my orders from the Head of Government. The last time I looked, my men were outside the door."

S-One smiled, and said nothing.

The Marshal spoke again, quietly. "All this is a political matter, and I make no claim to understand politics. But I understand guns. If you want to stop Arakal, we can stop him."

G-One, the Head of Government, said exasperatedly, "This situation has got to be simplified." He looked at S-One. "What if we all here swear not to repeat this plan. Tell all of us. There are enough of us here of expert judgment to gauge the worth of the plan."

S-One shook his head. "An S Plan cannot be revealed to the military. The military may aid in carrying it out. They cannot sit in judgment over it. Only you can hear it."

"Let me convene the whole Central Committee, then."

"They are not properly constituted to sit in judgment on it."

G-One clenched his fists. His voice was even and conversational as he turned to the Marshal. "The difficulty is that we need the S organization. We can smash it, yes. But if we smash it, we smash an instrument useful, and perhaps essential, to us." He glanced at Brusilov, his voice wondering. "Is there any way Arakal could be creating discord among us? All this upheaval comes about in response to his arrival."

Brusilov shook his head, then paused, frowning. Then he shook his head more definitely. "No. He has no means to do that, at least."

The Marshal said, "He is skillful, and I think he has been lucky. The strain he puts on our arrangements shows up our weak points. That puts us all in a bad humor."

"That is sensible," said G-One. He looked across the table, frowning. Abruptly he said, "All right. I will listen to this plan of yours."

 

3

Arakal lowered the long-seeing glasses. Ahead of him, the Russ, under a heavy bombardment, were crossing the last of the series of rivers on the way to what he knew as "Allemain," what the Old Kebeckers called "Allemagne," and what the maps of the Old O'Cracy called "Germany." Whatever they called it, Arakal didn't want to go there. He turned to Slagiron.

"Call up the troop trains. Once the Russ are well over that river, we'll head back."

Slagiron nodded. "The sooner we get out of this place, the better."

 

4

G-One was sitting on the edge of the desk, staring at S-One, who had sat down in an ornate green-and-gilt armchair and was leaning forward as he talked. To G-One's astonishment, the S Plan seemed possible, and its description short and to the point.

S-One now made a gesture of the hand as if tossing aside a crumpled paper, and said, "That is the plan. While I do not insist that it will work, I assure you that it is practical, and it well may work."

"The trouble is that if it does not, we may be ruined."

"We had to deal with this Arakal in some way. If he had been stupid, or unlucky, we would already have finished him. We could not count on that. The plan allows for his military success."

"You have certainly revealed to me more of the workings of your organization than I expected. Implicit in such a plan as this are many things."

"I can speak plainly to you because you are G-One. It is possible to select and train an S-One. To select a Head of Government is much harder, if it is possible at all. So many factors are unpredictable. Even this Arakal sees the problem. It was in Brusilov's report. My problem is simpler. I need only recognize one who has been selected."

G-One shook his head. "No one selected me. I am here because the complacent people who preceded me made serious mistakes. But that is neither here nor there. We have two problems. The first is the Americans. The second is the relationship of your organization and the government. I will tell you right now that it came very close, several times, to your not living to explain this plan. I tell you that no capable person is going to tolerate your elbow constantly in his ribs. Also, I want to be able to sleep at night. For now, we must settle with Arakal. But let us think ahead a little. You have got to give me more room."

S-One sighed.

"Some time soon, I must explain something else to you. It has to do with the last big war, and the Americans. You will not believe me. But I will show you the documents. If necessary, I will show you the realities."

G-One shook his head. "Not now. We must reassure the Marshal and the others."

"No, but soon. Then you will understand why S is as it is."

"How long will it take?"

"It is a long story."

"I will give you a long time to tell it. Now, let's go out."

 

5

Arakal was with the Seventh Division that night, had eaten and talked with the men, had looked over some of the artillery that the division was so plentifully supplied with, and had checked to be sure that their supplies were getting through. As the men were settling down to finish cleaning and oiling their guns, Arakal and Slagiron were bent over their maps. There were a number of these maps, all more or less unsatisfactory, and as they came up against the limitations of one map, they tried another. At length, Slagiron growled, "Well, it seems practical."

"On the map," said Arakal.

"On these maps, anyway."

"All right, now. Suppose—" He put his outstretched forefinger on the map "—that they erupt out of this forest, and come down on us from the northeast?"

"Then," said Slagiron, smiling, "we'll hit them while they're crossing the river here—What's this one? The Aisne."

