A NATIONAL SURVEY . . .

He gradually built up a picture of a people being systematically and 
thoroughly enslaved, a picture of a nation as helpless as a man 
completely paralyzed, its defenses destroyed, its communications 
entirely in the hands of the invaders.

Everywhere he found boiling resentment, a fierce willingness to fight 
against the tyranny, but it was undirected, uncoordinated, and, in any 
modern sense, unarmed. Sporadic rebellion was as futile as the scurrying 
of ants whose hill has been violated. PanAsians could be killed, yes, 
and there were men willing to shoot on sight, even in the face of the 
certainty of their own deaths. But their hands were bound by the greater 
certainty of brutal multiple retaliation against their own kind. As with 
the Jews in Germany before the final blackout in Europe, bravery was not 
enough, for one act of violence against the tyrants would be paid for by 
other men, women, and children at unspeakable compound interest.





SIXTH COLUMN

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in 
this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents 
is purely coincidental.



Copyright (c) 1949 by Robert A. Heinlein. Reprinted from Astounding 
Science Fiction, (c) 1941 by Street and Smith Publications Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or 
portions thereof in any form.



A Baen Book
Baen Publishing Enterprises PO. Box 1403 Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-72026-0
Cover art by John Melo
First Baen printing, January 1988 Fourth Baen printing, July 1995
Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 
1002
Printed in the United States of America

For John S. Arvvine







CHAPTER ONE

"What the hell goes on here?" Whitey Ardmore demanded.

They ignored his remark as they had ignored his arrival. The man at the 
television receiver said, "Shut up. We're listening," and turned up the 
volume. The announcer's voice blared out: "-- Washington destroyed 
completely before the government could escape. With Manhattan in ruins, 
that leaves no --"

There was a click as the receiver was turned off. "That's that," said 
the man near it. "The United States is washed up." Then he added, 
"Anybody got a cigarette?"

Getting no answer, he pushed his way out of the small circle gathered 
around the receiver and felt through the pockets of a dozen figures 
collapsed by a table. It was not too easy, as rigor mortis had set in, 
but he finally located a half-empty pack, from which he removed a 
cigarette and lighted it.

"Somebody answer me!" commanded Ardmore. "What's happened here?"

The man with the cigarette looked him over for the first time. "Who are 
you?"

"Ardmore, major, intelligence. Who are you?"

"Calhoun, colonel in research."

"Very well, Colonel -- I have an urgent message for your commanding 
officer. Will you please have someone tell him that I am here and see to 
it that I am taken to him?" He spoke with poorly controlled exasperation.

Calhoun shook his head. "Can't do it. He's dead." He seemed to derive 
some sort of twisted pleasure from the announcement.

"Huh?"

"That's right -- dead. They're all dead, all the rest. You see before 
you, my dear Major, all that are left of the personnel of the Citadel -- 
perhaps I should say of the emergency research laboratory, department of 
defense, this being in the nature of an official report." He smiled with 
half his face, while his eye took in the handful of living men in the 
room.

Ardmore took a moment to comprehend the statement, then inquired, "The 
PanAsians?"

"No. No, not the PanAsians. So far as I know, the enemy does not suspect 
the existence of the Citadel. No, we did it ourselves -- an experiment 
that worked too well. Dr. Ledbetter was engaged in research in an 
attempt to discover a means of --"

"Never mind that, Colonel. Whom does command revert to? I've got to 
carry out my orders. "

"Command? Military command? Good Lord, man, we haven't had time to think 
about that yet. Wait a moment."

His eye roved around the room, counting noses. "Hm-m-m -- I'm senior to 
everyone here-and they are all here. I suppose that makes me commanding 
officer."

"No line officers present?"

"No. All special commissions. That leaves me it. Go ahead with your 
report."

Ardmore looked about at the faces of the half a dozen men in the room. 
They were following the conversation with apathetic interest. Ardmore 
worried to himself before replying over how to phrase the message. The 
situation had changed; perhaps he should not deliver it at all.

"I was ordered," he said, picking his words, "to inform your general 
that he was released from superior command. He was to operate 
independently and prosecute the war against the invader according to his 
own judgment. You see," he went on, "when I left Washington twelve hours 
ago we knew they had us. This concentration of brain power in the 
Citadel was about the only remaining possible military asset."

Calhoun nodded. "I see. A defunct government sends orders to a defunct 
laboratory. Zero plus zero equals zero. It's all very funny if one only 
knew when to laugh."

"Colonel!"

"Yes?"

"They are your orders now. What do you propose to do with them?"

"Do with them? What the hell is there to do? Six men against four 
hundred million. I suppose," he added "to make everything nice and tidy 
for the military mind I should write out a discharge from the United 
States army for everybody left and kiss 'em good-by. I don't know where 
that leaves me -- harakiri, perhaps. Maybe you don't get it. This is all 
the United States there is left. And it's left because the PanAsians 
haven't found it."

Ardmore wet his lips. "Apparently I did not clearly convey the order. 
The order was to take charge, and prosecute the war!"

"With what?"

He measured Calhoun before answering. "It is not actually your 
responsibility. Under the changed situation, in accordance with the 
articles of war, as senior line officer present I am assuming command of 
this detachment of the United States army!"

It hung in the balance for twenty heartbeats. At last Calhoun stood up 
and attempted to square his stooped shoulders. "You are perfectly 
correct, sir. What are your orders?"

"What are your orders?" he asked himself. Think fast, Ardmore, you big 
Junk, you've shot off your face -- now where are you? Calhoun was right 
when he asked "With what?" -- yet he could not stand still and see the 
remnant of military organization fall to pieces.

You've got to tell 'em something, and it's got to be good; at least good 
enough to hold 'em until you think of something better. Stall, brother, 
stall! "I think we had best examine the new situation here, first. 
Colonel, will you oblige me by having the remaining personnel gather 
around -- say around that big table? That will be convenient."

"Certainly, sir." The others, having heard the order, moved toward the 
table. "Graham! And you, what's your name? Thomas, isn't it? You two 
remove Captain MacAllister's body to some other place. Put him in the 
corridor for now."

The commotion of getting one of the ubiquitous corpses out of the way 
and getting the living settled around a table broke the air of unreality 
and brought things into focus. Ardmore felt more self-confidence when he 
turned again to Calhoun. "You had better introduce me to those here 
present. I want to know what they do and something about them, as well 
as their names."

It was a corporal's guard, a forlorn remnant. He had expected to find, 
hidden here safely and secretly away under an unmarked spot in the Rocky 
Mountains, the most magnificent aggregation of research brains ever 
gathered together for one purpose. Even in the face of complete military 
disaster to the regular forces of the United States, there remained a 
reasonable outside chance that two hundred-odd keen scientific brains, 
secreted in a hide-away whose very existence was unsuspected by the 
enemy and equipped with every modern facility for research, might 
conceivably perfect and operate some weapon that would eventually drive 
out the PanAsians.

For that purpose he had been sent to tell the commanding general that he 
was on his own, no longer responsible to higher authority. But what 
could half a dozen men do in any case?

For it was a scant half a dozen. There was Dr. Lowell Calhoun, 
mathematician, jerked out of university life by the exigencies of war 
and called a colonel. There was Dr. Randall Brooks, biologist and 
bio-chemist, with a special commission of major. Ardmore liked his 
looks; he was quiet and mild, but gave the impression of an untroubled 
strength of character superior to that of a more extroverted man-he 
would do, and his advice would be useful.

Ardmore mentally dubbed Robert Wilkie a "punk kid." He was young and 
looked younger, having an overgrown collie-dog clumsiness, and hair that 
would not stay in place. His field, it developed, was radiation, and the 
attendant branches of physics too esoteric for a layman to understand. 
Ardmore had not the slightest way of judging whether or not he was any 
good in his specialty. He might be a genius, but his appearance did not 
encourage the idea.

No other scientist remained. There were three enlisted men: Herman 
Scheer, technical sergeant. He had been a mechanic, a die maker, a tool 
maker. When the army picked him up he had been making precision 
instruments for the laboratories of the Edison Trust. His brown, square 
hands and lean fingers backed up his account of himself. His lined, set 
face and heavy jaw muscles made Ardmore judge him to be a good man to 
have at his back in a tight place. He would do.

There remained Edward Graham, private first-class, specialist rating 
officers' cook. Total war had turned him from his profession as an 
artist and interior decorator to his one other talent, cooking. Ardmore 
was unable to see how he could fit into the job, except, of course, that 
somebody had to cook.

The last man was Graham's helper, Jeff Thomas, private -- background: 
none. "He wandered in here one day," explained Calhoun. "We had to 
enlist him and keep him here to protect the secret of the place."

Acquainting Ardmore with the individuals of his "command" had used up 
several minutes during which he had thought furiously with half his mind 
about what he should say next. He knew what he had to accomplish, some 
sort of a shot in the arm that would restore the morale of this badly 
demoralized group, some of the old hokum that men live by. He believed 
in hokum, being a publicity man by trade and an army man only by 
necessity. That brought to mind another worry -- should he let them know 
that he was no more a professional than they, even though he happened to 
hold a line commission? No, that would not be very bright; they needed 
just now to regard him with the faith that the layman usually holds for 
the professional.

Thomas was the end of the list: Calhoun had stopped talking. Here's your 
chance, son, better not muff it!

Then he had it fortunately it would take only a short build-up. "It will 
be necessary for us to continue our task

assignment independently for an indefinite period. I want to remind you 
that we derive our obligations not from

our superior officers who were killed in Washington, but from the people 
of the United States, through their

Constitution. That Constitution is neither captured nor destroyed -- it 
cannot, for it is not a piece of paper, but the

joint contract of the American people. Only the American people can 
release us from it."

Was he right? He was no lawyer, and he didn't know -- but he did know 
that they needed to believe it. He turned to Calhoun. "Colonel Calhoun, 
will you now swear me in as commanding officer of this detachment of the 
United States army?" Then he added, as an apparent afterthought, "I 
think it would be well for us all to renew our oaths at the same time. "

It was a chanted chorus that echoed through the nearly empty room. " 'I 
do solemnly swear -- to carry out the duties of my office -- and to 
uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States -- against all 
of its enemies, domestic and foreign!'

"So help me God."

"'So help me God!"'

Ardmore was surprised to discover that the show he had staged brought 
tears to his own cheeks. Then he noticed them in Calhoun's eyes. Maybe 
there was more to it than he had thought.

"Colonel Calhoun, you, of course, become director of research. You are 
second in command, but I will carry out the duties of executive officer 
myself in order to leave you free to pursue your scientific inquiries. 
Major Brooks and Captain Wilkie are assigned to you. Scheer!"

"Yes, sir!"

"You work for Colonel Calhoun. If he does not need all of your service, 
I will assign additional duties later. Graham!"

"Yes, sir."

"You will continue your present duties. You are also mess sergeant, mess 
officer, supply officer -- in fact, you are the whole commissary 
department. Bring me a report later today estimating the number of 
rations available and the condition of perishables. Thomas works for 
you, but is subject to call by any member of the scientific staff any 
time they want him. That may delay meals, but it can't be helped."

"Yes, sir."

"You and I and Thomas will perform all duties among us that do not 
directly apply to research, and will assist the scientists in any way 
and at any time that they need us. That specifically includes myself, 
Colonel," he emphasized, turning to Calhoun, "if another pair of 
untrained hands is useful at any point, you are directed to call on me."

"Very well, Major."

"Graham, you and Thomas will have to clear out the bodies around the 
place before they get too high -- say by tomorrow night. Put them in an 
unused room and hermetically seal it. Scheer will show you how." He 
glanced at his wrist. "Two o'clock. When did you have lunch?"

"There . . . uh . . . was none today."

"Very well. Graham, serve coffee and sandwiches here in twenty minutes."

"Very good, sir. Come along, Jeff."

"Coming. "

As they left, Ardmore turned back to Calhoun. "In the meantime, Colonel, 
let's go to the laboratory where the catastrophe originated. I still 
want to find out what happened here!"

The other two scientists and Scheer hesitated; he picked them up with a 
nod, and the little party filed out.

"You say nothing in particular happened, no explosion, no gas -- yet 
they died?" They were standing around Dr. Ledbetter's last set-up. The 
martyred scientist's body still lay where it had fallen, a helpless, 
disorganized heap. Ardmore took his eyes from it and tried to make out 
the meaning of the set-up apparatus. It looked simple, but called no 
familiar picture to mind.

"No, nothing but a little blue flame that persisted momentarily. 
Ledbetter had just closed this switch." Calhoun pointed to it without 
touching it. It was open now, a self-opening, spring-loaded type. "I 
felt suddenly dizzy. When my head cleared, I saw that Ledbetter had 
fallen and went to him, but there was nothing that I could do for him. 
He was dead -- without a mark on him."

"It knocked me out," offered Wilkie. "I might not have made it if Scheer 
hadn't given me artificial respiration. "

"You were here?" Ardmore asked.

"No, I was in the radiation laboratory over at the other end of the 
plant. It killed my chief."

Ardmore frowned and pulled a chair out from the wall. As he started to 
sit down there was a scurrying sound, a small gray shape flashed across 
the floor and out the open door. A rat, he thought, and dismissed the 
matter. But Dr. Brooks stared at it in amazement, and ran out the door 
himself, calling out behind him: "Wait a minute -- right back!"

"I wonder what's gotten into him?" Ardmore inquired of no one in 
particular. The thought flashed through his mind that the strain of 
events had finally been too much for the mild little biologist.

They had less than a minute to wait in order to find out. Brooks 
returned as precipitately as he had left. The exertion caused him to 
pant and interfered with articulation. "Major Ardmore! Dr. Calhoun! 
Gentlemen!" He paused and caught his breath. "My white mice are alive!"

"Huh? What of it?"

"Don't you see? It's an important datum, perhaps a crucially important 
datum. None of the animals in the biological laboratory was hurt! Don't 
you see?"

"Yes, but -- Oh! Perhaps I do -- the rat was alive and your mice weren't 
killed, yet men were killed all around them."

"Of course! Of course!" Brooks beamed at Ardmore.

"Hm-m-m. An action that kills a couple of hundred men through rock walls 
and metal, with no fuss and no excitement, yet passes by mice and the 
like. I've never before heard of anything that would kill a man but not 
a mouse." He nodded toward the apparatus. "It looks as if we had big 
medicine in that little gadget, Calhoun."

"So it does," Calhoun agreed, "if we can learn to control it."

"Any doubt in your mind?"

"Well -- we don't know why it killed, and we don't know why it spared 
six of us, and we don't know why it doesn't harm animals."

"So -- Well, that seems to be the problem." He stared again at the 
simple-appearing enigma. "Doctor, I don't like to interfere with your 
work right from scratch, but I would rather you did not close that 
switch without notifying me in advance." His gaze dropped to Ledbetter's 
still figure and hurriedly shifted.

Over the coffee and sandwiches he pried further into the situation. 
"Then no one really knows what Ledbetter was up to?"

"You could put it that way," agreed Calhoun. "I helped him with the 
mathematical considerations, but he was a genius and somewhat impatient 
with lesser minds. If Einstein were alive, they might have talked as 
equals, but with the rest of us he discussed only the portions he wanted 
assistance on, or details he wished to turn over to assistants."

"Then you don't know what he was getting at?"

"Well, yes and no. Are you familiar with general field theory?"

"Criminy, no!"

"Well! -- that makes it rather hard to talk, Major Ardmore. Dr. 
Ledbetter was investigating the theoretically possible additional 
spectra --"

"Additional spectra?"

"Yes. You see, most of the progress in physics in the last century and a 
half has been in dealing with the electromagnetic spectrum, light, 
radio, X-ray --"

"Yes, yes, I know that, but how about these additional spectra?"

"That's what I am trying to tell you," answered Calhoun with a slight 
note of annoyance. "General field theory predicts the possibility of at 
least three more entire spectra. You see, there are three types of 
energy fields known to exist in space: electric, magnetic, and gravitic 
or gravitational. Light, X-rays, all such radiations, are part of the 
electromagnetic spectrum. Theory indicates the possibility of analogous 
spectra between magnetic and gravitic, between electric and gravitic, 
and finally, a three-phase type between electric-magnetio-gravitic 
fields. Each type would constitute a complete new spectrum, a total of 
three new fields of learning.

"If there are such, they would presumably have properties quite as 
remarkable as the electromagnetic spectrum and quite different. But we 
have no instruments with which to detect such spectra, nor do we even 
know that such spectra exist."

"You know," commented Ardmore, frowning a little, "I'm just a layman in 
these matters and don't wish to set my opinion up against yours, but 
this seems like a search for the little man who wasn't there. I had 
supposed that this laboratory was engaged in the single purpose of 
finding a military weapon to combat the vortex beams and A-bomb rockets 
of the PanAsians. I am a bit surprised to find the man whom you seem to 
regard as having been your ace researcher engaged in an attempt to 
discover things that he was not sure existed and whose properties were 
totally unknown. It doesn't seem reasonable. "

Calhoun did not answer; he simply looked supercilious and smiled 
irritatingly. Ardmore felt put in the wrong and was conscious of a warm 
flush spreading up toward his face. "Yes, yes," he said hastily, "I know 
I'm wrong -- whatever it was that Ledbetter found, it killed a couple of 
hundred men. Therefore it is a potential military weapon -- but wasn't 
he just mugging around in the dark?"

"Not entirely," Calhoun replied, with a words-of-one-syllable air. "The 
very theoretical considerations that predict additional spectra allow of 
some reasonable probability as to the general nature of their 
properties. I know that

Ledbetter had originally been engaged in a search for a means of setting 
up tractor and pressor beams -- that would be in the magneto-gravitic 
spectrum -- but the last couple of weeks he appeared to be in a 
condition of intense excitement and radically changed the direction of 
his experimentation. He was close-mouthed; I got no more than a few 
hints from the transformations and developments which he had me perform 
for him. However" -- Calhoun drew a bulky loose-leaf notebook from an 
inner pocket "he kept complete notes of his experiments. We should be 
able to follow his work and perhaps infer his hypotheses."

Young Wilkie, who was seated beside Calhoun, bent toward him. "Where did 
you find these, doctor?" he asked excitedly.

"On a bench in his laboratory. If you had looked you would have seen 
them."

Wilkie ignored the thrust; he was already eating up the symbols set down 
in the opened book. "But that is a radiation formula --"

"Of course it is -- d'you think I'm a fool?"

"But it's all wrong!"

"It may be from your standpoint; you may be sure that it was not to Dr. 
Ledbetter."

They branched off into argument that was totally meaningless to Ardmore; 
after some minutes he took advantage of a pause to say, "Gentlemen! 
Gentlemen! just a moment. I can see that I am simply keeping you from 
your work; I've learned all that I can just now. As I understand it, 
your immediate task is to catch up with Dr. Ledbetter and to discover 
what it is that his apparatus does -- without killing yourselves in the 
process. Is that right?"

"I would say that is a fair statement," Calhoun agreed cautiously.

"Very well, then -- carry on, and keep me advised at your convenience." 
He got up; the others followed his example. "Oh just one more thing."

"Yes?"

"I happened to think of something else. I don't know whether it is 
important or not, but it came to mind because of the importance that Dr. 
Brooks attached to the matter of the rats and mice." He ticked points 
off on his fingers.

"Many men were killed; Dr. Wilkie was knocked out and very nearly died; 
Dr. Calhoun experienced only a momentary discomfort; the rest of those 
who lived apparently didn't suffer any effects of any sort weren't aware 
that anything had happened except that their companions mysteriously 
died. Now, isn't that data of some sort?"

He awaited a reply anxiously, being subconsciously afraid that the 
scientists would consider his remarks silly, or obvious.

Calhoun started to reply, but Dr. Brooks cut in ahead of him. "Of 
course, it is! Now why didn't I think of that? Dear me, I must be 
confused today. That establishes a gradient, an ordered relationship in 
the effect of the unknown action." He stopped and thought, then went on 
almost at once. "I really must have your permission, Major, to examine 
the cadavers of our late colleagues, then by examining for differences 
between them and those alive, especially those hard hit by the unknown 
action --" He broke off short and eyed Wilkie speculatively.

"No, you don't!" protested Wilkie. "You won't make a guinea pig out of 
me. Not while I know it!" Ardmore was unable to tell whether the man's 
apprehension was real or facetious. He cut it short.

"The details will have to be up to you gentlemen. But remember -- no 
chances to your lives without notifying me."

"You hear that, Brooksie?" Wilkie persisted.

Ardmore went to bed that night from sheer sense of duty, not because he 
felt ready to sleep. His immediate job was accomplished; he had picked 
up the pieces of the organization known as the Citadel and had thrown it 
together into some sort of a going concern -- whether or not it was 
going any place he was too tired to judge, but at least it was going. He 
had given them a pattern to live by, and, by assuming leadership and 
responsibility, had enabled them to unload their basic worries on him 
and thereby acquire some measure of emotional security. That should keep 
them from going crazy in a world which had gone crazy.

What would it be like, this crazy new world -- a world in which the 
superiority of western culture was not a casually accepted 'Of course,' 
a world in which the Stars and Stripes did not fly, along with the 
pigeons, over every public building?

Which brought to mind a new worry: if he was to maintain any pretense of 
military purpose, he would have to have some sort of a service of 
information.

He had been too busy in getting them all back to work to think about it, 
but he would have to think about it tomorrow, he told himself, then 
continued to worry about it.

An intelligence service was as important as a new secret weapon -- more 
important; no matter how fantastic and powerful a weapon might be 
developed from Dr. Ledbetter's researches, it would be no help until 
they knew just where and how to use it against the enemy's weak points. 
A ridiculously inadequate military intelligence had been the prime 
characteristic of the United States as a power all through its history. 
The most powerful nation the globe had ever seen -- but it had stumbled 
into wars like a blind giant. Take this present mess: the atom bombs of 
PanAsia weren't any more powerful than our own but we had been caught 
flat-footed and had never gotten to use a one.

We had had how many stock-piled? A thousand, he had heard. Ardmore 
didn't know, but certainly the PanAsians had known, just how many, just 
where they were. Military intelligence had won the war for them, not 
secret weapons. Not that the secret weapons of the PanAsians were 
anything to sneer at particularly when it was all too evident that they 
really were "secret." Our own so-called intelligence services had fallen 
down on the job.

O. K., Whitey Ardmore, it's all yours now! You can build any sort of an 
intelligence service your heart desires -- using three near-sighted 
laboratory scientists, an elderly master sergeant, two kitchen privates, 
and the bright boy in person. So you are good at criticizing -- "If 
you're so smart, why ain't you rich?"

He got up, wished passionately for just one dose of barbiturate to give 
him a night's sleep, drank a glass of hot water instead, and went back 
to bed.

Suppose they did dig up a really powerful and new weapon? That gadget of 
Ledbetter's certainly looked good, if they could learn to handle it but 
what then? One man couldn't run a battle cruiser -- he couldn't even get 
it off the ground -- and six men couldn't whip an empire, not even with 
seven-league boots and a death ray. What was that old crack of 
Archimedes? "If I had a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to rest 
it, I could move the Earth."

