Chapter 3

Andromeda, Balthazar, Cerberus, Gorky and Larkspur Sectors Months VI through XII International Year: 2211

SAHARA OF SNOW

I

On June 6, 2211 (by Euro-American dating) an open letter was sent to the President and Congress of the United Commonwealth by Gen. Charles William Hayes, then acting as its Secretary of State. On June 12 it was read to a specially convened Joint Session by Defense Secretary Aaron Brown, himself a distinguished veteran. Copies of the transcript were then made available to the press. The President did not attend the reading.

My Fellow Americans:

We have embarked upon a Great Crusade. On May the 30th, under my direction and leadership, The Third Fleet, in conjunction with the forces of the Democratic Alliance of Belgium and Switzerland, engaged and defeated the combined fleets of the Communist Coalition before the star system commonly known as Tarkus Minor, thus achieving the liberation of its peoples, who have labored so long under the oppressive yoke of Marxism.

In the wake of its dictatorial regime we have established democracy: a provisional government under the auspices of the Belgians and Swiss. Though this outside hand in the political affairs of another nation is regrettable, it must be remembered the that inhabitants of these colonies, though proud and courageous, have been kept in the darkness of atheistic communist doctrines for many years, and that some will not at first be willing, over even able, to accept the blessings of true freedom. The freedom of thought, speech and worship which we enjoy, will at first seem strange and painful to them, just as dazzling sunlight is painful to the eyes of one long imprisoned beneath the ground. But just as the doctor's slap which startles the new-born child to life, though sudden and unexpected, is wholly necessary and the catalyst to a new life, so these first steps toward democracy, however painful, must be taken boldly and resolutely.

And this victory is but the beginning. For the first time in nearly three centuries, we are given the power to rid the cosmos forever of the spreading and malignant cancer of communism. Not since 1946 at Malta, when our predecessors, out of blindness and misguided compassion, declined to use the birth of nuclear weapons to rid Eastern Europe of the Soviets---Slavic hordes which would dominate her peoples to this day---have we been given the necessary tactical advantage to realize this great dream. Once again we have the capability to strike and overwhelm in the same motion.

It has been said that those who do not learn from the mistakes of history are doomed to repeat them. Never has there been a clearer or more urgent example. We must not let faltering spirit and moral weakness send us down that same cowardly and shameful road. We must not let this second opportunity pass! For God has delivered into our hands, and at the precise moment, a weapon which makes the defenses of our enemies useless, and his attempts to thwart our offensive thrusts, utterly futile.

I speak of the Clarke-Medvekian 'Star Gate' potential, perfected only recently by our gallant scientists at the Top Secret laboratories of Mobius VI. I speak of it openly now, since to our enemies it is no longer a fearful rumor, but deadly reality. With it we are able to move our omnipotent SuperCarriers (along with escort, if necessary) virtually anywhere in the galaxy, completely undetected, in less time than it takes to lace a boot. Distance is no longer a deterrent, and fuel consumption need only be calculated for the duration of the battle itself. The strongest defense shield is easily breached, since the Carrier does not pass 'through' it, but rather, emerges on the other side.

But do not misunderstand my words. Military secrets are the most fleeting of all, and we are far from invincible. . .if we delay. An effective defense or tracking system will inevitably be devised, and our ability to strike without warning taken from us. For this reason, as well as others, there is need of haste. If we do not utilize this weapon now, it may well be used against us in the future.

And so, my fellow patriots, I ask you for the official power to execute this bold plan, this glorious, God given crusade, proved under Executive Order, and on the field of battle. Give to me your consensus---a formal Declaration of War on the remaining colonies of the Communist Coalition---and we will begin this first campaign in earnest.

I will not deceive you. Despite the advantages of superior weaponry, especially the stealth and mobility afforded us by Star Gate potential, men's lives will be lost in the cause of lasting peace. It will not be an easy road. But if we can again find in ourselves that which is courageous and noble---the fighting spirit that won our Independence and established the world's first true democracy, and later carried us through nearly two hundred years of patriotic wars without a defeat---ours will be hailed as the greatest era known by man, the Golden Age of Liberty. It will be remembered as a time when freedom loving peoples everywhere, their hearts aflame with the glory of the task, rose up to expel forever the totalitarian Marxists, and tear free from all the galaxy the shackles of dictatorial communism.

Lastly, let me apologize if my words are not fair, my manner of speech unsubtle. I am neither orator nor philosopher, but a plain thinking Christian general of Southern stock, born on the Earth, proud of my roots and my heritage.

But let none doubt my integrity and insight on this matter, which I have studied closely, and made my life's work. For God does not always choose the sophisticated or genteel to do His holy bidding. Like George Washington before me, I do not pretend to know all the subtleties of diplomacy and constitution which lie before us, only the true and unalterable road which our armies must follow to secure the liberty and prosperity of future generations.

With your blessing I will carry our proud banner to heights our forefathers could not have dreamed, and the God-given torch which they passed down to us shall not diminish, but shine from every corner of the galaxy, eternal beacon of peace and freedom.

I know in my heart that you will hear my entreaty, and grant me the moment for which I am destined.

God bless America!

Yours in Liberty,

Gen. Charles William Hayes Secretary of State

Among the inaccuracies and half-truths contained in the Secretary's call to arms were the following, pointed out by some, but not generally regarded as important.

1) General Hayes referred to the 'Communist Coalition' as if it were a single nation. Its actual name was The Coalition of Independent Socialist States, and it was not a nation at all, but rather a military alliance, similar to NATO.

2) He spoke of having 'engaged and defeated the combined fleets' of the Coalition, when in fact he had only beaten the Tri-Colony Defense Force under Col. Ivan Dubcek, already weakened by the frontal assaults of the Belgians and Swiss. The Coalition First Command Fleet, under the command of Gen. Helmut Itjes, had engaged the enemy in defensive skirmishes only, holding its own while evacuating roughly one-third of the inhabitants of the planets Premislyde and Goethe. Athena II, because of its proximity to the American thrust, was wholly lost.

3) The Athena Star System had not been referred to as Tarkus Minor for nearly eighty years, since an earlier error in mapping had been corrected. Perhaps the reference to Athens was uncomfortable for Hayes---the fact that a 'dictatorial regime' had chosen not to alter the name---or perhaps it threatened his claim that the United States had been the first true democracy. The argument that Greek Athens was not wholly democratic because it relied on the use of slave labor made little difference, since 18th Century America also kept slaves.

4) Whether or not the Commonwealth Supercarriers were omnipotent remained to be seen, since not all functions had been tested under full combat conditions. The Soviets were also said to possess four very large and formidable carriers.

5) The metaphor comparing the use of star-gate potential to the lacing of a boot was a good one---the time required for the final passage was relatively slight---but it neglected one very important step. First one had to construct the boot. Star-gate potential was not some magician's trick. The commander of a fleet could not simply press a button and 'poof', make his ships appear in another part of the galaxy. The creation of the star-gate was a very real, and therefore complicated process. Reduced to layman's terms, it utilized principals of anti-matter similar to those found in the implosion of a star (thus forming a black hole), to forge a corridor between two given points in Space, thus cheating the normal laws of space and time. Preparing such a corridor could take days, away from any kind of supporting base, possibly weeks.

For this reason one had to be certain he could defeat his enemy upon arrival, and control the designated area (or be prepared to retreat by conventional means) before any attack could be considered. In short, as an offensive weapon it was virtually unstoppable; but it offered absolutely nothing in the way of defense.

6) The Secretary referred to the Soviets of the 1940's as 'Slavic hordes which would dominate Eastern Europe.....' In fact the Slavs had dominated it for some time, having settled there centuries before, and forming a large segment of the population. Coincidentally, the expression 'Slavic hordes' had first been popularized by Nazi German propagandists, just prior to the outbreak of World War II.

7) Hayes' reference to the Yalta Conference of 1945 was confused at best. While this historic meeting of Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin may have anticipated (in Stalin's mind only) the Soviet occupation of eastern Europe at the end of World War II, work on the atomic bomb had not yet been completed, and the Western powers were in no position either to divine Stalin's ultimate goal, or to prevent it through the use of nuclear weapons.

8) According to protocol, only the President could ask Congress for a Declaration of War. Also, by attacking the colonies without a 'formal declaration', General Hayes had violated International Law.

*

That these distortions were not looked upon with gravity by the American public, can perhaps be attributed to the social conditions prevalent at the time. Largely a cultural island, despite its vast trade and high international standing, the United Commonwealth had developed national characteristics not wholly conducive to truth and perspective.

For example, if the average American saw a historical character (say Abraham Lincoln) portrayed in a popular movie or book, it became set in his or her mind that he/she now possessed a complete understanding of both the man himself, and the tempestuous events in which he took part. Thus, any subsequent input of contradictory facts or unclear morals was discounted. Because as a general rule what appeared visually or in print, larger (and often better) than life, seemed infinitely more real and comprehensible than the confusing puzzle of actual events. The fact that Hayes presented his version of the truth in a frank, straightforward manner (why would he lie?) also tended to work in his favor, lulling to sleep---they were barely awake to begin with---the deeper sensibilities of his countrymen.

And in truth very little was known about the Battle of Athena. The Commonwealth forces who had taken part in the mission were sworn to secrecy, denied direct communication, and there was no way to obtain more complete, unbiased information. Also, since it happened far away and no casualties were announced, it all seemed less a prelude to actual war than some vaguely exciting patriotic adventure and (to the press) the possibility of some first-rate news footage.

This is not to say that all Americans were this bland or naive. Very vocal opposition arose at once, along with equally vocal support. But here again, the popular opinion of the middle class was the real power in the Commonwealth, and for the most part this bulk society had not yet made up its mind. Most were still, at the core, opposed to bloodshed. But the economy WAS in difficult straits, which tended to make them angrier and more aggressive, and there WERE nasty rumors circulating about Soviet preparations for a military push in the quadrant. That military preparedness was standard Soviet policy, and that the grimmest predictions often came from Pentagon propagandists, was to many either unknown, or considered beside the point.

The puzzle, however, was why the President had not attended the reading, and for the time being refused all comment. A press conference had been scheduled for June 18, but beyond this Administration officials were maintaining an uncanny, and therefore disquieting silence. Some of the more astute political observers and high-ranking members of the government may have guessed what this mean, but if so they did not give voice to their conclusions.

Because if what they suspected was true, it pointed to a serious rift within the government, and a potential problem far more dangerous than the stealing of a few planets, give or take. (Almost no one believed that Hayes actually intended to take on the whole of socialism, especially Soviet Space ---quiet of late, but still quite capable of fireworks of their own). In this, unfortunately, they underestimated the depths of the man's obsession, and gave him credit for a sense of moderation which he did not possess.

And so the issue was roundly debated by the public and the press, and everyone waited impatiently for the President to address the issue, if only to have a focal point for their anger or support.

*

The President, however, had received on June 5 a very different communication from his Secretary of State, and was in a quandary as to how to respond. Because the one outright lie of General Hayes' letter to Congress and the press, had been that he attacked the Czech/East German joint colonies under Executive Order. In fact, he had done it entirely on his own.

Still retaining his rank (an oddity in high political service) as a five-star general, and thus the most powerful man within the military establishment, Hayes was trying to use his popularity as a war hero, and his considerable influence among the Armed Forces, to blackmail the President into a military venture on which he had long vacillated. The doubly coded message read as follows.

*

Dear Mr. President:

The time for indecision has passed. The battle is won; star-gate potential is a reality; and the spirits of the men are high. Such times as these are rare, when patriotic fervor at home is matched by clear superiority in the field.

But I won't try to sway you with words. You know the pressing realities as well as I do. I ask you now to put aside our past differences, and give me your full support. We can annihilate the remaining communist holdings in Balthazar and Cerberus and proceed from there. But IT MUST BE NOW.

I am sorry to have to force the issue, attacking on my own. But as a man who loves my country and sees the future clearly, you left me no choice. With Bacon and Weiss (Presidential advisors) still squabbling, and your own will paralyzed, precious and irrecoverable time was slipping by. And as for securing appropriations from the liberal-controlled House without bringing tremendous political pressure to bear.....

But I won't banter. Nothing cuts through barriers or rouses the people like a successful military engagement. And as I have said before, our tactical advantage will not last. You may have backed the Russians down of late with tough talk, but they haven't been idle the past three years either. And unlike our attempts at rearmament, they aren't hindered by the need for Congressional approval, or any other such bleeding heart nonsense. The Star Gate is our edge, and it won't be long before the enemy either finds a defense, or masters the principle himself. I've ordered everyone directly involved with the project sent to Mobius and quarantined for a year, under the pretense of a possible epidemic. But that doesn't keep information from being smuggled out.

And please don't deceive yourself, Edgar. Once the Russians get this technology they'll use it. This is going to be a volatile and turbulent era, whether we choose to make the first move or not. Either we put this weapon to use, or it will be used against us.

But we've been through all this before. I will send my appeal to Congress and the people, then the choice will be yours. You can give me your full support, and be remembered for all times as a courageous and decisive leader, or you can disown me and face the consequences. There is no middle ground.

Give me your blessing! You are a great and proud American; your principles are high and your intentions unimpeachable. The only fault I have ever found with you is a continuing desire to be advised, and a deep hesitation to go against the grain of your advisers, even when they themselves are undecided. History does not wait for the whims of such men! One either takes the reins of Destiny, or they are taken from him.

You say you did not ascend to the presidency alone---that many men with many causes helped elect you. That is true, and your magnanimity is admirable. But you are still the President, and the most powerful man in the free world. I urge you now: use that power! Stand on your own and be counted. Put your faith in me, and you shall never regret it.

Forgive me for speaking so plainly. These are convictions that run very deep in me. I ask only this: that you listen to your heart. You will see that I am right, and that God has chosen me to do His holy work.

Your Servant,

Charles William Hayes Secretary of State

P.S.- I have spoken with the Joints Chiefs of Staff. They stand behind me.

*

And so the President, who was not fond of making difficult decisions ---Hayes had been quite right in this assertion---was faced with the most difficult choice of his political career, if not his life. Though far from a genius, he clearly saw (and this in itself was unusual) that a true, life and death dilemma lay before him, and that his decision would directly affect the lives of millions of people. Did he give in to political blackmail, and condone self-righteous slaughter---a genuine war? Or did he call Hayes' bluff, and find out just how powerful the man had become? Either path presented equally grim scenarios. And for the first time in his illustrious presidency, Edgar J. Stone found himself in a position where advice was useless, and compromise impossible.

His political forte' to this point had been to make no rash decisions or statements to the press, and to defer to his advisers on the more serious matters of state. And through a combination of conservative dogma and hard-nosed pragmatism, he had heretofore been extraordinarily successful, getting most of his programs through Congress, avoiding embarrassment, and heading off political difficulty before it gained impetus. No matter what the circumstance, he always managed to appear calm and well informed, with just enough below-the-surface anger to let everyone know, especially the Soviets, that the Commonwealth was not to be made sport of or taken lightly (which of course appealed to the current patriotic mood of his countrymen).

He was neither smarter, shrewder, nor more capable than his recent predecessors. If anything, he was less qualified than most. But he did have one skill they lacked. He knew how to play the game, and he lied (to no one more than to himself) with great conviction.

Because in the Commonwealth politicians were judged not so much by what they did, as by the way they appeared to be doing it. Lincoln, Kennedy and Reagan were remembered as the greatest of men, though they seriously mishandled important matters of state, largely because, as the poetic put it, "They captured the spirit of their countrymen." More cynically, they gave good speeches. Edgar Stone, though considerably less moral than any but the third, understood this (or something like it), and with the aid of the power groups he represented, had modeled his administration accordingly.

He did this by surrounding himself with strong and intelligent men who understood the inner workings of government, economy and diplomacy, concentrating his own energies---with the help of various acting coaches and speech writers---on the subtleties of image and appearances. His was the mask worn by those who had elected him, and those who held real power. Not only did he fail to question the morality of the policies they had him put forward, but in truth, was not particularly interested. He had for nearly twenty years made his living as a front-man for conservative causes, knew his job and stuck to it. And having for so long been immersed in right wing-propaganda (it also appealed to his ego and warped sense of patriotism), he really did, or certainly appeared, to believe it himself. Thus the last and most important element of the facade fell into place: 'sincerity'.

Any seasoned political observer (who cared to look with his eyes) could see this, and yet few with any authority chose to attack the graven image. Why? Because he SEEMED to be doing a good job, and was (in the persona that had so been carefully been constructed) a pleasant, hard-working and respectable family man. The fact that he had changed professions (a former salesman), parties (a former Democrat), and wives (a divorcee), was routinely shouted down as liberal mud-slinging. The press was cowed by his popularity, the opposition by the power it gave him. The middle class LIKED Edgar Stone, and big business stood behind him. It was a formidable combination. No chink had yet been found in his armor, and the political sharks that arise within any system, democratic or otherwise, could not yet smell blood in the water.

But all that careful work and planning was now being swept away by a single, unforeseeable mistake. Over the years Stone had accumulated numerous political debts, especially to those who had kept him going during the lean years of 'progressive humanism', one of which he had repaid by appointing a pompous, self-indulging and wholly unqualified 'hero' of the Nibian Wars (like Ulysses S. Grant, he had sent tens of thousands to their graves without blinking), and a man he personally disliked, as his Secretary of State. Charles William Hayes.

Like Douglas Macarthur before him, Hayes had given innumerable signs of the obsession he now sought to enact. But like so many other men of history who are not taken at their word (Adolph Hitler being perhaps the clearest, and most horrific example), people had always assumed that he took such a hard line against socialism (as Hitler had done against the Jews) simply to encourage those who could elevate him to power, and to tap into the volatile anger and frustration of his countrymen.

But the truly frightening thing about such men, Hayes included, was that THEY MEANT EVERY WORD THEY SAID. "Better dead than Red," an expression borrowed from the Cold War days of the mid twentieth century, was not just a slogan to him, but unwritten Holy Scripture, handed down to him by the righteous God who ruled the Universe and called men of courage and action to his service, in the unending war against this modern day Satan. Etc. In his mind, too simple or too stubborn to possess any clear sense of perspective, this same God directed his every footstep, living within him and guiding his thoughts. And anyone who stood in his way, or questioned his narrow vision, was either weak, blind, or the enemy. As he had intimated in his letter to Stone, so far as he was concerned, there was no 'middle ground' in anything.

And in classic Shakespearean form, the inevitably tragic events of his life had only served to bear out his convictions, and reinforce his Messianic image of himself. Indeed, given the power of his obsession and the unyielding pursuit of an aggressive, self-chosen destiny, they could hardly have done otherwise.

So Edgar Stone brooded, and listened to his advisers argue, and tried to think. While the winds of war swirled around him.

II

On the three socialist planets now occupied by the Belgians and Swiss, the process of political arrest, judgment and exile had already begun. The process was especially swift and unyielding on Athena, where nearly eighty percent of the inhabitants, considered either dangerous or unnecessary to the occupation, were to be transported to the newly constructed facilities of the Belgian prison planet, Dracus IIa.

True to their word, the arrests were made without violence. Families were kept together whenever possible (except where a father, husband or wife was needed to operate high-tech equipment, thought-controlled machinery or the like), and all were given suitable quarters while awaiting the transport ships that would take them to Dracus. They were told that upon arrival they would be given the resources to feed, clothe, and govern themselves, and that no harm would come to those who cooperated. The Alliance had no intention of turning public opinion against itself, or calling to anyone's mind (especially their own) the barbarities and prison-camp horrors of previous wars.

Their plan was simple. Send all undesirables and non-essential personnel to secretly located prison planets deep within their boundaries, give them the tools they needed to survive, cut off all communication, and simply leave them there. When the war was over there would be time to consider a more permanent solution.

And at the moment there were more pressing matters at hand. First they had to ascertain exactly who it was they were fighting, and why---since clearly they didn't share Hayes' obsession, and intended to act wholly independent of him.

Here were the facts as they saw them.

The Dutch Provinces, long coveted, were now in their possession, along with the Athena colonies. Their strength, especially monetary, had grown because of it. There was no substantial inter-galactic outcry against them, their own activities being largely overshadowed by the possibility of a full-scale offensive push by the Commonwealth. And their losses to date, though somewhat more substantial than they had hoped, could not outweigh their ambition. Except for the German-made carrier, which they had not expected to lose, the fleet sent against Dubcek had been manned by robot crews only, the idea being to exchange hardware, which could be replaced, for the bounty of Athena. They had even taken a new, bi-national symbol, the pouncing leopard, and had it emblazoned on their ships, and on the sleeves of all their flyers.