"And if, instead, they march along to the north of it, headed for the ocean?"

"Then we march parallel to them on the south. It looks as if we have the better road, and two good bridges over this next river. What's this one? The Oise? But now, suppose they stay north of the Oise where it comes in from the west, here, and then they swing around to come south, still on the far side, and get between us and Cherbourg. Then what do we do?"

"If we find out in time, we can go back and stop them before they cross the Seine, here. Or, we can try to hit them from behind, if we have supplies enough built up."

"Suppose they're on the way right now, and we don't find out in time?"

"Then we could put our trains on the iron road headed south, here, and turn east, here. Meanwhile, we yell for Admiral Bullinger. Or there are other possibilities."

"None of them very boring," said Slagiron, looking at the map.

"No."

One by one, Arakal and Slagiron tried out the possibilities. Suppose the Russ turned up here? Or there? What if the tracks were cut, or a bridge blown? What were the possible effects of these canals, paralleling or joining these sections of rivers? Suppose they took up a position here, or here? How would the supply trains reach them? How long to go between these two points on foot? How long by rail?

When they were through, Arakal said, "We have an idea, at least," and Slagiron nodded. "The reality may be something else." Before they could say anything further, outside there was a sound of hoofbeats.

Then there were two shots from a rifle, followed by the blast of a whistle.

 

6

As S-One looked on, the Head of Government, seated again between Marshal Vasilevsky and General Kolbukhin, spoke quietly.

"I will say frankly that I would not have believed it possible, but I am reassured about this plan. I have agreed not to describe it, but I want to give some idea why it now seems a reasonable plan to me. First, our colleagues in S have put far more of their resources into it than I had realized. Second, it does truly allow for success on Arakal's part, and we can win, regardless. Third—"

An urgent knock sounded on the door of the room.

G-One paused, an odd expression on his face.

"Come in."

The door came open, and S-Two hurried in, carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand. He bent urgently by S-One.

G-One looked on coldly.

Across the table, S-Two straightened, nodded abstractedly, and headed back for the door.

As the door shut behind him, G-One looked at S-One, and said ironically, "Now what?"

S-One was glancing rapidly through the sheaf of papers that his deputy had brought in. He looked up with an exasperated expression.

"Arakal has broken off pursuit of Andronov, and has fallen back behind the Aisne. He is taking up what appears to be a formidable defensive position."

General Kolbukhin, in a low voice, swore.

The Marshal grinned. "The fellow has more sense than I gave him credit for." He looked at Brusilov. "I begin to understand your viewpoint. He is not so easy to lead around by the nose."

General Kolbukhin said angrily, "What the devil are we doing with our other armies? While he was chasing Andronov, we could have come in behind him, cut off his supplies, and cracked him like a nut."

The Marshal grinned. "Now, now, that is not subtle. This plan, now, is subtle. The only thing is, this Arakal, he is no more subtle than we are. That is what is causing all this trouble."

"All right," said Kolbukhin to S-One. "Run away from him, lure him into Central Europe if you want. But then, when you've got him there, then cut him off. What is the point of having an advantage if we don't use it?"

G-One spoke angrily to the Marshal. "You are right, this plan is subtle. And there is more to it than you think."

Brusilov said carefully, "Arakal is very quick to scent a trap. He is not likely to take the bait, however subtle the plan, if it puts him at a disadvantage."

The Marshal growled, "But do we have to be subtle to put him at a disadvantage?"

S-One and G-One glanced at each other across the table. G-One cleared his throat. "I have examined this plan. It is not perfect. But it offers us more, if it succeeds, than a strictly military solution to the problem. The reason is that a strictly military solution to the overall problem of which Arakal is a part—a strictly military solution of that problem—is probably beyond our strength."

The Marshal frowned. "What is this overall problem?"

"The problem of America."

"If our ancestors had been just a little more thorough, that problem would not exist."

S-One spoke up, his voice carefully neutral. "There were reasons for their actions. There were limitations then, too, to solely military solutions."

The Marshal was silent a moment, then said, "I am not political. But I would like to ask whether your plan cannot be frustrated by Arakal, using purely military means?"

S-One thought a moment, frowning, and turned to Brusilov, as if to ask a question. Instead, he suddenly turned back to face the Marshal.

"In the short run, yes. In the long run, he must find a non-military answer."

General Kolbukhin said, "Why? Isn't the problem solved if Arakal and his men are trapped and killed, and if we smash the defenders of the Normandy Citadel, and recapture it?"