How about the fulcrum? No weapon was a weapon without an army to use it.

He dropped into a light sleep and dreamed that he was flopping around on 
the end of the longest lever conceivable, a useless lever, for it rested 
on nothing. Part of the time he was Archimedes, and part of the time 
Archimedes stood beside him, jeering and leering at him with a strongly 
Asiatic countenance.

CHAPTER TWO

Ardmore was too busy for the next couple of weeks to worry much about 
anything but the job at hand. The underlying postulate of their 
existence pattern -- that they were, in fact, a military organization 
which must some day render an accounting to civil authority -- required 
that he should comply with, or closely simulate compliance with, the 
regulations concerning paperwork, reports, records, pay accounts, 
inventories, and the like. In his heart he felt it to be waste motion, 
senseless, yet as a publicity man, he was enough of a jackleg 
psychologist to realize intuitively that man is a creature that lives by 
symbols. At the moment these symbols of government were all important.

So he dug into the regulation manual of the deceased paymaster and 
carefully closed out the accounts of the dead, noting in each case the 
amounts due each man's dependents "in lawful money of the United 
States," even while wondering despondently if that neat phrase would 
ever mean anything again. But he did it, and he assigned minor 
administrative jobs to each of the others in order that they might 
realize indirectly that the customs were being maintained.

It was too much clerical work for one man to keep up. He discovered that 
Jeff Thomas, the cook's helper, could use a typewriter with facility and 
had a fair head for figures. He impressed him into the job. It threw 
more work on Graham, who complained, but that was good for him, he 
thought -- a dog needs fleas. He wanted every member of his command to 
go to bed tired every night.

Thomas served another purpose. Ardmore's highstrung disposition required 
someone to talk to. Thomas turned out to be intelligent and passively 
sympathetic, and he found himself speaking with more and more freedom to 
the man. It was not in character for the commanding officer to confide 
in a private, but he felt instinctively that Thomas would not abuse his 
trust -- and he needed nervous release.

Calhoun brought up the matter which forced Ardmore to drop his 
preoccupation with routine and turn his attention to more difficult 
matters. Calhoun had called to ask permission to activate Ledbetter's 
apparatus, as modified to suit their current hypotheses, but he added 
another and embarrassing question.

"Major Ardmore, can you give me some idea as to how you intend to make 
use of the 'Ledbetter effect'?"

Ardmore did not know; he answered with another question. "Are you near 
enough to results to make that question urgent? If so, can you give me 
some idea of what you have discovered so fax?"

"That will be difficult," Calhoun replied in an academic and faintly 
patronizing manner, "since I am constrained not to speak in the 
mathematical language which, of necessity, is the only way of expressing 
such things --"

"Now, Colonel, please," Ardmore broke in, irritated more than he would 
admit to himself and inhibited by the presence of Private Thomas, "you 
can kill a man with it or you can't and you can control whom you kill or 
you can't."

"That's an oversimplification," Calhoun argued. "However, we think that 
the new set-up will be directional in its effect. Dr. Brook's 
investigations caused him to hypothecate an asymmetrical relationship 
between the action and organic life it is applied to, such that an 
inherent characteristic of the life form determines the effect of the 
action as well as the inherent characteristics of the action itself. 
That is to say, the effect is a function of the total factors of the 
process, including the life form involved, as well as the original 
action --"

"Easy, easy, Colonel. What does that mean as a weapon?"

"It means that you could turn it on two men and decide which one it is 
to kill -- with proper controls," Calhoun answered testily. "At least, 
we think so. Wilkie has volunteered to act as a control on it, with mice 
as the object."

Ardmore granted permission for the experiment to take place, subject to 
precautions and restrictions.

When Calhoun had gone, his mind returned at once to the problem of what 
he was going to do with the weapon -- if any. And that required data 
that he did not have. Damn it! -- he had to have a service of 
information; he had to know what was going on outside.

The scientists were out, of course. And Scheer, for the scientific staff 
needed his skill. Graham? No, Graham was a good cook, but nervous and 
irritable, emotionally not stable, the very last man to pick for a piece 
of dangerous espionage. It left only himself. He was trained for such 
things; he would have to go.

"But you can't do that, sir," Thomas reminded him.

"Huh? What's that?" He had been unconsciously expressing his thoughts 
aloud, a habit he had gotten into when he was alone, or with Thomas 
only. The man's manner encouraged using him for a sounding board.

"You can't leave your command, sir. Not only is it against regulations, 
but, if you will let me express an opinion, everything you have done so 
far will fall to pieces."

"Why should it? I'll be back in a few days."

"Well, sir, maybe it would hold together for a few days -- though I'm 
not sure of that. Who would be in charge in your absence?"

"Colonel Calhoun -- of course."

"Of course." Thomas expressed by raised eyebrows and ready agreement an 
opinion which military courtesy did not permit him to say aloud. Ardmore 
knew that Thomas was right. Outside of his specialty, Calhoun was a 
bad-tempered, supercilious, conceited old fool, in Ardmore's opinion. 
Ardmore had had to intercede already to patch up trouble which Calhoun's 
arrogance had caused. Scheer worked for Calhoun only because Ardmore had 
talked with him, calmed him down, and worked on his strong sense of duty.

The situation reminded him of the time when he had worked as press agent 
for a famous and successful female evangelist. He had signed on as 
director of public relations, but he had spent two-thirds of his time 
straightening out the messes caused by the vicious temper of the holy 
harridan.

"But you have no way of being sure that you will be back in a few days," 
Thomas persisted. "This is a very dangerous assignment; if you get 
killed on it, there is no one here who can take over your job."

"Oh, now, that's not true, Thomas. No man is irreplaceable."

"This is no time for false modesty, sir. That may be true in general, 
but you know that it is not true in this case. There is a strictly 
limited number to draw from, and you are the only one from whom all of 
us will take direction. In particular, you are the only one from whom 
Dr. Calhoun will take direction. That is because you know how to handle 
him. None of the others would be able to, nor would he be able to handle 
them."

"That's a pretty strong statement, Thomas."

Thomas said nothing. At length Ardmore went on.

"All right, all right suppose you are right. I've got to have military 
information. How am I going to get it if I don't go myself?"

Thomas was a little slow in replying. Finally, he said quietly, "I could 
try it."

"You?" Ardmore looked him over and wondered why he had not considered 
Thomas. Perhaps because there was nothing about the man to suggest his 
potential ability to handle such a job -- that, combined with the fact 
that he was a private, and one did not assign privates to jobs requiring 
dangerous independent action. Yet perhaps

"Have you ever done any work of that sort?"

"No, but my experience may be specially adapted in a way to such work."

"Oh, yes! Scheer told me something about you. You were a tramp, weren't 
you, before the army caught up with you?"

"Not a tramp," Thomas corrected gently, "a hobo."

"Sorry -- what's the distinction?"

"A tramp is a bum, a parasite, a man that won't work. A hobo is an 
itinerant laborer who prefers casual freedom to security. He works for 
his living, but he won't be tied down to one environment."

"Oh, I see. Hm-m-m -- yes, and I begin to see why you might be 
especially well adapted to an intelligence job. I suppose it must 
require a good deal of adaptability and resourcefulness to stay alive as 
a hobo. But wait a minute, Thomas -- I guess I've more or less taken you 
for granted; I need to know a great deal more about you, if you are to 
be entrusted with this job. You know, you don't act like a hobo."

"How does a hobo act?"

"Eh? Oh, well, skip it. But tell me something about your background. How 
did you happen to take up hoboing?"

Ardmore realized that he had, for the first time, pierced the man's 
natural reticence. Thomas fumbled for an answer, finally replying, "I 
suppose it was that I did not like being a lawyer."

"What?"

"Yes. You see, it was like this: I went from the law into social 
administration. In the course of my work I got an idea that I wanted to 
write a thesis on migratory labor and decided that in order to 
understand the subject I would have to experience the conditions under 
which such people lived."

"I see. And it was while you were doing your laboratory work, as it 
were, that the army snagged you. "

"Oh, no," Thomas corrected him. "I've been on the road more than ten 
years. I never went back. You see, I found I liked being a hobo."

The details were rapidly arranged. Thomas wanted nothing in the way of 
equipment but the clothes he had been wearing when he had stumbled into 
the Citadel. Ardmore had suggested a bedding roll, but Thomas would have 
none of it. "It would not be in character," he explained. "I was never a 
bindlestiff. Bindlestiffs are dirty, and a self-respecting hobo doesn't 
associate with them. All I want is a good meal in my belly and a small 
amount of money on my person."

Ardmore's instructions to him were very general. "Almost anything you 
hear or see will be data for me," he told him. "Cover as much territory 
as you ran, and try to be back here within a week. If you are gone much 
longer than that, I will assume that you are dead or imprisoned, and 
will have to try some other plan.

"Keep your eyes open for some means by which we can establish a 
permanent service of information. I can't suggest what it is you are to 
look for in that connection, but keep it in mind. Now as to details: 
anything and everything about the PanAsians, how they are armed, how 
they police occupied territory, where they have set up headquarters, 
particularly their continental headquarters, and, if you can make any 
sort of estimate, how many of them there are and how they're 
distributed. That would keep you busy for a year, at least; just the 
same, be back in a week. "

Ardmore showed Thomas how to operate one of the outer doors of the 
Citadel; two bars of "Yankee Doodle," breaking off short, and a door 
appeared in what seemed to be a wall of country rock -- simple, and yet 
foreign to the Asiatic mind. Then he shook hands with him and wished him 
good luck.

Ardmore found that Thomas had still one mare surprise for him; when he 
shook hands, he did so with the grip of the Dekes, Ardmore's own 
fraternity! Ardmore stood staring at the closed portal, busy arranging 
his preconceptions.

When he turned around, Calhoun was behind him. He felt somewhat as if he 
had been caught stealing jam. "Oh, hello, Doctor," he said quickly.

"How do you do, Major," Calhoun replied with deliberation. "May I 
inquire as to what is going on?"

"Certainly. I've sent Lieutenant Thomas out to reconnoiter. "

"Lieutenant?"

"Brevet lieutenant. I was forced to use him for work fax beyond his 
rank; I found it expedient to assign him the rank and pay of his new 
duties."

Calhoun pursued that point no further, but answered with another, in the 
same faintly critical tone of voice. "I suppose you realize that it 
jeopardizes all of us to send anyone outside? I am a little surprised 
that you should act in such a matter without consulting with others."

"I am sorry you feel that way about it, Colonel," Ardmore replied, in a 
conscious attempt to conciliate the older man, "but I am required to 
make the final decision in any case, and it is of prime importance to 
our task that nothing be permitted to distract your attention from your 
all-important job of research. Have you completed your experiment?" he 
went on quickly.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"The results were positive. The mice. died."

"How about Wilkie?"

"Oh, Wilkie was unhurt, naturally. That is in accordance with my 
predictions."

Jefferson Thomas. Bachelor of Arts magna cum laude, University of 
California, Bachelor of Law, Harvard Law School, professional hobo, 
private and cook's helper, and now a brevet lieutenant, intelligence, 
United States army, spent his first night outside shivering on pine 
needles where dark had overtaken him. Early the next morning he located 
a ranchhouse.

They fed him, but they were anxious for him to move along. "You never 
can tell when one of those heathens is going to come snooping around," 
apologized his host, "and I can't afford to be arrested for harboring 
refugees. I got the wife and kids to think about." But he followed 
Thomas out to the road, still talking, his natural garrulity prevailing 
over his caution. He seemed to take a grim pleasure in bewailing the 
catastrophe.

"God knows what I'm raising those kids up to. Some nights it seems like 
the only reasonable thing to do is to put them all out of their sorrow. 
But Jessie -- that's my wife -- says it's a scandal and a sin to talk 
that way, that the Lord will take care of things all in His own good 
time. Maybe so -- but I know it's no favor to a child to raise it up to 
be bossed around and lorded over by those monkeys." He spat. "It's not 
American."

"What's this about penalties for harboring refugees?"

The rancher stared at him. "Where've you been, friend?"

"Up in the hills. I haven't laid eyes on one of the so-and-so's yet."

"You will. But then you haven't got a number, have you? You'd better get 
one. No, that won't do you any good; you'd just land in a labor camp if 
you tried to get one."

"Number?

"Registration number. Like this." He pulled a glassine-covered card out 
of his pocket and displayed it. It had axed to it a poor but 
recognizable picture of the rancher, his fingerprints, and pertinent 
data as to his occupation, marital status, address, etcetera. There was 
a long, hyphenated number running across the top. The rancher indicated 
it with a work-stained finger. "That first part is my number. It means I 
have permission from the emperor to stay alive and enjoy the air and 
sunshine," he added bitterly. "The second part is my serial 
classification. It tells where I live and what I do. If I want to cross 
the county line, I have to have that changed. If I want to go to any 
other town than the one I'm assigned to do my marketing in, I've got to 
get a day's special permit. Now I ask you -- is that any way for a man 
to live?"

"Not for me," agreed Thomas. "Well, I guess I had better be on my way 
before I get you in trouble. Thanks for the breakfast."

"Don't mention it. It's a pleasure to do a favor for a fellow American 
these days."

He started off down the road at once, not wishing the kindly rancher to 
see how thoroughly he had been moved by the picture of his degradation. 
The implications of that registration card had shaken his free soul in a 
fashion that the simple, intellectual knowledge of the defeat of the 
United States had been unable to do.

He moved slowly for the first two or three days, avoiding the towns 
until he had gathered sufficient knowledge of the enforced new customs 
to be able to conduct himself without arousing suspicion. It was 
urgently desirable that he be able to enter at least one big city in 
order to snoop around, read the bulletin boards, and find a chance to 
talk with persons whose occupations permitted them to travel. From a 
standpoint of personal safety he was quite willing to chance it without 
an identification card but he remembered clearly a repeated injunction 
of Ardmore's "Your paramount duty is to returns Don't go making a hero 
of yourself. Don't take any chance you can avoid and come back!"

Cities would have to wait.

Thomas skirted around towns at night, avoiding patrols as he used to 
avoid railroad cops. The second night out he found the first of his 
objectives, a hobos' jungle. It was just where he had expected to find 
it, from his recollection of previous trips through the territory. 
Nevertheless, he almost missed it, for the inevitable fire was concealed 
by a jury-rigged oil-can stove, and shielded from chance observation.

He slipped into the circle and sat down without comment, as custom 
required, and waited for them to look him over.

Presently a voice said plaintively: "It's Gentleman Jeff. Cripes, Jeff, 
you gave me a turn. I thought you was a flatface. Whatcha been doin' 
with yourself, Jeff?"

"Oh, one thing and another. On the dodge."

"Who isn't these days?" the voice returned. "Everywhere you try, those 
slant-eyes --" He broke into a string of attributions concerning the 
progenitors and personal habits of the PanAsians about which he could 
not possibly have had positive knowledge.

"Stow it, Moe," another voice commanded. "Tell us the news, Jeff."

"Sorry," Thomas refused affably, "but I've been up in the hills, kinda 
keeping out of the army and doing a little fishing."

"You should have stayed there. Things are bad everywhere. Nobody dares 
give an unregistered man a day's work and it takes everything you've got 
just to keep out of the labor camps. It makes the big Red hunt look like 
a picnic."

"Tell me about the labor camps," Thomas suggested. "I might get hungry 
enough, to try one for a while." .

"You don't know. Nobody could get that hungry." The voice paused, as if 
the owner were turning the unpleasant subject over in his mind. "Did you 
know the Seattle Kid?"

"Seem to recall. Little squint-eyed guy, handy with his hands?"

"That's him. Well, he was in one, maybe a week, and got out. Couldn't 
tell us how; his mind was gone. I saw him the night he died. His body 
was a mass of sores, blood poisoning, I guess." He paused. then added 
reflectively: "The smell was pretty bad."

Thomas wanted to drop the subject but he needed to know more. "Who gets 
sent to these camps?"

"Any man that isn't already working at an approved job. Boys from 
fourteen on up. All that was left alive of the army after we folded up. 
Anybody that's caught without a registration card."

"That ain't the half of it," added Moe. "You should see what they do 
with unassigned women. Why, a woman was telling me just the other day -- 
a nice old gel; gimme a handout. She was telling me about her niece used 
to be a schoolteacher, and the flatfaces don't want any American schools 
or teachers. When they registered her they --"

"Shut up, Moe. You talk too much."

It was disconnected, fragmentary, the more so as he was rarely able to 
ask direct questions concerning the things he really wanted to know. 
Nevertheless he gradually built up a picture of a people being 
systematically and thoroughly enslaved, a picture of a nation as 
helpless as a man completely paralyzed, its defenses destroyed, its 
communications entirely in the hands of the invaders.

Everywhere he found boiling resentment, a fierce willingness to fight 
against the tyranny, but it was undirected, uncoordinated, and, in any 
modern sense, unarmed. Sporadic rebellion was as futile as the scurrying 
of ants whose hill has been violated. PanAsians could be killed, yes, 
and there were men willing to shoot on sight, even in the face of the 
certainty of their own deaths. But their hands were bound by the greater 
certainty of brutal multiple retaliation against their own kind. As with 
the Jews in Germany before the final blackout in Europe, bravery was not 
enough, for one act of violence against the tyrants would be paid for by 
other men, women, and children at unspeakable compound interest.

Even more distressing than the miseries he saw and heard about were the 
reports of the planned elimination of the American culture as such. The 
schools were closed. No word might be printed in English. There was a 
suggestion of a time, one generation away, when English would be an 
illiterate language, used orally alone by helpless peons who would never 
be able to revolt for sheer lack of a means of communication on any wide 
scale.

It was impossible to form any rational estimate of the numbers of 
Asiatics now in the United States.

Transports, it was rumored, arrived daily on the West coast, bringing 
thousands of administrative civil servants, most of whom were veterans 
of the amalgamation of India. Whether or not they could be considered as 
augmenting the armed forces who had conquered and now policed the 
country it was difficult to say, but it was evident that they would 
replace the white minor officials who now assisted in civil 
administration at pistol point. When those white officials were 
"eliminated" it would be still more difficult to organize resistance.

Thomas found the means to enter the cities in one of the hobo jungles.

Finny -- surname unknown -- was not, properly speaking, a knight of the 
road, but one who had sought shelter among them and who paid his way by 
practicing his talent. He was an old anarchist comrade who had served 
his concept of freedom by engraving really quite excellent Federal 
Reserve notes without complying with the formality of obtaining 
permission from the treasury department. Some said that his name had 
been Phineas; others connected his moniker with his preference for 
manufacturing five-dollar bills -- "big enough to be useful; not big 
enough to arouse suspicion."

He made a registration card for Thomas at the request of one of the 
'bos. He talked while Thomas watched him work. "It's only the 
registration number that we really have to worry about, son. Practically 
none of the Asiatics you will run into can read English, so it really 
doesn't matter a lot we say about you. 'Mary had a little lamb --' would 
probably do.

Same for the photograph. To them, all white men look alike." He picked 
up a handful of assorted photographs from his kit and peered at them 
nearsightedly through thick spectacles. "Here -- pick out one of these 
that looks not unlike you and we will use it. Now for the number --"

The old man's hands were shaky, almost palsied, yet they steadied down 
to a deft sureness as he transferred India ink to cardboard in amazing 
simulation of machine printing. And this he did without proper 
equipment, without precision tools, under primitive conditions. Thomas 
understood why the old artist's masterpieces caused headaches for bank 
clerks. "There!" he announced. "I've given you a serial number which 
states that you were registered shortly after the change, and a 
classification number which permits you to travel. It also says that you 
are physically unfit for manual labor, and are permitted to peddle or 
beg. It's the same thing to their minds."

"Thanks, awfully," said Thomas. "Now. . . uh . . . what do I owe you for 
this?"

Finny's reaction made him feel as if he had uttered some indecency. 
"Don't mention payment, my son! Money is wrong -- it's the means whereby 
man enslaves his brother."

"I beg your pardon, sir," Thomas apologized sincerely. "Nevertheless, I 
wish there were some way for me to do something for you."

"That is another matter. Help your brother when you can, and help will 
come to you when you need it. "

Thomas found the old anarchist's philosophy confused, confusing, and 
impractical, but he spent considerable time drawing him out, as he 
seemed to know more about the PanAsians than anyone else he had met. 
Finny seemed unafraid of them and completely confident of his own 
ability to cope with them when necessary. Of all the persons Thomas had 
met since the change, Finny seemed the least disturbed by it in fact, 
disturbed not at all, and completely lacking in any emotion of hate or 
bitterness. This was hard for him to understand at first in a person as 
obviously warm-hearted as Finny, but he came to realize that, since. the 
anarchist believed that all government was wrong and that all men were 
to him in fact brothers, the difference to him was one of degree only. 
Looking at the PanAsians through Finny's eyes there was nothing to hate; 
they were simply more misguided souls whose excesses were deplorable.

Thomas did not see it from such Olympian detachment. The PanAsians were 
murdering and oppressing a once-free people. A good PanAsian was a dead 
PanAsian, he told himself, until the last one was driven back across the 
Pacific. If Asia was overpopulated, let them limit their birth rate.

Nevertheless, Finny's detachment and freedom from animus enabled Thomas 
more nearly to appreciate the nature of the problem. "Don't make the 
mistake of thinking of the PanAsians as bad -- they're not, but they are 
different. Behind their arrogance is a racial inferiority complex, a 
mass paranoia, that makes it necessary for them to prove to themselves 
by proving to us that a yellow man is just as good as a white man, and a 
damned sight better. Remember that, son, they want the outward signs of 
respect more than they want anything else in the world."

"But why should they have an inferiority complex about us? We've been 
completely out of touch with them for more than two generations -- ever 
since the Nonintercourse Act."

"Do you think racial memory is that short-lived? The seeds of this are 
way back in the nineteenth century. Do you recall that two high Japanese 
officials had to commit honorable suicide to wipe out a slight that was 
done Commodore Perry when he opened up Japan? Now those two deaths are 
being paid for by the deaths of thousands of American officials."

"But the PanAsians aren't Japanese."

"No, and they are not Chinese. They are a mixed race, strong, proud, and 
prolific. From the American standpoint they have the vices of both and 
the virtues.. of neither. But from my standpoint they are simply human 
beings, who have been duped into the old fallacy of the State as a 
super-entity. Ich habe einen Kameraden.' Once you understand the nature 
of --" He went off into a long dissertation, a mixture of Rousseau, 
Rocker, Thoreau, and others. Thomas found it inspirational, but 
unconvincing.

But the discussion with Finny was of real use to Thomas in comprehending 
what they were up against. The Nonintercourse Act had kept the American 
people from knowing anything important about their enemy. Thomas 
wrinkled his brow, trying to recall what he knew about the history of it.