But what they should have known, what every leopard does know, is that they were not the only, nor indeed the most powerful predator in the bush. The stir created by a kill may be tolerated once by the pride of lions living nearby. But soon both predator and prey are aware of their existence, ready to act upon it, and even the distraction of a rogue elephant, crashing blindly through the brush, can't hide its presence for long.

Their fight had only just begun.

III

The morning of June 17, on the eve of his scheduled press conference to address the issue, Edgar Stone sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, staring blankly at his fourth attempt to draft a reply to General Hayes. Dark circles pulled at his eyes and sinuses; his head felt like a warm stone that wouldn't think. Half an hour earlier, after listening to his top advisers swear at each other with the same arguments they had been postulating for months, he had done something he would not have dreamed of in other circumstances. He had told them all to "Shut up," and unceremoniously shown them the door.

For the first time in his presidency he was taking matters into his own hands, with more than a few regrets and second thoughts. He had slept badly or not at all for three nights running, and felt neither brave, nor noble, nor even competent to make such a choice. In his current frame of mind he was incapable of realizing the human or historical significance of the crisis that lay before him, and at the moment this was not what mattered. Unlike Hayes, he didn't give a damn what people thought once he was dead, or even out of office. What mattered now was that his tolerance for bullshit had been long since used up---that he was furious at being put in such a position.

And somewhere, very deep inside himself he knew, though he shrank from the knowledge, that something very wrong had happened, that the damage was far from over, and that he was partly to blame. And he knew one more thing, despite the rhetoric that he had spouted for two decades: offensive war, unduly considered, was the basest and most shameful of human endeavors, never justifiable, and rarely, in the end, accomplishing anything.

Because for all his faults, and these he possessed in abundance, Edgar Stone was not insane.

He bowed very low, crumpling the paper before him in both hands. Shook his head mournfully. He pushed the com-button on his desk and summoned a secretary, to whom he dictated his answer to Hayes.

*

The press conference was postponed without a future date being set, on the pretext that new information had just come to light, which must be relayed to the Secretary of State before further action could be taken. But even the impassable Bill Miller, Stone's Press Secretary, could not pull off this announcement without incurring a barrage of stupefied questions and dissatisfied remarks.

And when news of the postponement spread, along with the undercurrent of confusion and subdued alarm which accompanied it, even the dullest Americans began to sense that something was amiss---that real life had somehow crept onto the peaceful shores of their island. And nearly all were aware of a strange thrill of fear as their President finally stepped before the cameras on July 15, looking not at all like himself.

* * *

On June 24, the day that Hayes received the President's reply, the Third Fleet was once again preparing to go into action. The coordinates (and victim) of their next attack had already been decided upon, known only to the General Staff, and to the scientists in charge of constructing the star gate. All the myriad ships---destroyer groups, flotillas and task forces, still intact---were once more huddled within the massive body of the Supercarrier 'Dreadnought', itself nearly forty kilometers from stem to stern.

The mother vessel, with all its destructive children tucked up inside, and therefore vulnerable (relatively speaking) to sudden attack, had been positioned by her masters in the place that this was least likely to occur---a distant orbit around the sea planet Goethe, where Alliance ships moved constantly, ready to repel any attempt at a counter-stroke by the Coalition. The entrance to the star gate was being constructed outside the extremities of the system, far beyond the considerable pull of the massive star, Athena.

Though the two capitalist fleets remained in constant contact, it was understood that there would be no mutual effort or coordinated defense once the Dreadnought left the system. The two sides had gotten what they wanted: the Belgians and Swiss the riches of the colonies, as well as the threat of a powerful ally, and the Commonwealth, an easy victory with a minimum of casualties. Thus the thief and the bully would part.

Both sides, meanwhile, were concerned (at least Hayes pretended to be) by the external calm and relative inaction on the part of the Coalition, and the still more ominous silence of Soviet Space. In his more lucid moments the Secretary realized the strength of his ultimate foe: that a great bear waited for him deep in the woods, and that killing it, even with the full weight of the Commonwealth behind him, would be no easy task. But for now he feared nothing and no one.

ONE STEP AT A TIME, he told himself. One step at a time.

*

It was late afternoon, U.C. Earth time, though that measure seemed quite meaningless while circling a planet of turbulent seas two hundred times Earth's mass, dotted with tiny islands rising thousands of feet above the wrack, itself revolving around a sun not to be spoken in the same breath with our own.

Leif Janson felt this lapse of human significance acutely, as he paced back and forth in Communications Room One, waiting for the approaching message from the diminutive planet which had spawned him. Even aboard the Dreadnought, dwarfed as it was by everything around it, this feeling of smallness and mock importance would not leave him.

He recalled the words of Joseph Conrad, describing the way the primeval forests of Africa must have looked upon the coming of the white man to steal its ivory. "Fantastic invasion." And so it seemed to him now. How could man even pretend to dominate such a Universe, in which his unnoticed presence, lasting but the blink of an eye, could not begin to compare with the Infinity which his mind could not even comprehend? All that a man could ever hope to do was live in peace with himself, and understanding with his neighbors. And of late the Commonwealth had done a damned poor job of that. To find love, and to pass that love on to his children.....

"Major Janson." He turned. "Message coming in."

"Good. Get it recorded then go below. Lieutenant Frye, contact the Secretary and ask him to come down right away. Tell him the message is in, and that I've cleared the com room. Then report to your quarters and await further instructions."

"Yes sir."

Several minutes later Janson stood alone beside the main decoding computer, listening to the drum of approaching footsteps. General Hayes strode into the room with the same expression of confident, aggressive attention that he always wore, perhaps pulled a bit tighter about the cheekbones by tension and desire.

With him were two other men: Brigadier General Michael Calder, his right-hand man for the last twenty years, and Gen-Admiral Frank, commander of the Third Fleet, also a long-time associate. The Secretary, choosing for the moment to don civilian clothes, addressed the middle-aged (and therefore to his eyes, young) Communications Officer directly.

"Well, Major. Is the message fully recorded? Have you followed my instructions to the letter?"

"Yes sir. Shall I begin decoding?"

Janson held this important, sensitive post because of his high security clearance, his steady, if not outstanding career, and most of all, his ability not to speak of his work to anyone, anytime, under any circumstances. Frank, therefore, saw nothing unusual in the question. But Hayes looked hard at the man, as if searching for some tell-tale flaw.

"What is your security clearance, major?"

"1-A, to military level Five, sir."

"And how many years have you served with us?"

"Twenty-three, sir."

"Then you saw action in the Manxsome conflict?"

"Yes sir."

"Decorated?"

"No sir."

Hayes turned to the Fleet Commander.

"Can you vouch for this man?"

"Yes, General." Hayes gave the man a last, hard look, almost a threat.

Very well then, Major. Begin decoding."

Frightened and annoyed, Janson sealed the enclosure, shut down all outside terminal linkage, and programmed the series of computers for self-erase. There would be but a single copy of the transcript, printed on thin, white computer paper. He worked the fingerboards rapidly, knowing the codes and counter-codes by rote, until a soft blue light indicated that the signal had been translated and was ready to print.

And then he made the mistake of his life. Simply not thinking to do otherwise, he touched the print button, and the machine began to feed out paper. It stopped.

"Is that the reply from Stone?" asked Hayes severely. Janson, who had been walking towards him with the paper in hand, stopped suddenly, and his limbs were awash in adrenalin.

"Why, yes sir..... I never thought. That is. Anyone could have pushed the print button. I merely assumed..... I haven't read a word, Mr. Secretary, I swear it." Hayes lowered his head, assumed a more natural expression. Took the paper from him.

"Very well, major. That will be all."

Janson saluted and left the room. Hayes, inclining his head as a signal for his two subordinates to go stand by the door, sat down and began to read.

Secretary Hayes:

I have agonized over the wording of my response to you, though I knew right away what my answer should be. As you asked, though you may not believe it, I have silenced my advisers and listened to my own thoughts. Perhaps you don't think much of me as a leader, or even a man. But as you yourself said, I am the President, and I see now that a great deal depends on my dealings with you. It is also clear that I must carry the brunt of this responsibility myself. At such a time I feel very small and unprepared. But whatever else you may think of me, I am not a coward.

I have made my decision, Charles, and I ask in turn that you consider your next move very carefully. Much more depends on it than your ego or mine. AT THIS POINT HAYES SCOWLED, AND UNCONSCIOUSLY WORKED THE MUSCLES AT THE BACK OF HIS JAW. I have not revealed to the public any aspect of the rift between us, nor will I do so in the future, so long as we can now resolve our differences.

I'm trying to be diplomatic. But since I know you take that as a sign of weakness, I will come to the point.

You have overstepped your authority as Secretary of State, attacking on your own the colonies of two nations with whom we are not at war, and deliberately lied in the process, saying that you did so under my orders. To view the matter harshly, as you have done to others in the past, you have committed treason.

Damn it, Charles! The military forces of this nation are not your private army. Maybe you don't like the way I was elected; maybe you think your ends justify the means. Maybe you hate my guts. None of this is important now. What is important is the political survival of the United Commonwealth, and the sparing of further bloodshed.

Please, I'm asking you, DON'T DO ANYTHING RASH. Think the matter through. You have made veiled threats to me, which if realized, could result in civil war, or worse. Do you really want to stage this coup? Do you really want to denounce me, your President, and see how much of government and the military will stand behind you? It goes against all the principles of democracy that you profess so loudly.

I am neither historian nor moralist, as you well know, and I am trying not to lose my temper. But it seems to me that our forefathers, as you call them, set up their system of checks and balances specifically to prevent this kind of showdown, and personal grab for power. And they must have done something right, because our government has lasted, intact, for over four hundred years. Will you tear all that down because of your obsession with communism? Even your beloved George Washington turned down the chance to be a monarch, saying it was contrary to all that he had fought for.

There is nothing more I can say but to fully clarify my position, so that there will be no chance of further misunderstanding.

A) I will not ask Congress for a Declaration of War. I will say only that your attack on the colonies was the result of miscommunication between us, and then attempt to make reparation to the provinces of Democratic Germany and Greater Czechoslovakia. I am prepared to take full responsibility for this 'misunderstanding' myself, so long as your exploits stop now.

B) I will not disown you, as you suggest, nor call your bluff in public. I am not looking for a fight, nor will I back down from one. You will remain my Secretary of State, but immediately relinquish all military title and authority. I'll not have a maverick heading the armed forces of this nation.

C) My orders to you now, as your Commander-in-Chief, are to break off from any plans of further adventurism, and return with the Third Fleet to Commonwealth space at once.

THROUGH HIS RAGE, THE SECRETARY HAD SENSE ENOUGH TO REALIZE THAT THIS LIST OF DEMANDS COULD NOT HAVE BEEN PUT FORWARD BY STONE. FOR ONE THING, THE WORDING WAS MUCH TOO COGENT. AND IN FACT, IT WAS THE ONE PART OF THE LETTER NOT LARGELY INTACT FROM THE PRESIDENT'S ORIGINAL DICTATION. DESPAIRING AT HIS OWN IGNORANCE, AND NOT KNOWING WHOM TO TRUST, STONE HAD TURNED TO HIS VICE PRESIDENT, A CAPABLE MAN, WHO AFTER LONG AND SECRET CONSULTATION WITH SAM BACON, WHITE HOUSE CHIEF-OF-STAFF, HAD WRITTEN THE PARAGRAPH FOR HIM.

You may consider me a small and weak man. But I have the power of the Constitution behind me. And we will also see, should you choose to defy me, how the American people, including the military, will react when they find out they've been lied to, and committed murder on your behalf.

I ask you once again, to be reasonable.

Sincerely,

Edgar James Stone President of the United Commonwealth.

General Hayes stood perfectly still for perhaps two minutes, holding the piece of paper in his tightly clench hands, looking at the blank portion at the top of it with unfocused eyes. The two lesser generals, knowing better, did not interrupt his mediations, but remained silently by the door. Calder knew his master well enough to read the signs of rejection, and still greater determination, on his face. Frank could only stare at the man he both admired and feared, wondering.

At length the Secretary stirred.

"Your incinerator, Michael." Calder handed him the tiny device, and Hayes vaporized the President's message. He rose.

"General Frank. Schedule a meeting of the Staff in ConRoom 16 for 2200 hours. I'll address all subcommanders by visual at 0600 tomorrow. Request your communications officer to remain in his quarters until I send for him. The attack will go on as scheduled."

Hayes, his thought rebuked, was now going on instinct. And his instincts always told him to attack. The three dispersed, and the First Communications crew, with the exception of Janson, returned to their posts.

There are perhaps three basic ways that the human mind reacts when its perception of reality, colored by hopes and dreams, is suddenly, forcibly confronted. The first is the way adopted by those who acknowledge their own humanity. This is to take a step back, question perspective, yield to some more profound influence, or simply admit that there may be some aspect of the situation not immediately understood. In short, it is the realization that life, for good or ill, is not going to change for them, and that their dreams and ambitions must be based on reality, or they simply cannot last.

The second reaction, just as common, may be viewed as the first step toward irrational thinking. Those who fall into this category, rather than relinquishing the illusion in question, cling the more fiercely to it, stubbornly blocking out all contradictory input, and, if necessary, delving into a world of pure fantasy.

The third reaction, by far the most dangerous, is centered around a belief that the more one's goals and ambitions are resisted, the truer and more indisputable the path taken, since clearly they are being resisted by evil. The Devil, and those who serve him, are to blame. Therefore the harder the subsequent struggle, the more righteous the cause. Such is the road taken by the political or religious fanatic.

Hayes, in his more rational moods, fell into the second category. When directly challenged, as he was now, he fell into the third.

The man remained seated in his quarters, brooding. All his thought had been bent so strongly, all his efforts geared so unshakably toward the realization of a single goal---riding the tide of patriotic fervor, with the whole of the Commonwealth behind him, into a grand and decisive campaign against galactic communism---that Stone's rejection had hit him like a physical blow. Why had his destiny been denied him? OR WAS IT A TRIAL OF FAITH?

And one more thing troubled him. He was still sane and noble enough (after a fashion) to see that it would indeed be wrong to usurp the duly-elected President, fool that he was, and try to seize power by a military coup. This, however, did not keep him from disregarding his current orders, which were clearly and dangerously wrong. Having been stripped of its pet fantasy, his mind now seized upon another.

HE WOULD DO IT ALL HIMSELF. With only the resources and undying loyalty of the Third Fleet, he would defeat Soviet Space alone, against orders---the greatest military feat of all time. Each disposition would have to be perfect, each soldier's skill and determination honed to a cutting edge of steel. AGAINST ALL ODDS! Or, at the very least, he would draw the Soviets into a full-scale war. . .and give his reluctant president no choice..... He got up and began to pace eagerly, shaking off age and fatigue.

YES, THAT'S IT. OF COURSE! HE THINKS HE'S MADE A CLEVER MOVE, CHEATED ME. WE'LL SEE HOW LONG THE SOVIETS REMAIN NEUTRAL WHEN I DEVASTATE THE COALITION FORCES, AND KNOCK OUT THE EAST GERMAN HOME PLANET. "MORE DEPENDS ON IT THAN YOUR EGO OR MINE," HE SAID TO ME. "TO VIEW THE MATTER HARSHLY. . .TREASON!" HE'LL 'CALL MY BLUFF', WILL HE? MY 'OBSESSION' WITH COMMUNISM. Hayes smashed a fist into his open hand. "RELINQUISH ALL MILITARY TITLES." "MAVERICK!." SO HELP ME GOD; IF THIS ACTION ISN'T ENOUGH TO CHANGE HIS MIND, I'LL DO IT. I'LL COME AFTER HIM! FOOL. BLIND FOOL.

At length he ceased his pacing and grew calmer. The meeting with General Staff was approaching, and he must decide what course to take with them:

The meeting would be held. He would address the sub-commanders as scheduled, as the mighty ship headed out toward the entrance of the star gate. Nothing had changed. Stone's actions had been a small annoyance, nothing more. He switched on the dictation machine, and began speaking rapidly and decisively.

* * *

Lt. Eric Muller had been in e-light warp for almost fifteen hours, barely outraced by the laser sounding-beam sent out ahead of him days before.

So far he had been lucky---he had not had to deviate course. He knew that once he did, leaving the path of the beam, he would have no warning at all before smashing into an unrecorded meteor, or bit of space debris. To come out of light-speed and fly by sight and instruments meant to expose himself to tracking, almost certain death while approaching enemy-controlled positions.

The small, blistering ship in which he flew had been designed with but a single purpose: to outrace tracking, come out of warp just long enough to aim the projectile, then split in two, the adjoining missile (hopefully) striking its target before the enemy could react, while the escape-ship ran for cover.

It was a desperate scheme, this squadron of forty missile-ships; but it remained theoretically possible, and therefore must be tried. The Coalition powers had not been idle since the attack on Athena, and the high command of the Provinces of Democratic (East) Germany, suspecting their inner planets to be a likely next target, were determined to show Hayes what they were made of---that it would be no easy fight---and that the Dreadnought was not impregnable.

Constant tension and near maniacal alertness had begun to take its toll on the young pilot, chosen, along with the others, because of his lightning reflexes and exceptional endurance. Two seconds of neglect were all that was needed to end his life. If for that brief period he did not watch the signal monitor and react instantaneously to its warning---the possible complexities of which were too vast even for an unassisted computer to judge---all was lost. He could not know it, since the speed at which he traveled made communication impossible, but eight of his comrades had already been killed, or forced to break off because of mechanical failure.

He reached back to massage his aching neck. Scarcely a moment had passed before he heard the warning tone---meteor particles directly ahead. With the thought control computer he veered left and down, then back again to the right. His reactions had been swift and correct, and he was able to readjust quickly and continue on toward the target.

But the beam was lost, so that now he flew blind. And after a time the real fear began to set in. Roughly two hours later his craft spun out of control and exploded, after striking a meteor-pellet six inches long. SubCaptain Schmidt was lost a few minutes after that, when he outraced his beam and tried to decelerate too quickly.

Twenty-four hours into the mission, only seven of the original forty remained, still at least eight hours away from their estimated time of intercept.

IV

Hayes was wakened at 0400. He felt upon first consciousness, as he often did after a short sleep, a vague and powerful sense of uneasiness, like a man walking steeply uphill, with death drawing nearer behind him. He sat bolt upright, his jaw set and eyes squinting fire, and slowly the feeling passed. He got out of bed, told the yeoman to send Calder to him at 0420, and stalked into the bathroom. Finishing his toilet he reentered the bedroom and immediately began his morning isometrics, running through his mind as he did so the business of the day, and recalling with disciplined satisfaction his performance of the night before. His words to the meeting of Staff:

"My fellow officers of the intrepid Third Fleet, your Commander-in-Chief asks much of you. As President, he understands as I do the urgent necessity of our great endeavor, and along with the Senate, stands squarely behind us. But his political enemies, the weak-hearted opposition who hold the majority in Congress, needing to make themselves feel important, have delayed a vote on the formal Declaration of War. They have attempted to sabotage the mechanisms of just vigilance and freedom. They SAY they need more proof." As he said this, and various officers scowled, he had looked over at Frank and nodded gravely, as if this was what had upset him in the President's reply.

"Fortunately, Edgar Stone is not the kind of man to let ignorance and cowardice stand in his way. They have said they need more proof, of the ruthless barbarity of the Coalition leaders against their own people, as well as the armed strength of our great nation---and he has assigned US to give it to them." Expressions of satisfaction and approval. "To us then falls the task of demonstrating the absolute superiority of the United Commonwealth of America, and the prowess of its men at arms. He knows that in this, we shall not fail him."

As he recalled this speech Hayes felt only one regret. In referring to Stone's (supposed) vote of confidence in the Third Fleet, and simultaneously expressing his own desires and expectations of it, he had unwittingly imparted into their image of the President a courage and forthrightness he did not possess, and which might later have to be altered, should matters force a showdown and the need arise to challenge his authority.

But this could not be helped, and already he felt his subconscious beginning to turn the necessary phrases of shock and disbelief at Stone's treachery and sudden reversal. He dressed briskly, and had only just begun to pace when Calder appeared at the portal. He turned to him at once.

"Have communications officer Janson report to me in SubCon 20 in half an hour, then tell the yeoman to have my breakfast sent there." His expression changed slightly as he looked into the unquestioning face of his loyal subaltern. "... Do you want to know what he really said?"

Calder stepped beyond the portal and turned the small handle that security-sealed the room, showing by this mute gesture that it did not matter to him, he would serve his General as he had always done, but that if Hayes wished to tell him he would be honored to listen. He was the one man who could have a softening effect on his master, though he would have been shocked to learn it. Hayes turned to face the wall.