"No, because, among other things, all conflict has two parts, gain and loss. Breaking into the Citadel could be a very expensive procedure."

Marshal Vasilevsky nodded. "But it can be done."

"We think it can be done. Let me, though I am not a military man, point out that Arakal has heavy artillery under his control there, in addition to our automatic cannon. Our opinion that we can retake the Citadel may be mistaken."

General Kolbukhin glanced at the Head of Government. G-One was listening, a slight frown on his face. General Kolbukhin looked back across the table at S-One. "Our artillery is heavier yet."

"Their mobile artillery reserve is heavier than our mobile artillery reserve."

Kolbukhin leaned forward, his eyes glittering. "That is false."

S-One looked at him mildly, and waited.

Kolbukhin, confident that in this, at least, he had the Head of S at a disadvantage, said challengingly, "Name even one gun they can put into that battle that is bigger than ours."

"I can think of a number," said S-One quietly.

"What size?"

S-One spoke in a low voice, so that it was necessary to listen closely to hear him. "And when I name it, you will name one of ours that is larger, is that it?"

Kolbukhin, who had the known details of Arakal's army memorized, smiled. "Yes, I will."

S-One's voice was almost humble.

"Well, then, perhaps I have been mistaken, but in any case I will be glad to hear your answer."

"Go ahead. What guns? Name the largest they have. Let's get on with this."

"I am thinking of their 355-millimeter guns."

The general sat back, blank-faced.

"We are talking about mobile artillery?"

"That is correct. My information is that, in good weather, these guns can be moved at over thirty kilometers per hour, and can be fired while in motion. They can hit any spot on the battlefield, while out of range of our own weapons. They carry enormous quantities of ammunition with them at all times. They are invulnerable to infantry attack."

Kolbukhin stared.

"What," said S-One, "do we have that is bigger?"

"If what you say is accurate, then I have to admit, we would have a bloody experience trying to break through that. But I also cannot conceive of it. When did they develop such guns?"

S-One said earnestly, with no trace of superiority in his manner, "The guns I am speaking of are their mobile artillery in this case, General, though it is natural to overlook them, because they are not part of Arakal's army. These are the naval guns on his new bombardment ships. But that will make slight difference to us if we have to come up against them. Let me mention that they are not necessarily the worst we may have to face. We happen to know that Arakal has at least one railroad gun that is, if our estimate is correct, a 530-millimeter gun. What do we oppose to that?"

"We could build—"

"We are talking about now."

Kolbukhin nodded glumly. "I see your point."

The Marshal spoke up, his voice quiet, but nonetheless assured.

"Your point is that it would be expensive—that we would pay a steep price in men and equipment to recover the Citadel?"

S-One spread his hands. "I suppose it can be done. But is it worth the price?"

"There is a point we had better face now," said the Marshal. "In my opinion, we undoubtedly still have the military force to defeat Arakal, and to recover the Citadel. Arakal has got, or can take, England, if he lives, and if they will have him. He still has his fleet. And we will still have this problem of America that you speak of, afterward. This is not a good situation. But there are worse situations. If we fritter away our troops, if we fumble around, if we try only to draw Arakal into errors, and place ourselves at a disadvantage in doing it—then we can lose our clear advantage in strength. Meanwhile, Arakal is making a name for himself. I begin to be impressed by his good sense, myself. When this process goes far enough, all of us are going to feel that he is the superior. We will feel fear, even awe. Unless this S Plan allows for this, we had better face the fact that there are worse things than paying a stiff price to win back our control in a more limited space than what we had before. We had better face the fact that we are risking the loss of everything we have." The Marshal noted a change in Brusilov's expression, and said at once, "What is it? You don't agree?"

Brusilov shook his head. "I agree, except for one thing. Arakal would never put us in the position you mention. He would never try to conquer us. All the territory he wants is the land of the O'Cracy. He interprets that as 'Old Kebeck', and 'Old Brunswick'. France and England—That is, France and the United Kingdom. Even, he would have an alliance with us. But first, we must disgorge France and England. I have talked to him on the subject until my head swam. There is no enmity, no desire for revenge. He is exasperated by what happened in the past, does not understand it—who does? But he has more friendship for us than enmity."

"How can he feel friendship? After all, we killed his forebears."

Brusilov shook his head. "Who is 'we'? Did you? Did I? Is there anyone who really knows what happened? Did we come out of it undented? This friendship I speak of is not solely a matter of reasoning or policy, but also an emotional response. We can get along together. He likes us. There is no ill will. I mention this because, if we think otherwise, we are calculating on a false basis. He is not a conqueror or a marauder."