At the time it had been passed, the Act had been no more than a de jure 
recognition of a de facto condition. The sovietizing of Asia had 
excluded westerners, particularly Americans, from Asia more effectively 
than could any Act of Congress. The obscure reasons that had led the 
Congress of that period to think that the United States gained in 
dignity by passing a law confirming what the commissars had already done 
to us baled Thomas; it smacked of Sergeant Dogberry's policy toward 
thieves. He supposed that it had simply seemed cheaper to wish Red Asia 
out of existence than to fight a war.

The policy behind the Act had certainly seemed to justify itself for 
better than half a century; there had been no war. The proponents of the 
measure had maintained that China was a big bite even for Soviet Russia 
to digest and that the United States need fear no war while the 
digesting was taking place. They had been correct as far as they went 
but as a result of the Nonintercourse Act we had our backs turned when 
China digested Russia . . . leaving America to face a system even 
stranger to western ways of thinking than had been the Soviet system it 
displaced.

On the strength of the forged registration card and Finny's coaching as 
to the etiquette of being a serf, Thomas ventured into a medium-sized 
city. The cleverness of Finny's work was put to test almost immediately.

He had stopped at a street corner to read a posted notice. It was a 
general order to all Americans to be present at a television receiver at 
eight each evening in order to note any instructions that their rulers 
might have for them. It was not news; the order had been in effect for 
some days and he had heard of it. He was about to turn away when he felt 
a sharp, stinging blow across his shoulder blades. He whirled around and 
found himself facing a PanAsian wearing the green uniform of a civil 
administrator and carrying a swagger cane.

"Keep out of the way, boy!" He spoke in English, but in a light, singing 
tone which lacked the customary American accentuation.

Thomas jumped into the gutter -- "They like to look down, not up" -- and 
clasped his hands together in the form required. He ducked his head and 
replied, "The master speaks; the servant obeys."

"That's better," acknowledged the Asiatic, apparently somewhat 
mollified. "Your ticket."

The man's accent was not bad, but Thomas did not comprehend immediately, 
possibly because the emotional impact of his experience in the role of 
slave was all out of proportion to what he had expected. To say that he 
raged inwardly is meaninglessly inadequate.

The swagger cane cut across his face. "Your ticket!"

Thomas produced his registration card. The time the Oriental spent in 
examining it gave Thomas an opportunity to pull himself together to some 
extent. At the moment he did not care greatly whether the card passed 
muster or not; if it came to trouble, he would take this one apart with 
his bare hands.

But it passed. The Asiatic grudgingly handed it back and strutted away, 
unaware that death had brushed his elbow.

It turned out that there was little to be picked up in town that he had 
not already acquired secondhand in the hobo jungles. He had a chance to 
estimate for himself the proportion of rulers to ruled, and saw for 
himself that the schools were closed and the newspapers had vanished. He 
noted with interest that church services were still held, although any 
other gathering together of white men in assembly was strictly forbidden.

But it was the dead, wooden faces of the people, the quiet children, 
that got under his skin and made him decide to sleep in the jungles 
rather than in town.

Thomas ran across an old friend at one of the hobo hideouts. Frank 
Roosevelt Mitsui was as American as Will Rogers, and much more American 
than that English aristocrat, George Washington. His grandfather had 
brought his grandmother, half Chinese and half wahini, from Honolulu to 
Los Angeles, where he opened a nursery and raised flowers, plants, and 
little yellow children, children that knew neither Chinese nor Japanese, 
nor cared.

Frank's father met his mother, Thelma Wang, part Chinese but mostly 
Caucasian, at the International Club at the University of Southern 
California. He took her to the Imperial Valley and installed her on a 
nice ranch with a nice mortgage. By the time Frank was raised, so was 
the mortgage.

Jet Thomas had cropped lettuce and honeydew melon for Frank Mitsui three 
seasons and knew him as a good boss. He had become almost intimate with 
his employer because of his liking for the swarm of brown kids that were 
Frank's most important crop. But the sight of a flat, yellow face in a 
hobo jungle made Thomas' hackles rise and almost interfered with his 
recognizing his old acquaintance.

It was an awkward meeting. Well as he knew Frank, Thomas was in no mood 
to trust an Oriental. It was Frank's eyes that convinced him; they held 
a tortured look that was even more intense than that found in the eyes 
of white men, a look that did not lessen even while he smiled and shook 
hands.

"Well, Frank," Jeff improvised inanely, "who'd expect to find you here? 
I should think you'd find it easy to get along with the new regime."

Frank Mitsui looked still more unhappy and seemed to be fumbling for 
words. One of the other hobos cut in. "Don't be a fool, Jeff. Don't you 
know what they've done to people like Frank?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, you're on the dodge. If they catch you, it's the labor camp. So 
is Frank. But if they catch him, it's curtains -- right now. They'll 
shoot him on sight --."

"So? What did you do, Frank?"

Mitsui shook his head miserably.

"He didn't do anything," the other continued. "The empire has no use for 
American Asiatics. They're liquidating them."

It was quite simple. The Pacific coast Japanese, Chinese, and the like 
did not fit into the pattern of serfs and overlords -- particularly the 
half-breeds. They were a danger to the stability of the pattern. With 
cold logic they were being hunted down and killed.

Thomas listened to Frank's story. "When I got home they were dead -- all 
of them. My little Shirley, Junior, Jimmy, the baby -- and Alice." He 
put his face in his hands and wept. Alice was his wife. Thomas 
remembered her as a brown, stocky woman in overalls and straw hat, who 
talked very little but smiled a lot.

"At first I thought I would kill myself," Mitsui went on when he had 
sufficient control of himself, "then I knew better. I hid in an 
irrigation ditch for two days, and then I got away over the mountains. 
Then some whites almost killed me before I could convince them I was on 
their side."

Thomas could understand how that would happen, and could think of 
nothing to say. Frank was damned two ways; there was no hope for him. 
"What do you intend to do now, Frank?"

He saw a sudden return of the will to live in the man's face. "That is 
why I will not let myself die! Ten for each one" -- he counted them off 
on his brown fingers -- "ten of those devils for each one of my babies 
-- and twenty for Alice. Then maybe ten more for myself, and I can die."

"Hm-m-m. Any luck?"

"Thirteen, so far. It is slow, for I have to be very sure, so that they 
won't kill me before I finish."

Thomas pondered it in his mind, trying to fit this new knowledge into 
his own purpose. Such fixed determination should be useful, if directed. 
But it was some hours later before he approached Mitsui again.

"How would you," he asked gently, "like to raise your quota from ten to 
a thousand each -- two thousand for Alice?"

CHAPTER THREE

The exterior alarms brought Ardmore to the portal long before Thomas 
whistled the tune that activated the door. Ardmore watched the door by 
televisor from the guard room, his thumb resting on a control, ready to 
burn out of existence any unexpected visitor. When he saw Thomas enter 
his thumb relaxed, but at the sight of his companion it tightened again. 
A PanAsian! He almost blasted them in sheer reflex before he checked 
himself. It was possible, barely possible, that Thomas had brought a 
prisoner to question..

"Major! Major Ardmore! It's Thomas."

"Stand where you are. Both of you."

"It's all right, Major. He's an American. I vouch for him."

"Maybe." The voice that reached Thomas over the announcing phone was 
still grimly suspicious. "Just the same -- peel off all of your clothes, 
both of you." They did so, Thomas biting his lip in humiliation, Mitsui 
trembling in agitation. He did not understand it and he felt trapped. 
"Now turn around slowly and let me look you over," the voice commanded.

Having satisfied himself that they were unarmed, Ardmore told them to 
stand still and wait, then called Graham on the intercommunication 
circuit. "Graham!"

"Yes, sir."

"Report to me at once in the guard room."

"But, Major, I can't. Dinner will be --"

"Never mind dinner! Move!"

"Yes, sir!"

Ardmore pointed out the situation to him in the screen. "You go down 
there and handcuff both of them from behind. Secure the Asiatic first. 
Make him back up to you, and watch yourself. If he tries to jump you, I 
may have to wing you, too."

"I don't like this, Major," Graham protested. "Thomas is all right. He 
wouldn't be up to any hanky-panky."

"Sure, man, 1 know he's all right, too. But he may be drugged and under 
control. This set-up could be a Trojan Horse gag. Now get down and do as 
you are told. "

While Graham was gingerly carrying out his unwelcome assignment and 
making himself, in fact, eligible for a

Congressional Medal which he would never receive, for his artist's 
imagination perceived too clearly the potential danger and forced him to 
call up courage for the task -- Ardmore phoned Brooks.

"Doctor, can you drop what you are doing?"

"Why, perhaps I can. Yes, I may say so. What is it you wish?"

"Then come to my office. Thomas is back. I want to know whether or not 
he is under the influence of drugs."

"But I am not a medical man --"

"I know that, but you are the nearest thing we've got to one."

"Very well, sir."

Dr. Brooks examined Thomas' pupils, tried his knee jerks, and checked 
his pulse and respiration. "I should say that he was perfectly normal, 
though exhausted and laboring under excitement. Naturally, this is not a 
positive diagnosis. If I had more time --"

"It will do for now. Thomas, I trust you won't hold it against me if we 
leave you locked up until we have examined your Asiatic pal."

"Certainly not, Major," Thomas told him with a wry grin, "since you're 
going to, anyhow."

Frank Mitsui's flesh quivered and sweat dripped from his face when 
Brooks stuck the hypodermic into him, but he did not draw away. 
Presently he relaxed under the influence of the drug that releases 
inhibitions, and strips from the speech centers the protection of 
cortical censorship. His face became peaceful.

But it was not peaceful a few minutes later when they began to question 
him, nor was there peace in any of their faces. This was truth, too raw 
and too brutal for any man to stand. Deep lines carved themselves from 
nose to jaw in Ardmore's face as he listened to the little man's pitiful 
story. No matter what line they started him on, he always came back to 
the scene of his dead children, his broken household. Finally Ardmore 
put a stop to it.

"Give him the antidote, doe. I can't stand any more of this. I've found 
out all I need to know."

Ardmore shook hands with him solemnly after he had returned to full 
awareness. "We are glad to have you with us, Mr. Mitsui. And we'll put 
you to some work that will give you a chance to get some of your own 
back. Right now I want Dr. Brooks to give you a soporific that will let 
you get about sixteen hours' sleep; then we can think about swearing you 
in and what kind of work you can be most useful doing."

"I don't need any sleep, Mister . . . Major."

"Just the same, you are going to get some. And so is Thomas, as soon as 
he has reported. In fact --" He broke off and studied the apparently 
impassive face. "In fact, I want you to take a sleeping pill every 
night. Those are orders. You'll draw them from me and take them in my 
presence every night before you go to bed." There are certain bonus 
advantages to military absolutism. Ardmore could not tolerate the idea 
of the little yellow man lying awake and staring at the ceiling.

Brooks and Graham would quite plainly have liked to stay and hear 
Thomas' report, but Ardmore refused to notice the evident fact and 
dismissed them. He wished first to evaluate the data himself.

"Well, Lieutenant, I'm damn glad you're back."

"I'm glad to be back. Did you say 'lieutenant'? I assume that my rank 
reverts."

"Why should it? As a matter of fact, I am trying to figure out a 
plausible reason for commissioning Graham and Scheer. It would simplify 
things around here to eliminate social differences. But that is a side 
issue. Let's hear what you've done. I suppose you've come back with all 
our problems solved and tied up with string?"

"Not likely." Thomas grinned and relaxed.

"I didn't expect it. But seriously, between ourselves, I've got to pull 
something out of the hat, and it's got to be good. The scientific staff 
is beginning to crowd me, particularly Colonel Calhoun. There's no damn 
sense in their making miracles in the laboratory unless I can dope out 
some way to apply those miracles in strategy and tactics."

"Have they really gone so far?"

"You'd be surprised. They've taken that so-called 'Ledbetter effect' and 
shaken it the way a terrier shakes a rat. They can do anything with it 
but peel the potatoes and put out the cat."

"Really?"

"Really. "

"What sort of things can they do?"

"Well --" Ardmore took a deep breath. "Honestly, I don't know where to 
begin. Wilkie has tried to keep me posted with simplified explanations, 
but, between ourselves, I didn't understand more than every other word. 
One way of putting it is to say that they've discovered atomic control 
-- oh, I don't mean atom-splitting, or artificial radioactivity. Look -- 
we speak of space, and time, and matter, don't we?"

"Yes. There's Einstein's space-time concept, of course. "

"Of course. Space-time is standard stuff in high school these days. But 
these men really mean it. They really mean that space and time and mass 
and energy and radiation and gravity are all simply different ways of 
thinking about the same thing. And if you once catch on to how just one 
of them works, you have the key to all of them. According to Wilkie, 
physicists up to now, even after the A-bomb was developed, were just 
fooling around the edges of the subject; they had the beginnings of a 
unified field theory, but they didn't really believe it themselves; they 
usually acted as if these were all as different as the names for them.

"Apparently Ledbetter hit on the real meaning of radiation, and that has 
given Calhoun and Wilkie the key to everything else in physics. Is that 
clear?" he added with a grin.

"Not very," Thomas admitted. "Can you give me some idea of what they can 
do with it?"

"Well, to begin with, the original Ledbetter effect, the thing that 
killed most of the personnel here, Wilkie calls an accidental side 
issue. Brooks says that the basic radiation affected the colloidal 
dispersal of living tissue; those that were killed were coagulated by 
it. It might just as well have been set to release surface tension -- in 
fact, they did that the other day, exploded a half of beefsteak like so 
much dynamite."

"Huh?"

"Don't ask me how; I'm just repeating the explanation given me. But the 
point is, they seem to have found out what makes matter tick. They can 
explode it -- sometimes -- and use it for a source of power. They can 
transmute it into any element they want. They seem to be confident that 
they know what to do to find out how gravity works, so that they will be 
able to handle gravity the way we now handle electricity. "

"I thought gravity was not considered a force in the modern concepts."

"So it isn't but, then, 'force' isn't force, either, in unified field 
theory. Hell's bells, you've got me bogged down in

language difficulties. Wilkie says that mathematics is the only 
available language for these ideas."

"Well, I guess I'll just have to get along without understanding it. 
But, frankly, I don't see how they managed to come so far so fast. That 
changes just about everything we thought we knew. Honestly, how is it 
that it took a hundred fifty years to go from Newton to Edison, yet 
these boys can knock out results like that in a few weeks?"

"I don't know myself. The same point occurred to me, and I asked Calhoun 
about it. He informed me in that schoolmaster way of his that it was 
because those pioneers did not have the tensor calculus, vector 
analysis, and matrix algebra."

"Well, I wouldn't know," observed Thomas. "They don't teach that stuff 
in law school."

"Nor me," admitted Ardmore. "I tried looking over some of their work 
sheets. I can do simple algebra, and I've had some calculus, though I 
haven't used it for years, but I couldn't make sense out of this stuff. 
It looked like Sanskrit; most of the signs were different, and even the 
old ones didn't seem to mean the same things. Look -- I thought that a 
times b always equaled b times a."

"Doesn't it?"

"Not when these boys get through kicking it around. But we are getting 
way off the subject. Bring me up to date."

"Yes, sir." Jeff Thomas talked steadily for a long time, trying very 
hard to paint a detailed picture of everything he had seen and heard and 
felt. Ardmore did not interrupt him except with questions intended to 
clarify points. There was a short silence when he had concluded. Finally 
Ardmore said:

"I think I must have had a subconscious belief that you would come back 
with some piece of information that would fall right into place and tell 
me what to do. But I don't see much hope in what you have told me. How 
to win back a country that is as completely paralyzed and as carefully 
guarded as you describe the United States to be is beyond me."

"Of course, I didn't see the whole country. About two hundred miles from 
here is as far as I got."

"Yes, but you got reports from the other hobos that covered the whole 
country, didn't you?"

"Yes. "

"And it was all about the same. I think we can safely assume that what 
you heard, confirmed by what you saw, gives a fairly true picture. How 
recent do you suppose was the dope you got by the grapevine telegraph?"

"Well -- maybe three or four days old news from the East coast -- no 
more than that."

"That seems reasonable. News always travels by the fastest available 
route. It's certainly not very encouraging. And yet --" He paused and 
scowled in evident puzzlement. "And yet I have a feeling that you said 
something that was the key to the whole matter. I can't put my finger on 
it. I began to get an idea while you were talking, then some other point 
came up and diverted my mind, and I lost it."

"Maybe it would help if I started in again at the beginning," suggested 
Thomas.

"No need to. I'll play the recording back piece by piece sometime 
tomorrow, if I don't think of it in the meantime. "

They were interrupted by peremptory knocking at the door. Ardmore called 
out, "Come in!" Colonel Calhoun entered.

"Major Ardmore, what's this about a PanAsiatic prisoner?"

"Not quite that, Colonel, but we do have an Asiatic here now. He's 
American-born."

Calhoun brushed aside the distinction. "Why wasn't I informed? I have 
notified you that I urgently require a man of Mongolian blood for test 
experimentation."

"Doctor, with the skeleton staff we have, it is difficult to comply with 
all the formalities of military etiquette. You were bound to learn of it 
in the ordinary course of events -- in fact, it seems that you were 
informed in some fashion."

Calhoun snorted. "Through the casual gossip of subordinates!"

"I'm sorry, Colonel, but it couldn't be helped. Just at the moment I am 
trying to receive Thomas' reconnaissance report."

"Very well, sir." Calhoun was icily formal. "Will you be good enough to 
have the Asiatic report to me at once?"

"I can't do that. He is asleep, drugged, and there is no way to produce 
him for you before tomorrow. Besides, while I am quite sure that he will 
be entirely cooperative in any useful experimentation, he is an American 
citizen and a civilian under our protection -- not a prisoner. We'll 
have to take it up with him."

Calhoun left as abruptly as he had come. "Jeff," mused Ardmore, glancing 
after him, "speaking strictly off the record -- oh, strictly! -- if 
there ever comes a time when we are no longer bound down by military 
necessity, I'm going to paste that old beezer right in the puss!"

"Why don't you clamp down on him?"

"I can't, and he knows it. He's invaluable, indispensable. We've 
absolutely got to have his brains for research, and you can't conscript 
brains just by handing out orders. Y'know, though, in spite of his 
brilliance, I sometimes think he's just a little bit cracked."

"Shouldn't be surprised. What does he want Frank Mitsui so bad for?"

"Well, that's somewhat involved. They've proved that the original 
Ledbetter effect depends on a characteristic of the life form involved 
-- you might call it a natural frequency. It seems that everybody has 
his own wavelength, or wavelengths. The notion seemed like so much 
astrology to me, but Dr. Brooks says that it is not only the straight 
dope; it isn't even new. He showed me a paper by a chap named Fox, at 
the University of London, 'way back in 1945 -- Fox showed that each 
individual rabbit had hemoglobin with its own individual wavelength; it 
absorbed that wavelength in spectroscopic analysis, that one wavelength 
and no other. You could tell two rabbits apart with it, or you could 
tell a rabbit from a dog, simply by the spectra of their hemoglobins.

"This Dr. Fox tried to do the same thing with humans, but it didn't work 
-- no distinguishable difference in wavelengths. But Calhoun and Wilkie 
have rigged a spectroscope for the spectrum Ledbetter was playing with, 
and it shows clearly separate wavelengths for each sample of human 
blood. Conversely, if they set up a tuned Ledbetter projector and start 
running down or up the scale, when they come to your individual, unique 
frequency, your red blood cells start absorbing energy, the hemoglobins 
protein breaks down and -- Spung! -- you're dead. I'm standing right 
beside you and I'm not even hurt; they haven't come to my frequency. Now 
Brooks has an idea that these frequencies come by groups according to 
races. He thinks they can tune it to discriminate by races, to knock 
over all the Asiatics in a group and not touch the white men, and vice 
versa."

Thomas shivered. "Whew! That would be a weapon. "

"Yes, it would. It's just on paper so far, but they want to test it on 
Mitsui. As I gather what they intended to do, they don't intend to kill 
him, but it's bound to be dangerous as all hell to Mitsui."

"Frank won't mind chancing it," Thomas commented.

"No, I don't suppose he would." It seemed to Ardmore that it would 
probably be a favor to Mitsui to give him a clean, painless death in the 
laboratory. "Now about another matter. It seems to me we ought to be 
able to work up a sort of permanent secret service, using your hobo pals 
and their sources of information. Let's talk about it."

Ardmore gained a few days' respite in which to consider further the 
problem of military use of the weapons at his disposal while the 
research staff tested their theories concerning the interrelation 
between racial types and the improved Ledbetter effect. The respite did 
him no good. He had a powerful weapon, yes; in fact, many powerful 
weapons, for it seemed that the new principles they had tapped had fully 
as protean possibilities as electricity. It seemed extremely likely that 
if the United States defense forces had had, one year earlier, the tools 
now available in the Citadel, the United States would never have fallen.

But six men cannot whip an empire -- not by brute force. The emperor 
could, if necessary, expend six million men to defeat six. The hordes of 
the empire could come at them barehanded and win, move over them as an 
avalanche moves, until they were buried under a mountain of dead flesh. 
Ardmore had to have an army to fight with his wonderful new weapons.

The question was: how to recruit and train such an army?

Certain it was that the PanAsians would not hold still while he went 
into the highways and byways and got his forces together. The 
thoroughness with which they had organized police surveillance of the 
entire population made it evident that they were acutely aware of the 
danger of revolution and would stamp out any such activity before it 
could possibly reach proportions dangerous to them.

There remained one clandestine group, the hobos.

He consulted with Thomas as to the possibility of organizing them for 
military purposes. Thomas shook his head at the idea.

"You can't understand the hobo temperament, Chief. There is not one in a 
hundred who could be depended on to observe the strict self-discipline 
necessary for such an enterprise. Suppose you were able to arm all of 
them with projectors -- I don't say that is possible, but suppose you 
could -- you still would not have an army; you would simply have an 
undisciplined rabble."

"Wouldn't they fight?"

"Oh, sure, they'd fight. They'd fight as individuals, and they would do 
quite a bit of slaughter until some flatface caught them off guard and 
winged them. "

"I wonder if we can depend on them as sources of information. "

"That's another matter. Most of the road kids won't have any idea that 
they are being used to obtain military information. I'll handpick not 
over a dozen to act as reporters to me, and I won't tell them anything 
they don't have to know."

Any way he looked at it, simple, straightforward military use of the new 
weapons was not expedient. Brutal frontal attack was for the commander 
who had men to expend. General U. S. Grant could afford to say, "I will 
fight it out on this line if it takes all summer," because he could lose 
three men to the enemy's one and still win. Those tactics were not for 
the commander who could not afford to lose any men. For him it must be 
deception, misdirection -- feint and slash and run away --"and live to 
fight another day." The nursery rhyme finished itself in his mind. That 
was it. It had to be something totally unexpected, something that the 
PanAsians would not realize was warfare until they were overwhelmed by 
it.