"He tried to cut me off, Michael." He glanced over at him briefly, the smallest touch of melancholy, then back to the wall. "He said that my 'obsession' with the communist threat was based on pure fabrication, the result of an unbalance mind." For as he spoke, he truly believed that this was what Stone had done. "He said that to view the matter harshly, I had committed treason..... He ordered me to return home with my tail between my legs and maybe, MAYBE he would forgive me." Without turning he knew that Calder's face had assumed its characteristic frown of fierce devotion, the one that acknowledged tough measures were at hand, not wanted, but forced upon them by those enemies, unfathomable in their ignorance and baseness, who challenged and sought to sabotage his master's clear vision and irreproachable aims.

"He can't do that, sir." Hayes turned, rekindled, as always, by this soldier's undying spirit.

"No, he can't. Though it does my heart good to hear it." Their eyes met. "But you needed to know that things could get a little rough. The President of the United Commonwealth himself is no longer above suspicion."

"You know that I would do anything," stammered Calder. "Follow you anywhere."

"Yes, yes! That's the spirit we need to impart! It's entirely on our shoulders now. The Third Fleet must take up the sword alone." His temper had been quite restored. "But." He raised a stern finger. "One thing at a time, and not missing a single detail. That's how we've got to do it."

"The business of the day, sir?"

"Yes, we'll discuss it over breakfast." A rare honor. "Have you eaten yet today?" And Calder went off to do his master's bidding.

Leif Janson, meanwhile, dressed himself in a state of anxiety such as he had seldom experienced. He had no grounds for this feeling; he had been summoned at odd hours by high personages before. But remembering his blunder the day before, so innocent, and yet looked upon with such gravity, he felt in his gut that a dark cloud hung over him, and wondered only at the severity of the coming storm.

He had never liked Hayes, liked him still less for their meeting; but this could not alter the fact, much as it galled him, that he was terrified of the man. STUPID, he admonished himself. THIS ISN'T NAZI GERMANY. He tried to shave, cut himself, realized that this would look bad, placed a skin pad over the area, forgetting to wipe away the blood first, ripped it off, toweled his face and did it again. By now his agitation was so acute that he began to get angry. But his experience in government service told him that if he gave in to his instincts (fought back), not only would things not get better, they could get considerably worse.

And so, passing through the corridor and up through an elevator tube, he entered after two lefts and a right, the hallway that led to SubCon 20. He checked his watch. Two minutes early. He stopped, knowing by reputation Hayes' fanaticism concerning time. Needing something to occupy his mind, he mused for perhaps the thousandth time that everything in the military was capital letters and even numbers: black and white. He paced a little, and looking up, saw to his dismay that the hall camera followed his every movement. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. TO HELL WITH THIS, he thought. He entered the chamber.

Hayes looked up from the table as he saluted, nodded placidly, and finished his breakfast without haste. Calder, standing against the adjacent wall, gazed at him with the blank, somewhat hostile expression of an off-duty drill sergeant. Hayes placed the tray in the wall-slot, brushed stray crumbs from the table with his uniform sleeve, and without rising, addressed him.

"Major Leif Janson, I believe. Well, Major. Since yesterday I've checked your record, and I believe you can be trusted."

"Thank you, sir." He wondered why this vote of confidence did not comfort him. "I'm sorry for my blunder, sir. It was inexcusable."

Hayes' words belied his expression. "A momentary lapse, nothing more." He placed a strange emphasis on 'lapse.' "You've been trained for high-speed craft, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," Janson said stiffly, maintaining with difficulty his rigid posture and straight-ahead gaze. It had been twelve years, but this was hardly the time.....

"I want you to run a very special errand for me, Major. I want you to take some particularly sensitive data back to President Stone, and deliver it to him personally. I'm having a Clipper specially prepared. She'll fly mainly on auto-pilot, with extra speed built in. I need this material in the President's hands by July 16---he'll know you're coming. Do you think you can do it?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." But this was absurd. Bullet-pouches were three times faster, and with self-destruct, an infinitely better security risk.

"Good, Major. That's what I wanted to hear. Report to Shuttle Dock 36 at 1400 sharp. You're to remain in your quarters till then, and speak of this to no one. I'll have the flight-suit brought to you there. The materials will be turned over to you by special courier aboard ships. Any questions?"

Janson glanced at him quickly. There were no questions.

"That will be all then, Major. Dismissed." Janson saluted and showed himself the door. As his footsteps receded down the hallway, Hayes turned to Calder.

"You know what to do?" His second nodded sternly and went out.

TOO BAD ABOUT THAT ONE, mused the Secretary briefly. THEY SAY HE HAD A FAMILY. Rising, he left the small conference room and moved with swift steps toward the Main Intercommunications studio to prepare his pre-battle address to the subcommanders. NO, ON SECOND THOUGHT I'D BETTER MAKE IT THE ENTIRE CREW. WE'VE GOT TO FIGHT LIKE THE THREE HUNDRED SPARTANS TOMORROW. And pleased with this metaphor, trying to think how to work it into his speech, he continued on his way.

*

Squadron-leader Dorfman was approaching his thirtieth hour in light-warp, and was less than sixteen hours away from his projected time of Intercept. His was one of only five missile-ships that remained on course and on target.

There is a certain level of endurance beyond which even the strongest minds cannot go without some loss of rationality. Dorfman, a seasoned veteran, had been on tough, grueling missions before, but this---he could no longer deceive himself---was undoubtedly the cruelest.

He had been able to remain calmly alert and rest his eyes for brief intervals, trusting somewhat to fate, for the first eighteen hours or so, and this had bought him time. A product of East German military training and thinking, his own life or death was now secondary to the success or failure of the mission and, truly believing this, his fears had not been able to engulf him. His life had been full: his wife was a soldier's wife, and his son was now fourteen and able to look after her. But it was not necessary for him, as it was for some men, to discount his own death through such a progression of thought. He knew what his country was up against, and accepted his duty without reservation.

But even through so many well-laid defenses, the exhaustion and mental strain had begun to do their work on him. Fatigue became a constant torture. To keep his eyes open and on anything, let alone the bulbous, softly glowing scope before him, was next to impossible. But to take a stimulant, he knew, would be worse. He could ill afford to compound the demands on mind and body. Muscle tremors and adrenalin surges would make him useless if ever. . .WHEN he reached his target. Having no choice, he stayed where he was, his eyes fastened on the scope.

Being a thoroughly disciplined man, it was perhaps more difficult for him to deal with the violent, primal images and emotions that now thrashed about inside him. Visions of tearing Stone's throat out, and of sexual violence toward nameless, faceless women were particularly prevalent, but not nearly so painful as the occasional outbursts of groundless hatred toward his wife and son. He knew these for what they were, distorted by-products of the subconscious, and reminded himself as their intensity grew that they could not physically hurt him. But secretly he was upset, and wished they would go away.

Finally he had to make a decision. It was either rest his eyes and neck for a moment, possibly get up and stretch, or smash his fist against the screen. He stood up and put his hands together behind him, craning both neck and back, them pumped his ribs twice with his biceps. He sat back down after an elapse of two minutes and drank some water. Then returned to his vigil.

* * *

It was nearing 6:00 AM, United Commonwealth Earth time, 0600 by the military clock. On the dark side of Goethe there was no time, only the slow indifferent turning of the dark skied, sea-laden monster.

Hayes had decided to do the broadcast live. He sat before the tiny camera fixtures cool and alert, with a partial script before him. Added to the natural intensity of his features was the hard, predatory gleam that always rimmed his eyes before a battle. No matter that the rapid-black passage through the star gate, and the fighting sure to follow, would not occur until the next morning. He would not eat or sleep until then, concentrating all his energies and attention on the slightest details of preparation. By seven o'clock the next morning he would be transformed into the atavistic frame of mind where decisions were not tainted by conscience or emotion but were ruthless, correct in their unhesitating aggression, and sharp as razor steel. In battle as in life, he told himself, there was no substitute for hardness and sheer force of will. The subtle throb and hum of the giant ship felt strong and reassuring around him, as it headed toward the limits of the system.

The red light of the studio came on: twenty seconds. Ten. The man in the booth signaled him, and he began to speak.

"My fellow soldiers of the dauntless Third Fleet. We stand on the eve of a great battle. At stake is nothing less....."

Nine minutes later the first of the East German scat-ships came out of warp. In the five seconds allotted him, SubCaptain Hessler located the target, aimed and fired his missile, and broke off again into e-light. The automated batteries aboard the Dreadnought picked up and analyzed his presence, aimed a ruby laser and fired: too late. Also too late were the bursts it fired at the lightning-fast projectile, sent in a curved trajectory at its more vulnerable underside.

The neonuclear explosive hit home with a violence that even the emptiness of Space could not diffuse, penetrating seven of the Carrier's sixteen layered shields.

Within the ship there was a sudden, jarring concussion, and the corridors of every vessel inside it resounded with the drone of a battle-stations alert. For the briefest instant the lights of the studio went out; and when they returned Hayes saw that his speech was ruined. A pitcher of water had spilled across it, and the liquid inside blurred ink and paper together into an unrecognizable wrinkle of smeared sheaves. The man in the booth made a quizzical motion, in the form of a question drawing his finger across his throat. But Hayes shook him off angrily.

"All men to your posts," he barked gruffly. "Maybe now you'll see that this is no game." He himself hastened to the uppermost bridge, furious at this sneak attack, and even more at his own men for having allowed it to happen.

"Damage report!" he shouted, entering the circle of men and equipment that scrambled with sudden activity like an ant-hill beaten with a stick. "How many ships!"

"Damage report coming," said a voice, calm and professional.

"Just the one," came another.

"It only slowed to sub-light long enough to fire the projectile, then broke off again just as fast." This last belonged to Gen-Admiral Frank, commander of the Fleet.

"Why didn't the robot-guns get him?"

"They weren't set for full kill intercept. With so many Alliance ships in the vicinity, they had to analyze---"

"I hope you've corrected THAT blunder."

"Yes, General. And I've warned the Alliance pilots---"

"Tell those French faggots to stay the hell away from us." Hayes had taken to calling the Belgians 'French', and the Swiss 'Krauts'. "If they want to play soldier, let them do it somewhere else."

"Damage report," came the first voice.

"So what the hell are you waiting for?"

"Nothing, sir. Outer seven shield-projectors damaged but reparable. Several of the discharging chutes and one of the lower batteries out for twelve to twenty-four hours. No significant damage to interior vessel or launch ships."

At this Hayes grew calmer, mastered his wrath. NO SIGNIFICAN DAMAGE. Then perhaps it was for the best after all. . .so long as no more of them got through. And he liked the unruffled manner of the officer who had given him the report.

"Very well, Captain. Admiral Frank, have we got a fix on where he came from?" The Fleet Commander was immediately aware of the change in his superior's voice.

"Yes, General. It came from the direction of East German Cerberus. We've trained the First and Fourth Robot Artillery toward that vector, since it's unlikely they've had time....."

"Correct, Admiral. But see to it that the others aren't napping, either." THE JERRIES ARE NO FOOLS, THOUGH. THEY KNOW WE'RE COMING AFTER THEM. "Let's go up into the bubble for a moment, shall we? Gentlemen, keep us posted."

Entering the 'bubble' through the elevator, a small, Officers' Security Chamber at the top of the uppermost bridge, the Secretary turned to Frank, and unexpectedly put his arm around his smaller compatriot's shoulder. Though incapable of self-reproach, he knew he had been a bit hard on this man, whose loyalty he could ill afford to lose.

Confused at this sudden gesture, Frank tried to clarify his position with words. "I'm sorry, General. Not going into full Intercept was a stupid oversight. I'd just not had experience with this type of craft."

"No, Donald, that's all right. It's a sign of desperation on their part, turning to guerilla warfare so soon." He motioned the Admiral to a chair, remained standing himself. "It may even be to our advantage in the long run. Sometimes there's nothing better for a cocky fighter than to take a solid right to the jaw---let's him know he's in a real fight. Coffee?" Frank shook his head, and Hayes continued his oration.

"The upcoming battle isn't going to be as easy as the last one, though this time we'll be more experienced. Obviously word has leaked out that we plan to go after the D.G. Provinces. They can't know where we plan to hit them, of course (the last three digits of the attack coordinates were only now being relayed to the engineers at the Gate), but we could still run across the greater part of the Coalition forces before we're through. And who knows? It might not end there."

"What do you mean?" Frank's look was puzzled.

"I mean that Congress and the liberal press are giving Stone a tougher time on this than I first let on. He's got the authority and resources to supply the Third Fleet, but when the House will come around with full appropriations is another question."

"But surely after this attack the Soviets will intervene? Why. . .we can't take on Soviet Space with just the Third Fleet." For a moment Hayes stopped his pacing, and unconsciously ground his teeth. He did this with his back to the admiral, but realized that it might still look odd. He continued.

"All the same, I want to hold back as many of our ships as possible, keep losses to a minimum. And that means the launch-pilots, and our own gunners, are going to have to fight like hell."

Frank was silent. Hayes took a deep breath and half sighed. "Well, maybe we'll get reinforcements sooner. One battle at a time! For now we've got the best men, the best equipment, AND the best leadership." He winked with his eyelid only. "Well. Let's go back and see if the Germans have any more surprises for us."

The man rose, shook the hand Hayes offered, and both returned to the bridge.

"Got him, sir!" came a young voice, almost playful. "Knocked him out before he could fire; beat the damn computer, too." The man, facing the controls of Auxiliary Laser Deployment, had obviously not seen the two generals re-enter.

"And just exactly what have you GOT?" said Frank disparagingly. The soldier whirled in his chair, and for a moment his face registered alarm. But very quickly the look of boyish confidence returned.

"One of those German torpedo-ships, Admiral. Neutralized the missile, too."

"Correct sir," added the main gunnery officer. Frank started to say something, but Hayes lightly touched his arm.

"That's very good shooting, gunner. But what would have happened if another 'torpedo ship' came out of warp while you were celebrating? I assure you, you'll have no time for games tomorrow. And to be sure that I make my point, I'm going to assign you a quota. Knock out twelve more targets tomorrow, and you might even retain your present rank. Do I make myself quite clear?"

The young man looked confused, turned to the gunnery officer as for support. But aware of Frank's eyes upon him, this older man nodded sternly, and the gunner had no choice.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary." Angry, humiliated, he turned back to his station. I'LL GET MORE THAN TWELVE, YOU OVERSTUFFED SON OF A BITCH. Such were his thoughts all that morning, and the thoughts that carried over, and were turned to hatred in the midst of the next day's fighting.

Returning after a time to the Intercom Studio, Hayes addressed the assembly again, this time in different tone and with stronger words. And like pondering horses to the whip, they responded.

But not all of them alike.

*

Squadron-leader Heinrich Dorfman, in the last of three German ships to complete the mission, had held himself back on purpose, hoping to arrive last and unexpectedly---to do real, rather than symbolic damage. And when his lead signal bounced back to him the image of Goethe, still some distance away, along with the outward-bound trail of the supercarrier, he set his course. He did this carefully, staying just above tracking speed, in a wide arc, hoping to come upon the Dreadnought in a time and place not as thoroughly guarded.

And like the two younger pilots who had come so far, his mind had long since crossed the line of rational human endurance. Now, when he closed his eyes he saw the gray, rotted-meat faces of old men crawling with maggots. He saw random sexual parts horribly distorted: almost physical the effect of their ugliness upon him. His spirit had given up all hope of survival: strange voices. His tortured neck and back fused with the paroxysms of a migraine to form the single and inescapable sensation of concrete and iron, bent-forward pain. He felt he no longer had eyes, but that the image of the scope shot straight through the empty skull-sockets and into his brain. The last remnants of heart and courage despaired.

But now, on the verge of his thirtieth hour, with the target in reach, it was almost as though his mind were no longer attached to the body. Numb fatigue had shaken it off like the parting soul shakes off flesh. Nothing remained but his mission and his will.

He was ready. He would do it. He tried to rouse himself mentally for the last decisive seconds. He bean to slow out of light speed.

The time was now. Not too fast.....

:00- The ship in sight, minor adjustment. :01- Locked on. :02- Fire. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG? :03- Indicator light. PROJECTILE NON-FUNCTIONAL :04- DAMN IT! Manual disengage, back to--- :05- Warp. Robot batteries aboard Dreadnought destroy the cast-off projectile. Fan-burst of ruby lasers miss the second target, fire again.

:57- Dorfman breaks his hand against the ceiling of the inner hull. He had failed. "Damn it! GOD DAMN IT!"

21:12- The squadron leader slows his tiny ship and continues to steer toward the sun, Athena. Slowing further still, he places himself directly in line with sun and planet, close enough to Athena to distort tracking. Sends out his sounding beam.

34:29- Dorfman continues to wait for his signal to proceed him to Goethe. The time arrives. With the last of his e-light capacity and deep-space fuel, he fires toward the distant speck of blue-green ocean world.

49:50- The third echo of his signal tells him he is drawing near. Slows to sub-light and raises entry shields, makes other preparations to enter atmosphere.

1:13:30- Entry halfway competed: elevation 1200 Kilometers. The buffeting of atmosphere increases. Aware that he is being tracked and pursued by Alliance fighters, he makes jerking motions with the vessel, simulating (and nearly causing) atmospheric destruction.

1:31:37- Alliance fighters draw within firing range. Dorfman mimics a lifeless crash-landing into the dark, heaving waters. The pursuit ships hover for a time. Sixty foot waves show only scattered debris, no signs of life. They break off.

1:55:24- Czech submarin-guerilla vessel picks up coded recovery signal, makes toward the jettisoned escape pod, small and coffin-shaped.

3:27:02- Submarin vessel recovers German pilot, returns to a safer depth and slinks carefully back to guerilla base.

5:56:00- A large underwater door, thoroughly camouflaged, opens in the root of tower-like Manta Island. Vessel enters, continues forward, then slowly rises to the surface of a vast, underground hollow. Heinrich Dorfman begins his exile, which will last until the end of the war.

* * *

At 1440 hours, a bay door was opened aboard the Dreadnought, and a small speed-shuttle emerged. Major Janson brought her to a safe distance from the mother ship, double-checked coordinates, and took a deep breath. Slowly he engaged the main engines, preparing for light-speed.

"God help us..... At least I'll get to see Jenny and the kids."

He achieved the necessary momentum, switched on to full power, and turned the controls over to the computer. Seven minutes later the bomb detonated, and the ship burst into a thousand fragments.

His Christian God did nothing to save him.

......................................................................

V

At 0700 the following day the Dreadnought approached the Star Gate, whose hexagonal frame gleamed coldly among the stars like the blue-black barrel of a gun, surrounded by the vessels of its makers.

Linear skeletons, huge anti-matter projectors lay dormant within, their task completed. A soft-glistening sheet of silver, like a fine spray of undulating mist, shrouded the multiplied blackness beyond. This protective film began to grow vague as the rounded monolith of the Carrier, here and there ribbed or jagged, continued to advance patiently, with measured speed.

This silent Gate to Cerberus, newest tool of Armageddon, like those before it showed not the slightest emotion at its use, only cold, mechanical efficiency. The curving prow of Dreadnought, insane metallic smile, pushed forward at the mark, and was wrapped in a clear sheen of brilliance.

To a suddenly humbled engineering vessel that viewed this passage from the side (though itself a work of successive human genius), it appeared indeed a magician's trick: the monstrous vessel was reduced by small fractions. Length was seduced, and did not reappear. And then the thrusting phallus was gone. The framework was all that remained.

Aboard the carrier the rush of scintillating motion had begun. Even those crews aboard ships within the great ship, their minds bent forward in preparation for combat, could feel the sudden thrill of weightless, bodiless movement, and taste the ghoulish hum that began at low, convulsive pitch, then rose through noteless octaves, whirling, then whining high and unbearable, then gone beyond the range of hearing.

Aboard the vessel only Hayes seemed unmoved by the lightless passage, like falling down a colossal well to the heart of a venomous, robotoid planet. All ship's power was lost, and in that phantom black those who did not already grip at chair and support-beam bent to their knees as if in prayer for deliverance.

But not Hayes. In his mind, he descended into Hell like the crucified Christ, whose lanced breast had flowed blood and water of forgiveness. Except that Hayes did not forgive. For soon he would rise again, invincible.