When Brusilov stopped speaking, there was a silence. The Marshal nodded his head, eyes slightly narrowed. His face cleared, and his expression smoothed out. "Well, in that case—But, of course, we still want to win."

Kolbukhin, frowning, said, "France and England. Well, how are they vital to us? But we must have something in return."

S-One stared blankly from Kolbukhin to the Marshal. For an instant, the muscles at his jaw clenched, and his face reddened slightly. Then he glanced at the Head of Government, who looked at Brusilov, and said, "If this is true, the sensible thing to do appears to me to be to simply hold out of the battle the forces which now are not yet in the battle, and meanwhile let the fight proceed, and see if the S Plan will work."

Brusilov spoke carefully. "That may be. As I don't know the plan, I can't judge."

S-One nodded in relief.

But when, a little later, he was back in his office, looking out at the garden, S-One suddenly turned to S-Two.

"We have," said S-One to his deputy, "a different and worse situation on our hands than I realized."

"How is that, sir?"

"I have fallen into the same hole as that blockhead, Smirnov, who succeeded in losing our colonies in America to this damned elective king. I have underestimated him!"

"In thinking he would advance—"

"No," said S-One, furious, "that was bad enough. This is worse!"

"I've had no word—"

"I've been thinking of him as a military opponent. It is worse than that. You should have heard the Marshal, and this General Kolbukhin—"

S-Two smiled modestly. "I did hear them, sir."

"Then you know what I had to sit through! I might have expected it from Brusilov. But from the Marshal! Then suddenly it struck me!"

"What is it, sir?"

"It is an illusion to think this is just a military war. That would be trouble enough. But it is worse than that."

"How—"

"Arakal is fighting us politically!"

S-Two's eyes narrowed. "By sending back Smirnov, and Brusilov, to bring his viewpoint to us?"

"Yes. For one thing. And in his approach to our colonists. In his refusal to use any more bloodshed than necessary. In retreating back into France, so we must be the aggressors." S-One's eyes flashed in anger. "But he will find it hard to fight us politically here. He will not take the bait, eh? If necessary, we will take the baited hook, and ram it through his jaw!"

 

7

Arakal, surrounded in the firelight by his troops, looked at Pierrot, who was talking earnestly, and so fast that the translators could not keep up. At length, there came a pause, and one of the translators summarized:

"What he says, sir, is that he has been harassing the Russ, and when we stopped chasing them, he was left alone to carry on the fight by himself. He's mad about it. He figures we betrayed him, deserted him in combat, ran out on him, turned yellow. He would have been finished by the Russ, he says, but somebody by the name of—Stalheim, I think it was—hit the Russ from another direction, and got him loose. Now he wants to know are we going to lurk back here, and leave it to him to carry the war to the Russ? Or are we going to—ah—take our courage in both hands, and fight? I think I've got the substance of it, sir."

There were angry murmurs from Arakal's men as the translator gave his summary, then Arakal asked, "Did he mention at any point where he's been since the Russ attacked and he disappeared?"

"He says he's been fighting the Russ, sir. Harassing them, that is."

"Did he say where?"

"No, sir."

Arakal glanced around at Slagiron.

"General, could you step into that tent, and get me one of those maps?"

Slagiron nodded. "Yes, sir." A moment later, he handed Arakal a worn map. Arakal turned to Pierrot, and spoke to the translator.

"Ask him if he can show me on this map where he and his men were located, so that we can get a clearer picture of how the battle developed. Tell him I'd also like to know more about Stalheim, and how Stalheim helped him get free of the Russ."

The translator spoke and was interrupted by Pierrot. The translator turned to Arakal.

"He says, sir, that you can speak his tongue. Why does he have to speak through someone else?"

"I don't speak it that fast. There seems to be a misunderstanding, and I want to be sure it's cleared up, not made worse. Here's the map."

Pierrot examined the map, turned it around, studied it in silence, nodded, and began to speak volubly, pointing to the map, then to himself, then gesturing at people nowhere in sight. His face lit in a beaming smile as he talked, his features twisted as he pantomimed sighting a gun, then made a gesture as if heaving a grenade. His camouflage suit, smearing with mud and what appeared to be crusts of blood, gave off a smell of sweat, wine, and horse dung as he talked, more and more expansively, tapping the map first here, then there, and holding his raised forefinger up for attention as he poured words at the translator.

At length there came a pause, and the translator turned to Arakal.

