Part 3

"What?" He glanced at his memo pad. A notation warned him six prospective cadets were due to come in. It was not standard procedure for him to interview candidates, but all six were the sons of Academy graduates killed in the line of duty. "Give me five minutes, Sergeant, then show them in."

"Very good, sir." He withdrew and closed the door.

"Well, Sergeant," said Reilly, turning to the regular service man. "Perhaps these are the lads who will be doing that reminiscing fifty years from now."

"Quite possible, sir." He stood up and came to attention. "Do I have the general's permission, sir?"

"Dismissed, Sergeant."

Sighing, Reilly swiveled his chair again and watched the drillers on the parade ground until the short rat-a-tat-tat sounded again. He turned around in time to face the gangling teenagers trooping through the door.

"Messrs. Whyte, Phillips, Garrett, Gordon, Kaslov and Poirot, sir," announced the Cadet Sergeant-Major before withdrawing again.

"Come in, gentlemen, come in." Reilly stood up. "Find yourselves a seat. Just pile those magazines on the chair, sir. I think three of you will fit admirably on that couch. You others can draw up those chairs by the water cooler. Yes, that's it." He shook hands all around, and then sat down again.

"Now then, your names once more, please?" He fixed them firmly in his mind as each boy introduced himself in turn. "Ah, yes. And I, of course, am General Reilly, Commandant of the Academy."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Kaslov?"

"Would that be _the_ General Reilly? Of the Deneb Crisis?"

"I see my fame has preceded me, gentlemen. Yes, I am that Reilly. Please, don't let the fact scare you. I assure you, I don't bite off the head of a boy until he is in uniform. Then, gentlemen, you are fair game from then on.

"Now, then," he said. "Are there any other questions before I give you my sales pitch? Yes, Mr. Kaslov?"

"Sir," the boy said, hesitantly, "I believe you knew my grandfather. Sub-Colonel Kaslov? He served with you during the Deneb Crisis."

"Of course!" said Reilly. "Martin Kaslov; I should have recognized the name immediately. He was my Team leader. And his son was fresh out of the Academy; I remember very well. So you might become third generation Academy material, eh? Good, good. We're always glad to have someone whose roots are deep in Academy tradition. That's why I'm particularly happy to have all six of you gentlemen here this afternoon. I understand you attended my lecture?"

* * * * *

All six nodded; one raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Whyte?"

"Sir, I heard your lecture, but, frankly, I didn't get very much out of it. I mean, you talked a great deal about the service and so forth, but it just didn't make much sense to me. It was just like Pop--my dad used to talk when I was a kid. I don't suppose it made much sense then, but kids don't understand anyway. But now I'm old enough to enter the Academy myself. I think I should know more about it, what it means, what it stands for. Uh, do I make myself clear?"

"As lucid as a mountain spring on a bright morning, Mr. Whyte. I only regret my own words were not as concise." He smiled. The other boys laughed while Whyte flushed.

"But you have expressed a very important point," continued Reilly. "I don't want a man coming in here who doesn't know what the Academy stands for. We have a long tradition, but we mean more than just words carved over a marble arch. 'The Greater Good for the Greater Number.' There are hundreds of years and hundreds of thousands of lives lived and died behind those seven words. From Earth's first colony in the Centauri system to the latest native intelligence charted in the Crab Nebula, those seven words have wrapped up an entire philosophy and dictated the means of living by it.

"But what do the words actually mean? I think, Mr. Whyte, that is the crux of your question. Indeed, that is the crux of the structure on which the Academy is founded. Oh, it's easy to say that the words mean what they say, because they do. That and no more. But how to explain them so that someone who doesn't _know_ will know? In a sense, I've been trying to do that ever since my first girl friend threw me over as an incurable romantic when she learned that I intended to enter the Academy. For many people, I'm afraid there is no explanation. They are incapable of understanding, no matter how hard we try. But I don't think you gentlemen are in that class. Otherwise you would not be here at all.