It would have to be something like the "fifth columns" that destroyed 
the European democracies from within in the tragic days that led to the 
final blackout of European civilization. But this would not be a fifth 
column of traitors, bent on paralyzing a free country; but the 
antithesis of that, a sixth column of patriots whose privilege it would 
be to destroy the morale of invaders, make them afraid, unsure of 
themselves.

And misdirection was the key to it, the art of fooling!

Ardmore felt a little better when he had reached that conclusion. It was 
something he could understand, a job suited to an advertising man. He 
had been trying to crack it as a military problem, but he was not a 
field marshal and it had been silly of him to try to make a noise like 
one. His mind did not work that way. This was primarily a job in 
publicity, a matter of mob psychology. A former boss of his, under whom 
he had learned the racket, used to tell him, "I can sell dead cats to 
the board of health with a proper budget and a free hand."

Well, he had a free hand, all right, and the budget was no problem. Of 
course, he could not use the newspapers and the old channels of 
advertising, but there would be a way. The problem now was to figure out 
the weak points of the PanAsians and decide how Calhoun's little gadgets 
could be used to play on those weak points until the PanAsians were sick 
of the whole deal and anxious to go home.

He did not have a plan as yet. When a man is at a loss for a course of 
action, he usually calls for a conference. Ardmore did.

He sketched out to them the situation up to date, including all that 
Thomas had learned and all that had come in by television through the 
conquerors' "educational" broadcasts. Then he discussed the powers that 
were made available to them by the research staff, and the various 
obvious ways in which they could be applied as military weapons, 
emphasizing the personnel necessary to use each type of weapon 
effectively. Having done so, he asked for suggestions.

"Do I understand, Major," Calhoun began, "that after rather pointedly 
telling us that you would make all military decisions you are now asking 
us to make up your mind for you?"

"Not at all, Colonel. I have still the responsibility for any decision, 
but this is a new sort of military situation. A suggestion from any 
source may prove valuable. I don't flatter myself that I have a monopoly 
on common sense, nor on originality. I would like for every one of us to 
tackle this problem and let the others criticize it. "

"Do you yourself have any plan to offer us?"

"I am reserving my opinions until the rest of you have spoken."

"Very well, sir" -- Dr. Calhoun straightened himself up -- "since you 
have asked for it, I will tell you what I think should be done in this 
situation -- what, in fact, is the only thing that can be done.

"You are aware of the tremendous power of the forces I have made 
available." Ardmore noticed Wilkie's mouth tighten at this allocation of 
credit, but neither of them interrupted. "In your resume, you 
underestimated them, if anything. We have a dozen fast scout cars housed 
here in the Citadel. By refitting them with power units of the Calhoun 
type they can be made faster than anything the enemy can put into the 
air. We will mount on them the heaviest projectors and attack. With 
overwhelmingly superior weapons it is only a matter of time until we 
will have the PanAsiatic empire beaten to its knees!"

Ardmore wondered how any man could be so blind. He did not himself wish 
to argue against Calhoun; he said, "Thank you, Colonel. I'll ask you to 
submit that plan written up in more detail. In the meantime does anyone 
wish to amplify or criticize the colonel's suggestion?" He waited 
hopefully, then added, "Come now, no plan is perfect. You must have some 
details to add, at least."

Graham took the, plunge. "How often do you expect to come down to eat?"

Calhoun cut in before Ardmore could call on him. "Well, I'm damned! I 
must say that I consider this no time for facetiousness."

"Wait a minute," protested Graham, "I didn't mean to be funny. I'm quite 
serious. That's my department. Those scout cars are not equipped to keep 
the air very long, and it seems to me that it will take quite a long 
time to reconquer the United States with a dozen scout cars, even if we 
located enough men to keep them in the air all the time. That means you 
have to come back to base to eat."

"Yes, and that means the base will have to be held against attack," 
Scheer put in suddenly.

"The base can be defended with other projectors." Calhoun's tone was 
scornful. "Major, I really must ask that the discussion be confined to 
sensible issues."

Ardmore rubbed his chin and said nothing.

Randall Brooks, who had been listening thoughtfully, pulled a piece of 
paper out of his pocket and began to sketch. "I think Scheer has 
something, Dr. Calhoun. If you will look here for a moment here, at this 
point, is your base. The PanAsians can encircle the base with ships at a 
distance greater than the range of the base projectors.

The greater speed of your scout cars will be unimportant, for the enemy 
can well afford to use as many ships as necessary to insure our craft 
not getting past the blockade. It's sure that the scout cars will have 
the projectors with which to fight, but they can't fight a hundred ships 
at once, and the enemies' weapons are powerful, too -- we mustn't forget 
that."

"You're right they're powerful!" added Wilkie. "We can't afford to have 
a known base. With their bombardment rockets they could stand back a 
thousand miles and blow this whole mountain out of the ground, if they 
knew we were under it."

Calhoun stood up. "I'm not going to remain here and listen to misgivings 
of pusillanimous fools. My plan assumed that men would execute it." He 
walked stiffly out of the room.

Ardmore ignored his departure and went hurriedly on, "The objections 
made to Colonel Calhoun's scheme seem to me to apply to every plan for 
open, direct combat at this time. I have considered several and rejected 
them for approximately those reasons, at least for reasons of logistics 
-- that is to say, the problem of military supply. However, I may not 
have thought of some perfectly feasible solution. Does anyone have a 
direct warfare method to suggest, a method which will not risk 
personnel?"

No one answered. "Very well, bring it up later if you think of one. It 
seems to me that we must necessarily work by misdirection. If we can't 
fight the enemy directly at this time, we must fool 'em until we can."

"I see," agreed Dr. Brooks, "the bull wears himself out on the cape and 
never sees the sword."

"Exactly. Exactly. I only wish it were as easy as that. Now do any of 
you have any ideas as to how we can use what we've got without letting 
them know who we are, where we are, or how many we are? And now I'm 
going to take time out for a cigarette while you think about it."

Presently, he added, "You might bear in mind that we have two real 
advantages: the enemy apparently has not the slightest idea that we even 
exist, and our weapons are strange to them, even mysterious. Wilkie, 
didn't you compare the Ledbetter effect to magic?"

"I should hope to shout, Chief! It's safe to say that, aside from the 
instruments in our laboratories, there just isn't any way in existence 
to detect the forces we are working with now. You don't even know 
they're there. It's like trying to hear radio with your bare ears."

"That's what I mean. Mysterious. Like the Indians when they first met up 
with the white man's fire arms, they died and they didn't know why. 
Think about it. I'll shut up and let you."

Graham produced the first suggestion. "Major?"

"Yes?"

"Why couldn't we kidnap 'em?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, your idea is to throw a scare into 'em, isn't it? How about a 
surprise raiding party, using the Ledbetter effect. We could go in one 
of the scout cars at night and pick out some really big shot, maybe the 
prince royal himself. We knock out everybody we come in contact with the 
projectors, and we walk right in and snatch him."

"Any opinions about that, gentlemen?" Ardmore said, reserving his own.

"It seems to have something to it," commented Brooks. "I would suggest 
that the projectors be set to render unconscious for a number of hours 
rather than to kill. It seems to me that the psychological effect would 
be heightened if they simply awoke and found their big man gone. One has 
no recollection of what has happened under such circumstances, as Wilkie 
and Mitsui can testify."

"Why stop at the prince royal?" Wilkie wanted to know. "We could set up 
four raiding parties, two to a car, and make maybe twelve raids in a 
single night. That way we could knock over enough of their number-one 
men to really cause some disorganization."

"That seems like a good idea," Ardmore agreed. "We may not be able to 
pull off these raids more than once. If we could do enough damage right 
at the top in one blow, we might both demoralize them and set off a 
general uprising. What's the matter, Mitsui?"

He had noticed the Oriental looking unhappy as the plan was developed. 
Mitsui spoke reluctantly, "It will not work, I am afraid."

"You mean we can't kidnap them that way? Do you know something we don't 
about their guard methods?"

"No, no. With a force that reaches through walls and knocks a man down 
before he knows you are there I believe you can capture them, all right: 
But the results will not be as you foresee them."

"Why not?"

"Because you will gain no advantage. They will not assume that you are 
holding their chief men as prisoners; they will assume that each one has 
committed suicide. The results will be horrible."

It was purely a psychological point, with room for difference of 
opinion. But the white men could not believe that the PanAsians would 
dare to retaliate if it were made unmistakably plain to them that their 
sacred leaders were not dead, but at the mercy of captors. Besides, it 
was a plan that offered immediate action, which they were spoiling for. 
Ardmore finally agreed to its adoption for want of something better, 
although he had a feeling of misgiving which he suppressed.

For the next few days all effort was bent toward preparing the scout 
cars for the projected task. Scheer performed Herculean mechanical jobs, 
working eighteen and twenty hours a day, with the others working 
joyfully under his supervision. Calhoun even came off his high horse and 
agreed to take part in the raid, although he did not help with the 
"menial" work. Thomas went out on a quick scouting trip and made certain 
of the location of twelve well-scattered PanAsian seats of government.

In the buoyancy of spirit which resulted from a plan of campaign, any 
plan of campaign, Ardmore failed to remember his own decision that what 
was required was a sixth column, an underground, or at least, 
unsuspected organization which would demoralize the enemy from within. 
This present plan was not such a one, but an essentially military plan. 
He began to think of himself as, if not Napoleon, at least as a modern 
Swamp Rat, or Sandino, striking through the night at the professional 
soldiers and fading away.

But Mitsui was right.

The television receiver was used regularly, with full recording, to pick 
up anything that the overlords had to broadcast to their slaves. It had 
become something of a custom to meet in the common room at eight in the 
evening to listen to the regular broadcast in which new orders were 
announced to the population. Ardmore encouraged it; the "hate session" 
it inspired was, he believed, good for morale.

Two nights before the projected raid they were gathered as usual. The 
ugly, broad face of the usual propaganda artist was quickly replaced by 
another and older PanAsian whom he introduced as the "heavenly custodian 
of peace and order." The older man came quickly to the point. The 
American servants of a provincial government had committed the hideous 
sin of rebelling against their wise rulers and had captured the sacred 
person of the governor and held him prisoner in his own palace. The 
soldiers of the heavenly emperor had brushed aside the insane profaners 
in the course of which the governor had most regrettably gone to his 
ancestors.

A period of mourning was announced, commencing at once, which would be 
inaugurated by permitting the people of the province to expiate the sins 
of their cousins. The television scene cut from the room from which he 
spoke.

It came to rest on great masses of humanity, men, women, children, 
huddled, jammed, behind barbed wire. The pick-up came down close enough 
to permit the personnel of the Citadel to see the blind misery on the 
faces of the crowd, the wept-out children, the mothers carrying babies, 
the helpless fathers.

They did not have to watch those faces long. The pick-up panned over the 
packed mob, acre on acre of helpless human animals, then returned to a 
steady close-up of one section.

They used the epileptigenic ray on them. Now they no longer resembled 
anything human. It was, instead, as if tens of thousands of monstrous 
chickens had had their necks wrung all at once and had been thrown into 
the same pen to jerk out their death spasms. Bodies bounded into the air 
in bone-breaking, spine-smashing fits. Mothers threw their infants from 
them, or crushed them in uncontrollable, viselike squeeze.

The scene cut back to the placid face of the Asiatic dignitary. He 
announced with what seemed to be regret in his voice that penance for 
sins was not sufficient, it was necessary also to be educational, in 
this case to the extent of one in every thousand.

Ardmore did a quick calculation in his head. A hundred fifty thousand 
people! It was unbelievable.

But it was soon believed. The pick-up cut again, this time to a 
residential street in an American city. It followed a squad of PanAsian 
soldiers into the living room of a family. They were gathered about a 
television receiver, plainly stunned by what they had just seen. The 
mother was huddling a young girl child to her shoulder, trying to quiet 
her hysteria. They seemed stupefied, rather than frightened, when the 
soldiers burst into their home. The father produced his card without 
argument; the squad leader compared it with a list, and the soldiers 
attended to him.

They had evidently been instructed to use a method of killing that was 
not pretty.

Ardmore shut off the receiver. "The raid is off," he announced. "Go to 
bed, all of you. And each of you take a sleeping pill tonight. That's an 
order!"

They left at once. No one said anything. After they were gone, Ardmore 
turned the receiver back on and watched it through to the end. Then he 
sat alone for a long time, trying to get his thoughts back into 
coherence. Those who order sleeping drafts won't take them.

CHAPTER POUR

Ardmore kept very much to himself for the next two days, taking his 
meals in his quarters, and refusing anything but the briefest 
interviews. He saw his error plainly enough now; it was small solace to 
him that it had been another's mistake which had resulted in the 
massacres -- he felt symbolically guilty.

But the problem remained with him. He knew now that he had been right 
when he had decided on a sixth column. A sixth column! Something which 
would conform in every superficial way to the pattern set up by the 
rulers, yet which would have in it the means of their eventual downfall. 
It might take years, but there must be no repetition of the ghastly 
mistake of direct action.

He knew intuitively that somewhere in Thomas' report was the idea he 
needed. He played it back again and again, but still he couldn't get it, 
even though he now knew it by heart. "They are systematically stamping 
out everything that is typically American in culture. The schools are 
gone, so are the newspapers. It is a capital offense to print anything 
in English. They have announced the early establishment of a system of 
translators for all business correspondence into their language; in the 
meantime all mail must be approved as necessary. All meetings are 
forbidden except religious meetings."

"I suppose that is a result of their experience in India. Keeps the 
slaves quiet." That was his own voice, sounding strange in reproduction.

"I suppose so, sir. Isn't it an historical fact that all successful 
empires have tolerated the local religions, no matter what else they 
suppressed?"

"I suppose so. Go ahead."

"The real strength of their system, I believe, is in their method of 
registration. They apparently were all set to put it into force, and 
pressed forward on that to the exclusion of other matters. It's turned 
the United States into one big prison camp in which it is almost 
impossible to move or communicate without permission from the jailers."

Words, words, and more words! He had played them over so many times that 
the significance was almost lost. Perhaps there was nothing in the 
report, after all -- nothing but his imagination.

He responded to a knock at the door. It was Thomas. "They asked me to 
speak to you, sir," he said diffidently.

"What about?"

"Well -- they are all gathered in the common room. They'd like to talk 
with you."

Another conference -- and not of his choosing, this time. Well, he would 
have to go. "Tell them I will be in shortly."

"Yes, sir."

After Thomas had gone, he sat for a moment, then went to a drawer and 
took out his service side arm. He could smell mutiny in the very fact 
that someone had dared to call a general meeting without his permission. 
He buckled it on, then tried the slide and the change, and stood looking 
at it. Presently he unbuckled it and put it back into the drawer. It 
wouldn't help him in this mess.

He entered, sat down in his chair at the head of the table, and waited.

"Well?"

Brooks glanced around to see if anyone else wished to answer, cleared 
his throat, and said, "Uh -- we wanted to ask you if you had any plan 
for us to follow."

"I do not have -- as yet."

"Then we do have!" It was Calhoun.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"There is no sense in hanging around here with our hands tied. We have 
the strongest weapons the world has ever seen, but they need men to 
operate them. "

"Well?"

"We are going to evacuate and go to South America! There we can find a 
government which will be interested in superior weapons."

"What good will that do the United States?"

"It's obvious. The empire undoubtedly intends to extend its sway over 
this entire hemisphere. We can interest them in a preventive war. Or 
perhaps we can raise up an army of refugees."

"No!"

"I am afraid you can't help yourself, Major." The tone held malicious 
satisfaction.

He turned to Thomas. "Are you with them on this?"

Thomas looked unhappy. "I had hoped that you would have a better plan, 
sir."

"And you, Dr. Brooks?"

"Well -- it seems feasible. I feel much as Thomas does."

"Graham?"

The man gave him answer by silence. Wilkie looked up and then away again.

"Mitsui?"

"I'll go back outside, sir. I have things to finish."

"Scheer?"

Scheer's jaw muscles quivered. "I'll stick if you do, sir."

"Thanks." He turned to the rest. "I said, 'No!' and I mean it. If any of 
you leave here, it will be in direct violation of your oaths. That goes 
for you, Thomas! I'm not being arbitrary about this. The thing you 
propose to do is on all fours with the raid I canceled. So long as the 
people of the United States are hostages at the mercy of the PanAsians 
we can not take direct military action! It doesn't make any difference 
whether the attack comes from inside or outside, thousands, maybe 
millions, of innocent people will pay for it with their lives!"

He was very much wrought up, but not too much so to look around and see 
what effect his words were having. He had them back -- or would have 
them in a few minutes. All but Calhoun. They were looking disturbed.

"Supposing you are right, sir" -- it was Brooks speaking very gravely -- 
"supposing you are right, is there anything we can do?"

"I explained that once before. We have to form what I called a 'sixth 
column,' lie low, study out their weak points, and work on them."

"I see. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is necessary. But it calls for 
a sort of patience more suited to gods than to men."

He almost had it then. What was it?

"So 'There'll be pie in the sky by and by,' " quoted Calhoun. "You 
should have been a preacher, Major Ardmore. We prefer action."

That was it! That was it!

"You're almost right," Ardmore answered. "Have you listened to Thomas' 
report?"

"I listened to the play-back."

"Do you recall the one respect in which white men are still permitted to 
organize?"

"Why, no, I don't recall that there was one."

"None? Nowhere that they were permitted to assemble?"

"I know!" Thomas burst in. "Churches!"

Ardmore waited a moment for it to sink in, then he said very softly, 
"Has it ever occurred to any of you to think of the possibilities in 
founding a new religion?"

There was a short and startled silence. Calhoun broke it.

"The man's gone mad!"

"Take it easy, Colonel," Ardmore said mildly. "I don't blame you for 
thinking that I've gone crazy. It does sound crazy to talk about 
founding a new religion when what we want is military action against the 
PanAsians. But consider -- what we need is an organization that can be 
trained and armed to fight. That and a communication system which will 
enable us to coordinate the whole activity. And we have to do the whole 
thing under the eyes of the PanAsians without arousing their suspicions. 
If we were a religious sect instead of a military organization, all that 
would be possible."

"It's preposterous! I'll have nothing to do with it."

"Please, Colonel. We need you badly. On that matter of a communication 
system now -- Imagine temples in every city in the country hooking 
together with a communication system and the whole thing hooked in here 
at the Citadel."

Calhoun snorted. "Yes, and the Asiatics listening in to everything you 
say!"

"That's why we need you, Colonel. Couldn't you devise a system that they 
couldn't trap? Something like a radio, maybe, but operating in one of 
the additional spectra so that their instruments could not detect it? Or 
couldn't you?"

Calhoun snorted again but with a different intonation. "Why, certainly I 
could. The problem is elementary."

"That's exactly why we have to have you, Colonel -- to solve problems 
that are elementary to a man of your genius", Ardmore felt slightly 
nauseated inside: this was worse than writing advertising copy

"but which are miracles for the rest of us. That's what a religion needs 
-- miracles! You'll be called on to produce effects that will strain 
even your genius, things that the PanAsians cannot possibly understand, 
and will think supernatural." Seeing Calhoun still hesitate, he added, 
"You can do it, can't you?"

"Certainly, I can, my dear Major."

"Fine. How soon can you let me have a communication method which can't 
be compromised or detected?"

"Impossible to say, but it won't take long. I still don't see the sense 
to your scheme, Major, but I will turn my attention to the research you 
say you require." He got up and went out, a procession of one.

"Major?" Wilkie asked for attention.

"What? Oh, yes, Wilkie."

"I can design such a communication system for you."

"I don't doubt it a damn bit, but we are going to need all the talent we 
can stir up for this job. There will be plenty for you to do, too. Now 
as to the rest of the scheme, here's what I have in mind just a rough 
idea, and I want you all to kick it around as much as possible until we 
get it as nearly foolproof as possible.

"We'll go through all the motions of setting up an evangelical religion, 
and try to get people to come to our services. Once we get 'em in where 
we can talk to 'em, we can pick out the ones that can be trusted and 
enlist them in the army. We'll make them deacons, or something, in the 
church. Our big angle will be charity -- you come in on that, Wilkie 
with the transmutation process. You will turn out a lot of precious 
metal, gold mostly, so that we will have ready cash to work with. We 
feed the poor and the hungry -- the PanAsians have provided us with 
plenty of those! and pretty soon we'll have 'em coming to us in droves.

"But that isn't the half of it. We really will go in for miracles in a 
big way. Not only to impress the white population -- that's secondary 
but to confuse our lords and masters. We'll do things they can't 
understand, make them uneasy, uncertain of themselves. Never anything 
against them, you understand. We'll be loyal subjects of the Empire in 
every possible way, but we'll be able to do things that they can't. That 
will upset them and make them nervous."

It was taking shape in his mind like a well-thought out advertising 
campaign. "By the time we are ready to strike in force, we should have 
them demoralized, afraid of us, half hysterical."

They were beginning to be infected with some of his enthusiasm; but the 
scheme was conceived from a viewpoint more or less foreign to their 
habits of thought. "Maybe this will work, Chief," objected Thomas, " I 
don't say that it won't, but how do you propose to get it underway? 
Won't the Asiatic administrators smell a rat in the sudden appearance of 
a new religion?"

"Maybe so, but I don't think it likely. All Western religions look 
equally screwy to them. They know we have dozens of religions and they 
don't know anything about most of them. That's one respect in which the 
Era of Nonintercourse will be useful to us. They don't know much about 
our institutions since the Nonintercourse Act. This will just look like 
any one of half a dozen cockeyed cults of the sort that spring up 
overnight in Southern California."

"But about that springing-up business, Chief -- How do we start out? We 
can't just walk out of the Citadel, buttonhole one of the yellow boys, 
and say, 'I'm John the Baptist.' "

"No, we can't. That's a point that has to be worked out. Has anybody any 
ideas?"

The silence that followed was thick with intense concentration. Finally 
Graham proposed, "Why not just set up in business, and wait to be 
noticed?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, we've got enough people right here to operate on a small scale. 
If we had a temple somewhere, one of us could be the priest, and the 
others could be disciples or something. Then just wait to be noticed. "

"H-m-m-m. You've got something there, Graham. But we'll open up on the 
biggest scale we can manage. We'll all be priests and altar attendants 
and so forth, and I'll send Thomas out to stir up a congregation for us 
among his pals. No, wait. Let 'em come in as pilgrims. We'll start this 
off with a whispering campaign among the hobos, send it over the 
grapevine. We'll have 'em say, 'The Disciple is coming!"'

"What does that mean?" Scheer inquired.

"Nothing, yet. But it will, when the time comes. Now look -- Graham, 
you're an artist. You're going to have to get dinner with your left hand 
for a few days. Your right will be busy sketching out ideas for robes 
and altars and props in general -- sacerdotal stuff. Guess the interior 
and exterior of the temple will be mostly up to you, too."

"Where will the temple be located?"