True to the hollow-world metaphor, the ship, upon reaching the center of its plunge, passed through and slowed gradually, and sensation became more bearable. The witch-sound returned with its screeching whine; but soon the worst was passed. And like the short-lived fright of the daring child, who has pumped and pulled the playground swing to its highest arc and is suddenly weightless, cast loose from the normal laws of earth, feels a moment's fear, but then with the rush of downward motion again feels himself a conqueror, who has faced the darkness unafraid, so the men of the Third Fleet, once more surviving the nightmare world, felt themselves strong and hard, little boys afraid of nothing, marching boldly toward their moment of destiny and schoolyard fight.

And all at once their power returned. On the re-lighted bridge men quickly assumed martial attitudes, and those whose functions allowed it watched the screens. Another silvery sheet appeared before them.

Soon this, too, was parted. Stars returned to the sky, along with the gold-orangish hue of a nearby planet. And behind and to one side of them, though still far off, a detachment of the Coalition Fleet whirled about and began to pursue. From the orbit of the planet as well, rose a small and desperate defense.

Hayes' voice boomed on the intercom, superceding sectarian commanders. "All vessels prepare to attack. Chutes one through twelve lower and discharge. Enemy at five o'clock, bearing 3 - 4 Mark. Outward batteries key on planetary forces. Give 'em hell boys; this one's for real!"

Within minutes over two hundred fighters, cruisers and destroyers had emerged from the death-womb of the Carrier, formed into squadrons and flotillas, turned to face the enemy and begun to move forward. That number again, including the four titanic battleships, were held in reserve.

The straggle of fighters and destroyers from the planet's last line of defense the launched ships ignored altogether, these being handled easily by the multitude of blazing turrets aboard the Dreadnought. One or two handfuls managed to elude fire long enough to harry the rear of the advancing ranks; but these were little more than beetles biting at the legs of wolves. A single heavy cruiser would turn its guns in their direction, and end forever the one-sided argument.

The ships that advanced to meet them were more formidable. Suspecting a move of this kind (but needing to suspect a dozen other possibilities as well), the Coalition had detached eighty vessels, nearly a quarter of its strength, to patrol the area, and defend Friedrich Schiller, the beloved and irreplaceable East German home planet. And when the time came, though sleep had been scarce and tension high, they were ready to fight. Consisting mainly of German forces, they needed no high-sounding words to give blood in defense of their homeland.

In open Space battles of this kind, where there was no constricting lattice of energy fields to hinder movement (as at the Battle of Athena), the aggressor held the decided advantage. For here there was no barricades or tactically advantageous points, only a three dimensional sea of emptiness in all directions, here and there pricked by planet islands, themselves destructible and a hindrance to mobility. For this reason both sides had attempted to charge, and the resulting collision of forces at once split the conflagration into a dissipated struggle without borders, boundaries or points of reference.

And for the Coalition pilots and vessel commanders, this proved to be fatal. Outnumbered nearly three to one by more modern, swifter craft, needing to be watchful of every quarter at once, aware that soon the Dreadnought would add its considerable firepower to the fray, and thus needing an early knockout. . .it was impossible. They fought with courage and intensity, but so did the Americans. And though they knew it was no game (some of the Americans did also), and though they fought for home and family, this could not make them react quicker or shoot straighter than their more youthful counterparts, whose duel ambition---to stay alive and cover themselves with glory---combined with simply better equipment to give them the clear and early upper hand.

There would be no repeat of the Battle of Britain.

After ninety minutes of butchery, the bravest socialist pilots had had enough. Those who could, turned and fled into warp. Those who could not, were cut to pieces by the Dreadnought.

There were no prisoners taken.

*

While at the conclusion of this skirmish some faces among the ranks of the Commonwealth force beamed with confidence and victory, Hayes' was not one of them. He allowed his men roughly three minutes to exchange war hoops and congratulations, then ordered his next deployment. And he ordered his new Communications Officer, stationed on the bridge, to make contact with Schiller, which now lay exposed.

At first the planet refused to acknowledge the attempt, feigning interference. It was obvious they were trying to buy time. But when the Dreadnought, which continued to advance, began to lower its four great battleships, and Hayes, on an uncoded channel ordered them, once deployed, to take up pseudo-orbital positions around it and begin planetary destruct sequence, the East German leadership dropped its futile ploy. On the large central screen of the bridge, the erect figure of the Prime Minister appeared, seated at the head of a long table surrounded by military advisors. His face was gray and stern. Though his English was good, he chose for the moment to make it harsh and clipped.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary."

"Good morning, Schultz. I won't banter. I want your planetary shields lowered, and your orbiting Artillery Stations---yes, I know about them---silenced and evacuated. They will be destroyed in one hour's time. Also, I want you to relay my signal to General Itjes."

"First let me be sure I understand you. Are you offering terms for our surrender?"

"I'm doing nothing of the kind and you know it. Your planet and your people are, for the moment, my hostage. I will reestablish contact in one hour and ten minutes. At that time I will expect a patch-through to Itjes. In the meantime my ships will continue to take up positions around you. If they are fired upon, even once, I'll turn the battleships loose on the cities." He signaled his Com Officer to end the transmission.

The Third Fleet, three quarters of which was now discharged from the carrier, began to form up into fully operational task forces, each with a battleship in its center, and to move into place in a wide belt encircling the planet, then turned facing outward like a bristle of spears. Or more aptly, since the guns of the battleships faced inward as well, like a crown of thorns.

Hayes' plan was cruelly simple: to put a gun to the head of Schiller, and force General Itjes and the remainder of the Coalition fleet into a fight they couldn't win. His deepest concern was for the passage of time, which might bring enemies and forces unlooked-for. By recent intelligence the nearest significant Soviet presence was at least a week distant. But how many of the smaller nations of the Coalition might be willing to risk their own national forces, it was impossible to say. But here Hayes held to the confidence of the bully, believing that each would be more concerned with their own personal survival, and thus bring them all into peril.

The allotted time passed. The task forces stood at the ready. Itjes continued to move swiftly toward the system, and the entire planet scrambled into plans of evacuation that few had believed would ever be used.

And when they received news of the plight of fully half their space-bound population, and of their dearest home save earth, the East German forces of other Coalition patrols, near and far, with leave or without it, broke off and began to converge on Schiller. Were it not for the time factor ---the majority of these would not arrive (or even receive the message) for days---Hayes might have had a problem.

And even in the coming duel with Itjes' divided force, the scales might have been more evenly balanced, but for the simple disparity in the weapons-systems of a wealthy superpower, and those of a group of nations which had to live, buy, and protect within their means. The four Commonwealth battleships were of a class possessed by only three Powers in the galaxy---themselves, the Soviet Space Republics (which didn't deal them out), and the German States, who had no apparent love for their sundered countrymen. Also added to the equation:

The two remaining Coalition carriers, ten years old and of a lesser Soviet series, could fit together inside the Dreadnought, and had not one-third the long-range firepower. Neither was capable of extended warp; and needless to say, they had no star gate, and thus no surprise capability. They were built for defense, and the Coalition defenses had been breached. How Hayes (or anyone else) could take pleasure in the prospect of a battle at such clearly unequal odds, remained a mystery.

He was connected to Helmut Itjes.

"Yes, General Hayes. You have our people by the throat; what do you want?" Itjes had lived too long.....

At this point Hayes blanked out his own visual transmission. He then wrote out his replies on paper, to be read by the Communications Officer. He was going to leave the enemy no proof of the conversation about to follow. A short pause, then the young man read:

"I want you, General Itjes. If the First Combat Fleet will engage us, to the death, the civilians may go free---afterwards."

"And if we refuse?"

"I will blanket the planet with microwaves. It would be a shame to destroy. . .such beautiful architecture."

"What kind of animal are you?" snapped Itjes. He now saw, beyond all doubt, that he was dealing with a madman. The written notes, read by a young voice without malice or understanding, had sent a chill straight through him. They reminded him strangely, uncannily, of the techniques employed by Adolph Eichmann and the Hitler S.S.

... "The one who's going to see you in Hell."

"I will attack when the Dresden detachment joins us. Then God HELP you."

"You have twelve hours, Helmut."

"My name is ITJES!"

The screen went blank.

* * *

The Coalition First Combat Fleet, both detachments, stood fast at a safe distance from the hornet's nest that surrounded Schiller, and formed into a single front to face them.

Itjes stood among his officers and technicians on the bridge of the carrier 'Smolensk', staring at the blank communications screen. Five minutes before he had told Hayes flatly that there would be no engagement without his recordable promise---both visual and vocal---of the free evacuation of the planet, regardless of the outcome of the battle. This helpless waiting, for a reply so paramount, and yet so utterly beyond his control, was an agony of the human spirit.

The request was perfectly reasonable, and Hayes had every intention of granting it. He merely wanted the extra time to study his opponent's weaponry and deployment. There was something to be learned even from the loser of a given confrontation, and Itjes had the reputation of being a tough and resourceful foe. So he watched, and made mental notes: two-hundred and sixty lesser craft against his three-hundred deployed, and the superior guns of the Dreadnought. This should teach his boys to fight.

The Commonwealth forces began to move forward. Hayes appeared on the screen, flanked by Admiral Frank. "You have your promise, General. Win or lose, utterly, and the population goes free."

Utterly.

Itjes bit his lip till it bled, ordered his forces to attack.

*

The main battle went much the same as the skirmish which had preceded it. The Coalition's flyers were, on the whole more experienced, more disciplined, in some ways better trained; and for a time they did fairly well. They kept their forces together, found cracks in the fences of their enemies, and were able to weed out and destroy the greener of the American combatants.

But soon the blows were raining hard and heavy upon them, and coming from every direction at once. Squadrons and formations were broken up, strategies broken down. And after a time, good and lesser soldiers alike, veterans and younger men, husbands, heroes and cowards, were killed by shots that did not discriminate. No magical God-force protected the just and perseverant; no hand of Providence reached down. Men and women died, adding their silent numbers to the ancient mass of corpses piled in an endless grave in the name of War, because men had not yet learned that name was foul.

The Coalition forces kept fighting for five hours, fighting and dying, waiting for an order to retreat that never came, fighting and dying and waiting for an order to retreat that never came, then a surrender that never came, fighting and dying and waiting for an order to retreat and then a surrender, and an end to the carnage that never came, fighting and dying and waiting for an order to retreat and then a surrender and an end to the carnage, and some kind of sanity that never came, fighting and dying and waiting for an order to retreat and then a surrender and some kind of sanity, then simple deliverance, that never came---except in death.

The Commonwealth lost eighty ships, mostly fighters and destroyers, in annihilating the entire Coalition Fleet. Ten hours later the last evacuation vessels left the planet, though many inhabitants remained behind of their own volition. The four Battleships took up their equidistant points about the equator of the Friedrich Schiller, firing a long and continuous heat and shock laser burst into its core. The planet's surface writhed and convulsed with earthquakes and eruptions for perhaps two hours, till the outer crust was broken into crumbling islands in a molten sea, and what was left of the face fell apart. The Battleships ceased their barrage, leaving it to die its final death of fire, lava and smoke. The Secretary chose to leave it thus, rather than blow it apart, to further anger the Soviets and goad them into reprisals. That such a decision might have other consequences he knew, but at that moment his mind was driven by a single impulse only. He wanted, with all his soul, a full-scale World War.

Several hours later in prearranged rendezvous, the Third Fleet's engineering vessels followed the earlier course of the Dreadnought through the star gate. Immediately upon arrival (and finding that things had gone their way), they turned about and began to construct a second entrance, leading back the way they had come. Since the corridor itself was already in existence, needing only a return inlet, this took less than forty-eight hours. Then, all Commonwealth vessels tucked up safe inside the mother, the Third Fleet returned to the limits of the Athena system, destroying the further gate, dismantling the nearer, behind them. The Dreadnought then proceeded, at just above tracking speed, to a new and untraceable location.

Hayes had won again.

VI

News of the Battle of Schiller did not reach Earth (those portions controlled by the United Commonwealth) until July 3, one week after the fact, and one day before the annual celebration of the nation's Independence. The President received from Hayes at that time a three line, uncoded message:

THE COALITION FIRST COMBAT FLEET IS NEUTRALIZED AND THE PLANET SCHILLER DESTROYED. THE PUPPET GOVERMENTS OF THE POST-EUROPEAN COMMUNIST PACT ARE COWED AND IN DISARRAY. WE HAVE DEALT ANOTHER SERIOUS BLOW TO SOVIET HOPES OF EXPANSIONISM.

In the same pouch came Admiral Frank's report to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, giving a detailed account of the battle, and of the performance of the Third Fleet. For the first time a list of casualties was included.

The third item contained within the high-speed bullet-pouch, was a carefully edited audio-visual program intended for consumption by the public and the press. This two-hour propaganda masterpiece consisted of selected scenes from the confrontation, a supposed eyewitness account of East German atrocities, and a visual 'letter' from a young Texas pilot to his wife and baby son. Sitting on his bunk aboard the Dreadnought, his handsome face, drawling voice and simple, straightforward manner were an enchantment of rugged innocence and male American charm.

*

"Donna, Jimmy. I just wanted to tell you that I love you and I miss you, and I think of you every day. I also wanted you to know that I believe in what we're fighting for way out here, and that someday I hope to make you as proud of me, as I am proud to be a part of this great cause.

"Because ya know, truth and freedom may sound like just words, to some folks who don't appreciate what they have, or don't feel the emptiness and suffering of those forced to live without them. But being out here, and seeing what I've seen, you come to realize that not everyone's as lucky as we are in America. You learn that there are governments who so fear God's truth, that they'll subject their own brothers to a police-state existence, just to insure that the Christian message of freedom and hope is never heard.

"Now I'm not pretending to know everything there is to know about life or politics, and it's a terrible tragedy to have to go to war just to give back to people rights and dignities that never should have been taken away from them. And I won't lie to you, Donna. Despite the advantages God's given us, in weaponry and leadership, I may be hurt, or even killed, before the fighting is over.

"But if that's so then I'll die proud, knowing that I served my country as well as any man could, whether some faint-hearted politicians in Washington stood behind me or not. And Jimmy, if something should happen and you have to grow up without a papa, I can only hope that someday, God willing, you'll have the same chance that I do now, to fly and fight for the greatest nation in the galaxy, the United Commonwealth of America.

"Well, I guess that's all for now. Give my love to Mama, and God bless."

This bullet-pouch was not, however, the first word that Stone had heard of the massacre. The day before he had received a tele-communication from Soviet Premier Denisov, short and to the point.

"Mr. President. Is it war you want?"

At this point Stone motioned in his Vice-President, Jordan Plant, who was standing by the door. The visual screens of both powers remained blank.

"No, Premier Denisov. That's the last thing I want."

"Then why does your Secretary of State continue to murder in your name? I am sure you have heard what happened in East German Cerberus?"

Stone turned a helpless look toward Plant, who first lifted his hands (he didn't know), then moved closer and whispered in his ear: "Whatever Hayes has done, now more than ever we have to tell him."

Stone took a deep breath.

"Secretary Hayes is no longer acting under my orders. And I did not order the attack on Athena."

There was no pause on the part of Denisov. "Now you must tell me something I do not already know. But I ask you plainly, Mr. Stone. What do you plan to do about it?"

Plant quickly wrote a reply on his note-board and handed it to the president, who read it with all the gravity he could muster.

"I have not yet given up hope that General Hayes can be peacefully dissuaded from his present course. But be assured, one way or the other, he will be brought to justice."

"And let me assure YOU, Mr. President, that our patience is at an end. You have thirteen days to return me a better answer, or the Soviet Space Republics will deal with the Third Fleet ourselves."

Stone paused, but the words were his own. "You know I can't let you do that."

Whether these last words were heard or not, there was no reply. The channel was closed. Luther Bacon, White House Chief-of-Staff, was then brought in and apprised of the situation.

The next day, after receiving Hayes' bullet and trying (unsuccessfully) to keep its contents from the press, the three held their council. Bacon paced thoughtfully. Plant, seated, touched his fingertips lightly together while Stone, disconsolate, felt the walls crumbling around him. Half an hour before, despite all their efforts, he had received a phone call from a member of the New York Press Corps friendly to the administration, informing him that a duplicate pouch had been received by its members, and that the news was spreading like wildfire.

Finally the President exploded. "What are we going to DO? We have less than two weeks to answer the Russians, and it will take nearly that long to send and receive one more message from Hayes."

"Quite right," said Plant, the unspoken leader of the three. "Luther, if you'll come with me to my office, we'll begin work on our reply to General Hayes. I'm afraid it's time to take strong measures against him."

"That son of a bitch!" fumed Stone, hurling a vase at the wall. "That son of a BITCH."

"That won't help this time," said Bacon. "Believe me."

"Gentlemen," said Plant seriously. "I suggest we get to work. Try to calm yourself, Edgar. We'll meet here again in an hour's time."

When the two men returned to the Oval Office with the drafted document, they found Stone in an attitude of despair. He listened blankly as Bacon read the finished product, signed it where and when he was asked.

"Just words," he said listlessly. "Like all the words I've been spouting for twenty years, they don't mean a thing. Hayes does his talking with a gun, and soon Denisov will do the same. What now, Jordan? What of the Joint Chiefs---will they betray us, too?"

"I don't know," said Plant levelly. "But as to your first question, I'd say we have to send our communication to the Secretary, then prepare a full statement to the press. We've got to get this thing out in the open. We've got to tell the truth, then let the people decide."

"Of course you're right." Stone paused, then said simply. "Should I resign, Jordan? You're much more qualified to handle this---"

Plant stood up and waved his hands in desperate denial. For though his life's whole ambition could there be suddenly realized, he saw in the sharp clarity of his mind, heightened and given truer perspective by the crisis which hung thick all around them, that it would be wrong, and possibly disastrous, to assume the Presidency now. And though much that was good in him lay fallen by the way, discarded and forgotten among the endless compromises needed to keep him on the road to his one desire, he too had a line he would not cross.

TOO MANY FAIRY TALES AS A CHILD, he told himself. But once made, his decision was final. He could not sell all that he was, for any price.

"No, Edgar. Don't resign. The last thing we need now is added instability. We may find ourselves in the midst of a Constitutional crisis soon..... Don't you see?" He felt a strange passion rising inside him. "It's not just you or I that are under attack, but the whole system. The work of Jefferson and Adams, and so many others, is receiving probably the toughest challenge it's ever faced. But it's never cracked before, and believe me, there've been plenty of chances. You," he said slowly, emphatically, "are the duly elected President of the United Commonwealth. Hayes is no more than a crazed demagogue with a gun. We've got to hold on to that. We've got to hold on....."

And then suddenly, incredulously, he laughed. And in that momentary freeing of the heart, so long caged and disciplined toward a single end, he felt a childish joy, and release so pure that warm tears started at his eyes. Stone looked at him, bewildered.

"Don't you see it, Edgar? Don't you really? The only difference between us is that you never let yourself play the hero in schoolyard games, thinking you weren't good enough, or just being bitter about your father, or some other damned thing. You're no worse than I am, believe me." Slowly he mastered his mirth, though the feeling of defiant freedom lingered. "We're neither one of us heroes, my friend; but it seems we're all we've got. You need more illusions, Edgar---they keep you longer from the void. Try on the mask of virtue next. It may save our asses yet."

"But what about the Soviets? What can we possibly do in thirteen days?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Or find it washed out."

"Maybe. But for now we've got to deal with Hayes. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'"

Stone thought for a moment. "Who said that, Jordan?"

"Jesus Christ."

"I didn't know you were a believer."

"I'm not."

The three summoned in Press Secretary Miller, who could no longer be fed bits and pieces of the truth. Robert Weiss, Stone's other top adviser (and firmly in General Hayes' camp) continued to demand to see the President. Bacon continued to deny the request.

The message was sent to Hayes, who now made no secret of his whereabouts: ten days from the limits of Soviet Space. Unreachable by stealth, yet tantalizingly close.

The pieces continued to move across the board. The middle-game, which wasn't a game at all, had begun.

VII

The trouble and damage caused by the rift within the Commonwealth, and the subsequent break in relations with Moscow, were in no way limited to the lesser and intermediate socialist powers that came under Soviet influence, nor did they wholly end with the eventual cessations of those hostilities.

The growing instability of a dozen far-reaching theatres, had first cautiously, and then more freely, burst into expansionist violence. It was almost as if the perpetrators of these lesser conflicts had simultaneously realized that Law along the frontiers was diminished, and waited only long enough to be sure they were not caught alone in the looting and thievery. And a riot, once begun, is very difficult to bring under control.

Choose a metaphor. The Marshall of an Old West mining community gunned down, and the town taken over by outlaws. The blackout of a large metropolis, with bands of looters roaming the streets. The sudden collapse of an Empire, or the death of an heirless king. By any name the resulting darkness, the anarchy of violence, remained the same. With this exception only. The Law was not wholly diminished, as two of the four Superpowers remained largely unaffected. And the chief pirateers were now nations, and there were, therefore, (supposedly) higher motives, and diplomatic niceties involved.