"The obvious place to begin is the beginning. 'The greater good.' Not the greatest, mind you--the greater. There are those who quibble over words; they are responsible for this particular delineation. It would be idealistic to try for the greatest in all things. Despite his thousands of years of development, man is still a long ways from being an ideal creature. There are certain things that remain beyond his capabilities. In certain isolated incidents, the course we follow does produce the greatest good possible. But they are isolated.

"The same reasoning follows the choice of 'The Greater Number.' Only our limitations prevent us from seeing to it that every world in the galaxy is the best of all possible worlds, insofar as the peculiarities of a particular world permit. We do our best, and take pride in the fact that that best is better than anyone else's.

"But so much for numerical values. You most want to hear what we _do_. And that can best be summed up in one word: everything. Everything, and yet that, too, has its limitations. Impossibilities are beyond even us. Improbabilities are given a fair chance. We are constantly seeking out courses of action that will benefit not the individual but the race. And in some instances, not even a race, when there are many races involved in a particular manner. The methods we follow, the actions we take in a particular instance, may sometimes seem cruel and unreasoning...."

V

The families were on the move, away from their comfortable homes under the everlasting warmth of the sun. Luke Royceton shifted his weight in the copter and trained the glasses on a column of dust rising three miles to the west and ten thousand feet below.

"It's okay, Harry," he said to the pilot. "They've swung back north again."

"Right, Luke," the pilot replied. "Scout report just in says there's a real big outfit about eighty miles settling down around a lake. Shall we hit them?"

"We the closest?"

"Singer's forty miles the other side of them, but he's tied up chasing some mavericks."

"Let's go then."

Luke holstered his glasses and slid down into the cargo hold. The rest of the team were taking advantage of the lull in activity to catch up on their relaxation. They had been constantly on the go since the migrations had begun in earnest two months earlier. Luke kibitzed a card game for a few minutes, then announced: "Action coming up in about twenty minutes. Grab something to eat and run a check on your costumes."

The copter dropped to treetop level five miles from the lake and came to ground four miles further on. The team piled out, stretched the tensions of the long ride out of their bodies, then started out through head-high dwarf trees that separated their landing spot from the lake. They wound through the trees and over a low, rolling series of hills. The cover stopped suddenly, two hundred yards from the beach.

"Big family is right!" said Luke softly, gripping his axe.

There were nearly fifty huts in various stages of construction along the beach. Twice that number of adult males were working on them, while the women were bringing in armloads of grass for thatching. The children were waist-deep in the lake with fishing spears. A still wriggling pile on the beach testified to their prowess.

Luke glanced over the dozen members of his team, shaking his head. "I don't know," he said. "Those are pretty hefty odds."

"What's to worry about, Luke?" asked one of the men. "You don't expect those characters to put up a fight, do you?"

"God only knows. They just might take it in their heads to do that. From looks of things, either this outfit has been traveling far or else several villages have combined forces. If it's the last, then I'm plenty worried."

"So what do we do? Go back and yell for reinforcements?"

"Not yet. Not until we try these babies ourselves. Everybody got his courage screwed up?" There were soft murmurs of assent from each man. "Make torches." Two men faded away and returned a moment later with arms full of the same grass the villagers were using. Half the team set to work, twisting them into torches and tying them with short lengths of a twine-like vine they had brought along from the equatorial jungles. The torches were passed out, and Luke took a deep breath: "Let's go!"

* * * * *

The team leaped to their feet and broke from the cover, screaming their banshee cry. The natives dropped what they were doing and wheeled around, then froze in their tracks at the sight of the wildly painted devils tearing down the beach. The two hundred yards separating them halved, then halved again before the natives broke out of their stupor. One of the workers placed his fingers between his teeth and whistled. The children ran in from the lake, tossing their spears to the nearest adult, man or woman.