"Well, now, that's a question. It shouldn't be too far from here unless 
we abandon the Citadel entirely. That doesn't seem expedient; we need it 
for a base and a laboratory. But the temple can't be too close, for we 
can't afford to attract special attention to this mountainside." Ardmore 
drummed on the table. "It's a difficult matter."

"Why not," offered Dr. Brooks, "make this the temple?"

"Huh?"

"I don't mean this room, of course, but why not put the first temple 
right on top of the Citadel? It would be very convenient."

"So it would, doctor, but it would certainly draw a lot of unhealthy 
attention to -- Wait a minute! I think I see what you mean." He turned 
to Wilkie. "Bob, how could you use the Ledbetter effect to conceal the 
existence of the Citadel, if the Mother Temple sat right on top of it? 
Could it be done?"

Wilkie looked more puzzled and collie-doggish than ever. "The Ledbetter 
effect wouldn't do it. Do you especially want to use the Ledbetter 
effect? Because if you don't it wouldn't be hard to rig a type-seven 
screen in the magneto-gravitic spectrum so that electromagnetic type 
instruments would be completely blanked out. You see --"

"Of course I don't care what you use! I don't even know the names of the 
-- stuff you laboratory boys use -- all I want is the results. O. K. -- 
you take care of that. We'll completely design the temple here, get all 
the materials laid out and ready to assemble down below, then break 
through to the surface and run the thing up as fast as possible. Anyone 
have any idea how long that will take? I'm afraid my own experience 
doesn't run to building construction."

Wilkie and Scheer engaged in a whispered consultation. Presently Wilkie 
broke off and said, "Don't worry too much about that, Chief. It will be 
a power job."

"What sort?"

"You've got a memorandum on your desk about the stuff. The traction and 
pressure control we developed from the earlier Ledbetter experiments."

"Yes, Major," Scheer added, "you can forget it; I'll take care of the 
job. With tractors and pressors in an aggravitic field, it won't take 
any longer than assembling a cardboard model. Matter of fact, I'll 
practice on a cardboard model before we run up the main job."

"O.K., troops," Ardmore smilingly agreed, with the lightheartedness that 
comes from the prospect of plenty of hard work, "that's the way I like 
to hear you talk. The powwow is adjourned for now. Get going! Thomas, 
come with me."

"Just a second, Chief," Brooks added as he got up to follow him, 
"couldn't we --" They went out the door, still talking.

Despite Scheer's optimism the task of building a temple on the mountain 
top above the Citadel developed unexpected headaches. None of the little 
band had had any real experience with large construction jobs. Ardmore, 
Graham, and Thomas knew nothing at all of such things, although Thomas 
had done plenty of work with his hands, some of it carpentry. Calhoun 
was a mathematician and by temperament undisposed to trouble himself 
with such menial pursuits in any case. Brooks was willing enough but he 
was a biologist, not an engineer. Wilkie was a brilliant physicist and, 
along lines related to his specialty, a competent engineer; he could 
design a piece of new apparatus necessary to his work quite handily.

However, Wilkie had built no bridges, designed no dams, bossed no gangs 
of sweating men. Nevertheless the job devolved on him by Hobson's 
choice. Scheer was not competent to build a large building; he thought 
that he was, but he thought in terms of small things, tools, patterns, 
and other items that fitted into a machine shop. He could build a scale 
model of a large building, but he simply did not understand heavy 
construction.

It was up to Wilkie.

He showed up in Ardmore's office a few days later with a roll of 
drawings under his arm. "Uh, Chief?"

"Eh? Oh, come in, Bob. Sit down. What's eating on you? When do we start 
building the temple? See here -- I've been thinking about other ways to 
conceal the fact that the Citadel will be under the temple. Do you 
suppose you could arrange the altar so that --"

"Excuse me, Chief."

"Eh?

"We can incorporate most any dodge you want into the design, but I've 
got to know something more about the design first."

"That's your problem -- yours and Graham's."

"Yes, sir. But how big do you want it to be?"

"How big? Oh, I don't know, exactly. It has to be big." Ardmore made a 
sweeping motion with both hands that took in floor, walls, and ceiling. 
"It has to be impressive."

"How about thirty feet in the largest dimension?"

"Thirty feet? Why, that's ridiculous! You aren't building a soft-drinks 
stand; you're building the mother temple of a great religion -- of 
course you aren't, but you've got to think of it that way. It's got to 
knock their eyes out. What's the trouble? Materials?"

Wilkie shook his head. "No, with Ledbetter-type transmutation materials 
are not a problem. We can use the mountain itself for materials."

"That's what I thought you intended to do. Carve out big chunks of 
granite and use your tractor and pressor beams to lay them up like giant 
bricks."

"Oh, no!

"No? Why not?"

"Well, we could, but when we got through it wouldn't look like much -- 
and I don't know how we would roof it over. What I intended to do was to 
use the Ledbetter effect not just for cutting or quarrying, but to make 
-- transmute -- the materials I want. You see, granite is principally 
oxides of silicon. That complicates things a little because both 
elements are fairly near the lower end of the periodic table. Unless we 
go to a lot of trouble and get rid of a lot of excess energy -- a 
tremendous amount; darn near as much as the Memphis power pile develops 
-- as I say, unless we arrange to bleed off all that power, and right 
now I don't see just how we could do it, then --"

"Get to the point, man!"

"I was getting to the point, sir," Wilkie answered in hurt tones. 
"Transmutations from the top or the bottom of the periodic scale toward 
the middle give off power; contrariwise, they absorb energy. Way back in 
the middle of the last century they found out how to do the first sort; 
that's what atom bombs are based on. But to handle transmutations for 
building materials, you don't want to give off energy like an atom bomb 
or a power pile. It would be embarrassing."

"I should think so!"

"So I'll use the second sort, the energy-absorbing sort. As a matter of 
fact I'll balance them. Take magnesium for instance. It lies between 
silicon and oxygen. The binding energies involved --"

"Wilkie!"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Just assume that I never got through third grade. Now can you make the 
materials you need, or can't you?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I can make them."

"Then how can I be of help to you?"

"Well, sir, it's the matter of putting the roof on and the size. You say 
a thirty-foot over-all dimension is no good --"

"No good at all. Did you see the North American Exposition? Remember the 
General Atomics Exhibit?"

"I've seen pictures of it."

"I want something as gaudy and impressive as that, only bigger. Now why 
are you limited to thirty feet?"

"Well, sir, a panel six by thirty is the biggest I can squeeze out 
through the door, allowing for the turn in the passage."

"Take 'em up through the scout-car lift."

"I thought of that. It will take a panel thirteen feet wide, which is 
good, but the maximum length is then only twenty-seven feet. There's a 
corner to turn between the hangar and the lift."

"Hmm -- Look, can you weld with that magic gimmick? I thought you could 
build the temple in sections, down below here, then assemble it above 
ground?"

"That was the idea. Yes, I suppose we could weld walls as big as you 
want. But look, major, how big a building do you want?"

"As big as you can manage."

"But how big do you want?"

Ardmore told him. Wilkie whistled. "I suppose it's possible to give you 
walls that big, but I don't see any way to roof it over."

"Seems to me I've seen buildings with that much clear span."

"Yes, of course. You give me the services of construction engineers and 
architects and heavy industry to build the trusses needed to take that 
span and I'll build you as big a temple as you want. But Scheer and I 
can't do it alone, even with pressors and tractors to do all the heavy 
work. I'm sorry, sir, but I don't see an answer."

Ardmore stood up and put a hand on Wilkie's arm. "You mean you don't see 
an answer yet. Don't get upset, Bob. I'll take whatever you build. But 
just remember -- This is going to be our first public display. A lot 
depends on it. We can't expect to make much impression on our overlords 
with a hotdog stand. Make it as big as you can. I'd like something about 
as impressive as the Great Pyramid -- but don't take that long to build 
it."

Wilkie looked worried. "I'll try, sir. I'll go back and think about it."

"Fine!"

When Wilkie had gone Ardmore turned to Thomas. "What do you think about 
it, Jeff? Am I asking too much?"

"I was just wondering," Thomas said slowly, "why. you set so much store 
by this temple?"

"Well, in the first place it gives a perfect cover up for the Citadel. 
If we are going to do anything more than sit here and die of old age, 
the time will come when a lot of people will have to be going in and out 
of here. We can't keep the location secret under those circumstances so 
we will have to have a reason, a cover up. People are always going in 
and out of a church building -- worship and so forth. I want to cover up 
the 'and so forth.' "

"I understand that. But a building with thirty-foot maximum dimensions 
can cover up a secret stairway quite as well as the sort of 
convention-hall job you are asking young Wilkie to throw up."

Ardmore squirmed. Damn it -- couldn't anyone but himself see the value 
of advertising? "Look, Jeff, this whole deal depends on making the right 
impression at the start. If Columbus had come in asking for a dime, he 
would have been thrown out of the palace on his ear. As it was, he got 
the crown jewels. We've got to have an impressive front."

"I suppose so," Thomas answered without conviction.

Several days later Wilkie asked permission for Scheer and himself to go 
outside. Finding that they did not intend to go far, Ardmore gave 
permission, after impressing on them the need for extreme caution.

He encountered them some time later proceeding down the main passage 
toward the laboratories. They had an enormous granite boulder. Scheer 
was supporting it clear of walls and floor by means of tractors and 
pressors generated by a portable Ledbetter projector strapped as a pack 
on his shoulders. Wilkie had tied a line around the great chunk of rock 
and was leading it as if it were a cow. "Great Scott!" said Ardmore. 
"What y' got there?"

"Uh, a piece of mountain, sir."

"So I see. But why?"

Wilkie looked mysterious. "Major, could you spare some time later in the 
day? We might have something to show you."

"If you won't talk, you won't talk. Very well."

Wilkie phoned him later, much later, asked him to come and suggested 
that Thomas come, too. When they arrived in the designated shop room 
everyone was present except Calhoun. Wilkie greeted them and said, "With 
your permission, we'll start, Major."

"Don't be so formal. Aren't you going to wait for Colonel Calhoun?"

"I invited him, but he declined."

"Go ahead then."

"Yes, sir." Wilkie turned to the rest. "This piece of granite represents 
the mountain top above us. Go ahead, Scheer. "

Wilkie took position at a Ledbetter projector. Scheer was already at 
one; it had been specially fitted with sights and some other gadgetry 
that Ardmore could not identify. Scheer pressed a couple of studs; a 
pencil beam of light sprang out.

Using it as if it were a saw he sliced the top off the boulder. Wilkie 
caught the separated portion with a tractor-pressor combination and 
moved it aside. He set his controls and it hung in air; where it had 
been the stone was flat and of mirror polish. "That's the temple's 
base," said Wilkie.

Scheer continued carving with his pencil beam, trucking his projector 
around as necessary. The flat top had now been squared off; the square 
was the summit of a four-sided truncated pyramid. That done, he started 
carving steps down one side of the figure. "That's enough, Scheer," 
Wilkie commanded. "Let's make a wall. Prepare the surface."

Scheer did something with his projector. No beam could be seen, but the 
flat upper surface turned black. "Carbon," announced Wilkie. "Industrial 
diamonds probably. That's our work bench. O. K., Scheer. " Wilkie moved 
the detached chunk back over the "bench"; Scheer carved off apiece; it 
turned molten, dripped down on the flat surface, spread to the edges and 
stopped. It now had a white metallic sheen. As it doled Scheer nipped 
each corner, then, using one pressor as a vise to hold it firmly to the 
boulder and another as a moving wedge, he turned each corner up. It was 
now a shallow, open box, two feet square and an inch deep. Wilkie 
whisked it aside and hung it in air.

The process was repeated, but this time a single sheet rather than a box 
was formed. Wilkie put it out of the way and put the box back on the 
pedestal. "Let's stuff the turkey," announced Wilkie.

He transferred the chopped-off chunk back to a position over the open 
box. Scheer carved off a piece and lowered it into the box, then played 
a beam on it. It melted down and spread over the bottom. "Granite is 
practically glass," lectured Wilkie, "and what we want is foamed glass, 
so we use no transmutation in this step-except the least, little bit to 
make the gases to foam it. Let's have a shot of nitrogen, Scheer." The 
master sergeant nodded and irradiated the mess for a split second; it 
foamed up like boiling fudge, filling the shallow box to the rim, and 
froze.

Wilkie snagged the simple sheet out of the air and caused it to hover 
over the filled box, then to settle so that it lay, somewhat unevenly, 
as a cover. "Iron it down, Scheer."

The sheet glowed red and settled in place, pressed flat by an invisible 
hand. Scheer walked his projector around, welding the cover of the box 
to the box proper. When he had finished Wilkie set the filled box up on 
edge at one edge of the pedestal. Leaving the controls of his projector 
set to hold it there, he walked over to the far side of the room where a 
tarpaulin covered a pile of something on a bench.

"To save your time and for practice we made four others earlier," he 
explained and whipped off the tarpaulin. Disclosed were a stack of 
sandwich panels exactly like that one just created. He did not touch 
them; instead Scheer lifted them off by projector one at a time and 
built a cube, using the newly made panel as the first face and the 
pedestal as the bottom of the cube. Wilkie returned to his projector and 
held the structure rigid while Scheer welded each seam. "Scheer is much 
more accurate than I am," he explained. "I give him all the tough parts. 
O. K., Scheer -- how about a door?"

"How big?" grunted the sergeant, speaking for the first time.

"Use your judgment. Eight inches high would be all right."

Scheer grunted again and carved a rectangular opening in the side facing 
the slope on which he had begun earlier to carve steps. When he finished 
Wilkie announced, "There's your temple, boss."

No human hand had touched the boulder nor anything made from it, from 
start to finish.

The applause sounded like considerably more than five people. Wilkie 
turned pink; Scheer worked his jaw muscles: They crowded around it. "Is 
it 'hot'?" inquired Brooks.

"No," answered Mitsui, "I touched it."

"I didn't mean that."

"No, it's not 'hot'," Wilkie reassured him, "not with the Ledbetter 
process. Stable isotopes, all of them."

Ardmore straightened up from a close inspection. "I take it you intend 
to do the whole thing outdoors?"

"Is that all right, Major? Of course we could work down below and 
assemble it up above, from small panels -- but I'm sure that would take 
just as long as to work from scratch with big panels. And I'm not sure 
about assembling the roof from small units. Sandwich panels like these 
are the lightest, strongest, stiffest structure we can use. It was the 
problem of that big roof span you want that caused us to work out this 
system."

"Do it your way. I'm sure you know what you're doing. "

"Of course," admitted Wilkie, "we can't finish it in this short a time. 
This is just the shell. I don't know how long it will take to dress it 
up."

"Dress it up?" inquired Graham. "When you've got a fine, great simple 
shape why belittle it with decoration? The cube is one of the purest and 
most beautiful shapes possible. "

"I agree with Graham," Ardmore commented. "That's your temple, right 
there. Nothing makes a more effective display than great, unbroken 
masses. When you've got something simple and effective, don't louse it 
up."

Wilkie shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I thought you wanted something fancy."

"This is fancy. But see here, Bob, one thing puzzles me. Mind you, I'm 
not criticizing -- I'd as soon think of criticizing the Days of Creation 
-- but tell me this: why did you take a chance on going outside? Why 
didn't you just go into one of the unoccupied rooms, peel off the wall 
coating and use that magic knife to carve a chunk of granite right out 
of the heart of the mountain?"

Wilkie looked thunderstruck. "I never thought of that. "

CHAPTER FIVE

A patrol helicopter cruised slowly south from Denver. The PanAsian 
lieutenant commanding it consulted a recently constructed aerial mosaic 
map and indicated to the pilot that he was to hover. Yes, there it was, 
a great cubical building rising from the shoulder of a mountain. It had 
been picked up by the cartographical survey of the Heavenly Emperor's 
new Western Realm and he had been sent to investigate.

The lieutenant regarded the job as a simple routine matter. Although the 
building did not appear in the records of the administrative district in 
which it was located there was nothing surprising in that. The newly 
conquered territory was enormous in extent, the aborigines, with their 
loose undisciplined ways -- so characteristic of all the inferior races 
-- kept no proper records of anything. It might be years before 
everything in this wild new country was properly indexed and 
cross-filed, particularly as this pale anemic people was almost 
childishly resistant to the benefits of civilization.

Yes, it would be a long job, perhaps longer than the Amalgamation of 
India. He sighed to himself. He had received a letter that morning from 
his principal wife informing him that his second wife had presented him 
with a man-child. Should he request that he be reclassified as a 
permanent colonist in order that his family might join him here, or 
should he pray for leave, long overdue?

Those were no thoughts for a man on the Heavenly Emperor's duty! He 
recited over to himself the Seven Principles of the Warrior Race and 
indicated to the pilot an alp in which to land.

The building was more impressive from the ground, a great square 
featureless mass, fully two hundred yards across in every dimension. The 
face toward him shone with a clear monochromatic emerald green, although 
it faced away from the afternoon sun. He could see a little of the wall 
to the right; it was golden.

His task group of one squad filed out of the helicopter after him and 
were followed by the mountain guide who had been impressed for this 
service. He spoke to the white man in English. "Have you seen this 
building before?"

"No, Master."

"Why not?"

"This part of the mountains is new to me."

The man was probably lying, but it was useless to punish him. He dropped 
the matter. "Lead on."

They trudged steadily up the slope toward the immense cube to where a 
broad flight of steps, wider still than the cube itself, led to its 
nearer face. The lieutenant hesitated momentarily before starting to 
mount them. He was aware of a general feeling of unease, a sense of mild 
disquietude, as if a voice were warning him of unnamed danger.

He set foot on the first step. A single deep clear note rolled across 
the canyon; the feeling of uneasiness swelled to an irrational dread. He 
could see that his men were infected with it. Resolutely he mounted the 
second step. Another and different tone echoed through the hills.

He marched steadily up the long flight, his men following reluctantly. A 
slow, ponderous and infinitely tragic largo kept time to his labored 
steps, labored because the treads were just too broad and the lifts just 
too high for comfort. The feeling of impending disaster, of inescapable 
doom, grew steadily greater as he approached the building.

Two doors of heroic size swung slowly open as the lieutenant ascended. 
In the archway thus created stood a human figure, a man, dressed in 
emerald robes that brushed the floor. White hair and flowing beard 
framed a face of benign dignity. He moved majestically forward from the 
doorway, reaching the top of the flight of steps just as the lieutenant 
attained it. The lieutenant noted with amazement that a halo flickered 
unsubstantially around the old man's head. But he had little time to 
consider it; the old man raised his right hand in benediction and spoke:

"Peace be unto you!"

And it was so! The feeling of dread, of irrational fright, dropped away 
from the PanAsian as if someone had turned a switch. In his relief he 
found himself regarding this member of an inferior race -- so evidently 
a priest with a warmth reserved for equals. He recalled the Admonitions 
for dealing with inferior religions.

"What is this place, Holy One?"

"You stand at the threshold of the Temple of Mota, Lord of Lords and 
Lord of All!"

"Mota-h-m-m-m." He could not recall such a god, but it did not matter. 
These sallow creatures had a thousand strange gods. Three things only do 
slaves require, food, work, and their gods, and of the three their gods 
must never be touched, else they grow troublesome. So said the Precepts 
for Ruling. "Who are you?"

"I am an humble priest, First Server of Shaam, Lord of Peace."

"Shaam? I thought you said Mota was your god?"

"We serve the Lord Mota in six of his thousand attributes. You serve him 
in your way. Even the Heavenly Emperor serves him in his. My duty is to 
the Lord of Peace."

This was perilously close to treason, the lieutenant thought, if not to 
blasphemy. Still, it may be that the gods have many names, and the 
native did not seem disposed to make trouble. "Very well, old Holy One, 
the Heavenly Emperor permits you to serve your god as you see him, but I 
must inspect for the Empire. Stand aside."

The old man did not move, but answered regretfully, "I am sorry, Master. 
It cannot be."

"It must be. Stand aside!"

"Please, Master, I beg of you! It is not possible for you to enter here. 
In these attributes Mota is Lord of the white men. You must go to your 
own temple; you cannot enter this one. It is death to any but his 
followers."

"You threaten me?"

"No, Master, no -- we serve the Emperor, as our faith requires. But this 
thing the Lord Mota Himself forbids. I cannot save you if you offend."

"On the Heavenly Emperor's service -- stand aside!" He strode steadily 
across the broad terrace toward the door, his squad clomping stolidly 
after him. The panic dread clutched at him as he marched and increased 
in intensity as he approached the great door. His heart seemed 
constricted, and a mad longing to flee clamored through him senselessly. 
Only the fatalistic courage of his training made him go on. Through the 
door he saw a vast empty hall and on the far side an altar, large in 
itself, but dwarfed by the mammoth proportions of the room. The inner 
walls shone, each with its own light, red, blue, green, golden. The 
ceiling was a perfect, flawless white, the floor an equally perfect 
black.

There was nothing to be afraid of here, he told himself, this illogical 
but horribly real dread was a sickness, unworthy of a warrior. He 
stepped across the threshold. A momentary dizziness, a flash of 
terrifying insecurity and he collapsed.

His squad, close at his heels, had no more warning.

Ardmore came trotting out of concealment. "Nice work, Jeff," he called 
out, "you should be on the stage!"

The old priest relaxed. "Thanks, Chief. What happens next?"

"We'll have time to figure that out." He turned toward the altar and 
shouted, "Scheer!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Turn off the fourteen-cycle note!" He added to Thomas, "Those damned 
subsonics give me the creeping horrors even when I know what's going on. 
I wonder what effect it had on our pal here?"

"He was cracking up, I believe. I never thought he'd make it to the 
doorway."

"I don't blame him. It made me want to howl like a dog, and 1 ordered it 
turned on. There's nothing like the fear of something you can't 
understand to break a man down. Well, we got a bear by the tail. Now to 
figure out a way to turn loose --"

"How about him?" Thomas jerked his head toward the mountaineer, who 
still stood near the head of the great flight of steps.

"Oh, yes." Ardmore whistled at him and shouted, "Hey you -- come here!"

The man hesitated, and Ardmore added, "Damn it -- we're white men! Can't 
you see that?"

The man answered, "I see it, but I don't like it." Nevertheless he 
slowly approached.

Ardmore said, "This is a piece of razzle-dazzle for the benefit of our 
yellow brethren. Now that you're in it, you're in it! Are you game?"

The other members of the personnel of the Citadel had gathered around by 
this time. The mountain guide glanced around at their faces. "It doesn't 
look as if I had much choice."

"Maybe not, but we would rather have a volunteer than a prisoner."

The mountaineer shifted tobacco from left cheek to right, glanced around 
the immaculate pavement for a place to spit, decided not to, and 
answered. "What's the game?"

"It's a frame-up on our Asiatic bosses. We plan to give them the 
run-around-with the help of God and the great Lord Mota."

The guide looked them over again, then suddenly stuck out his hand and 
said, "I'm in."