Because respectable governments, if they want to stay in power, don't call themselves outlaws; and to their collective mind the words 'occupation' and 'theft', 'war' and 'murder', are not interchangeable. Though the difference might have been hard to explain to those on the wrong side of the gun.

That the Belgians and Swiss struck again, and first, was perhaps not surprising. That the Arabs and Israelis had yet one more go at each other, perhaps little more so. That the German States continued to sell arms to nearly anyone with the money to buy---they had taken that job over from the Americans and Soviets---was, after all, only to be expected. And if the Dutch lost nearly all they had in the outlying sectors, bitter and friendless but for help from Sweden which arrived too late, it was not, to some, considered a lasting tragedy.

In fact it was quite extraordinary how the moral judgments of those not directly involved (and not wanting trouble themselves) were able to bend to accommodate the bloodshed all around them. Not that some didn't mourn, and all weren't scared and angry. But at such times the Neville Chamberlains and Arthur Vandenberg's of the world are always found in great abundance; and when was the last time YOU tried to break up a fight while others watched, or came to the aid of a lesser acquaintance clearly wronged?

Man's new life among the cold, distant stars, whatever other effects it might have had upon humanity, had not, as the romantic had hoped at the dawn of the Space Age, brought people closer together, or taught us once and for all the need for brotherhood, peace, and mutual understanding. For human nature is nothing if not stubborn, and where there is a will to be ignorant, somehow a way will be found.

Like a tiny blaze of ignorance, prejudice and Fear: fanned by the wind, the fire had spread.

VIII

Edgar Stone strode down the aisle of the House of Representatives, the papers of the speech rolled into a tight scroll in his hand. The applause customary at such an entrance struck him now as feeble, and utterly beside the point.

He was not the only one to feel this. There was an odd note of hollowness and uncertainty in the sound, and those who clapped could not have said themselves why they did so. Had Stone come to ask for a Declaration of War? Against whom? What was the meaning of this gathering, with legislators of both House and Senate alike standing tense and erect, and cameras poking this way and that? The very wood of that chamber seemed suddenly old and darkling, and in the air a thick tension brooded like the coming of a storm. All talk and speculation lay dead and in the past. The gathering was seated with a rustling sound that echoed dully and impatiently.

Stone reached the podium and paused, looking frightened. Surely the pretense of enlightenment and self-importance in which he characteristically wrapped his 'fellow Americans' would ring false in those halls, sullen and filled with ghosts.

He laid down his papers, despairing to speak. Never before had he felt himself so plainly laid out on the surgeon's table, under the unblinking eye of the camera, waiting for the knife. He wrestled back the lump in his throat. He spoke.

"'You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.' These words were spoken long ago by the man whom many of us profess to be the Son of God. His ideals were ever kept in the minds of those who shaped this nation, who lived and died---" He nearly sobbed, though he could not have said why. "Who fought for this country in its darkest hours..... It is in His name that we are now asked to go to war." His voice grew stronger, though again he could not have said why.

"And yet this same truth He spoke of, and that many so-called patriots now trumpet so loudly, has been denied us, buried beneath a flood of half-truths and propaganda. You..... WE have been deceived, and made to commit murder in the name of the things we hold most dear."

A murmur of astonishment ran through the crowd, and those who watched from every corner of the Commonwealth, whether live or distance delayed, felt strange and conflicting emotions stir inside them.

"This very night, July 15, the time of our self-deception, our imagined safety, is over. A dreadful choice lies before us." Again the murmur started, but Stone cut it short, fearing at any moment to lose his courage.

"The Secretary of State of the United Commonwealth, Charles William Hayes, has attempted to blackmail his President, and force us all into a war that can only result in the loss of millions of lives, if not the utter collapse of galactic civilization as we know it." He forced himself to go on. "And there are some within the military establishment. . .within this very room, who may stand behind him in the attempt.....

"I did not order the attack on Athena. I did not authorize, and flatly condemn, the ruthless slaughter at the Battle of Schiller."

At this point Stone grew angry, and felt a deep swelling of the heart that astonished him: the throb of genuine righteousness. Or so it seemed to him then. He glared at the assembly, placed his hands firmly on the lip of the podium, and continued in a voice he could hardly believe was his own.

"This - is - the UNITED COMMONWEALTH OF AMERICA, created by some of the ablest minds in history, founded in courage, and dedicated to the dream of freedom for ALL. This - is - MY HOME! This is NOT Nazi Germany. And so help me God, I will not let it become a slaughter-house for the obsessions of a madman! This is not a nation run by generals, or ruled at the point of a gun." He realized he had strayed from the speech, and he felt himself waver. But stubbornly he pushed on.

"The Constitution established three branches of government, to insure a system of check and balances: to insure that no man, or group of men, became so powerful as to override all others, and manipulate or destroy the common decency of the people.

"And yet FORMER General Hayes would change all that, to say that if the President was not to his liking, or the Congress would not give him what he wanted, he could break away, and make war on his own. He has done it. And to be sure that we will follow him, he has struck the Soviets across the face, and challenged them to a duel to the death.

"Even now I cannot tell you how events will turn....." He paused, looked down at the speech before him. Ten pages at least remained. But his passion and energies were spent. He wondered then briefly if he had done the right thing. He told himself the question was irrelevant: he had done all he could.

"My Vice President will now tell you the details, and how we plan to deal with this crisis." He stepped down, and strode out of the silent room.

Plant, stunned but not yet daunted, stepped down from his seat beside the Speaker of the House, and took up the papers left for him. Omitting the passages and emotional phrases now rendered superfluous by Stone's barrage, he read evenly, and after a time, calmly and clearly. He relayed the pertinent facts behind the rift, including, in full, the letters of Hayes to the President. He also spoke, as dispassionately as he could, of the threat of war with the Soviets, hoping this added danger would not tip the scales against them. He concluded with the following:

"It seems to me that the last line of our National Anthem is especially relevant now. For its undying question, asks not only IF we stand, but how we stand, and why. To that we MUST answer yes: our flag still waves, over the land of the FREE, and the home of the BRAVE. And not just brave enough to die in a war that accomplishes nothing, but to face up to our mistakes, and put an end to the bloodshed that neither side wants. We must have the courage to cast aside folly and reckless pride, and say NO to a would-be dictator, who would leave us no such choice.

"As of this moment, and by direct order of the President and Commander-in-Chief, Charles William Hayes is no longer Secretary of State. He is no longer a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, nor a ranking member of the military establishment. He is hereby ordered to return at once with the forces he has commandeered; and any who choose to further defy the Constitution of the United Commonwealth, Mr. Hayes included, will be brought to trial for treason."

Here he felt the same trepidation that Stone had experienced. Had they gone too far? Or would this forced reasoning break through?

"We regret the necessity for this order, and that we have not been able to be more forthcoming until now. But quite obviously, matters of the gravest national security are involved. We must deal with former Secretary Hayes at once, then turn our attention to Moscow. We will continue to seek a peaceful means of ending both disputes. But let no one doubt our resolve.

"May God be with us in this just endeavor. Thank you."

Plant left the chamber, to the same, deafening silence.

IX

On the morning of the day after, Stone, Plant and Bacon sat at a curved table facing a viewscreen connected by direct phone-link to the Kremlin. For their own part they sent a visual projection. After exchanging terse formalities, Denisov did the same. His square face with its black hair and thick eyebrows appeared, the dark clear eyes beneath, scrutinizing each face carefully. On one side of him sat the Chairman of the Presidium, on the other, the Minister of Defense. Denisov did not wait to be asked.

"A pretty speech, to be sure, and an eloquent letter to our ambassador in Washington. It is too bad that General Hayes will never hear of it. He might have made an even prettier speech in return."

"And why shouldn't he hear of it?" asked Stone, unwisely. "The broadcast and letter of dismissal have been relayed to him."

"Mr. President. You have your Star Gate, for now, but it seems that your communications networks are grossly inferior to our own. Or perhaps your intelligence services have wavered in their loyalties, and are no longer reliable. The Third Fleet has not been at its last stated position for days." At this Stone shot a quick glance at Plant, who remained impassive. "Your bird has flown the cage. Can you promise me it will not land again to our detriment?"

The President scowled and would have switched off the visual, but Plant put a hand to his wrist. His manner was calm and unruffled.

"Premier Denisov. You are known as a man of many facets, and once again you hide your true intentions. That Hayes has gone is neither surprising, nor wholly unexpected. But you play a dangerous game when you speak of military capabilities, and imagined weaknesses. I cannot believe that you really want a full-scale confrontation. You know as well as I do, such a war would be disastrous to us both."

Now it was Denisov who scowled, and began to speak roughly. But Plant interrupted him firmly.

"Let's cut to the chase. You want to turn the current instability to your own advantage. You want to seize new territories. But before you do, I'd advise you to look at the larger picture. Hayes is out of control, and until we stop him, millions of innocents are in peril. You have your interests and we have ours; but I cannot believe so many human lives do not concern you. I'm asking you to put aside our differences, and help us make things right again. Help us bring Hayes to justice, peacefully, and with a minimum of bloodshed."

"Help you?" scoffed Denisov. "Help YOU? We could have put an end to this nonsense before it began! Or have you forgotten the Cantons, the little play-toy Nazis who started it all? You made another pretty speech then, about non-interference, and the self-determination of free peoples. And yet again when the Belgians and Swiss openly declared themselves. We could have crushed them like the pitiful insects they are! But again you tied our hands. You may take little pleasure in the fact, but whatever our dealings with you, one more attack from that quarter and we will end their puny noise forever. Help YOU!"

Plant stuck to his guns, though with difficulty. How did one dispute facts that were essentially correct, however twisted for personal gain?

"NONE of this, Premier Denisov, NONE of it, is relevant now. We have admitted our mistakes, and extended to you the hand of reconciliation. Do you take it? Make your purpose clear."

"Very well, Mr. VICE-president. I will tell you exactly where the peoples of the Soviet Space Republics stand." He paused, as if calling to mind a prepared speech.

"We are not yet at full-scale war with you. But we have no intention of letting Hayes run loose, or of having our hands tied anywhere in the galaxy, in dealing with the crisis as we see fit. And should we encounter ANY hostile force within Soviet space or that of our allies, we shall deal with them as declared enemies. If you should reach the Third Fleet before us, and bring it under your firm control, so be it. But if we come upon Hayes first we will not be gentle, or stop to negotiate.

"As a further sign of our firm resolve in this matter, we are recalling our ambassador from Washington and breaking off formal relations with you. If you have anything to say to us in future, that is worth hearing, you may reach me directly, here. That is all."

The screen went blank. The transmission ended. Stone, Plant and Bacon were silent.

*

The following day Stone met with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and had them each swear a further oath of allegiance to him, their Commander-in-Chief, to serve no other, and to have no secret dealings with Hayes. He then appointed new heads of the Army and Space Navy, and those who would not submit were dismissed.

There was angry shouting, and much hard feeling, but no violence in the transition.

X

Isograph: 7/20 to 12/30

Not on the socialist and pioneer alone did the hammer-stroke fall. Nor was the sword always wielded by those without a cause, to the detriment of the noble and just. This struggle, this convulsion of wills, was a human reality, and therefore complex.

Like and yet unlike so many wars before it, this conflict, neither large nor glorious, was fought on a myriad of battlefields, where reasons were often lost, and morals obscured. The constraints of civilization had been removed, freeing men, both good and evil, to commune once more with their darker nature. That was all. And that was more than enough.

There was but a single unifying link among the sprawl of planets and peoples caught up, involved, willingly or not, in this unraveling: all those who transgressed were filled with the desire to take, at the expense and death of others, and those who were transgressed upon, fought with all they had not to yield up the pebbles of home, seeds of family, and grains of meaning they had found. And whether right or wrong, wise, brave or foolish, they bled.

Part, the First

The breast of woman is the very temple of Nature Transporting the mind and body of Man To other places, Other times, where beings struggled In endless rhythm with the forces that seek to drag us back to earth. Mystical, beautiful, oh Woman You are the crown of creation: The pure and holy vessel of new life. Oh, glory of this world Keep me forever young!

---unnamed Irish poet

The Irish planet-colony of New Belfast was rich and fertile. The air was infinitely breathable and sustaining, the vegetation lush, with roots that went deep into the ground. It was a land and sea that men could be proud to die for, a place where family could mean something, and women grow old without feeling lost. To watch a young maid walk here among the fields, to see the depths in her eyes that reflected the melancholy of her soul, and hear the Gaelic accent touch lightly on the stones of moss-covered walls, was to know that God gave love to Man. Life flowed in its every vein, and the minor modes of Baroque ballads seemed to form a living chain to many pasts.

It was also a place coveted by the French Elite, who knew all that the Irish knew of love and land and harvest, but knew it better, and therefore contrived to take from these coarse, uncultured folk what could more fruitfully be employed by themselves.

And so a siege was laid, in which the Free French took no part, and even loudly decried. But due to a peculiar Dual Constitution enacted late in the twenty-first century---at which time the French, desiring to show their independence, frank difference, and superiority to the rest of the world, had created a political structure wholly new and untried---their approval was not needed for a military venture utilizing French Elite forces.

New Belfast was surrounded and cut off. And as the Irish had only one other major holding, the green homeland of Earth, and few outposts close at hand, it was unlikely that sufficient help would arrive before the colonists were overthrown and new, foreign defenses erected---new, foreign erections defended.

And United Ireland* as well, for reasons no foreigner could quite comprehend, had established few ties or alliances with the vast expanse beyond its islands, except for a continuing dialogue with their many descendants living in the Commonwealth, which they had always, until now, considered protection enough.

..........

*The province of Northern Ireland had been restored in time by the British not because the mindless violence of the IRA had succeeded, but because it had failed. The bitter cycle of hatred had finally, toward the mid 22nd Century, diffused, and both sides forgotten their indisputable righteousness long enough to come to the bargaining table, where a mutually acceptable agreement had been reached.

...........................

But at the moment the Americans had other things on their minds. Hayes was still on the loose, the Soviets were brewing mischief of their own, and Stone had been assassinated.

The protective shields and outer defenses of the planet were strong, as were the staunch will of both soldier and civilian who manned and supported them. But the offensive capabilities of the French were not to be underestimated. Not for nothing had they ruled most of Europe under Bonaparte (though they seemed better at taking territory than holding it). Who would prevail?

The United British Kingdoms kept a consulate and Consul-general on New Belfast (though he was seldom petitioned or asked for advice), and on the morning of October 10, a fortnight after the siege and assault had begun, he appeared at the residence of the Planetary Governor with a proposal from British Prime Minister Blackwood, and tentatively approved by Parliament, to lend military assistance in the crisis. He was received with the stiff politeness characteristic of modern English-Irish relations, and conducted to a polished oak drawing room to wait.

After a short time the Governor entered with an assistant, looking haggard and worn, and skeptical as to the meaning of his visit. A butler came when called, and brought them brandy. Consul Witherspoon spoke first, intending to address the issue at once.

"Governor Gale," he began, unable yet to relinquish the formality of his profession. "I know you have many things on your mind and that your time is short, so I shall come directly to the point."

"Please do."

"Very well. The assault brought upon you by the French is both formidable and determined, and though your defenses are strong and your men fight bravely, you cannot hope to withstand them much longer. Your shields won't absorb the pounding forever, and you've not the resources for a serious counter-attack on the adversarial fleets."

"You said you'd be coming to the point."

"And I intend to do just that. Your help from outer-Earth will not arrive for several weeks at least, and when it does New Belfast may no longer be yours to defend." Gale grumbled something about 'pointless' and 'salt in our wounds', but Witherspoon pushed forward.

"Prime Minister Blackwood, then, has sent me to make the following proposal. The United Kingdoms have a strength of three hundred ships stationed at Drake Outpost, which could be brought to your aid within---"

"Oh, I dare say. And what, pray, shall good Minister Blackthorne (for some reason Gale always called him this) and the noble English receive in return?"

"I won't lie to you, Governor. That's not why I've come. We are not acting entirely unselfishly, of course. That is not the point."

"Then what is the point? And first I'd be pleased to know what it is you're after."

"The point is survival, Governor, the lessons of which..... Nevermind. As for Britain's further intentions, I can only say that we want nothing from the Irish of New Belfast, except perhaps a posture more open to diplomacy and trade."

"And now you'll be telling us how to survive," stole Gale gruffly.

"There are many kinds of survival, Governor, and many threats to them all, as we both know. There is undoubtedly a kind of survival that the English could learn from you: faith in life, perhaps, or the freeing of caged emotions." Witherspoon was himself aware that his tone had grown more confidential, and that he was violating the learned rules of diplomacy.

But he let it happen. He loved this place and its people, if not always understanding them, and instinct, or something deeper, told him that calm indifference would get him nowhere. "If I may say this much, man to man, I would advise you. . .ask you. . .to accept help where and how you find it. We were in a similar position once ourselves, not so very long ago. During the Blitzkrieg our need was every bit as desperate. We had to relearn a good deal that we thought we knew, and reassess what was truly strong in ourselves."

"That was an entirely different matter." With this Gale's assistant tapped his watch, as if to remind him of something.

"You will excuse me, Consul."

"Yes, Governor. I will return tomorrow and we may discuss it further. I'll leave the full proposal here for you to study, if you wish." Witherspoon reached into a leather briefcase, pulled forth a bound manuscript. "Is two o'clock agreeable?"

"Of course."

They shook hands at parting, and Gale could not help noticing, almost in spite of himself, that the Englishman's grip was firm, and that he looked him straight in the eye.

*

The next day at (precisely) two o'clock he returned. The same haggard look on Gale's wrinkled face, the same deep oak paneling, the same brandy. Only this time, Witherspoon noted, the Governor drank considerably more of it. Also, there was no assistant.

"I have been reading Blackthorne's proposal, Consul, so that now I know the details of what you're offering, though little more of what you intend." He looked up searchingly, surprisingly, into the other's eyes. "Listen to me, John. Man to man, as you said before, I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HE'S AFTER."

Witherspoon felt a spark of hope.

"I honestly don't know, Governor. I suspect it has more to do with hurting the French than helping you. Blackwood is, in fact, a throwback of sorts: an adventurer, an aggressive doer. But whatever his reasons, you have to believe me: I wouldn't be here, speaking to you like this, if I thought they were to your detriment. And it is help unlooked-for in an hour of need. Won't you take it?"

This did not satisfy the Irishman, and as if to further voice his doubts, or play them once more through his mind, he returned to an earlier, seemingly irrelevant point.

"You said yesterday that England under the Blitz was similar to our plight now, and that if you hadn't swallowed your pride long enough to take help from the Yanks you'd have gone under, and we'd all be speaking German."

"You read more than I in---"

"No, John. I read WHAT you intend. Forget your English arrogance, and give me credit for half a brain at least." The consul nodded. "That, as I'm telling you, was an entirely different matter. The Brits had their empire then, their corruption, and oppression of peoples they thought less of than themselves." His eyes glinted. "Imperial Destiny, and a lot of other high-sounding rot. Well. You were only paying your dues for taking more than was given you, and reaping your own bitter harvest."

"If you'll forgive my frankness, Governor, that's a lot of stuff and your know it. Whether our leaders did right or wrong in ruling the Empire, the PEOPLE of Britain were hardly to blame. As if cause and effect, or God's justice, had anything to do with it." He spoke now with a passion that was strange for the Irishman to see.

"We were buckled to our knees, with all we thought strong and everlasting crumbling around us. V-2 missiles, wave after wave of the Luftwaffe, propeller bombs falling silently and unexpectedly. . .our fleets and supply convoys decimated by U-boats, bad news, and the word of loved ones lost coming in every day.

"And if we fell, Governor, who would have guarded the rest of Europe? or even the thick-headed Irish, that the Germans were so fond of? The Americans? It took the loss of half their Pacific fleet at Pearl Harbor before most of them even knew there was a war on. Churchill wept the day it happened, because he knew that they had finally been roused. You're a hard and shrewd old father, Gale, but you leave the path of wisdom when you speak lightly of England's part in that Debate."

"Yes," put in the other, trying to be indignant. "But at least the Americans didn't rub it in your face."

"So now we're talking about pride, are we?" Without realizing it, Witherspoon had begun to speak (and think) in the way of the natives. He had lived there for seven years, from the time he was thirty.