By the time the team was among them, axes whistling through the air and smashing the walls of the huts, the villagers were armed and fighting back.

"We've got troubles!" yelled Luke, bringing his axe down to break several spears being jabbed at him. The spears were too short to make good throwing weapons, so the natives were using them just as they would in going after fish. One got through Luke's guard; he choked back a cry of pain as the broad stone head went into his flesh and was twisted. He pulled away, yanking the shaft out of the native's hand.

Two of the team had managed to get close enough to the cooking fires to light their torches. They used them now as shields, until the grass burned down to the handles. One then tossed his into the large pile of thatching material, while the other stuck his into the unplastered wall of the nearest hut. The thatching blazed up quickly, forcing the natives away from the heat. Most of the team now had their backs to the nearest wall; none had escaped the jabbing spears. One man was completely encircled by the natives. Suddenly his axe was wrenched from his grasp. They picked him up, legs flailing wildly in the air, carried him over and threw him onto the fire.

"Let's get out of here!" screamed Luke, surprising those around him by suddenly leaping forward and grabbing two of them, forcing them off balance. He called on every ounce of strength he possessed to run through the gauntlet of spears. From the corner of his eye, he could see one other man break loose, only to be recaptured a dozen feet farther on.

By some miracle, Luke outdistanced those pursuing him, crashing into the cover. The natives followed a few yards, then gave up the chase, heading back to the easier sport on the beach.

Luke tripped over an exposed root and crashed to the ground. He tried to get up again, but his injured arm refused to support him. Closing his eyes, he waited for the fatal blow to fall.

Several minutes passed, during which Luke recited every prayer he had ever heard, to every conceivable deity in the pantheon. At the end of that time, he realized that he wasn't going to die after all--at least, not here and now. Rolling over onto his good arm, he sat up and got his back against a tree. From the beach came screams of terror, growing fainter as he listened and finally dying away altogether. Bracing his good arm against a tree, he worked himself up, got himself oriented and started back towards the copter.

The pilot threw away his cigarette and dropped out of the door to the cargo hold when Luke came limping into view.

"My God, man! What happened?"

"I ... made a mistake." He let himself be helped into the copter and took the mike, reporting the disaster on the beach to the Commandant back at Base. Then he let the pilot bandage his wounds.

* * * * *

"Eleven men dead," he said bitterly.

"Don't take it so hard, Luke," said Andy Singer. The team Commanders were back in the debriefing room again. All had commiserated with Luke on the tragedy; none had been able to convince him that it had not been his fault.

"Eleven men dead," he repeated, no matter what they said.

The commandant came in and they rose. "At ease, gentlemen," he said, as he mounted the platform. He stared at them for a thirty-second eternity.

"Ours is not an easy task." His words broke the tension; all sighed.

"There has been a tragic accident, gentlemen. Good men have died. Men just as good have died on a thousand planets in a thousand different ways. Sometimes they died because of an error; sometimes the death was unavoidable. But for whatever reason, they did not die in vain!

"This is a young planet," he continued. "In many ways, it's as near to paradise as any of us will ever see. Man is a young race here--young in development. Yet almost before he has a chance to prove himself, he has found himself in a backwater, stymied as it were by the very paradise qualities which attract us. Life is easy here, too easy. He doesn't have to exert himself. He lives much like his ancestors did, ten thousand years ago.

"There is no future in standing still. Whether he likes it or not, man must develop, must give the future generations a chance for their place in the sun. Despite sentimentality, anything that gives them that chance is good. Therefore, I repeat: eleven men died here yesterday. _They did not die in vain!_"

* * * * *

"Time for a break, I think," said Reilly, pressing a button. The door opened and the cadet Sergeant-Major stuck his head in.

"Sir?"

"Coffee, Sergeant. That will be suitable, gentlemen?" The boys nodded and the cadet withdrew.

"While we're waiting, are there any more questions?"

One of the boys hesitantly raised his hand.