"Fine," agreed Ardmore, taking his hand. "What's your name?"

"Howe. Alexander Hamilton Howe. Friends call me Alec."

"O.K., Alec. Now what can you do? Can you cook?" he added.

"Some. "

"Good." He turned away. "Graham, he's your man for now. I'll talk with 
him later. Now -- Jeff, did it seem to you that one of those monkeys 
went down a little slowly?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"This one; wasn't it?" He touched one of the quiet, sprawled figures 
with his shoe.

"I think so."

"All right, I want to check up on him before we bring them to. If he's a 
Mongolian he should have keeled over quicker. Dr. Brooks, will you give 
this laddie's reflexes a work-out? And don't be too gentle about it."

Brooks managed to produce some jerks in short order. Seeing this, 
Ardmore reached down and set his thumb firmly on the exposed nerve under 
the ear. The soldier came to his knees, writhing. "All right, bud -- 
explain yourself." The soldier stared impassively. Ardmore studied his 
face for a moment, then made a quick gesture, which was protected from 
the gaze of the others by his body.

"Why didn't you say so?" asked the PanAsian soldier.

"I must say it's a good make-up job," commented Ardmore admiringly. 
"What's your name and rank?"

"Tattoo and plastic surgery," the other returned. "Name's Downer, 
captain, United States army."

"Mine's Ardmore. Major Ardmore."

"Glad to know you, Major." They shook hands. "Very glad, I should say. 
I've been hanging on for months, wondering who to report to and how."

"Well, we can certainly use you. It's a scratch organization. I've got 
to get busy now -- we'll talk later." He turned away. "Places, 
gentlemen. Second act. Check each other's make-up. Wilkie, see to it 
that Howe and Downer are out of sight. We are going to bring our drowsy 
guests back to consciousness."

They started to comply. Downer touched Ardmore's sleeve.

"Just a moment, Major. I don't know your layout, but before we go any 
further, are you sure you don't want me to stay on my present 
assignment?"

"Eh? H-m-m-m -- you've got something there. Are you willing to do it?"

"I'm willing to do it, if it's useful," Downer replied soberly.

"It would be useful. Thomas, come here." The three of them went into a 
short conference and arranged a way for Downer to report through the 
grapevine, and Ardmore told him as much about the set-up as he needed to 
know. "Well, good luck, old man," he concluded. "Get back down there and 
play dead, and we'll reanimate your messmates."

Thomas, Ardmore, and Calhoun attended the Asiatic lieutenant as his eyes 
flickered open. "Praise be!" intoned Thomas. "The Master lives!"

The lieutenant stared around him, shook his head, then reached for his 
sidearm. Ardmore, impressive in the red robes of Dis, Lord of 
Destruction, held up a hand. "Careful, Master, please! I have beseeched 
my Lord Dis to return you to us. Do not offend him again."

The Asiatic hesitated, then asked, "What happened?"

"The Lord Mota, acting through Dis, the Destroyer, took you for his own. 
We prayed and wept and beseeched Tamar, Lady of Mercy, to intercede for 
us." He swept an arm toward the open door. Wilkie, Graham, and Brooks, 
appropriately clad, were still busily genuflecting before the altar. 
"Graciously, our prayer was answered. Go in peace!"

Scheer, at the control board, picked this moment to increase the volume 
on the fourteen-cycle note. With nameless fear pressing his heart, 
confused, baffled, the lieutenant took the easy way out. He gathered his 
men about him and marched back down the broad flight of stairs, colossal 
organ music still following him in awful, inescapable accompaniment.

"Well, that's that," Ardmore commented as the little group disappeared 
in the distance. "First round to God's chilluns. Thomas, I want you to 
start into town at once."

"So?"

"In your robes and full paraphernalia. Seek out the district boss and 
register formal complaint that Lieutenant Stinkyface did wrongfully 
profane our sacred places to the great indignation of our gods, and pray 
for assurance that it will not happen again. You want to be on your high 
horse about the whole matter -- righteous indignation, you know -- but, 
oh, very respectful to temporal authority."

"I appreciate the confidence you place in me," Thomas said with sardonic 
grimness. Ardmore grinned at him.

"I know it's a tough assignment, fella, but a lot depends on it. If we 
can make use of their own customs and rules to establish a precedent 
right now which sets us up as a legitimate religion, entitled to all the 
usual immunities, we've got half the battle won."

"Suppose they ask for my identification card?"

"If you carry yourself with sufficient arrogance they will never get 
around to asking for it. Just think about the typical clubwoman and try 
to show that much bulge. I want 'em to get used to the idea that anyone 
with the staff and the robes and the halo carries his identification 
just in his appearance. It will save us trouble later."

"I'll try -- but I'm not promising anything."

"I think you can do it. Anyhow, you are going out equipped with enough 
stuff to keep you safe. Keep your shield turned on whenever you are 
around any of 'em. Don't try to account for it in any way; just let 'em 
bounce off it, if they close in on you. It's a miracle -- no need to 
explain."

"O. K. "

The lieutenant's report was not satisfactory to his superiors. As for 
that, it was not satisfactory to himself. He felt an acute sense of loss 
of personal honor, of face, which the words of his immediate superior 
did nothing to lessen. "You, an officer in the army of the Heavenly 
Emperor, have permitted yourself to look small in the eyes of a subject 
race. What have you to say?"

"Your forgiveness, sire!"

"Not for me -- it is a matter for you to settle with your ancestors."

"I hear, sire!" He caressed the short sword which hung at his side.

"Let there be no haste; I intend for you to tell your tale in person to 
the Imperial Hand."

The local Hand of the Emperor, military governor of that region which 
included Denver and the Citadel, was no more pleased than his junior. 
"What possessed you to enter their holy place? These people are 
childlike, excitable. Your action could be the regrettable cause of 
assassinations of many more valuable than yourself. We cannot be forever 
wasting slaves to teach them lessons."

"I am unworthy, sire."

"I do not dispute that. You may go." The lieutenant departed, to join, 
not his family, but his ancestors.

The Imperial Hand turned to his adjutant. "We will probably be 
petitioned by this cult. See that the petitioners are pacified and 
assured that their gods will not be disturbed. Note the characteristics 
of the sect and send out a general warning to deal gently with it." He 
sighed. "These savages and their false gods! I grow weary of them. Yet 
they are necessary; the priests and the gods of slaves always fight on 
the side of the Masters. It is a rule of nature."

"You have spoken, sire."

Ardmore was glad to see Thomas return to the Citadel. In spite of his 
confidence in Jeff's ability to handle himself in a tight place, in 
spite of the assurance that Calhoun had given him that the protective 
shield, properly handled, would protect the wearer from anything that 
the PanAsian could bring on it, he had been in a state of nerves ever 
since Thomas had set out to register a complaint with the Asiatic 
authorities. After all, the attitude of the PanAsians toward local 
religions might be one of bare toleration rather than special 
encouragement.

"Welcome home, old boy!" he shouted, pounding him on the back. "I'm glad 
to see your ugly face tell me what happened?"

"Give me time to get out of this bloody bathrobe, and I'll tell you. Got 
a cigarette? That's a bad point about being a holy man; they don't 
smoke."

"Sure. Here. Had anything to eat?"

"Not recently."

Ardmore flipped the intercommunicator to Kitchen. "Alec, rustle up some 
groceries for Lieutenant Thomas. And tell the troops they can hear his 
story if they come around to my office."

"Ask him if he has any avocados."

Ardmore did so. "He says they're still in quick freeze, but he'll thaw 
one out. Now let's have your story. What did Little Red Riding Hood say 
to the wolf?"

"Well -- you'll hardly believe it, Chief, but I didn't have any trouble 
at all. When I got into town, I marched right straight up to the first 
PanAsian policeman I found, stepped off the curb, and struck the old 
benediction pose -- staff in my left hand, right hand pawing the air; 
none of this hands folded and head down stuff that white men are 
supposed to use. Then I said, 'Peace be unto you! Will the Master direct 
his servant to the seat of the Heavenly Emperor's government?'

"I don't think he understood much English. He seemed startled at my 
manner, and got hold of another flatface to help him. This one knew more 
English and I repeated my request. They palavered in that damned 
singsong tongue of theirs, then conducted me to the palace of the 
Emperor's Hand. We made quite a procession -- one on each side and me 
walking fast so that I kept about even or a little in front of them."

"Good advertising," Ardmore approved.

"That's what I thought. Anyway, they got me there and I told my story to 
some underofficial. The results astounded me. I was whisked right 
straight up to the Hand himself."

"The hell you say!"

"Wait a minute -- here's the pay-off: I'll admit I was scared, but I 
said to myself 'Jeff, old boy, if you start to crawl now, you'll never 
get out of here alive.' I knew a white man is expected to drop to his 
knees before an official of that rank. I didn't; I gave him the same 
standing benediction I had given his flunkies. And he let me get away 
with it! He looked me over and said, 'I thank you for your blessing, 
Holy One. You may approach.' He speaks excellent English, by the way.

"Well, I gave him a reasonably accurate version of what happened here -- 
the official version, you understand -- and he asked me a few questions."

"What sort of questions?"

"In the first place he wanted to know if my religion recognized the 
authority of the Emperor. I assured him that it did, that our followers 
were absolutely bound to obey temporal authority in all temporal 
matters, but that our creed commanded us to worship the true gods in our 
own fashion. Then I gave him a long theological spiel. I told him that 
all men worshipped God, but that God had a thousand attributes, each one 
a mystery. God in his wisdom had seen fit to appear to different races 
in different attributes because it was not seemly for servant and master 
to worship in the same fashion. Because of that, the six attributes of 
Mota, of Shaam, of Mens, of Tamar, of Barmac, and of Dis had been set 
aside for the white men, just as the Heavenly Emperor was an attribute 
reserved for the race of Master."

"How did he take it?"

"I gathered that he thought it was very sound doctrine -- for slaves. He 
asked me what my church did besides holding services, and I told him 
that our principal desire is to minister to the poor and sick. He seemed 
pleased at that. I have an impression that our gracious overlords are 
finding relief a very serious problem."

"Relief? Do they give any relief?"

"Not exactly. But if you load prisoners into concentration camps you 
have to feed them something. The internal economy has largely broken 
down and they haven't got it straightened out yet. I think they would 
welcome a movement which would relieve them from worrying too much over 
how to feed the slaves. "

"H-m-m-m. Anything else?"

"Nothing much. I assured him again that we, as spiritual leaders, were 
forbidden by our doctrines to have anything to do with politics, and he 
told me that we would not be molested in the future. Then he dismissed 
me. I repeated my benediction, turned my back on him, and stomped out."

"It seems to me," said Ardmore, "that you pretty thoroughly sold him a 
bill of goods."

"I wouldn't be too sure, Chief. That old scoundrel is shrewd and 
Machiavellian. I shouldn't call him a scoundrel,

because he's not by his standards. He's a statesman. I've got to admit 
he impressed me. Look -- these PanAsians can't be stupid; they've 
conquered and held half a world, hundreds of millions of people. If they 
tolerate local

religions, it's because they have found it to be smart politics. We've 
got to keep them thinking so in our case, in

the face of smart and experienced administrators."

"No doubt you're right. We certainly must be careful not to 
underestimate them."

"I hadn't quite finished. Another escort picked me up on the way out of 
the palace and stayed with me. I walked along, paying no attention to 
them. My route out of town took me through the central market. There 
were hundreds of whites there, lined up in queues, waiting for a chance 
to buy food on their ration cards. I got an idea and decided to find out 
just how far my immunity extended. I stopped and climbed up on a box and 
started to preach to them."

Ardmore whistled. "Cripes, Jeff, you shouldn't have taken a chance like 
that!"

"But, Major, we needed to know, and I was fairly certain that the worst 
that could happen would be that they would make me stop."

"Well . . . yes, I suppose so. Anyhow the job requires that we take 
chances and you have to use your own judgment. Boldness may be the 
safest policy. Sorry I spoke -- what happened?"

"My escort seemed dumbfounded at first, and not certain what to do. I 
went right ahead, watching them out of the corner of my eye. Pretty soon 
they were joined by a chappie who seemed to be senior to them. They held 
a confab, and the senior cop went away. He came back in about five 
minutes, and just stood there, watching me. I gathered that he had 
phoned in and had received instructions to let me alone. "

"How did the crowd take it?"

"I think they were most impressed by the apparent fact that a white man 
was breaking one of the rules of the overlords and getting away with it. 
I didn't try to tell them much. I took as my text, The Disciple is 
coming!' and embroidered it with a lot of glittering generalities. I 
told them to be good boys and girls and not to be afraid, for the 
Disciple was coming to feed the hungry and heal the sick and console the 
bereaved."

"H-m-m-m. Now that you've started making promises, we had better get set 
to deliver."

"I was coming to that. Chief, I think that we had better set up a branch 
church in Denver right away."

"We've hardly got the personnel yet to start branching out."

"Are you sure? I don't like to set my opinion up against yours, but I 
don't see how we can gain many recruits unless we go where the recruits 
are. They're all set for it now; you may be sure that every white man in 
Denver is talking about the old beezer in the halo -- in a halo, mind 
you! -- who preached in the market place and the Asiatics didn't dare 
stop him. We'll pack 'em in!"

"Well . . . maybe you're right --"

I think I am. Admitting that you can't spare the regular personnel from 
the Citadel, here's how we can work it; I'll go down to the city with 
Alec, locate a building that we can turn into a temple and start holding 
services. We can get along with the power units in the staffs at first, 
and Scheer can follow along and rebuild the interior of the temple and 
set up a proper unit in the altar. Once things are rolling I can turn 
the routine over to Alec. He'll be the local priest for Denver."

The others had drifted in one by one while Ardmore and Thomas were 
talking. Ardmore turned now to Alec Howe.

"How about it, Alec? Do you think you can make a noise like a priest, 
preach 'em sermons, organize charities, and that sort of thing?"

The mountain guide was slow to answer. "I think, Major, that I would 
rather stay on the job I have now. "

"It won't be so hard," Ardmore reassured him. "Thomas or I can write 
your sermons for you. The rest of it would consist largely in keeping 
your mouth shut and your eyes open, and in shooing likely prospects up 
here to be enlisted."

"It's not the sermons, Major. I can preach a sermon -- I used to be a 
lay preacher in my youth. It's just that I can't reconcile this false 
religion with my conscience. I know you are working toward a worthy 
purpose and I've agreed to serve, but I'd rather stay in the kitchen."

Ardmore considered his words before replying. "Alec," he said at length, 
in a grave voice, "I think I can appreciate your viewpoint. I wouldn't 
want to ask any man to do anything against his own conscience. As a 
matter of fact, we would not have adopted the cloak of a religion had we 
seen any other practical way to fight for the United States. Does your 
faith forbid you to fight for your country?"

"No, it does not."

"Most of your work as a priest of this church would be to help the 
helpless. Doesn't that fit into your creed?"

"Naturally it does. That is exactly why I cannot do it in the name of a 
false God."

"But is it a false God? Do you believe that God cares very much what 
name you call Him as long as the work you perform is acceptable to Him? 
Now mind you," he added hastily, "I don't say that this so-called temple 
we have erected here is necessarily a House of the Lord, but isn't the 
worship of God a matter of how you feel in your heart rather than the 
verbal forms and the ceremonials used?"

"That's true, Major, every word you've said is gospel -- but I just 
don't feel right about it."

Ardmore could see that Calhoun had been listening to this discussion 
with poorly concealed impatience. He decided to terminate it. "Alec, I 
want you to go now and think this over by yourself. Come see me 
tomorrow. If you can't reconcile this work to your conscience, I'll give 
you an unprejudiced discharge as a conscientious objector. It won't even 
be necessary for you to serve in the kitchen."

"I wouldn't want to go that far, Major. It seems to me --"

"No, really. If one is wrong, so is the other. I don't want to be 
responsible for requiring a man to do anything that might be a sin 
against his faith. Now you get along and think about it."

Ardmore hustled him out without giving him a chance to talk further.

Calhoun could contain himself no longer. "Well, really, Major, I must 
say! Is it your policy to compromise with superstition in the face of 
military necessity?"

"No, Colonel, it is not -- but that superstition, as you call it, is in 
this case a military fact. Howe's case is the first example of something 
we are going to have to deal with -- the attitude of the orthodox 
religions to the one we have trumped up."

"Maybe," suggested Wilkie, "we should have imitated the more usual 
religions."

"Perhaps. Perhaps. I thought of that, but somehow I couldn't see it. I 
can't picture one of us standing up and pretending to be a minister, 
say, of one of the regular protestant churches. I'm not much of a 
churchgoer, but I didn't think I could stomach it. Maybe when it comes 
right down to it, I'm bothered by the same thing that bothers Howe. But 
we've got to deal with it. We've got to consider the attitude of the 
other churches. We mustn't tread on their toes in any way we can help."

"Maybe this would help," Thomas suggested. "It could be one of the 
tenets of our church that we included and tolerated, even encouraged, 
any other form of worship that a man might favor. Besides that, every 
church, especially these days, has more social work than it can afford. 
We'll give the others financial assistance with no strings attached."

"Both of those things will help," Ardmore decided, "but it will be 
ticklish business. Whenever possible, we'll enlist the regular ministers 
and priests themselves. You can bet that every American will be for us, 
if he understands what we are aiming toward. The problem will be to 
decide which ones can be trusted with the whole secret. Now about 
Denver, Jeff, do you want to start back right away, tomorrow, maybe?"

"How about Howe?"

"He'll come around, I think."

"Just a moment, Major." It was Dr. Brooks, who had been sitting quietly, 
as usual, while the others talked. " I think it would be a good idea if 
we waited a day or two, until Scheer can make certain changes in the 
power units of the staffs."

"What sort of changes?"

"You will remember that we established experimentally that the Ledbetter 
effect could be used as a sterilizing agent?"

"Yes, of course."

"That is why we felt safe in predicting that we would help the sick. As 
a matter of fact we underestimated the potentialities of the method. I 
infected myself with anthrax earlier this week --"

"Anthrax! For God's sake, Doctor, what in the world do you mean by 
taking a chance like that?"

Brooks turned his mild eyes on Ardmore. "But it was obviously 
necessary," he explained patiently. "The guinea pig tests were positive, 
it is true, but human experimentation was necessary to establish the 
method. As I was saying, I infected myself with anthrax and permitted 
the disease to establish itself, then exposed myself to the Ledbetter 
effect in all wave lengths except that band of frequencies fatal to 
warm-blooded vertebrates. The disease disappeared. In less than an hour 
the natural balance of anabolism over catabolism had cleared up the 
residue of pathological symptoms. I was well."

"I'll be a cross-eyed intern! Do you think it will work on other 
diseases just as quickly?"

"I feel sure of it. Not only has such been the result with other 
diseases in the animal experimentation that I have conducted, but 
because of another unanticipated, though experimentally predictable, 
result. I've suffered from a rather severe cold in the head lately, as 
some of you may have noticed. The exposure not only cured the anthrax, 
it completely cleared up my cold. The cold virus involves a dozen or 
more known pathogenic organisms, and probably as many more unknown ones. 
The exposure killed them all, indiscriminately."

"I'm delighted to get this report, Doctor," Ardmore answered. "In the 
long run this one development may be of more importance to the human 
race than any military use we may make of it now. But how does it affect 
the matter of establishing the branch church in Denver?"

"Well, sir, perhaps it doesn't. But I took the liberty of having Scheer 
modify one of the portable power units in order that healing might be 
conveniently carried on by any one of our agents even though equipped 
only with the staff. I thought you might prefer to wait until Scheer 
could add the same modification to the staffs designed to be used by 
Thomas and Howe."

"I think you are right, if it does not take too long. May I see the 
modification?"

Scheer demonstrated the staff he had worked over. Superficially it 
looked no different from the others. A six-foot rod was surmounted by a 
capital in the form of an ornate cube about four inches through. The 
faces of the cube were colored to correspond with the sides of the great 
temple. The base of the cube and the staff itself were covered with 
intricate designs in golden scroll-work, formal arabesques, and delicate 
bas-relief -- all of which effectively concealed the controls of the 
power unit and projector located in the cubical capital.

Scheer had not changed the superficial appearance of the staff; he had 
simply added an additional circuit internally to the power unit in the 
cube which constrained it to oscillate only outside the band of 
frequencies fatal to vertebrate life. This circuit controlled the action 
of the power unit and projector whenever a certain leaf in the 
decorative design of the staff was pressed.

Scheer and Graham had labored together to create the staff's designing 
and redesigning to achieve an integrated whole in which mechanical 
action would be concealed in artistic camouflage. They made a good team. 
As a matter of fact their talents were not too far apart; the artist is 
two-thirds artisan and the artisan has essentially the same creative 
urge as the artist.

"I would suggest," added Brooks, when the new control had been explained 
and demonstrated, "that this new effect be attributed to Tamar, Lady of 
Mercy, and that her light be turned on when it is used."

"That's right. That's the idea," Ardmore approved. "Never use the staff 
for any purpose without turning on the color light associated with the 
particular god whose help you are supposed to be invoking. That's an 
invariable rule. Let 'em break their hearts trying to figure out how a 
simple monochromatic light can perform miracles."

"Why bother with the rigamarole?" inquired Calhoun. "The PanAsians can't 
possibly detect the effects we use in any case."

"There is a double reason, Colonel. By giving them a false lead to 
follow we hope to insure that they will bend their scientific efforts in 
the wrong direction. We can't afford to underestimate their ability. But 
even more important is the psychological effect on nonscientific minds, 
both white and yellow. People think things are wonderful that look 
wonderful. The average American is completely unimpressed by scientific 
wonders; he expects them, takes them as a matter of course with an 
attitude of 'So what? That's what you guys are paid for.'

"But add a certain amount of flubdub and hokum and don't label it 
'scientific' and he will be impressed. It's wonderful advertising."

"Well," said Calhoun, dismissing the matter, "no doubt you know best -- 
you have evidently had a great deal of experience in fooling the public. 
I've never turned my attention to such matters; my concern is with pure 
science. If you no longer need me here, Major, I have work to do."

"Certainly, Colonel, certainly! Go right ahead, your work is of prime 
importance . . .

"Still," he added meditatively, when Calhoun had gone, "I don't see why 
mass psychology shouldn't be a scientific field. If some of the 
scientists had taken the trouble to formulate some of the things that 
salesmen and politicians know already, we might never have gotten into 
the mess we're in."

"I think I can answer that," Dr. Brooks said diffidently.

"Huh? Oh, yes, Doctor -- what were you going to say?"

"Psychology is not a science because it is too difficult. The scientific 
mind is usually orderly, with a natural love for order. It resents and 
tends to ignore fields in which order is not readily apparent. It 
gravitates to fields in which order is easily found such as the physical 
sciences, and leaves the more complex fields to those who play by ear, 
as it were. Thus we have a rigorous science of thermodynamics but are 
not likely to have a science of psychodynamics for many years yet to 
come."