"If you think we liked being in their debt, both literally and figuratively, you're mistaken. But we had to survive. We had to hang on, so we did what we had to do. Don't you see, it's not a question of principles, or faith, or anything else at all. It's reality; it's war; and the extinction of lives and irreplaceable treasures is final. Didn't we learn that all too well?

"And what did we get in return for our heroic stand? We took all the early pounding, along with the Russians, absorbed the enemy's worst blows, only to have the Yanks come charging in late in the game, and take all the credit for final victory. Financially we'd have been better off to declare war on the Americans ourselves, and then lose. They went in afterward like good Samaritans and rebuilt the factories of Germany and Japan, and set them well on their feet for a run at the modern age. And what was left for England, not so very long before the most powerful nation on Earth? Naught but a mountain of debt, a crumbled economy, and the laughter of the world for the aging lion, no longer able even to hold its own among the shifting tides of fate.

"You say we were only paying our dues. Well if that's so then we paid them in full, and not an ha'penny short. Not that the Irish wasted any tears on our behalf." Now it was his eyes that glowered.

The Irishman drained his snifter and let it fall wearily to the woven rug. He looked now truly old and weather beaten, proud still, but with very little hope left. Witherspoon had time to recover himself.

"Please, Bryan. Won't you at least pass the message on to your approaching fleets?" He knew their Commander's name and (complete) authority, even his current location; but this was no time to flaunt the thoroughness of British intelligence. "I love New Belfast as much as anyone. You don't know what it's given me. If it goes down to the bloody French Elite, a part of me will die as well."

Gale looked up, and saw to his astonishment that there were standing tears in the younger man's eyes. He lowered his head again, shook it, and said finally, heavily. "I'll think about it."

"Do this one thing for me, Bryan, I beg. Don't think too long. Or there will be nothing left to defend." He rose and left the room.

The next day, Gale relayed Blackwood's proposal to Commander Donovan, venturing to suggest that the way things were---desperate---perhaps it could be considered as a fall-back position. After the necessary signal delay (and not two minutes later) he received the following reply, an audio/visual recording.

"Have you lost your mind, man? I'd sooner make a pact with the Devil. You just do your job and hold 'em off until we get there, or I'll replace you with someone of stouter fiber and longer memory. Help from the English, indeed!" And that was the end of it.

New Belfast fell to the enemy, and could not be retaken.

Here, at least, was a clear moral for anyone to read. By facing the darkness alone and stubbornly, refusing all help, by not using unsparingly all the resources at their disposal, and by placing beliefs in constraining patterns upon a world where no such narrow order existed, the frontier Irish were swept away. And all their heart, courage and past, all their faith in life and beauty of soul were rendered meaningless, and in the end amounted to naught, because of it.

But for one disturbing question. What was Blackwood really after?

Part, the Second

The wind, she blows extreme My mind would scream But for the discipline That empty years have taught it.

Richard Dark, a denaturalized American citizen, had risen swiftly through the ranks of the (People's Republic of) Chinese Army, and because of his technical understanding and combat experience, along with the marked favor of vice-Chairman Tam, had been put in charge of the Outer Fences of the two settled planets of the Tsingtao system, now under attack by Soviet-backed Cuban forces.

Viewed mockingly by some, since they were not accompanied by a powerful Space Navy, these unique defenses were nonetheless a highly effective form of planetary cover. Invented by Dark himself, in conjunction with the exiled physicist Tolstoy (both men had chosen not to reveal the full discovery to their native governments, and were therefore outcast), they were based on a combined series of shields and orbiting Artillery Stations, similar to, but more highly integrated than those of the East Germans, in that the shields themselves were wrapped about the great mace-shapes of the Stations like nets of energy strung between harbor mines.

But what made them effective was the source of their power. Not only did they feed off the sun, but also used the very energy of assaulting blasts to strengthen the fields, and channel the drawn-off power into a reverse stroke by the corresponding station---like an aimed mirror of aggression. The harder an opponent struck, the harder was the blow returned.

Though much of the final figuring had been Tolstoy's, the inspiration and early experiments all belonged to Dark. The idea had first come to him during one of his many visits to the Taoist monastery near his home in Manchuria, where he had been raised by his father, a stern U.C. Army Captain stationed there. Of all the things he had learned (the Shao-lin had let him ask all the questions he liked, though they seldom answered directly or in full), one precept of the Kung Fu style of fighting had always intrigued him most deeply:

If a man, in hand-to-hand combat with another, could turn the force of his opponent's assault back upon him, adding to it the strength of his own spirit, why couldn't a machine, or even a defense field, do the same? He had carried this thought through all the years of his scientific and worldly education, and while serving in the Commonwealth Space Navy during the Manxsome conflict, had seen first-hand the need for such a defense: a way for the week to hold off the strong.

He had also been severely wounded, and nearly died, when his ship's own force-shields had been broken, and the exposed vessel riven with agonizing heat. The next four years had been spent in hospitals and operating rooms where, remarkably, he had slowly recovered with no permanent (physical) damage.

In fact, though his life totaled only twenty-nine Earth years, they had been lived with such intensity and trauma, through no conscious choice of his own, that while he was considerably younger than most of the officers under him, he was, in his way, more experience, time-wizened (and weary of life) than nearly all of them. If hope, despair, and nearness to death are the great teachers of this existence, then here was a student who knew the lists by rote.

He stood now in the engineering room of Power Station One, at the heart of the Fences surrounding the planet Ten Hsiao-p'ang, examining damage reports. The Cubans, after trying for a week to storm the defenses of both planets at once, had decided to concentrate their forces upon Teng along, believing, correctly, that once it fell, the power of the other would be diminished as well. Though Dark's shields still held, the outlook was not bright. For even a mirror may be destroyed by a well aimed and determined laser; and the colonies had to hold out for another month at least.

"I don't know why I try," he muttered to himself. He switched off the last tracer diagram, leaned on the railing heavily.

IT'S FUNNY, REALLY. LIKE A STUPID GAME I CAN'T POSSIBLY WIN. I JUST PLAY IT BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO. This assault had become a symbol, and more than a symbol to him. If these planets fell, crushing forever his last dreams of a home, then the efforts of a lifetime had been wasted.

Here he had resolved to make his final stand. No more running: fleeing from his body's weakness, and before the haunting loneliness, the creeping paralysis of a life without love, companionship, or the simplest human feeling of attachment. Here he would stand, until he was either conquered or set free, or surrendered in death the slender sinews that knitted his soul to flesh. A defeatist's attitude, some might say, but for this important difference. He had spent a lifetime learning how not to surrender, and he did not intend to lose.

An under-officer, the closest thing to a friend he had, approached him.

"Richard. Commander Chang says his station can hold them no longer. They've singled him out and are pounding it apart. The fields are overloaded and the power can't be channeled back fast enough."

"Tell him he HAS to hold them. I'll release the Harrier Squadrons as soon as they're massed and I know it's safe. Then we'll try to rotate him in; but no promises."

Kim looked dispirited, started to walk away. Dark clasped the thick of his sleeve.

"Tell him I haven't forgotten them. It will just be a while longer."

When the time came, he released the Harriers. Their mission was successful, and the more damaged stations were rotated back into the inner circle, replaced by those that had not yet faced the enemy eye to eye. But a dozen ships were lost and that tactic, by its very use, had been rendered less effective. The adversary knew it now, and would watch for signs of its reuse.

The progression slowly passed before the designated hours of his sleep---he needed only eight in thirty-six---and the Cuban fleets withdrew to regroup. He remained on the bridge until he was sure it was not a feint, then sought out his own quarters, leaving message to wake him if they tried anything new or unexpected.

Safe again within the darkness of his room he lay on his back, unable to sleep. After a time he reached for the microphone beside the bed and began a supplemental Log entry, which doubled as his personal diary. He knew that his enemies might one day use it against him; but he did not care. He spoke slowly, not letting the words run away with him, pausing often, thinking out loud. This was the only way he had found of drawing the real knowledge of internal warfare from himself, and of rising above the constrictive circle of day-to-day thoughts and concerns. A part of what he said is recorded here.

"God they're giving us a hell of a pounding. How do I tell them? How do I tell my own men that they have to hang on?

"When you're under attack. . .and all the things that you believed in, or wanted. . .and all your hopes, your reasons for continuing, seem to disappear. Or seem to be cut off behind you. And you're left out there. . . can't find any reason for the suffering, it makes no sense. It's impossible to remember the other parts of your existence: all you know is that. . .you're struggling, you're under attack. . .and there's not a damn thing you can do but to hold on. Try to deal with it.

"Maybe I could write something out in the order of the day, if that wouldn't be resented. Go back to Chinese history, and show that their ancestors, when under attack or political repression. . .the thing they all had in common were the things I mentioned earlier. The struggle to endure without knowing why, and stubbornly. . .when the logical thing to do, would have been to despair. And somehow. You know, what Prince Andrei was going through: the way he. . .was just numbed and overpowered by it all. And he couldn't find any reason or meaning anywhere. How it went beyond words or thought so that, in his heart, in the very fiber of his being, he disbelieved in all semblance of hope.

"Going through the motions. . .never believing that you really have a chance for life or happiness."

He massaged his brow, the fingertips out of habit stroking the rough straggle of his eyebrows. That had been the one area where the plastic surgeons had been unable to restore living hair and skin---the forehead and cranial cap. The new stuff looked real enough, but felt, especially the hair, coarse and unnatural.

Flashing back, he saw in memory the thick gut of blue flame rush toward him as the ship tore apart---closing his eyes in sudden, brittle shock, striking the flames from his forehead with wild slaps of his hands..... Not that such memories retained much terror for his waking mind. It was in sleep, in the subconscious worlds beyond his control, that such images were deadly.

He remembered also the first grim reawakening, the grotesque nightmare of ruinous skin and flesh before the surgeons had begun their work. The days of fever, the endless crises. He had not, like Prince Andrei near death, felt a comforting presence calling his soul from this life..... Though now at these memories he felt it shrink back, yet again, from human existence. And seek escape in his work.

"And the desire to strike back, too soon, that the younger commanders are always advocating. Urging attacks that can only end in ruin..... But the impulse. Haven't I felt it? Lying there in that bed."

"The helpless, trapped feeling. . .the rage that rises inside you, tearing through your fatigue. And you're just so tired. . .so worn out physically. . . that some desperate instinct takes over, telling you to attack. Half crazy from the constant pounding. So that you want. . .not even want. . .that you're forced into this thing. Like your will is being pushed out through the top of your skull. Something. And saying no to that urge. . .almost sexual . . .seems so unfair, and beyond the strength of any man.

"But it's wrong, an irretrievable mistake, and you know it. A fatal error that you're just not allowed in that situation.

"Internal warfare. . .and its relation to....." At last the weariness of true sleep was coming over him. But one more thought remained unspoken.

"And the hardest thing, unlike before. It's not just my own life that's at stake, but those of all my men..... My men. How did I ever get into all of this? This power and responsibility. I never wanted it. Just my own piece of mind..... Aahh."

Tomorrow was another day. Maybe in the morning things would look brighter. Morning. How meaningless the pilgrimage from Earth had made that word. There would be no dawn, no rising of the sun, only a different angle facing it.

'YET DAWN IS EVER THE HOPE OF MEN.' TOLKIEN, THE TRENCHES, WORLD WAR I. BULLETS POPPING IN THE MUD..... He rolled over onto the side on which he slept, the microphone still in his hand. "Trench fever. The veterans hospitals. Feeling he would never get well....." FEVER. . .NEVER GET WELL. COLD FEVER. NEVER GET WELL..... NEVER. . .FEELING. With that he fell asleep. And the next day, he rose again to face the onslaught.

Part, the Last

When the Zionists took Israel, Land of their deepest fathers With just cause, and more than that It raised the hopes of many, that empty, horrible Holocaust Would not be utterly meaningless.

Writers, artists, and musicians Jew and Gentile, belief and disbelieving Flocked to this new human banner In tribute to this triumph of the soul--- 'Exodus' it was called--- Imparting unto the new inhabitants, the more so Because the darkness still remained

Blank checks of righteousness. Even Wouk, who walked with honesty and selflessness through two-thousand pages Rightly. Hoping perhaps, to help the prophesy fulfill Even he, at the end, made this mistake.

For it is not enough to be right The heart must also remain true.

"Goyim kill Goyim, and they come to hang the Jews."*

*Menachim Begin, Prime Minister of Israel, when questioned whether his troops had allowed Lebanese Christian militia to massacre more than a hundred men, women and children in a Palestinian refugee camp.

The Palestinians still had no homeland, after two-hundred and forty years. The ill-conceived and ill-fated PLO had long since self-destructed. Its thoughtless acts of terrorism could hardly have done less to loosen Israel's grip on the West Bank of the Jordan river, or to win favor and sympathy abroad. And the Israelis themselves (or so their actions would seem to indicate) had never for a single instant intended to return either Jerusalem to the Moslems, or even to make it an international city, such as the Vatican, or Palestine to those who had inhabited it for centuries.

The Arab nations (excepting Egypt and Jordan), which had continually used the Palestinian question as an excuse for violence and religious hatred, yet had not loved their orphaned brothers enough to take them permanently into their own lands---either Earth nations, or the settled colonies of Space. Ironically, bitterly, the Palestinians had become the 'wandering Jews' of the post-modern era, living here and there in scattered clumps, always vowing vengeance, always being promised future acts of restoration: of home, family, and self-respect.

Finally, in the year 2167, the United Commonwealth had felt a pang of conscience (or fashion, or something), and decided to do these poor unfortunates a long overdue, and much deserved kind turn. So a small, tillable planet was given to them, along with transports, to bring together in this new life all those who wished to go. The Egyptians had then contributed materials for building, the Japanese had added factories and technicians, and the British and Australians, teachers and universities to bring the less educated up to date. The Free French had provided defense systems, and the French Elite a modest fleet (later to be supplemented by the more sophisticated weapons of Soviet Space, never far in the background at the birth of a nation they hoped to seduce). All in all, the contributing powers had looked upon the venture as a success, and the Salvation Army humor of the Commonwealth was much restored.

But now, forty years later, the numbers of the Palestinians had grown great enough, and their force of arms respectable enough, to raise the hopes of the embittered and illusioned one last time. Bolstered yet again by the warlike teachings of the prophet Mohammad, which state that to die in a Holy War is to ensure the soul's salvation, the stubborn and simple among them had seized power from the more educated and enlightened moderates, and prepared, in secret, a last attempt at true retribution.

To accomplish their aims, the radicals (supported by most within the country, strongly challenged by none), would have to violate all the sanctions of the civilized world, including the Green Earth Pact, and the unspoken, though severely understood, international policy of non-violence upon the Earth itself. But what of that? GOD was with them.

For they did not intend merely to hurt the Israelis symbolically, or to steal from them some distant and less guarded settlement, but to return in triumph to their true home, and the land of their most ancient fathers. Given to them by Allah himself.....

Palestine!

The Green Earth Pact, as it was called, had been enacted (and unanimously approved) by the United Nations, to insure the peace and neutrality of the beloved home planet of all humanity, which had so narrowly escaped war's destruction and environmental catastrophe during the Nuclear Age. Among other clauses designed to protect the fragile environment, so long and senselessly abused, it specified that no more than one-hundred military vessels of any given nation, and these of limited size and destructive capability, were to enter the parochial Solar System at any one time, and that no more than half that number could engage an Earth orbit or rest upon the Moon. And except in sudden crisis of defense, absolutely none were allowed to pierce the upper atmosphere.

And so one hundred Palestinian vessels were sent, mostly fighters, manned not by the best trained pilots and soldiers, but by the most fervent believers, and those with the deepest grudge. Under the pretext of diplomatic and training purposes they came, believing against all Satan's whisperings that if once, by their own actions they could retake that sacred land, some miracle of God would allow them to keep it.

Half remained at the legal distance, the other half locking in around the Earth. After visiting with the Soviets, the Syrians, and the Saudis, betraying their true purpose to none, the fifty vessels broke suddenly from orbit and rushed down upon the tiny speck of land known as modern Israel ---before that Palestine, before that Judea, and so on back into the dawn of history, when it had been little more than a forbidding desert, endlessly fought over by tribes and Empires until it was hard to say (and still harder to care) who had been there first, or why.

In one sense at least, the modern Israelis had not changed from the turbulent and close-knit times of the 1950's and 60's. When it came to defense, they took nothing for granted. At the instant the first Palestinian fighters began to dive, they had released their own fifty, more sophisticated craft, and in conjunction with the best ground batteries on the planet Earth, cut short the brave but foolish attack. No prisoners were taken.

For the next several days, in Western publications circulated throughout the settled galaxy, the headlines, columns and editorial pages all expressed the same outrage, decrying the viciousness and small-mindedness of the Palestinian attack; and the Israelis were freed once more to expound upon the necessities of their hard-nosed, aggressive, and completely intransigent foreign policies. They also took it upon themselves to retaliate, destroying the remaining forces and outer defenses of the exiled Arab planet, 'inadvertently' killing thousands of civilians in the process.

The moral? Pointless insanity on all sides, that had gone on for three centuries. BECAUSE IT HAD GONE UNCHALLENGED.

* * *

"The next time you start to get angry, count to ten."

ELEVEN

"Did it never strike you as just a trifle odd that the Cantons destroyed the Laurian ore planet, instead of just taking the colonies by force? They had the machinery."

"I don't know. I suppose I always thought that tactic psychological. The whole affair with the gravity beam was quite impressive."

"Yes, and that was the lure of it. But think. Who stood to gain by such an expensive side show? Who paid the bill, and why?"

"The German States? I don't understand. I thought they sided with the Cantons out of principle." Dubcek looked at him like all the fools that had ever been born.

"Horse-shit. They did it because they had the equipment to move in and salvage ninety percent of the planet's high-grade ore---the Cantons didn't---and because they could use the station again for other purposes. The move was purely economic: they got their original investment back three times over, and flexed their muscles a little in the process. And (so you know you weren't completely wrong) there is this. So long as people believe the West Germans are still Nazis at heart, it gives them a tremendous psychological weapon: the aura of ruthlessness."

The young man stood bewildered, turned his head from side to side as if trying to see something through a fog. He paused, frozen it seemed, and then spoke.

"But the Canton fleets. Who supplied them? Not the German States. That would make them direct accomplices, and---"

"Now you are beginning to think like a socialist. The ships were, in fact, of GS build, but they didn't just give them away. First they were sold to the Belgian-Swiss---along with the arsenal that's headed here---then passed on. The Alliance needed someone to test the waters, and the Cantons were used for that purpose. The German States could not care less. Any instability only allows them greater opportunity for profit and expansion. Play both sides against the middle, then pick up the pieces; that is their game. Whether the fascists win or lose, they will get their cut." The young man looked incredulous, opened his mouth as if to speak.

"I know, I know---the ideologies. Ideology always seems the great motive to the young, the reason that nations rise and fall. It is time you learned that no one, except perhaps a few misguided knights, or here and there a religious fanatic, ever made war for anything other than personal gain. Though they may have told themselves otherwise." He relit his pipe, looking thoughtful. BUT DUBCEK DIDN'T SMOKE.

"I remember when I was young, the great heroes and villains of history seemed to play out their parts as emissaries---the Churchills and Hitlers---instruments of good and evil upon the Earth. This was central to all my illusions. It gave my life as a soldier meaning, and drummed me full of patriotism, and a lot of other high-sounding excrement. But the hard truth is, Brunner, men make war because they think they can get something out of it, whether money or glory, it hardly matters. They hope to take something by force, that is otherwise denied to them.

"Because when you reach my age you come to realize, as they have, that there are no rules. . .except survival of the fittest. The great aggressors of history, from the Greeks to the Roman to whoever, took what they took because no one could stop them. It is very difficult to explain unless you have lived through it.....

"MEN rule the galaxy, Brunner. Men. There are no unseen forces at work, shaping our destinies to some more perfect end. You must learn to be cynical: it is the key to all truth. Forget your fairy-tale notions. We live or die by our own devices."

A lull.

"Then what..... What keeps you going?" The aging colonel rose and went to a dark window.

"Life is a game of chess. And I don't like to lose."

Brunner struggle beneath the coverings, feeling smothered. Suddenly he burst forward, eyes open.

"But you lost! You LOST. You lost....." His temples throbbed and he could not remember where he was. For he was not yet awake. His dream had played on him the cruelest trick of all. Thinking to escape from the nightmare world, he had jolted himself insufficiently, and only dreamed of waking. It was all right now. But no. There was something wrong with the room. Though incredibly lifelike, it was not quite square---the walls leaned and corners were uneven.

And then they were coming. Outside the dark window there was a sudden, blinding flash. THEY'RE COMING. His wife ran through the wall and disappeared. "Ara!"