"Mr. Phillips?"

"Sir, why is so much of the activity by the agents carried out in secrecy? It all seems rather underhanded to me."

"By the very nature of themselves, what we do must be carried out secretly. Even when we act openly, it is in secret...."

* * * * *

In the distance a bell tolled the supper hour. In the palace, pageboys wandered the corridors, knocking on apartment doors rousing the occupants. Carter combed out his beard, frowning at the liberal sprinkling of gray hairs in it, donned his cloak and set out for the dining hall. He shivered as a chill wind swept down the drafty corridors, and reminded himself to speak to Kahl again about returning to the capital city. Anything would be better than this.

The dining hall was crowded, as usual, with supplicants who had bribed their way to the royal tables. Most of them had wasted their money. The chamberlain had stuck them away in far corners where they would be able to do nothing but stare at the man they wanted to see. Not that it would have done them any good to speak to the king. Kahl found the petty details of his office tiring. More and more he had been shoving them onto the willing shoulders of Carter.

The chamberlain met him at the door with a copy of the seating arrangements. Carter read down the list, pausing here and there at familiar names--most of them pests who had long ago worn out his patience. He pursed his lips and touched a name with his finger.

"This Ivra. Fisherman, it says. He the one with the daughter Kahl wants?"

"Yes." Like most of the royal retinue, the chamberlain was uncomfortable in Carter's presence. The man had no title, no office. But he was undeniably the most powerful person in the realm after the king himself--some placed his eminence even ahead of the king's. "Shall I place him at the royal table?"

"No. It wouldn't do any good. But tell him to come see me tomorrow--no. Make that three days from now. He can't have his daughter unviolated, but I think we can make him happy to have her at all."

He handed the list back and made his way to the royal table, nodding to acquaintances and enemies. The problem of the fisherman bothered him. Carter was unaware of the fact, but he carried a strong puritanical conscience, the legacy of unknown forebears of years back. He disapproved of Kahl's unrestrained love life and did whatever he could to ease the disruptions it caused in the normal flow of subject-ruler relations.

He stopped at the royal table and clapped a uniformed officer on the shoulder. "Marshal Zants! A pleasure to see you back at court. I read your report. I know His Most Graciousness will be pleased at your eastern successes."

"Thank you, sir." The marshal inclined his head. "And I see you have had your own successes. Much has changed during the two years of my campaign."

"We all live, Marshal," said Carter. "We all grow a little older. It's the natural course of life. A man who stands still in one position all the time wouldn't make a good runner, now would he?"

"Indeed not. I suppose you wouldn't be interested in a commission under me? What things we could do together!"

"I'm honored that you think of me so kindly, but I'm afraid my peculiar talents don't run in the military manner, Marshal."

"Ah, but what a strategist you would make, sir."

"Oh?" He grinned. "Then our enemies should be happy to have me in the capital, not on the field."

* * * * *

He reached his seat just in time to touch trousers to it and rise again when Kahl came in, whispering something in the ear of a courtesan. The girl laughed hysterically, then went to the woman's table as servants started bringing in the first course. Kahl grunted as he sat down and rubbed his belly. He leaned over towards Carter.

"I'm getting fat, southerner. Fat and old."

"A little exercise would do us all good."

Kahl laughed. "That's what I like about you, Carter. Not for you the mealy-mouthed compliments. When you think something, you come right out and say it. I wish more of my ministers had your courage."

"A few tried it," said Carter. "As I remember it, you had their ears cut off and made them eat them."

"Yes, but I gave them a choice as to how they were prepared, didn't I?" He roared, and the rest of the room roared with him, although no one more than six feet from the head of the royal table could possibly have known the jest.

Kahl fell to slurping his soup, while Carter did his best to hide his distaste at the man's table manners. For that matter, there was not a person in the hall he would have invited to the most informal dinner in his own apartments. Table manners were something else he had been trying to introduce, but as yet they were his most notorious failure.