Wilkie swung around so that he faced Brooks. "Do you really believe 
that, Brooksie?"

"Certainly, my dear Bob."

Ardmore rapped on his desk, "It's an interesting subject, and I wish we 
could continue the discussion, but it looks like rain, and the crops 
still to get in. Now about this matter of founding a church in Denver -- 
anybody got any ideas?"

CHAPTER SIX

Wilkie said, " I'm glad I don't have to tackle it. I wouldn't have the 
slightest idea where to start."

"Ah, but you may have to tackle it, Bob," Ardmore countered. "We may all 
have to tackle it. Damn it -- if we only had a few hundred that we could 
depend on! But we haven't; there are only nine of us." He sat still for 
a moment, drumming the table. "Just nine."

"You'll never get Colonel Calhoun to make noises like a preacher," 
commented Brooks.

"Okay, then -- eight. Jeff, how many cities and towns are there in the 
United States?"

"And you can't use Frank Mitsui," persisted Brooks. "For that matter, 
while I'm willing enough I don't see how you can use me. I haven't any 
more idea of how to go about setting up a fake church than I have about 
how to teach ballet dancing."

"Don't fret about it, Doctor, neither have I. We'll play by ear. 
Fortunately there aren't any rules. We can cook it up to suit ourselves."

"But how are you going to be convincing?"

"We don't have to be convincing -- not in the sense of getting converts. 
Real converts might prove to be a nuisance. We just have to be 
convincing enough to look like a legitimate religion to our overlords. 
And that doesn't have to be very convincing. All religions look equally 
silly from the outside. Take the --" Ardmore caught a look on Scheer's 
face and said, "Sorry! I don't mean to tread on anybody's toes. But it's 
a fact just the same and one that we will make military use of. Take any 
religious mystery, any theological proposition: expressed in ordinary 
terms it will read like sheer nonsense to the outsider, from the 
ritualistic, symbolic eating of human flesh and blood practiced by all 
the Christian sects to the outright cannibalism practiced by some 
savages."

"Wait a minute, now!" he went on. "Don't throw anything at me. I'm not 
passing judgments on any religious beliefs or practices; I'm just 
pointing out that we are free to do anything at all, so long as we call 
it a religious practice and so long as we don't tread on the toes of the 
monkey men. But we have to decide what it is we are going to do and what 
it is we are going to say."

"It's not the double-talk that worries me," said Thomas. "I just stuck 
to saying nothing in big words and it worked out all right. It's the 
matter of getting an actual toe hold in the cities. We just haven't got 
enough people to do it. Was that what you were thinking about when you 
asked me how many cities and towns there are in the country?"

"Mmm, yes. We can't act we don't dare act, until we cover the United 
States like a blanket. We'll have to make up our minds to a long war."

"Major, why do you want to cover every city and town?"

Ardmore looked interested. "Keep talking."

"Well," Thomas went on diffidently, "from what we've already learned the 
PanAsians don't maintain real military force in every hamlet. There are 
between sixty and seventy-five places that they have garrisoned. Most 
towns just have a sort of combination tax collector, mayor, and chief of 
police to see that the orders of the Hand are carried out. The local 
panjandrum isn't even a soldier, properly speaking, even though he goes 
armed and wears a uniform. He's sort of an M. P., a civil servant acting 
as a military governor. I think we can afford to ignore him; his power 
wouldn't last five minutes if he weren't backed up by the troops and 
weapons in the garrisoned cities."

Ardmore nodded. "I see your point. You feel that we should concentrate 
on the garrisoned towns and cities and ignore the rest. But look, Jeff, 
we mustn't underestimate the enemy. If the Great God Mota shows up 
nowhere but in the garrisoned spots it's going to look mighty funny to 
some intelligence officer among the PanAsians when he gets to fiddling 
with the statistics of the occupied country. I think we've got to show 
up elsewhere and. anywhere."

"And I respectfully suggest that we can't, sir. We haven't men enough to 
pull it off. We'll have trouble enough recruiting and training enough 
men to set up a temple in each of the garrisoned cities."

Ardmore chewed a thumbnail and looked frustrated. "You're probably 
right. Well, confound it, we won't get anywhere at all if we sit here 
worrying about the difficulties. I said we'd have to play by ear and 
that's what we'll do. The first job is to get a headquarters set up in 
Denver. Jeff, what are you going to need?"

Thomas frowned. "I don't know. Money, I suppose."

"No trouble about that," said Wilkie. "How much? I can make you half a 
ton of gold as easily as half a pound."

"I don't think I can carry more than about fifty pounds."

"I don't think he can spend bullion very easily," Ardmore commented. "It 
should be in coin."

"I can use bullion," Thomas insisted. "All I have to do is to take it to 
the Imperial bank. Panning gold is encouraged; our gracious masters 
charge one hell of a stiff seigniorage."

Ardmore shook his head. "You're missing the propaganda aspect. A priest 
in long robes and a flowing beard doesn't whip out a check book and a 
fountain pen; it's out of character. I don't want you to have a bank 
account anyhow; it will give the enemy detailed records of just what you 
are doing. I want you to pay for things with beautiful, shiny golden 
coins, stacks of them. It will make a tremendous impression. Scheer, are 
you any good at counterfeiting?"

"I've never tried it, sir."

"No time like the present. Every man needs an alternative profession. 
Jeff, you didn't have any chance to pick up an Imperial gold coin, did 
you? We need a model."

"No, I didn't. But I suppose I could get one, if I sent word out among 
the Us that I needed one."

"I hate to wait. But you've got to have money to tackle Denver."

"Does it have to be Imperial money?" asked Doctor Brooks.

"Eh?"

The biologist hauled a five dollar gold piece from his pocket. "Here's a 
lucky piece I've carried since I was a kid. I guess this is a lucky time 
to let it go."

"Hmm . . . How about it, Jeff? Can you pass American money?"

"Well, American paper money is no good, but gold coin -- My guess is 
that those leeches probably won't object, so long as it's gold -- at the 
bullion price, at least. I'm sure that Americans will take it."

"We don't care how much they discount it." Ardmore took the coin and 
chucked it to Scheer. "How long will it take you to make forty or fifty 
pounds of those?"

The master sergeant studied it. "Not long if I pour them rather than 
stamp them. You want them all just alike, sir?"

"Why not?"

"Well, sir, there's the matter of the date."

"Oh! I get you. Well, that's the only pattern we have; I guess we'll 
just have to hope that they either won't notice or won't care."

"If you can allow me just a little more time I think I could fix it, 
sir. I make about twenty or so with this as a pattern, then I'll do a 
little hand work and put a different date on each one. That will give me 
twenty different patterns instead of one."

"Scheer, you have the soul of an artist. Do it that way. While you are 
about it, you had better vary the scratches and wear marks on each."

"I had thought of that, sir."

Ardmore grinned. "This team is going to be a headache to His Imperial 
Nastiness yet. Well, how about it, Jeff? Any more points to settle 
before we adjourn the meeting?"

"Just one, boss. How do I get to Denver? .Or how do we get there, 
assuming that Howe comes along?"

"I thought you would bring that up. It's a sticky question; we can't 
expect the Hand to provide you with a helicopter. How are your feet? Any 
broken arches? Corns and bunions?"

"I'll be switched if I want to walk. It's a long way. "

"Don't blame you. And the devil of it is that it's a problem we're going 
to have with us from now on, if we are going to organize all over the 
country."

"I don't understand the difficulty," put in Brooks. "I thought citizens 
were still allowed to ride anything but aircraft?"

"Sure -- with travel permits and endless red tape. Never mind," Ardmore 
continued, "the day will come when the costume of a priest of Mota will 
be all the travel permit we'll need. If we work this right, we'll be 
teacher's pet with all sorts of special privileges. In the meantime the 
trick is to get Jeff into Denver without attracting undue attention and 
without wearing out his feet. Say, Jeff, you never did tell me how you 
traveled. Somehow we missed that."

"I hitch-hiked. Quite a chore, too. Most of the truckers are too scared 
of the security police to risk it."

"You did? You shouldn't have, Jeff: The priests of Mota do not 
hitch-hike. It doesn't fit in with miracle working."

"Well, what do they do? Dawggone it, Major, if I had walked I would 
still be on the way -- or more likely arrested by some flunky who hadn't 
gotten the news yet." Thomas' face showed irritation most unusual in him.

"Sorry. I shouldn't second-guess you. But we will have to figure out a 
better way."

"Why don't I just run him down in one of the scout cars?" asked Wilkie. 
"At night, of course."

"Night doesn't mean anything to radar, Bob. They would shoot you out of 
the sky."

"I don't think so. We have an almost unlimited amount of power at our 
disposal -- sometimes it scares me when I try to think how much. I 
believe I can rig a radar beacon effect that will burn out any radar set 
that is turned on us."

"Giving notice to the enemy that there is still someone around capable 
of hanky-panky with electronics? We mustn't tip our hand so soon, Bob."

Wilkie shut up, crestfallen. Ardmore thought it over. "And yet we've got 
to take chances. You rig your rig, Bob -- then plan on hedgehopping all 
the way. We'll do it about three or four o'clock in the morning and 
there's a chance that you won't be noticed at all. Use your rig if you 
have to but if you do then everyone is to return to base. The incident 
must not be connected with the priests of Mota, even in the matter of 
timing. The same applies after Wilkie sets you down, Jeff. If by any 
chance you are surprised, use the Ledbetter effect to kill off all the 
enemy anywhere close to you -- then go underground. Jungle up. Under no 
circumstances is any PanAsian to be permitted to suspect that the 
priests of Mota are anything but what they seem. Kill off your witnesses 
and escape."

"Right, boss."

The little scout car hovered over Lookout Mountain a few feet away from 
Buffalo Bill's grave. The door opened and a robed priest dropped to the 
ground, stumbling because of the heavy money belt slung from his 
shoulders and waist. A similar figure followed him and landed a bit more 
surefootedly. "You all right, Jeff"

"Sure."

Wilkie left the car on automatic long enough to lean out and say, "Good 
luck!"

"Thanks. But shut up and get going."

"Okay." The door closed and the car disappeared into the night.

It was growing light by the time Thomas and Howe reached the foot of the 
mountain and started into Denver. So far as they knew they had not been 
detected although once they had crouched in bushes for several minutes, 
afraid to breathe, while a patrol passed. Jeff had kept his staff ready, 
a thumb resting lightly on a golden leaf in the decorations below the 
cube of Mota. But the patrol passed on, unaware of the curbed lightnings 
trained on them.

Once in the city and in daylight they made no further attempt to avoid 
attention. Few PanAsians were about so early; members of the slave race 
scurried along the streets, on their way to their labors, but the master 
race still slept. The Americans who saw them stared briefly but did not 
stop them nor speak to them; native Americans had already learned the 
first law of police states: mind your own business; don't be nosy!

Jeff deliberately sought out an encounter with a PanAsian policeman. He 
and Alec stepped down from the curb, switched on their shields and 
waited. No Americans were nearby; the presence of occupation police 
caused them to melt into walls. Jeff wet his lips and said "I'll do the 
talking, Alec. "

"Suits me."

"Here he comes. Oh, my god, Alec, switch on your halo!"

"Huh?" Howe reached a finger up under his turban behind his right ear; 
the halo, shimmering iridescent light, sprang into being over his head. 
It was a mere ionization effect, a parlor trick of the additional 
spectra, less mysterious than natural aurora, but it looked good.

"That's better," Jeff acknowledged, from the side of his mouth. "What's 
the matter with your beard?"

"It keeps coming unstuck. I sweat."

"Don't let it come unstuck now! Here he comes --" Thomas struck the 
benediction pose; Howe followed suit. Jeff intoned, "Peace be unto you, 
Master!"

The Asiatic cop stopped. His knowledge of English was limited to halt, 
come along, and show your card; he depended on his club to keep the dogs 
in line. On the other hand he recognized the get up; it matched a 
picture on a notice newly posted in the barracks, this was one of the 
many silly things the slaves were allowed to do.

Still, a slave was a slave and must be kept in line. All slaves must 
bow; these slaves were not bowing. He cracked his club at the midriff of 
the nearer slave.

The nightstick bounced off before it reached the robed figure; the cop's 
fingers tingled as if he swung on something quite hard. "Peace be unto 
you!" Jeff rumbled again and watched him narrowly. The fellow was armed 
with a vortex pistol; Jeff was not afraid of it but it was no part of 
his plan to let the creature discover that he was immune to the 
Emperor's weapons. He was sorry that he had to use the shield against a 
blow from a stick and hoped that the PanAsian would not be able to 
believe the evidence of his own senses.

Certainly the man was startled. He looked at his stick, started to draw 
it back as if to swing again, then appeared to change his mind. He 
resorted to his meager supply of English. "Come along!"

Jeff raised his hand again. "Peace be unto you! It is not meet that the 
farjon should ripsnipe the cuskapads in the sight of the great lord 
Mota! Franchope!" He pointed to Howe.

The cop looked doubtful, then moved a few feet away to the street 
corner, glanced up and down and blew his whistle. Alec whispered, "What 
did you point to me for?"

"I don't know. It seemed like a good idea. Watch it!"

Another cop came trotting up; the pair approached Howe and Thomas. The 
new one seemed to be in authority over the first; they held a short 
discussion in meaningless singsong, then the later arrival came close, 
drawing his pistol as he did so. "You fellow boys, come along now quick!"

"Come, Alec." Thomas fell in with the policemen, switching off his 
shield as he did so. He hoped that Alec would notice that he had done so 
and conformed, it seemed a good notion not to advertise the existence of 
the shields -- not yet, at least.

The PanAsian conducted them to the nearest police station. Jeff walked 
briskly along, giving unctuous blessings to one and all. As they neared 
the station the senior cop sent the other trotting on ahead. When the 
party arrived they found the officer in charge waiting in the doorway, 
apparently curious to see these queer fish his men had hooked.

He was both curious and very much on his toes; the officer knew the 
circumstances under which the unfortunate lieutenant who had first 
turned up these strange holy men had gone to his ancestors. He was 
determined not to make a mistake which would cause him to lose face.

Jeff marched up to him, struck his pose and said, "Peace be unto you! 
Master, I have a complaint to make about your servants. They have 
stopped us from carrying out our holy work, work which is blessed by His 
Serene Highness himself, the Imperial Hand!"

The officer fingered his swagger stick, then spoke in his own language 
to his subordinates. He turned back to Jeff. "Who are you?"

"A priest of the great god Mota. "

The PanAsian asked the same question of Alec; Jeff interceded. "Master," 
he said hastily, "he is a most holy man who has taken a vow of silence. 
If you force him to break it the sin will be on your head."

The officer hesitated. The bulletin concerning these crazy savages had 
been most pointed, but it had given no clear precedents for dealing with 
them. He hated to establish precedents; those who did so were sometimes 
promoted, more frequently they joined their ancestors. "He need not 
break his holy vow. But show me your cards, both of you."

Jeff looked amazed. "We are humble, nameless holy men, serving the great 
god Mota. What have we to do with such?"

"Hurry up!"

Jeff tried to look sad rather than nervous. He had rehearsed this speech 
in his mind; much depended on it getting across. "I am sorry for you, 
young Master. I will pray to Mota on your behalf. But now I must insist 
that you take me before the Hand of the Emperor -- at once!"

"That's impossible."

"His Highness has seen me before; he will see me again. The Hand of the 
Emperor is always ready to see the servers of the great god Mota."

The officer looked at him, turned and went back into the station house. 
They waited.

"Do you suppose he'll actually have us taken before the prince?" Howe 
whispered.

"I hope not. I don't think so."

"Well, what will you do if he does?"

"Whatever I have to. Shut up -- you're supposed to be under a vow of 
silence."

The officer came back after several minutes and said curtly, "You are 
free to go."

"To the Imperial Hand?" Jeff inquired maliciously.

"No, no! Just go. Get out of my district.,"

Jeff stepped back one pace and delivered a last benediction. The two 
"priests" turned away. From the corner of his eye Jeff saw the officer 
lift his swagger stick and cut savagely at the senior of the two 
policemen; he pretended not to see. He walked about a block before he 
spoke to Howe. "There! We should have no more trouble for a while."

"How do you figure? You sure got him sore at us."

"That's not the point. We can't afford to have him or any other cop 
thinking he can push us around like the others. By the time we have gone 
three blocks the word will be all over town that I'm back and to lay 
off. That's the way we've got to have it."

"Maybe so. I still think it's dangerous to have the cops on the alert 
for us."

"You don't understand," Jeff said impatiently. "There isn't any other 
safe way to do it. Cops are cops, no matter what is the color of their 
skin. They deal in fear and they understand fear. Once they understand 
we can't be touched, that it is very bad medicine to bother us, they'll 
be as polite to us as they are to their superiors. You'll see."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm right. Cops are cops. Pretty soon we'll have them on our payroll. 
Oh, oh! Watch it, Alec -- here comes another one." A PanAsian policeman 
was dogtrotting up behind them. However, instead of overtaking them or 
calling to them to halt, he crossed over and kept abreast with them on 
the other side of the street. He ignored them determinedly.

"What's up, d'you think, Jeff?"

"We're being chaperoned. A good thing, Alec the rest of the monkeys 
won't bother us now. We'll just get on with our job. You know this town 
pretty well, don't you? Where do you think we ought to locate the 
temple?"

"I guess that depends on what you are looking for."

"I don't know exactly." He stopped and wiped sweat from his face; the 
robes were hot and the money belt made it worse. "Now that I'm here, 
this whole deal seems silly. I guess I wasn't meant to be a secret 
agent. How about out in the west end, in the expensive neighborhood? We 
want to make a big impression.

"No, I don't think so, Jeff. There are just two kinds of people out in 
the rich neighborhoods now."

"Yes?"

"PanAsians and traitors -- black market dealers and other sorts of 
collaborationists."

Thomas looked shocked. "I guess I've been out of circulation too long. 
Alec, until this very minute it never occurred to me that an American -- 
any American -- would go along with the invaders."

"Well, I wouldn't have believed it either, if I hadn't seen it. I guess 
some people will do anything, born pimps."

They settled on an empty warehouse downtown near the river in a. 
populous, poor neighborhood. The area had long been rundown; now it was 
depressed. Three out of four shops were boarded up; trade had stagnated. 
The building was one of many empty warehouses; Thomas picked it because 
of its almost cubical shape, matching that of the mother temple and the 
cube on his staff, and the fact that it was detached from other 
buildings by an alley on one side and a vacant lot on the other.

The main door was broken. They peered in, entered and snooped around. 
The place was a mess but the plumbing was intact and the walls were 
sound. The ground floor was a single room with a twenty foot ceiling and 
few pillars; it would do for "worship."

"I think it will do," Jeff decided. A rat jumped out of a pile of 
rubbish heaped against one wall. Almost absentmindedly he trained his 
staff on it; the animal leaped high and dropped dead. "How do we go 
about buying it?"

"Americans can't own real estate. We'll have to find out what official 
holds the squeeze on it."

"That oughtn't to . be hard." They went outside; their police chaperone 
waited across the street. He looked the other way.

The streets were fairly well filled by now, even in this neighborhood. 
Thomas reached out and snagged a passing boy -- a child of not more than 
twelve but with the bitter, knowing eyes of a cynical man. "Peace be 
unto you, son. Who rents this building?"

"Hey, you let go of me!"

"I mean you no harm." He handed the boy one of Scheer's best five dollar 
gold pieces.

The boy looked at it, let his eyes slide past them to the Asiatic guard 
across the street. The PanAsian did not seem to be watching; the lad 
caused the coin to disappear. "Better see Konsky. He has all the angles 
on things like that."

"Who is Konsky?"

"Everybody knows Konsky. Say, grandpa, what's the idea of the funny 
clothes? The slanties'll make trouble for you."

"I am a priest of the great god Mota. The Lord Mota takes care of his 
own. Take us to this Konsky."

"Nothing doing. I don't want to tangle with the slanties." The boy tried 
to wriggle away; Jeff held his arm firmly and produced another coin. He 
did not hand it over.

"Fear not. The Lord Mota will protect you, too."

The youngster looked at it, glanced around, and said, "Okay. Come along."

He led them around a corner and to a walk-up office building located 
over a saloon. "He's up there if he's in." Jeff gave the boy the second 
coin and told him to come see him again, at the warehouse, as the Lord 
Mota had gifts for him. Alec questioned the wisdom of this as they 
climbed the stairs.

"The kid's all right," said Jeff. "Sure, the things that have happened 
to him have turned him into a guttersnipe. But he's on our side. He'll 
advertise us -- and not to the PanAsians."

Konsky turned out to be a blandly suspicious man. It was soon evident 
that he "had connections," but he was slow to talk until he saw the red 
gold color of money. After that he was not in the least put off by the 
odd dress and odd manners of his clients (Thomas gave him the full 
treatment, with benedictions thrown in, aware that Konsky would discount 
it but for the purpose of staying in character). He made sure of the 
building Thomas meant, dickered over the rental and the bribe -- he 
called it "charges for special services" -- and left them.

Thomas and Howe were glad to be left alone. Being a "holy man" had 
disadvantages; they had had nothing to eat since leaving the Citadel. 
Jeff dug sandwiches out from under his robes; they munched them. Best of 
all, there was a washroom adjoining Konsky's office.

Three hours later they were in possession of a document, the English 
translation of which stated that the Heavenly Emperor was graciously 
pleased to grant to his faithful subjects etc., etc., -- a lease paid up 
on the warehouse. In exchange for another unreasonable amount of money 
Konsky agreed to stir up enough labor to clean the place at once, that 
very day, and to provide certain repairs and materials. Jeff thanked him 
and with a straight face invited him to attend the first services to be 
held in the new temple.

They trudged back to the warehouse. Once out of Konsky's earshot Jeff 
said, "Y' know, Alec, we're going to make lots of use of that character 
-- but when the day comes, well, I've got a little list and he's at the 
top of it. I mean to take care of him myself."

"Split him with me," was Howe's only comment.

The street urchin popped up from nowhere when they reached the 
warehouse. "Any more errands, grandpa?"

"Bless you, son. Yes, several." After another financial transaction the 
boy left to find cots and bedding for them. Jeff watched his departure 
and said, " I think I'll make an altar boy out of that lid. He can go 
places and do things that we can't -- and the cops aren't so likely to 
stop a person that age."

"I don't think you should trust him."

"I won't. So far as he will ever know we are a couple of crackpots, 
firmly convinced that we are priests of the

great god Mota. We can't afford to trust anybody, Alec, until we are 
sure of them. Come on let's kill ail the rats in

this place before the cleaners get here. Want me to check the setting on 
your staff?"

By nightfall the First Temple of Denver of the Lord Mota was a going 
concern, even though it still looked like a warehouse and had no 
congregation. The place reeked of disinfectant, the rubbish was gone, 
and the front door would lock. There were two beds of sorts and 
groceries enough to last two men a fortnight.

Their chaperone from the police force was still across the street.