"What it seems to come down to, sir, is that they sniped and bushwhacked, caved in the skulls of Russ stragglers, and managed to mine some roads in the rear of the Russ retreat."

"Where?"

As Arakal looked from the translator to Pierrot, from somewhere behind them a booming voice shouted what sounded like: "Pierrot! Vo ist air? Vo ist air? Pierrot?"

Arakal looked around, to see a big roughly dressed man with a large moustache push his way forward, and spot Pierrot. Pierrot turned, and his face lit up.

After several rapid exchanges that were all gabble to Arakal, Pierrot turned and unleashed a stream of words at the translator. The translator said, "This is Stalheim, sir. He's evidently chief of something called the Free German Legion."

Pierrot let loose another burst of words.

The translator said, "According to Pierrot, Stalheim reports that the Russ are coming, sir, and Stalheim says we'll have them on top of us in another four or five hours at the outside."

 

8

It was another two days before Arakal had his next chance to get more than twenty minutes rest at one time. The Russ attack, this time, started with more tanks than Arakal had seen together ever before, and the tanks were well handled, and capable of surviving all but a direct hit from the heaviest guns he had with him, or from one of his none too numerous tank-killer rockets. In this battle, Arakal and his men had all the troubles they had expected in the preceding battle, and they had these troubles despite the fact that the Russ were advancing against a position Arakal and Slagiron had selected in advance. An especially unpleasant surprise was that the Russ proved skillful at infiltrating, in numbers, at night. Arakal's troops, overconfident at first, put forth all their craft and skill, and stopped the Russ advance; but their advantage in position was offset by numbers and equipment, until the night sky was suddenly lit by a tremendous flash. The ground jumped underfoot, and there was a deafening roar. Pierrot appeared, saying, "Now is the chance! Stalheim did that, and he and I will make their retreat a hell! But you will have to smash in their front!"

Arakal was already giving the orders, not for a frontal attack, but for an attack by troops he had been shifting to the right ever since dusk. The Russ, dazed, their minds on what had happened in their rear, were pushed to their own right as their left was driven back. Now Arakal was able to duplicate his first victory, with the addition that, this time, the Russ were split, and a sizable force pinned back against the river, where they resisted stubbornly despite murderous artillery fire.

Once again, the Russ retreat cost them dearly—But once again, Arakal, sensing the risk from other Russ troops, broke off the pursuit, and moved back to take up a position of his own choosing.

And now, he had scarcely gotten his troops in position, and they had scarcely gotten a good hot meal, and fresh ammunition, when word came from Arakal's own scouts that the Russ were on the way back, this time led by a large body of cavalry.

Slagiron swore, and Arakal, unwilling to trust his own frayed nerves, let a grunt answer for him. Pierrot soon turned up. "This is the way to defeat! When you have them on the run, pursue them! The casualties you inflict then cost you little. They are running. They cannot run and fight both. This way, you are fighting the same battle over and over again. Fight their retreating back!"

Arakal gave his orders to dig in. The men were already digging in with a will.

Again the Russ attacked, and, for ferocity, this was the worst of the three battles, but the quickest, as for the first time the attackers showed signs of being short of men, and their troops, thrown in as they appeared on the field, soon showed a sullen tendency to dive to the ground and stay there. For the first time, some of the infantry began to surrender without a serious fight. The will of their general was plain enough; but now as they were thrown for the third time against troops well dug in and skillfully supporting each other, on a field dominated by murderous artillery that could not be got at and wouldn't be silenced, the troops that were supposed to attack were thinking of what had happened the last two times.

Arakal now received word, through Pierrot, from Stalheim.

"The Russ reserves are on the march," said Pierrot.

"Headed where?" asked Arakal.

"Toward Saarbrücken."

Arakal glanced at the map.

"They can have it."

"The population has risen up," said Pierrot. "This is territory that formerly belonged to the Western Democracies."

"What, part of the land of the O'Cracy?"

Pierrot put his hand on the map. "You see, the border was here."

As Arakal questioned him, Pierrot briefly explained the past history of the region.

Arakal turned to Slagiron. "Am I right in thinking this batch of Russ here is pretty well worn down?"

"They seem at least too worn down for now to hit us again."

Pierrot said, "The populace will be slaughtered by the Russ if they are left to their own devices. Stalheim will do what he can, but he lacks the strength to stand up to the Russ."

Slagiron said, "So do we, if they put forth their strength."