"Ahhh!" The king wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. While one servant removed the soup and another brought up the platter of meats and fish, he leaned over again. "Now, then, Carter. I've been meaning to speak to you all day. Been busy, though. Inhuman the number of demands on my time. Not that I mind of course. The penalties of the crown, and all that. But I really have been meaning to talk to you. How's that pet tinkerer of yours coming along."

"Which one would that be? I've got most of the college working, you know."

"The one working on that steam gadget you've been telling me about. You know, the one to make work easier. Not that I can see why a man should have his work made easy. Does the people good to sweat a bit."

"Economically, though, to have one man able to do the work of half a dozen is very good. Just think of how it'll enrich the treasuries. Besides, the work isn't any easier on them: they just produce more."

"Yes, yes. You've explained that all before. But how is it going?"

"Quite well. I think another few weeks will bring very promising results. Some of the others are coming along well, too. The armory is turning out a hundred of the improved crossbows a day, now. I took Marshal Zants through the armory and his eyes positively glowed with excitement. He promises new and greater victories in his next campaign."

* * * * *

"Oh?" Kahl was chewing on the leg of a bird. "He's been doing pretty good as it is, hasn't he?"

"Much better than I would have thought," Carter admitted. "The problems of waging a war completely off from contact with home are great. Lines of supply, communication--these are all vital to the successful campaign. I've got a few ideas on these subjects, too. After all, there is a limit to how much may be withdrawn from an occupied area--if you still want to have that area useful to you in the future. A very wise man in my country once said that an army travels on its stomach. The plans Zants has been discussing with me for his next campaign call for a very large army."

"You know," said Kahl, "at the rate we're going, it won't be long before your country is part of my country."

"I'm afraid that'll take a while yet." He laughed. "Although there has never been a nation in history with so much territory under its direct rule. Your name will live as the monarch of this country alone, no matter what you might do on your own."

Events were moving fast on the planet--almost faster than Carter wanted. Already the lands under Kahl's rule amounted to nearly fifty per cent of the known areas of the world. At the rate things were snowballing, it wouldn't be long before his primary objective of planetary unification were achieved--thousands of years ahead of time, if events had been permitted to follow their natural course.

Of course, there would be delays and setbacks all along the way. Subsidiary objectives would always be getting in the way, must always be considered along with other plans. But even so, things were off to a good start. Although he might not live to see the complete fruition of all of his plans, Carter knew that this world was well on its way towards galactic citizenship.

* * * * *

"There's a great deal of satisfaction in being a power behind the throne." Reilly grinned. "However, if any of you have a particular yen toward such power, it's only fair to tell you now that our screening is the most thorough ever devised. And it is constantly being improved. No man is ever placed in a position where his weaknesses might prove the better of him.

"This is not to say that a man might not find himself in a position where he will be called on to do more than his utmost. It's surprising just how much a man can do, when he finds out he has no other choice...."

VI

The counterfeit Lund reached the bank of elevators a half-dozen running paces ahead of the just-coming-to-life audience. He gestured, and the operator closed the door in their faces.

During the long descent to the street, Lund stripped off his clothes and did things to his face while the operator shoved the discarded costume into an access panel. Then he gave the now-slim little man a boost up through the roof of the cage and let himself be helped up.

"Thank God for tradition," the man who had been known as Lund said when he helped the other man up. Stripping off his uniform jacket and reversing it changed the other's appearance. The elevator slowed automatically for the ground floor. Word had been flashed down from the Conference hall, but when the waiting monitors surged into the opening elevator before it had quite eased to a stop, they found nothing at all.

Overhead, the two men threaded their way through a maze of cables and onto the roof of the next cab. It dropped under them, then stopped halfway between floors while they climbed down. The new operator eyed them, but said nothing while they brushed each other off. At a signal from the small man, the cab continued its interrupted drop, letting them out on the sub-surface shopping level.