COMING. The Americans. Nowhere to hide.....

His head shook violently. And finally, he was awake.

He lay on his back, his underclothes drenched with sweat. As if to reassure himself, he rolled over to embrace his wife and drive away the darkness. But she was not there: that much of the nightmare was real.

And then he remembered. He was not home on Athena II. Nor was he in his quarters aboard the Mongoose, waiting sleeplessly for the approach of the Alliance fleet. He was alone and on a Czech destroyer, one of several, escorted by a Soviet cruiser. Heading into Belgian space. To search for the prisoners, taken from the colonies. Dubcek was dead.

He cried softly, hugging his knees, hating himself for his weakness. "God damn the Americans for ever helping them. I wish I was dead." He pushed his forehead hard against his knees.

It will be all right, he told himself. The Alliance has gone too far and now the Soviets will help us. The colonies will be retaken. Schiller is gone, but Athena remains. My wife is alive. I will find her and we can go home again. She is alive. She must be alive!

He got up and checked the passage of time. It was still an hour yet before what men called dawn---little brackets put around life to give it meaning and a mean understanding.

This was not what he wanted: four hours of sleep was not enough for him now, and his mind was dark again. Battle could come any day now---he was spoiling, and being eaten by the spoiling, for a fight. And yet his energies continued to desert him. His strength grew less each day: no sleep. Not enough sleep. No appetite. Anxiety. HE MUST PRESERVE HIS MENTAL ENDURANCE! He was the second officer of the first destroyer, and the man taken into the confidence of Soviet Colonel Joyce, Commander of the Leningrad. Leningrad. He was the go-between, the link between unlike and alien worlds, that now must work together.

He lifted the picture of his wife from the bedstead, kissed the cold glass that kept him from her. His mind was calm again, his emotions flat and worn out. And he shivered, realizing unexpectedly that it was cold in the room. He felt his brow: burning, always burning. The wet underclothes he peeled off and flung away, went into the bathroom, released a stream of clear, watery urine, turned the heat on high and took a steaming shower.

Dried and warm but already sweating and a little chilled he returned to the room and sat down at a desk, and touched a button, and began studying charts of that quadrant. TRANSPORTS HAD BEEN REPORTED MOVING..... A WEEK AFTER THE TRANSPORTS BEARING THE PRISONERS..... His wife was not on Athena. LATEST INTELLIGENCE. SOMETHING CALLED DRACUS.....

It all ran together in his mind, into a crater-pool of formless gray mud, edged with hard dark flecks. They were making for the Morannon system. They would be there in seventy. . .eight hours. Others must do the thinking now, he was tired. Too tired. He lay down again and forced himself to remain there until he fell asleep.

He woke two hours later, feeling better but for a slight headache. He recalled briefly as he rose the half-dream from which his consciousness had climbed. He was lying on the floor of a public bar, asleep, when a large rough man had seized him by the shoulders of his jacket and lifted him rudely, shook him, and told him to be gone. At first it seemed just another foolish night episode, until he remembered that the initial feeling of the strong, angry hands upon him had been pleasurable.

He wondered lamely if this were some sign of latent homosexuality---he often feared what might be revealed to him of his subconscious through dream---but the thought could not seriously upset him. A new day was at hand and he felt a little better. He dressed himself, performed the morning rituals of the bathroom and made his way to the bridge, feeling as he walked only a slight hollowness and queasiness of the stomach. Captain Mandlik greeted him flatly, the small black eyes in their fleshy face neither kind nor cruel.

"You are up late this morning."

"Yes, forgive me. I didn't sleep well last night."

"You don't look well. Have you been to see the doctor?"

"No, there is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing he could do."

"Very well, but look after yourself. We cannot have you fading out on us." The captain looked more deeply into his face. "Colonel Joyce has been asking for you. He seems to take a special interest in you---believes you have some potential or understanding the rest of us lack."

"Yes. It seems my curse to have lonely old men confide in me."

"Listen to me Brunner," said the captain sternly. "Don't be that way. We need him. We need his firepower. Whether you like it or not, we need you to listen to his every word, and learn what you can from him. Account yourself as befits the situation! We are in enemy Space now, and the Soviet detection screens won't hide us forever."

"Captain. They are not going to turn and leave us now."

"You must not count on that! And I am still your commanding officer, however vague the current status. Remember that."

"Yes, sir."

He performed officiously the duties of a long day, with growing impatience, but simultaneously fearing for the time to pass. For at least now he still had hope. He could still imagine the happy reunion with Ara, still picture the moment of finding her: the tearful embrace and releasing of pent-up, brutalized emotions---the lonely hours of anguish, always fearing the worst, listening to the battle rage inside him.

And yet in the end came the thought, the realization, that he NEEDED TO KNOW. Sixty odd hours, then the battle. Then the landing on Dracus.

When his shift was over he went to the officer's mess and partook, what little he ate of it, of the evening meal. He sat alone at an empty table and spoke to no one, but the others were used to this. With different words they all realized that he had sunk very deep into himself, and did not wish to be disturbed in his reverie. And they were right. Almost he feared to take comfort in the company of other men, as if this might somehow lessen the prayerful necessity of finding his wife.

He returned again to his room. Taking out a pen and pad of paper he made some notes for the following day, then picked up his copy of A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN, and began to read. Dragged down after a time by its minute detail and understated hopelessness, he placed a marker in the book and set it down, scrawling idly some verses that came to him then. Weary and lethargic he lay back on the bed, though he did not yet wish to sleep.

Nevertheless he felt his eyelids drooping heavily. To block it out. . .to shut off the day..... Even for a little while. But he could not sleep now, or he would be unable later.

He tried thinking of his mother and brother, grateful that she had escaped from the destruction of Schiller, and that he, still in training, would not see combat for some time. But he was forced to admit that these meant little to him. His brother's life (until very recently, when he had joined the space navy after the fall of Athena), had taken a different path. Tomas was an artist, he a soldier. They were no longer close, as in childhood. And his mother, too, was like a distant figure, his affection for her a dying ember that the fearful walls of her religion kept any living breeze from ever fanning. He cared for nothing and no one, but Ara.

The thought came to him again of his own existence without her. His stomach crawled. He got up and paced back and forth in nervous agitation. This restlessness was maddening! His mind raced, but could seize hold of nothing concrete to calm it. At length, the mock energy expended, he lay down again and covered his eyes, not caring.....

He woke two hours later, feeling stifled in his clothes. And checking the clock he saw that deep night was only just beginning. And knew that he would not be able to sleep for many hours. He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shirt. His arm started for the light switch, but something drew back the hand. Moved by what he could not say, he reached instead into the drawer of his dressing cabinet and pulled out from it the thick tallow candle, brass capped, that had been given him by his wife. Taking out also the metal igniter, he touched a flame to the wick and set it before him.

For a long time he did not look at his reflected image in the closet mirror, holding his head in his hands, incapable of purity of thought or emotion. He felt little outside his own fatigue, but also a slow strange stirring of the soul.

He looked up, studied his features in the soft, forgiving light of his lover. The face that he had never associated with himself..... His eyes were drawn downward to the wiry muscles that reached from his chest to his arm. Always slender and taut, they now looked almost famished, layered rope wrapped stranding and twine after strand into nothingness. What were they for? And the rage inside him. Could he tear down the walls? Could he dive through the mirror and come to the place where his wife lay needing him, distraught, possibly frightened and in torment?

And suddenly the image changed, becoming sinister and spectral. The remembrance was almost audible.

"And how would you judge me while a Belgian officer was raping your wife?"

Caught in a trap of near despair, simultaneously hit by a rush of dizzy sickness---a lethal virus had, in fact, attacked his stomach---his mind and courage reeled in a half physical, half emotional torment. Snatches of conversations with Dubcek came back to him, echoed and enforced, made indisputable by the darkness that hung thick and menacing around him. They dove and swirled like insane, angry birds. His spirit palled before them.

"You must learn to be cynical"

"Some day you will be hurt very badly"

"It is the key to all truth"

"Forget your fairy-tale notions"

"While a Belgian officer was raping your wife"

"You will be hurt"

"Very badly"

"Raping your wife"

"Raping your wife"

"Raping your wife---"

"Stop it!" he cried in answer. "Get away from me!"

A foul nausea engulfed him as he staggered toward the bathroom, falling to his knees and retching violently into the toilet. Hardly able to breathe, feeling the very soul torn out his throat, he fell back against the wall and tile as wave after wave of hot sweat dizziness broke over. Finally, as if the agony that raped him had expended itself he was left, a forlorn and shivering ball on the floor, hopeless and friendless and lost.

But now the cold truth of it was clear, needing no help from the physical assault. She was gone from him forever. She had been too beautiful, too spirited. At best she was the unwilling mistress of a bastard animal. At worst she was dead. Dubcek was right. There was no unseen God to protect her, no Comforter to see him now and ease his pain. He had been a fool, and now he would pay for it. He should have told her to evacuate. They should never have come here. Fool! Fool! Fool!

He wept no tears and shivered and struck the wall weakly with the side of his fist.

"Dear God don't let it be. Don't leave her! Don't leave me here....." He sobbed. "Don't leave me."

Not much like a prayer that his mother might have taught him, but still he spoke it with all his soul. A young ensign, hearing his cries, came in from the hallway and found him there. Putting his head through Brunner's crooked arm, he lifted him and took him to the Infirmary.

The doctor had to be wakened, and did not come at once, so that he was left in a half-lying sit in a bed behind a wrap-around screen, given time, as it were, to gather himself. He felt nothing but weakness and a blank mental stupor. That things had gone too far he knew, but to whom should he address this complaint? He felt as low, though less bitter and sharp-edged, as he had ever been in his life.

He had prayed, and not in the moment of fear and anguish, but in their afterglow. This in itself was enough to show him that Dubcek had not won a convert, though he was still probably right. But this sense of wrongness and self-deprecation began to bring back bitterness. He shut it off.

I'm sorry, Ivan, he said to himself. You're a good man and I know you tried to keep me from being hurt. But I can't see the world through your eyes, or I despair..... And I cannot do that yet. Not while there is any hope.

With this a ghost inside him seemed to rest more easily. Or something. The doctor drew back the screen and with a sleepy, objective and infinitely forgettable manner began to examine him and ask him questions, mildly rebuking him for not coming sooner.

"It is obvious that you are suffering from acute anxiety as well as the virus, and that the two feeding off one another have brought you to this state. I have been told you are here searching for your wife and that is all fine and good, but you must take better care of yourself or you will be of no use to anyone. I am going to give you an injection for the virus and prescribe lozenges to help you sleep. Yes, yes I know you do not like to take drugs into your body and if you sleep on your own you will not need them. I want you to have them anyway. You are to spend this night in hospital and the next two days off duty then you may do as you like but if you have any sense you will put from your mind what is beyond your control and guard your health more closely. You are not the only one with problems and concerns in this time of unrest, and though you are young....."

When she left Brunner turned his head to one side against the hard pillow, still half upright, and let his thoughts and feeling sink down like stirred silt in a stream. NILEMUD AND CROCODILES. He remembered the phrase from "Portrait." What the hell did Nilemud have to do with anything? And why was Joyce always writing about himself? Did he imagine he was the only one who suffered? And why call Ireland a sow that eats its fodder? Like murdering a sick patient.

Joyce. That was the Colonel's name as well. He wondered if they were related, or how a Joyce had come to settle in Leningrad. THE Leningrad. He compared his perceptions of the two.

Thus his mind vomited what his body could not, passing time in words, until he started to feel dizzy again and another rush of anguish folded over him. He endured it, and with almost unselfish reserve except for the thought, again, that it was too much. Any one of the things he had felt in the past months, heightened now by nearness, might have been bearable singly, or even in bunches of two and three. But all at once and one after another was like an endless trap, with no escape from the steady flow of consciousness. But for sleep, which of late had become a fickle and untrustworthy ally.

Unbroken flow of consciousness. Perhaps that was what Joyce had been after (he suspected the thought was not original). Certainly his self-endowed character Stephen had been trapped, feeling rare moments of freedom and longing for the sky, but always coming back to himself in a dirty world. More trapped in the human shell than in Dublin. Did he ever truly fly? Certainly the rambling phrases were incoherent.....

And so at long length his thoughts become more natural and sleep came back to him, and shutting his eyesmind and heart, he passed through a thick black night without dream.

*

The next morning after some time alone and a second examination, he returned to his rooms. Someone had extinguished the candle for him but it was still there, the igniter beside it. He resisted the urge to contact Mandlik and ask him how many hours, or had they yet been discovered. There was no reason, he knew, to go looking for a fight. It would come to him. He had had time to work things through, and believed he now possessed a clearer understanding.

The first few moments in that place were difficult, for all his renewed spirit of resolve. To be left here in this state, weakened and sick..... He still feared for the future, which he knew stalked him inexorably. At stake, no more and no less than his spiritual life and death. It was no use trying to prepare himself against all contingencies. If his wife was not there, or was dead or unaccounted-for, a part of himself would die forever, and the tiny flame of faith to which he clung would be lost beyond recall. Even now it flickered feebly in that dark place, shivered by the cold winds of doubt.

He mastered his trepid nature as best he could, and stayed there. He lay down and read for many hours, somewhat heartened by his mind's endurance, and by the sudden turn from hopelessness he perceived in Joyce's work. 'Exiles.' It filled all his mind with true thought and carried him for a time from himself, and he loved in those moments both the medium and the man, so beyond his understanding.

Moved as it were to make some account of himself he rose, wrapped the robe about him, went to the desk-table and, without looking at the verses he had scrawled the day before, wrote a simple, passionate poem to his wife.

But the feelings went too deep and he could not yet read back what he had written.

He called and a nurse brought him a soft and frugal meal, and before she left he looked into her face and said sincerely, "Thank you," for she had reminded him that other lives existed outside his own.

After he ate for a time he was unwell, and lay down in the bed and waited for the aching nausea to pass. Weariness and exhaustion came over him when the other left, and having little choice, yet also wanting to trust, he surrendered. And after a further time he slept.

He did not wake until late in the evening. Without looking or even thinking about the clock he went to his writing desk and flipped over the written pages of the pad. A thought had come to him, whether in dream or rising from it he could not recall, nor did it matter. He had his answer. He wrote on a blank sheet of paper with a quiet warm peace inside him:

If you believe in too much, or nothing at all, either way you will be hurt.

With this he became calm and thoughtful. What was the use of despair, or endless worry? Running around wildly, trying by one's own efforts to turn back an imagined tide of evil and malicious fate, or believing, at the most, that life was nothing but a primal struggle without order or lasting hope. If there truly was nothing beyond man and the grave, then what was the use of trying at all? when the bravest and most determined lives must eventually end in ruin and death? In this sense even the existentialists were wiser than the proponents of human will and self-made destiny.

And on the other side of the coin, were those who put their faith and trust in Gods and religions they did not understand, accepting without trial or common sense the narrow dogmas of fearful (or even wise) old men. MEN. What made their observations and conclusions more enlightened than his own, or those of anyone who sought with both heart and mind, using Nature and experience as a guide?

It was all so obvious and clear; how could anyone not see it? Yet now he, Olaf Augustine Brunner, must take this lesson and apply it to that Universe, often cold and unreasoning, OUT THERE. He did not know if he was equal to the task. He only knew that he must try.

His mind and confidence thus piqued, he turned back to the poems written earlier, hoping, perhaps, to find some further sign of his own understanding---something to set against the huge, dark uncertainty beyond his window. There were the two from the previous night, as well as the poem to his wife.

NIGHT

Sipping sadness, from the young girl So afraid to go unnoticed

Young man, stalking forests in his dreams Heightens all his senses to you.

Madman, racing knives across a windstorm Searching For the blood that he will spill.

..................

EVIL

Rising slowly hideous figure cast aside Black with bitter twisted passions seeking only

The murder of a child.

............................

And the last, to his wife:

PLIGHTED TROTH

Ara What is my life without you? To be your knight to fight for you Is all that holds my will together Unraveled, and dispossessed by Distance, time and empty suffering

Now you are taken from me, One comfort only can I find: That I loved you then, not less than now And thanked dear Heaven you were mine.

............................

A year, a month, a day ago he might have cried; but this was not the time. Emotion and sentiment would not bring her back to him, nor would dashing his heart upon the rocks. The mind was the stronger instrument now, a bit cold, but maybe that was best. He gave it free rein to pursue its ends.

The poems showed him that indeed, both elements, love and hatred, yielding and aggression, lived inside him. And both were needed. Hadn't he felt them? Hadn't their constant battle for use and mastery tormented him? Yes! That was what had made him so miserable. Fool! It was simply (or merely) a question of knowing which to listen to at a given moment---exerting supreme effort when called for, and having enough faith in God, or life, to accept the consequences of what was beyond human will to affect. Faith and disillusion, professed as different creeds, were one and the same, either half without the other like a man trying to stand on one leg.

With that he became calm again, knowing he must save his strength. Later that night he lit the candle and set it beside the picture of his wife, and prayed a short, fervent prayer to Whom he did not know. His own image was no longer important. He vowed to find his wife, however long it took, and to do what he could in the war, though he detested violence and a part of his prayer was that it would soon end.

The next day, the second of his confinement, passed without serious (personal) incident. That night he took one of the lozenges, knowing he would be unable to sleep without it. For the Morannon system, code-named Dracus by the Belgians, would be reached the following day, and they no longer moved in secret. The Alliance, apparently piercing their detection shields, had detached a fighter-destroyer group to intercept them. As near as anyone could tell, battle would be joined somewhere within the system itself.

In the morning he rose, and reported to the bridge, and with a hard bitter determination that grew out of and suppressed his anxiety, prepared himself for the fight. Because for all his introspection and self-doubt, there was another side of him, as yet only half realized.

Not for nothing had Dubcek made him his pupil; and not for nothing was he second officer to Mandlik. His military and psychological testing had revealed that whatever other characteristics he might possess, when cornered and left no option, he responded with a resourcefulness and tenacity that were almost off the scale. This fact was so striking in one of his (outwardly) skittish nature, that more than one of the military leaders who reviewed it (including Dubcek) went back to the examining psychologist to ask for an explanation.

The psychologist had told them simply, "It's no mistake. In ordinary circumstances he is much like Hamlet---wavering, indecisive, introspective to a fault. But when pushed to the final need, somehow he raises himself to another level, and reacts with a courage and cunning that are. . .remarkable."

And that was well, because the fight came, hard and long, and in it the upper bridge was wracked by internal explosion, killing Mandlik and half his officers. Without the Soviet cruiser, which the Belgian-Swiss had not detected, the battle would almost certainly have gone against them. Brunner's first order, upon assuming command, was to stay near, and protect the planet's prison complex, which in their late desperation he feared the Alliance commanders might try to destroy. And he was right.

* * *

The browning, grapple wrist, raised stiffly before him like a manikin, or a marionette, preceded the old man from the chamber. The entire body moved with it in stiff, convulsive strides, out onto the porch of the Parthenon, between the pillars and onto the marble steps.

One not of that place might have been shocked by his appearance, distorted as it was by bony growths, the jaw torn to one side by a madman's rock. Some half-buried sense had drawn him---sight it might be called---to stand there and watch the night sky.

Distant lightnings played before his eyes, soft bursts of light and almost, a pool fancied, distant sounds. Perhaps Mars had come at last, to liberate and destroy them. Through the dull horror of his marrowmind, twisted like the frame, he recalled verses from a book long ago, that set his knife-tattered soul on edge.

From Olympus mighty thunderbolts rain down As futile, Titans reach to steal the crown Of He whose strength and glory forged the lands For greater power, rests within His hands.

His broken mouth produced a strange, pitiful utterance, as an unbearable anguish of hope came over him.

* * *

As the last Alliance vessels retreated, or were caught and subdued by the tractor beams of the Leningrad, Brunner's thoughts returned quickly to the planet below. Though his battle fury was still running hot---his own vessel was badly damaged, and there were wounded to look after---his mind would think of nothing else. He started to assign damage and medical crews, but found the work was already being done. And their primary mission was, in fact, the release and rescue of the prisoners.

But with the main bridge knocked out and the lower malfunctioning, he could gather no news of the inhabitants of the prison-domes on the planet's surface. "Getting very confused readings," his scanning officer told him.

"Signs of life?" A momentary panic.

"Yes, Lieutenant, but they cannot be right."

"Why?"

"Well, sir, Intelligence reports over two million inhabitants were shipped here, and the internal structures are certainly large enough to house that number. But I register less than two hundred life-forms."

"WHAT?"