"But you have fought and won—"

Arakal looked thoughtfully at the map, and growled off-handedly, "If they'd always fight us with their left hand only, we could win more often. But, if we can get this present batch permanently out of the fight, maybe we could advance. Not that it wouldn't be more sensible to stay here."

"Perhaps your men don't mind standing still," said Pierrot exasperatedly, "but mine wish to drive these tyrants far away."

"If we drive them far enough away, we'll have one sweet time to get our supplies. But—" he looked at the map "—perhaps we can return the favor for Stalheim."

Early the next morning, Arakal's army smashed through the demoralized enemy, sent the remnants fleeing in front of them, repaired the railroad, and brought up the troop trains. Late that same afternoon, they were in the wooded hills near Saarbrücken. Early that evening, their outposts clashed with the approaching Russ. Stalheim attacked them from the east, Pierrot from the west, and the startled Russ pulled back. The next day, there was no sign of them.

Arakal's men entered Saarbrücken to the cheers of a delirious populace.

The day following, the Russ blew up the railway beyond Saarbrücken.

Arakal attacked. The Russ retreated. Arakal pursued, and the Russ fled before him. Arakal halted, thinking to pull back. The Russ attacked. Arakal, noting their weakness in tanks, maneuvered against them. The Russ withdrew in good order, fell back, and now Arakal's railroad gangs had the track repaired, and supplies got through. Arakal pursued the Russ. The Russ fled. Pierrot and Stalheim were ecstatic.

Welcomed with frenzied excitement by a population only a very few of the translators could talk to, Arakal and his army drove the Russ back, unable to bring them to a stand, unable to gain any decisive advantage, but still pushing them back.

And now two more guerrilla armies joined in the fight, the troops of Echevik and Koljuberowski. Koljuberowski, after a fashion, spoke English. Echevik could be talked to only through consultation between his interpreter and one of the ablest of Arakal's interpreters.

With this new increase in the numbers of their opponents, the Russ retreated faster. Arakal dubiously eyed his new allies, who rarely dug themselves in regardless of the situation, who often fled on the approach of the Russ, who specialized in raids against their opponent's flank and rear, and who followed each raid with drinking parties to which they dutifully invited Arakal and all his senior officers, who desired nothing so much as a night's rest. The Russ retaliated after these raids by night bombardment of the enemy camp, the general location of the target being as clear at night as a lighthouse, since all the partisan bands delighted in big bonfires over which to burn their meat, and help ward off the increasing chill of the season. Already, they had seen snow.

As they advanced, two more partisan armies appeared, and then, one day, there even arrived a representative from Old Brunswick—which he called "the U.K."—to tell of the fighting there against the Russ, and to harangue Arakal on the need to push the Russ armies back beyond their own frontiers.

Arakal now received word from Admiral Bullinger, who was forcing the Kiel Canal to enter the Baltic Sea, in case Arakal should need help, or some means of evacuation.

It was not long after that, in a rolling country now well covered with snow, that Arakal and his men, fortunately possessed of heavy winter clothes brought to them in supply ships from home, and then all the way from Cherbourg, woke up in a blizzard. The temperature dropped twenty degrees overnight, and in the following days worked lower still.

One day, they drove the Russ out of a fortified outpost above the banks of a frozen river that Arakal could not identify on the map, and which was of slight interest to the partisans, who assured him that the only worthwhile feature of the geography was "the backs of the fleeing enemy." That same afternoon, the partisans found a little community of Russ farmers, and before Arakal knew what was happening, the partisans had massacred most of them. When Arakal, his silent men with leveled guns beside him, demanded to know the reason, Koljuberowski smilingly wiped the blood off his knife, and answered, "You should see what their soldiers did to us. We have much to make up. We are starting now."

"Those were farmers."

"So? They might have children, and the State will take the boys to make soldiers. We just kill them before they are born. They are more easy to kill that way, hey?" He laughed. "What do you say about that?"

Arakal said shortly, "We will take our share of the prisoners," sent his men to rescue the remaining Russ, and then gave short precise orders that spun his own troops around, and brought them back to the fortified outpost the Russ had just been driven out of. Around this outpost, Arakal selected the most dominating ground on the near side of the river, and announced a halt. His men at once began to dig in. The Russ delivered a short sharp attack, were driven off, and pulled back across the river as the snow swirled down.

 

9

S-One settled back in his chair, smiling. He no longer looked out the window to feast his eyes. Now he looked at the display that showed the position of Arakal's army.

Across the desk from him, Brusilov looked at the display, and nodded slowly. His expression was almost sad, as at the passing of a legend.

 

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