"It's got to be the equipment, sir: they don't even register as human. The calcium content is much too high." Even as he spoke the console went dead with a smell of burned fiber and sparks.

"Communications Officer." He could not remember her name. "Have you contacted Colonel Joyce?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. The viewscreens are out, but we still have audio."

"Very well. Put me through."

She handed him a headset.

"Colonel Joyce. Brunner. Do you still intend to call for Soviet reinforcements?"

"They are on the way."

"Will they be here soon enough to secure the area?"

"Yes."

"And will you provide transports for the prisoners?"

"That will not..... One thing at a time, Olaf."

"What do you mean? Those people have been separated from their families for months. What the hell are you waiting for?"

... "Is your scanning equipment working?"

"No, the upper bridge was destroyed. That's why I contacted you."

"And Mandlik?"

"Dead."

"You have assumed command?"

"Yes."

"Then I think you should organize a landing party and come to the Leningrad. Have you an operational shuttle?" Brunner turned to one of his officers, who nodded.

"Yes. For God's sake, what is happening?"

"I will tell you when you come."

"Sergei. My wife....."

"Not like this. Gather your party and come."

Brunner ordered the landing party assembled, and met it at the shuttle dock. Among those he found there was the nurse, the only medical persona that could be spared, whom he had been so aware of two days before. He tried not to look at her. With a knotting throat and a rising anxiety he could not contain, he guided the ship himself into the open receiving dock of the Leningrad.

One other shuttle craft entered behind them, landing also on the dull white metal floor, but no more. The bay doors were closed slowly and the dock began to repressurize. But in his drunken state the very sound of it was like her name hissed by witches.

As a double-line of Soviet personnel---in breathing suits and armed---emerged from an opened passage and made their way to the two large landing vessels, one of them a hospital ship, he opened the hatch of his own vehicle and moved weakly down the steps.

Colonel Joyce approached him with another, as if for support. Brunner recognized him from an earlier visit---Chief Scientist Stoltzyn. He had no patience left.

"Why only two Coalition parties? Didn't you contact the other ships?"

"Two will be enough. . .to represent your peoples."

"Represent? What the HELL IS GOING ON?" Some of the Soviet technicians within the enclosure---there were perhaps two dozen, wheeling in odd gear, among its contents special breathing masks for the Czechs---looked over in surprise to hear a Soviet Colonel addressed in this way.

But none were more taken back than Joyce himself. He seemed unable to look Brunner in the eye or speak the words he had to speak, a thing which he had never experienced. Finally it was Stoltzyn who spoke.

"There's been some kind of plague."

Brunner felt his heart heave, then fall in upon itself like collapsing leprous flesh. His voice a fainting whisper.

"What? Sergei?"

Joyce finally master himself and spoke, though slowly. "Of the two million inhabitants, perhaps two hundred still live. Five of the six domes are emptied of life. You will be going to the sixth. But I. . .want you to be prepared."

"Tell me."

Joyce strode back and forth a few times, irritated, agitated, then faced Brunner almost angrily.

"Stoltzyn will tell you the rest. I am sorry, Olaf. I can say no more." He turned and left the enclosure.

The chief scientist was more composed. "There will be many corpses. Also, those who still live may be gruesome to look upon, and almost certainly will not be rational. Something in the atmosphere has caused the rapid growth and multiplication of bone cells and calcium deposits....."

Stoltzyn would have continued but the young German lieutenant had lost consciousness and slithered to the floor.

When Brunner came to he found the nurse, the one he did not wish to think about, looking into his face full of concern. All this took only a short time, so that as she and another helped him to his feet, the Soviet and Czech chief scientists (the latter with considerably less detachment) had only begun to discuss the dangers and consequences of such a landing.

"No," said the Russian. "There is no threat of contagion or epidemic. It is not a disease we are dealing with but a bodily reaction to impure atmosphere. We are safe so long as we retain the breathing gear, and probably without it for short periods, though we will not take that chance."

"And if the survivors are mad and beyond healing, as you suggest? What do we do then?"

"That is the purpose of this expedition---to determine."

"Do the others know?" The Czech made a gesture with his head and left shoulder, taking in the other shuttle but implying all the remaining Coalition forces.

"They know what their equipment has told them, and will be briefed by the rest of us as soon as we know ourselves. Lieutenant Brunner, if you are unwell perhaps you should remain behind."

"His wife may be down there, you idiot."

... "I am sorry, Brunner, I did not know. Please don't think me cruel. It is not the first time such a thing has happened, and we may have a very difficult decision to make. Democratic German representation will also be needed---"

"Why didn't the domes protect them?" he said in a savage whisper.

"I believe they were meant to. Apparently they were breached. That is all I can say now. Please outfit yourselves accordingly and come to the first landing vessel when you are ready."

*

The two landing craft emerged from the whiteness of the Soviet vessel into the blackness of Space, then shortly again into the curved daylight of the desolate planet, reflecting back in a brown haze of impure atmosphere its yellow sun.

The domes drew nearer---six humps of clearish white spread unevenly across the flat desert floor, standing up from it like supported blisters of the planet itself.

But the blisters had been pierced. Fissure-holes and cracks, some larger, some smaller, were spread across them. The land too, upon closer inspection, was pocked with craters, and littered with ugly shapes of pocked and polished iron.

"Meteors," muttered a voice. Brunner turned to see Second Lieutenant Shellenback seated behind him, head hunched and eyes close, chewing mournfully at his hands, remembered vaguely that he was not the only German to have come looking for family. The faces of the Czech flyers were grave as well. Yes---he was not alone in his plight. Yet there was little comfort in the fact.

"Why weren't the domes protected?" came an angry voice. But even as his mind registered the sound, Brunner saw the huge black tower that stood amidst the growing bubbles, the meteor-repulse cannon at the top of it. Stoltzyn, who stood near the front of the windowed fuselage like a stewardess, responded.

"They were, but insufficiently. The Alliance must have assumed that the meteors that speckle the surface had arrived singly or in small groups, which is not the case. Apparently they knew very little about the planet before choosing it as a prison site, since it is also prone to violent earthquakes." He went on to explain some phenomenon that occurred there every twelve years, something to do with the planet's duel orb, coming into line and affecting the magnetic field.....

But it hardly mattered. Nothing mattered. His wife was dead and a strange voice inside him told him he was glad. This slow awakening of all the wrong sentiments was too painful so he shut it off, closing his eyes and waiting sickly for the ship to land.

There was a slight delay while the craft relayed back exact measurements, and waited for the Leningrad to punch a safe and adequate hole in the final dome. For some reason it bore only smallish cracks in one or two places near the bottom. Then the ship passed through and set down in the midst of a courtyard or wide street.

Then the ship passed through and set down in the midst of a courtyard or wide street. Brunner opened his eyes. Stoltzyn was standing before them as before, giving final instructions as the Soviet crew members examined the breathing gear of the others. Brunner shook off the private who leaned over him, but the man persisted until the facemask was tested and in place. Just as the hatch was opened Stoltzyn remembered something and began to explain what the plastic pouches set at the chin were for. But this seemed to upset one of the Czechs because he pushed him aside and sprang down the steps.

Brunner was one of the last to exit, feeling numb and at the same time torn to pieces. Clearing the final step he became aware that here and there in the street suited men---they must be of the landing party---were doubled over on their knees, holding their stomachs. He supposed this did not surprise him except that among those kneeling and right in front of him was the Soviet chief scientist, who had torn aside the mask and kept repeating to no one in particular,

"How could this happen?"

The East German raised his eyes to look around them. Yes, there were many corpses, quite hideous. Most were facing downward with spines that looked like dinosaurs, but there were those who faced upwards as well. It was all gruesome enough, the skulls and chests swollen and distorted, the skin stretched thin and pink to accommodate, or punctured outright by bony growths, all mottled, discolored, in various stages of decomposition. Eyes mashed and half hidden. Horrible.

But Brunner felt in that moment that nothing could hurt him because he was already dead. Sunk this deep into the nightmare without waking why should he care? The thought came dully that his mind and heart were like the flesh and organs of the diseased: crushed and cut by flat or jagged bone, until they simply surrendered and died.

"The peace that surpasseth all understanding."

But the black humor of despair could not last. Movement on a side street---was there a sound as well?---drew his eyes from the dead and back to the living. The dead had not been able to rouse any feeling of true pity inside him. At least their suffering was over. But to see the twisted and bulging figures walk in flesh.....

Two bodies stood there that had not yet surrendered. One of them must at one time have been a woman: long dark hair straggled from the dried blood of a knotted forehead---

LONG DARK HAIR. Like a thunderclap the reason for his journey came back to him. Where was his wife? Was Ara here? Dear God! Dear God! She had often worn such a coverall.

He started toward the street between the buildings. But the female gave an almost-shriek and the two pogoshuffled pitifully away.

He felt something grasp his arm. He turned in fear and involuntary loathing, but it was only the nurse (the one he did not wish to think about). She was crying and shaking like a leaf. She was not what narrow men might call pretty. . .but to see her there with her hair and eyes and skin unblemished was like water at a last dying need. A breath of the free air beyond that place came back to him, and with it, like a sob, a final desperate hope of courage and the need to act.

He remembered they were wearing masks; how would they..... But seeing the hoop at her ear brought it back. He embraced her quickly and said through the microphone. "I am searching for my wife. Will you help me?"

She nodded rapidly and clung to his arm. They began to move. Some member of the party called to them but they walked slowly down the street toward a large square, where a whitestone marble building at the farther end was built like the Parthenon Library at Athena. Why it had been built and by whom (by the Alliance, to show their humane and considerate treatment of the prisoners) he did not know or care. If it was also a library then perhaps there would be records. It was a feeble thought, but it drew him on because he had no other.

As his heart pounded unbearably he heard the same prayer repeated over and over inside him. DEAR GOD FORGIVE ME I KNOW I AM SELFISH BUT PLEASE DEAR GOOD PLEASE IF I MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU DON'T LET HER BE HERE. I WILL DO ANYTHING JUST DON'T LET HER BE HERE. Then almost against his will the post script, BUT IF SHE IS HERE MAY SHE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE NOT HAVE BEEN TORTURED AND AT LEAST BE DEAD NOW.

"No, no!" Almost he started to run, but the weight at his arm checked him fiercely. The girl stood still with terror in her eyes, and pointed to a figure at the top of the marble steps.

An old man with graying hair, not so horrible as the rest but still dreadful to look upon, stood by another who lay sprawled at his feet on the steps. Something red stood out clearly against the marble and Brunner saw that it was blood, coming from an open wound in the prostrate man. There was blood also on the knife the old man clutched awkwardly in his left hand. If the two had still been human, the scene might have been tragic---something from the epics of Homer. But as it was it was ghastly and brutal, the afterglow of a vicious reptilian death struggle. The standing man's jaw was torn to one side, exposing teeth the size of walnuts.

The woman would have fled, but Brunner watched the old man intently. He saw the weapon in the hand of the other as well---it had not been outright murder. And also the man did not run, but returned his gaze with troubled curiosity. At last some form of recognition seemed to come over him, because with a twisting gesture of the right arm which he could not lower, he beckoned them towards him.

"Come on," he said to the nurse.

She shook her head. "Make him drop the knife."

"All right." He lowered his mask. "My friend. . .we mean you no harm. As a gesture that you don't either, will you drop the knife?" The other looked puzzled. "Will you please drop the knife?"

At this he seemed to understand. He shook the arm with the knife in it, but would not let it go. "Why doesn't he drop it?"

Brunner advance slowly. "He can't. The bones have fused around it."

She came reluctantly behind and they made a semi-circle past the body, and stood at a small distance from him on the unshaded portion of the terrace.

"I would like to check your records," said the German slowly, pointing to the entrance. But at this the other's manner seemed to grow hostile. Brunner took a step toward the high door, and then was certain. The old man tried to cut them off, waving the arm with the knife. A terrible conflict of doubt seemed to be taking place inside him, as if in his ravaged mind he could not seize upon the memory he sought. Brunner walked slowly back into the sunlight. Something had to be done.

"Stay here," he said to the nurse. "I've got to talk to him."

"NO! Be careful."

He approached slowly, and the creature did not draw away. He drew very close. Then for all the pain it cost him, and the torment of his soul, Brunner put a hand on his shoulder, and looked him full in the face. He was certain. The old man wished them no harm, but was trying desperately to remember some last purpose he clung to.

"My friend," he said gently, cursing himself again for his weakness and tears. "I am trying to find my wife..... I have to know if she was here. May I please go inside and check your records?"

His words were only half understood; the greater impact was made by the passion in his tearing eyes. A cloud seemed to lift from the old man's mind, and in some last pool of consciousness he remembered. He was a librarian. Guarding to the last the books and documents entrusted..... In case anyone came. . .to search for proofs..... Of the Holocaust. A gleam of something enduring and undefeatable came into his half-buried eye. This man was not deformed.

He raised his head and arms above the elbow in a gesture almost of triumph, and his throat made a sobbing sound..... As Brunner stepped back the man made a pushing motion with the forefinger of his right hand, then moved the head forward as if to study the place he had fingered. He repeated the gesture, then turned to face the doors.

"What's he saying?" The nurse.

"There's a computer terminal inside." Again Brunner felt his heart pump wildly. He took the girl's hand and started for the door, yet again the old man cut them off.

But there was no longer fear of War in his eyes; he only had one more thing he wished to communicate. He tapped his hip with the knife-arm, pointed to Brunner, then shook his forearm back toward his chest.

Now it was Olaf who didn't understand. The woman pointed at the pellet-pistol, forgotten, at his hip.

"I think. He wants you to shoot him." Again the movements of confirmation. Though this time, if it were possible to interpret such gestures, he moved the limbs more slowly, with great sadness.

Brunner unclasped the pistol, and with a shaking hand, pointed it at his chest. "Is this what you want?" The same gesture.

The one unbroken eye remained in sunlight, filled with tears that could not escape the well of tortured flesh around it. A low gurgling noise sounded in his throat. Brunner closed his eyes and shot.

The body fell partially across the entrance, so that they were obliged to move it. "This one at least, we bury." The words resounded with the hollowness of hell. They pushed past the right-hand door, and went inside.

After a time of searching for light and the terminal, Brunner at last sat before the fingerboard and smallish screen, trying to summon forth what was wanted, praying to the point of distraction for his wife, and for himself. He had asked the nurse to be alone for a time and she consented, was off looking elsewhere for any hard-copy documents that might be useful.

The man knew enough about computers to read the instruction codes and key out the information wanted, but the terminal kept fighting him. Several times he had entered, OCCUPATIONAL RECORDS OF RELOCATED PERSONNEL, sub-heading, DEMOCRATIC GERMAN, NON-MILITARY. But each time he did so the screen would read 'Pending', then flash one line at a time, at a reading pace, a dialogue from the Nuremburg Trials of 1945-46, and lock up at any attempt to clear it. He tried to bypass, used different keywords, but always the result was the same: he got the dialogues, or nothing at all. Close to frenzy he threw off the chair and paced wildly back and forth.

"I know all about the Holocaust and the Nuremburg trials! They have been required reading at the Academy for two hundred years!" He gradually calmed himself, if such words may be used, realizing there was nothing else for it. He set right the chair and keyed in the initial combination, only wishing that he could strap himself in place, denied all movement and all choice. The screen began again its silent dissertation, waiting after each six lines for him to verbally acknowledge.

Olaf Brunner read the following, trying to suppress the gasoline in his veins, the endless ache of his affliction, and the unnatural swelling of the diaphragm that made it difficult to remain still and digest the excrement before him.

COL. AMEN: You speak English pretty well.

VON RIBBENTROP: I spoke it well in the past and I think I speak it passably well today.

Col. Amen: Almost as well as you speak German?

VON RIBBENTROP: No, I would not say that, but in the past I spoke it nearly as well as German, although I have naturally forgotten a great deal in the course of the years and now it is more difficult for me.

COL. AMEN: Do you know what is meant by a 'yes man' in English?

VON RIBBENTROP: A 'yes man'---per se. A man who says yes even when he himself..... It is somewhat difficult to define. In any case I do not know what you mean by it in English. In German I should define him as a man who obeys orders and is obedient and loyal.

COL AMEN: As a matter of fact, you were a 'yes man' for Hitler, isn't that correct?

VON RIBBENTROP: I was always loyal to Hitler, carried through his orders, differed frequently in opinion from him, repeatedly tendered my resignation. But when Hitler gave an order, I always carried out his instructions in accordance with the principles of our authoritarian state.

At the conclusion of this there was a pause, then the following.

VON RIBBENTROP: Without ever taking any steps or doing anything myself in the SS, yes, that is correct.

SIR DAVID MAXWELL-FYFE: Just look. It is a document.....GB-294. The correspondence is 744B. That is your application with all the particulars. I just want to ask you one or two things about it. You asked to join, did you not, the 'Totemkopf', the Death's-Head division of the SS?

VON RIBBENTROP: No, that cannot be true.

SIR DAVID MAXWELL-FYFE: Don't you remember getting a special Death's-Head ring and dagger from Hitler for your services? Don't you?

VON RIBBENTROP: No, I do not remember. I never belonged to a Death's-Head Division.

SIR DAVID MAXWELL-FYFE: And the ring, too. Here is a letter dated the 5 November 1935, to the Personnel Office of the Reichsfurher-SS: "In reply to your question, I have to inform you that Brigadefurher von Ribbentrop's ring size is 17....." Do you remember getting that?

VON RIBBENTROP: .....I do not remember precisely. No doubt it is true.

And that was all. The screen then showed an old and dusting black and white photograph, with letters in white across the bottom:

A MOTHER AND CHILD EXECUTED IN THE UKRAINE

The computer waited for him to acknowledge, but the young East German stood mute. Twenty times that day he had thought he could be brought no lower. And yet the picture froze his heart.

The woman, dark-haired and young, stood clutching her child in the attitude of a protective Madonna. But for the field, the German soldier, and the mother and child, there was nothing to be seen. A moment frozen in time. The soldier, legs spread and planted in perfect firing form, without the slightest sign of hesitation, had aimed his rifle and fired at her head. He must have fired because the woman's bare feet were lifted an inch or two above the ground. The woman still shielded the tiny child..... Apparently he had opted not to try to kill them both with a single bullet, though it might have been done with a shot through her back. This way was surer.

Brunner looked closer. Was there a hint of doubt in the soldier's face? No. He had only closed his eyes in reflex to the gun's recoil. Equivocation, splitting hairs. It didn't matter in the least. The terror and death of the innocents were the same.

He began to feel sick again, and his task was not yet completed. "Acknowledge," he said, almost swooning. The terminal read clearly:

DEMOCRATIC GERMAN NON-MILITARY PERSONNEL

Enter

There was no horror left inside him, and yet still the prayer was heard, repeating its endless cadence. NOT HER, OR IF IT MUST BE HER THAT SOMEHOW SHE DIED QUICKLY. NO PLEASE, TAKE ME INSTEAD. Till in his delirium he spoke to the soldier, and pleaded with him not to shoot.

He had to hold one hand with the other to make it work, but on his third attempt punched in correctly: Ara Heidi Brunner, DOB 12/10/89. The networked computers responded.

Brunner, Ara Heidi- 12/10/89

CC#: 320-557-877-666 Sex: Female Eyes: Blue Hair: Black Height: 5'6" Weight: 110 lbs

Born Badenberg JCFv Schiller Educated Berlin University Masters Degree Environmental Science Married Olaf Augustine Brunner 6/20/10 Residence Black Forest Province Currently Assigned NorthWest Geological Title Agricultural Technician Current Status *

Having thus filled the display box the lighted asterisk began to flash, waiting for the signal to advance. Here Brunner hesitated, as his lips tried to mumble some words.

"You have to be alive, I won't let you." Or was it, "Our father full of grace if I mean anything to you dear God if my efforts mean anything."

He pushed the continuity icon.

Detained Non-Essential Personnel Designated Prison Planet Dracus IIa Late Change Retained Under Order Gen. (Classified) Current Location (Classified)

And it was indeed his lucky day. For whether she lived or died, she was not there.

"Lieutenant," came a voice through thick layers. "Lieutenant. I've found a boy and he's unhurt. I don't know why but he's unhurt."

And turning, he saw there was in fact a boy, perhaps eleven years old, physically unscathed but for a look of bitter hopelessness in his dark eyes that went far beyond his years.

It seemed from the nurse's expression that he should say something so he pronounced, What is your name?

"Elie." WIESEL, he thought. SEVEN TIMES CURSED AND SEVEN TIMES SEALED.

Then Night fell completely in his soul, and he felt no more.

........................................................................ ..................................