The police guard stayed with them for four days. Twice squads of police 
came and searched through the place. Thomas let them; as yet there was 
nothing to hide. Their staffs were still their only source of power and 
the only Ledbetter communicator they had with them gave Howe a slightly 
hunch-backed appearance in the day time; he wore it while Thomas wore 
the money belt.

In the meantime through Konsky they acquired a fast and powerful ground 
car -- and permission to drive it, or have it driven, anywhere in the 
jurisdiction of the Hand. The "charge for special services" was quite 
high. The driver they hired for it was root acquired through Konsky, but 
indirectly through Peewee Jenkins, the boy who had helped them on the 
first day.

The watch was withdrawn from them around noon on the fourth day. That 
afternoon Jeff left Howe to hold the place and went back to the Citadel 
by car. He returned with Scheer, who looked vastly uncomfortable and out 
of character in priestly vestments and beard but who bore with him a 
cubical chest enameled in the six sacred colors of Mota. Once inside the 
warehouse with the door locked Scheer opened the chest with great care 
and in a particular fashion which prevented it from exploding and taking 
them and the building with it. He got very busy on the newly constructed 
"altar." He finished shortly after midnight; there was more work to do 
outside, with Thomas and Howe standing guard, ready to stun or kill if 
necessary to prevent the sergeant being interrupted.

The morning sun fell on a front wall of emerald green, the other walls 
were red and golden and deep sky blue. The temple of Mota was ready for 
converts -- and for others.

Most important, none but a Caucasian could now pass through its door 
with impunity.

An hour before daylight Jeff posted himself at the door and waited 
nervously. The sudden transformation was sure to stir up another search 
squad; if necessary he must stop them, stun, or even kill -- but no 
search could be permitted. He hoped to dissuade; the temple must be 
established as an enclave used only by the slave race. But a slight 
excess of zeal on the part of an underling could force him to violent 
means, and thereby destroy the hope of peaceful penetration.

Howe came up behind him and made him jump. "Uh? Oh, Alec! Don't do that. 
I'm nervous as a cat already. "

"Sorry. Major Ardmore is on the circuit. He wants to know how you are 
making out."

"You'll have to talk to him. I can't leave the door."

"He wants to know when Scheer will be back, too."

"Tell him I'll send him back just as soon as I know it's safe to step 
outside this door and not a minute sooner."

"O. K. " Howe turned away. Jeff looked back at the street and felt the 
hair on his neck stand up. A PanAsian in uniform was staring curiously 
at the building. The foreigner stood for a moment, then went away at the 
dog trot they all affected when moving on duty.

"Mota, old boy," Jeff said to himself. "It's time to do your stuff."

Less than ten minutes later a squad arrived commanded by the same 
officer who had searched the building before. "Stand aside, Holy One."

"No, Master," Jeff said firmly, "the temple is now consecrated. None may 
enter but worshipers of the Lord Mota."

"We will not harm your temple, Holy One. Stand aside. "

"Master, if you enter I cannot save you from the wrath of the Lord Mota. 
Nor can I save you from the wrath of the Imperial Hand." Before the 
officer had time to turn this over in his mind Jeff went quickly on, 
"The Lord Mota expected this visit from you and greets you. He bids me, 
his humble servant, to make you three gifts."

"Gifts?

"For yourself --" Jeff laid a heavy purse in his hand. "For your 
superior officer, may his name be blessed -- " A second purse followed. 
"-- and for your men." A third purse was added; the PanAsian was forced 
to use both hands.

He stood there for a moment. There could be no doubt in his mind, from 
the weight alone, as to what the purses contained. It was more gold than 
he had ever handled in his life. Shortly he turned, barked an order at 
his men, and strode away.

Howe came up again. "You made it, Jeff?'"

"This round, at least." Thomas watched the squad move up the street. 
"Cops are all alike, the world over. Reminds me of a railroad dick I 
once knew."

"Do you think he'll share it out the way you suggested?"

"The men won't get any, that's sure. He may split with his boss, to keep 
him quiet. He'll probably find some way to hide the third lot of loot 
before he gets back to the station. What I'm wondering is: is he an 
honest politician?"

"Huh?"

"'An honest politician is one that stays bought.' Come on, let's get 
ready for customers."

They held their first services that evening. As church services they 
were nothing much, since Jeff was still feeling out the art. They 
conformed to the good old skid-road mission principle: sing a hymn and 
eat a meal. But the meal was good red meat and white bread -- and the 
recipients had not eaten that well in many months.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Hello? Hello? Jeff, are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Sure I can hear. you. Don't shout, Major."

"I wish these damn rigs were regular telephones. I like to see a man I'm 
talking to."

"If they were ordinary phones our Asiatic pals could listen in on us. 
Why don't you ask Bob and the colonel to whip up a vision circuit? I'll 
bet they could do it."

"Bob has already done so, Jeff, but Scheer is so busy machining parts 
for altar installations that I don't like to ask him to make it. Do you 
suppose you could recruit some assistants for Scheer? A machinist or 
two, maybe, and a radio technician? The manufacturing end of this 
enterprise is getting out of hand and Scheer is going to crack up from 
overwork. Every night I have to go around and order him to go to bed."

Thomas thought about it. "I have one man in mind. Used to be a 
watchmaker."

"A watchmaker! That's swell!"

"I don't know. He's a little bit balmy; his whole family was wiped out. 
A sad case, almost as sad as Frank Mitsui. Say, how. is Frank? Is he 
feeling any better?"

"Seems to be. Not down inside of course, but he seems happy enough at 
his work. He's taken over the kitchen and the clerical work you used to 
do for me, both."

"Give him my best."

"I will. Now about this watchmaker -- you don't have to be as careful in 
recruiting personnel for the Citadel as you have to be in picking field 
workers, since once they are inside they can't get out."

"I know that, boss. I didn't use any special tests when I sent you 
Estelle Devens. Of course I wouldn't have sent her if she hadn't been 
about to be shipped out as a pleasure girl."

"You did all right. Estelle is a fine woman. She helps Frank in the 
kitchen, she helps Graham sew the robes, and Bob Wilkie is training her 
as a pararadio operator." Ardmore chuckled. "Sex is rearing its 
interesting head. I think Bob is sweet on her."

Thomas's voice was suddenly grave. "How about that, boss? Is it likely 
to louse things up?"

"I don't think so. Bob is a gentleman and Estelle is a nice girl if I 
ever saw one. If biology starts getting in the way of their work, I'll 
just up and marry them, in my capacity as high priest of the 
supercolossal god Mota."

"Bob won't go for that. He's a bit of a puritan, if you ask me."

"All right then, in my capacity as chief magistrate of this thriving 
little village. Don't be stuffy. Or send me up a real preacher."

"How about sending up more women, Major? I sent Estelle on impulse, more 
or less, but there are many more young women just as badly in need of 
help as she was."

There was a long wait before Ardmore replied, "Captain, that is a very 
difficult question. Most reluctantly I am forced to say that this is a 
military organization at war, not a personal rescue mission. Unless a 
female is being recruited for a military function to which she is 
adapted, you are not to recruit her, even to save her from the 
PanAsians' pleasure cities."

"Yes, sir. I will comply. I shouldn't have sent Estelle. "

"What's done is done. She's working out all right. Don't hesitate to 
recruit suitable women. This is going to be a long war and I think we 
can maintain morale better with a mixed organization than with a 
strictly stag setup. Men without women go to pieces; they lose purpose. 
But try to make the next one an older woman, something between a mother 
superior and a chaperone. An elderly trained nurse would be the type. 
She could be lab assistant to Brooks and house mother to the babes, 
both."

"I'll see what I can find."

"And send up that watchmaker. We really need him."

"I'll give him a hypo test tonight."

"Is that necessary, Jeff? If the PanAsians killed his family you can be 
sure of his sentiments."

"That's his story. I'll feel a lot safer if I hear him tell it when he's 
doped. He might be a ringer you know."

"O.K., you're right, as usual. You run your show; I'll run mine. When 
are you going to be able to turn the temple over to Alec, Jeff? I need 
you here."

"Alec could take it now, just to run it. But as I understand it, my 
prime duty is to locate and recruit more 'priests,' ones capable of 
going out in the field and starting a new cell alone."

"That's true, but can't Alec do that? After all, the final tests will be 
given here. We agreed that never, under any circumstances, would the 
true nature of what we are doing be revealed to anyone except after we 
got him inside the Citadel and under our thumbs. If Alec makes a mistake 
in picking a man it won't be fatal."

Jeff turned over in his mind what he wanted to say. "Look, boss, it may 
seem simple from where you sit; it doesn't look simple from here. I --" 
He paused.

"What's the matter, Jeff? Got the jitters?"

"I guess so."

"Why? It seems to me the operation is proceeding according to plan."

"Well, yes -- maybe. Major, you said this would be a long war."

"Yes?"

"Well, it can't be. If it's a long war, we'll lose it." "But it's got to 
be. We don't dare move until we have enough trusted people to strike all 
over the country at once."

"Yes, yes, but that's got to be the shortest possible time. What would 
you say was the greatest danger that faces us?"

"Huh? Why the chance that someone might give us away, either 
accidentally or on purpose."

"I don't agree, sir -- not at all. That's your opinion because you see 
it from the Citadel. From here I see an entirely different danger -- and 
it worries me all the time."

"Well, what is it, Jeff? Give."

"The worst danger -- and it hangs like a sword over our heads all the 
time -- is that the PanAsian authorities may grow suspicious of us. They 
may decide that we can't be what we pretend to be -- just another phony 
western religion, good to keep the slaves quiet. If they once get that 
idea before we are ready, we're finished."

"Don't let it get you nervy, Jeff: In a pinch, you've got enough stuff 
to fight your way back to base. They can't use an atom bomb on you in 
one of their own capitals -- and Calhoun says that the new shield on the 
Citadel will stop even an atom bomb."

"I doubt it. But what good would it do us if it did? Suppose we could 
hole up there until we died of old age: if we don't dare stick our noses 
out we can't win back the country!"

"Mmm . . . no -- but it might give us time to think of something else."

"Don't kid yourself, Major. If they catch on, we're licked -- and the 
American people lose their last chance this generation, at least. There 
are still too few of us, no matter what weapons Calhoun and Wilkie can 
cook up."

"Suppose I concede your point: you knew all this when you went out. Why 
the panic? Battle fatigue?"

"You can call it that. But I want to discuss the dangers as I see them 
here in the field. If we really were a religious sect, with no military 
power, they'd leave us alone till hell froze. Right?"

"Check. "

"Then the danger lies in the things we have to do to cover up the fact 
that we've got a lot of stuff we aren't supposed to have. Those dangers 
are all out here in the field. First --" Thomas ticked them off on his 
fingers, oblivious to the fact that his commanding officer could not see 
him. "-- is the shield of the temple. We've got to have it; this place 
can't stand a search. But it would be almost as bad if we had to use it. 
If any senior PanAsian gets the notion to inspect in spite of our 
immunity, school is out for sure; I don't dare kill him and I don't dare 
let him come in. So far, by the grace of God, a lot of doubletalk, and 
the liberal use of bribes, I've been able to turn them away."

"They already know that we've got the temple shields, Jeff; they've 
known it from the first day we made contact here."

"Do they, now? I don't think so. Thinking back over my interview with 
the Hand I'm convinced that that officer who tried to force his way into 
the mother temple wasn't believed when he made his report. And you can 
bet your last cookie he is dead now; that's the way they work. The 
common soldiers that were there don't count. The second hazard is the 
personal shield that we 'priests' carry. I've used mine just once and 
I'm sorry I did. Fortunately he was just a common soldier, too. He 
wouldn't report it; he wouldn't be believed and he would lose face."

"But, Jeff, the 'priests' have got to wear shields; we can't let a staff 
fall into enemy hands -- not to mention the fact that the monkeys might 
be able to drug an unshielded 'priest' before he could suicide."

"You're telling me! We've got to have them; we don't dare use them -- 
and that calls for some fast double-talk in a pinch. The next hazard is 
the halo; the halo was a mistake, boss."

"Why do you say that?"

"O. K., it impresses the superstitious. But the bigshot PanAsians are no 
more superstitious than you are. Take the Hand -- I wore it in his 
presence. He wasn't impressed; it was my great good luck that he 
apparently regarded it as nothing important, just a gadget to impress my 
followers. But suppose he had really thought about it and decided to 
find out how I did it?"

"Maybe," said Ardmore, "we had better omit the halo effect in the next 
city we penetrate."

"Too late. Our official designation here is 'holy men who wear halos.' 
It's our trademark."

"So? Jeff, I think you've done a wonderfully good job of covering up."

"There is one more hazard. It's a slow one, a time bomb."

"Eh?"

"Money. We've got too much money. That's a suspicious circumstance."

"But you had to have money to operate."

"How well I know it. It has been the only thing that enabled us to get 
away with it so far. These people are even more corruptible than 
Americans, Chief; with us it is a frowned-upon dereliction; with them 
it's an essential part of their culture. A good thing, too -- we now 
have the respected position of the goose that lays the golden eggs."

"But why do you call it a time bomb? Why is it a hazard at all?"

"Remember what happened to the goose in the story? Some day some smart 
laddie is going to wonder where the goose gets all that gold and take 
him apart to find out. In the meantime all the recipients of our cumshaw 
are closing their eyes to the suspicious circumstances and getting as 
much as they can while the getting is good. I'm betting that each one 
will keep his mouth shut about his take, as long as he can get away with 
it. I doubt if the Hand knows that we seem to have an unlimited supply 
of American gold coins. But some day he will find out; that's the time 
bomb element. Unless he can be bribed, too -- in a polite way, of course 
-- he will start some very embarrassing investigations. Somewhere up the 
line we'll run into an official more interested in knowing the facts 
than in sticking out his palm. Before that day rolls around we had 
better be set to move!"

"Hmm . . . I suppose so. Well, Jeff, do the best you can and get us some 
'priest' recruits up here as fast as you can. If we had one hundred 
dependable men, as talented in handling people as you are, we could set 
'D' Day a month from now. But it may take years and, as you say, events 
may trip us up before we can move."

"You can see why I have trouble finding 'priest' recruits? Loyalty isn't 
enough; a special aptitude for kidding the public is necessary. I 
learned it as a hobo. Alec really hasn't got it; he's too honest. 
However I may have one recruit now -- a chap named Johnson."

"Yes? What about him?"

"He used to be a real estate salesman and he has a very convincing 
manner. The PanAsians put him out of business, of course, and he's 
anxious to avoid the labor camps. I've been feeling him out."

"Well, if you think he'll do, send him up. Perhaps I can look him over 
there."

"Huh?

"I've been thinking while I listened. Jeff, I don't know enough about 
the field situation; I've got to come see for myself. If I am going to 
direct this show, I've got to understand it. I can't do it from a hole 
in the ground; I'm falling out of touch."

"I thought that was settled a long time ago, boss."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to leave Calhoun as acting C. O. ?"

Ardmore remained silent for several moments, then said, "Damn you, jet"

"Well, are you?"

"Oh, very well! Let's drop the matter!"

"Don't get sore, boss. I've been trying to give you the whole picture; 
that's why I've talked so long. "

"I'm glad you did. I want you to repeat it, in much more detail. I'll 
put Estelle on and have her make a recording of everything you've got to 
say. We'll work up an instruction manual for student 'priests' from your 
lecture."

"O. K., but let me call you back. I've got a service in ten minutes."

"Can't Alec even run a service?" '

"He does and he's O. K. He preaches a better sermon than I do. But it's 
my best recruiting time, Major; I study the crowd and talk to them 
individually afterwards."

"OK, OK -- I'm switching off." 'Bye."

Services were crowded by now. Thomas did not fool himself that the creed 
of the great god Mota was the drawing card; even while the service 
proceeded, at the sides of the hall tables were being piled high with 
food, purchased with Scheer's fine gold. But Alec put on a good show. It 
seemed to Jeff, as. he listened to him preach, that the old mountain man 
had somehow reconciled his strange new job with his conscience so 
thoroughly that he actually believed that he was preaching his own 
religion, in symbols of course and with odd ritual -- but his voice 
carried conviction.

"If he keeps that up," Jeff told himself, "we'll have women fainting in 
the aisles. Maybe I should tell him to soft-pedal it."

But without untoward incident Alec reached the final hymn. The 
congregation sang with verve, then trooped toward the tables. Sacred 
music had at first been a problem until Jeff had hit on the dodge of 
putting new words to the commonest American patriotic music. It served a 
double purpose; anyone who listened closely could hear the old words, 
the true words, being sung by the bolder spirits present.

Jeff circulated around among his flock while they ate, patting the heads 
of children, pronouncing blessings -- and listening. As he passed a man 
got up from his place and stopped him. It was Johnson, the former real 
estate salesman. "A word with you, Holy One?"

"What is it, my son?"

Johnson indicated that he wanted to speak privately; they drew away from 
the crowd over into the shadow of the altar. "Holy One, I don't dare go 
back to my room tonight."

"Why not, my son?"

"I still haven't been able to get my work card validated. Today was my 
last day of grace. If I go home it's the camps for me."

Jeff looked grave. "You know that the servers of Mota do not preach 
resistance to mundane authority."

"You wouldn't turn me out to be arrested("

"We do not refuse sanctuary. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think it 
is, my son; perhaps if you stay here tonight, tomorrow you may find 
someone to hire you and validate your card."

"I can stay, then?"

"You may stay." Thomas decided that Johnson might as well stay from then 
on; if he measured up, he would be sent to the Citadel for final test. 
If not, Johnson could stay as an unenlightened helper around the temple 
-- the temple needed more help every day, especially in the kitchen.

When the crowd had gone Jeff locked the door, then checked through the 
building personally to make sure that none but the resident help and 
those who had been granted overnight sanctuary were still inside. There 
were more than a dozen of these refugees; Jeff was studying some of them 
as prospective recruits.

Inspection completed and the place tidied up, Jeff shooed everyone but 
Alec upstairs to the second-floor dormitory rooms; he locked the door to 
the staircase after them. This was a nightly routine; the altar with its 
many marvelous gadgets was safe from snoopers, as it had a shield of its 
own, controlled by a switch in the basement nonetheless Jeff did not 
want anyone attempting to get at it. The avowed reason for the nightly 
lock up was, of course, a piece of holy mumbo jumbo having to do with 
the "sacredness" of the lower floor.

Alec and Jeff went down into the basement, locking after them a heavy, 
steel-sheathed door. Their apartment was a large room, housing the power 
unit for the altar, the communicator back to the base, and the same two 
cots Peewee Jenkins had gotten for them on their first day in Denver. 
Alec undressed, went into the adjoining bath, and got ready for bed. 
Jeff peeled off his robes and turban, but not his beard; it was now 
homegrown. He put on overalls, stuck a cigar in his mouth, and called 
the base.

For the next three hours he dictated, over Alec's snores. Then he, too, 
went to bed.

Jeff woke up with a feeling of unease. The lights had not switched on; 
therefore it was not the morning alarm that had wakened him. He lay very 
still for a moment, then reached down beside him on the floor and 
recovered his staff.

Someone was in the room, other than Alec, still snoring on the other 
cot. He knew it, although at the moment he could hear no sound. Working 
by touch alone he carefully set his shield to cover both cots. He 
switched on the lights.

Johnson was standing in front of the communicator. Some sort of 
complicated goggles covered his eyes; in his hand was a black-light 
projector.

"Stand where you are," Jeff said quietly.

The man whirled around, then shoved the goggles up on his forehead. He 
stood for a moment, blinking at the light.

Quite suddenly a vortex pistol appeared in his other hand. "Don't make 
any sudden moves, Pop," he snapped. "This is no toy."

"Alec!" Jeff called out. "Alec! Wake up."

Alec sat up, at once alert. He glanced around and dived for his staff. 
"I've got us both screened," Jeff said rapidly. "Now you grab him but 
don't kill him."

"Make a move and you get it," warned Johnson.

"Don't be foolish, my son," Jeff answered. "The great god Mota protects 
his own. Put down that gun.

Without wasting time on speech Alec was setting the controls on his 
staff. It took him some time; he had had only practice drills in the use 
of the tractor and pressor beams. Johnson watched him fumbling, looked 
uncertain, then bred at him point blank.

Nothing happened; Jeff's shield soaked up the energy.

Johnson looked amazed; he looked still more amazed and rubbed his hand a 
moment later when Alec snatched the gun from his hand with a tractor 
beam. "Now," said Jeff, "tell us, my son, why you saw fit to violate the 
mysteries of Mota?"

Johnson looked around at him, his eyes showing apprehension but still 
defiant. "Stow that Mota stuff. I wasn't kidded.."

"The Lord Mota is not mocked."

"Stow it, I tell you. How do you explain that stuff?" He hooked a thumb 
at the communicator.

"The Lord Mota need not explain. Sit down, my son, and make your peace 
with him."

"Sit down, my eye. I'm walking straight out of here. If you birds don't 
want this place swarming with slanties, you won't try to stop me. I 
wouldn't turn in a white man unless he made trouble for me."

"You are implying that you are a common thief?"

"Watch what you call me. You guys have been throwing gold around; 
anybody is bound to take an interest in it."

"Sit down."

"I'm leaving."

He turned away. Jeff said, "Nail him, Alec! -- but don't hurt him."

The injunction slowed Alec down. Johnson was halfway up the stairs 
before Alec snatched his feet from under him. Johnson fell heavily, 
striking his head.

Unhurriedly Jeff got up and put on his robes. "Sit on him, Alec, with 
your staff. I'll reconnoiter." He went upstairs, was gone a few minutes, 
and returned. Johnson was stretched on Alec's cot, dormant. "Not much 
damage," Jeff reported. "The upper door's lock was merely picked. No one 
was awake; I relocked it. The lower door's lock will have to be 
replaced; he used something or other that melted it. That door really 
should have a shield; I must speak to Bob about that." He glanced at the 
figure. "Still out?"

"Not really. He was coming to; I gave him sodium pentothal."

"Good! I want to question him."

"So I figured."

"Anesthesia?"

"No, just a babble dose."

Thomas nipped one of Johnson's earlobes with a thumbnail and twisted 
viciously. The victim stirred. "Darn near anesthesia -- must be the 
knock on his head. Johnson! Can you hear me?"

"Mmm, Yes."

Thomas questioned him patiently for many minutes. Finally Alec stopped 
him. "Jeff, do we have to listen to any more of this? It's like staring 
down into a cesspool."

"It makes me want to .vomit, too, but we've got to get the dope." He 
went on. Who paid him? What did the PanAsians expect to find out? How 
did he report back? When was he due to report next? Who else was in the 
organization? What did the PanAsians think of the temple of Mota? Did 
his boss know that he was here tonight?

And finally: what had induced him to go against his own people?

The drug was wearing oil' now. Johnson was almost aware of his 
surroundings, but his censors were still down and he spoke with a savage 
disregard of what his hearers might think of him. "A man's got to look 
out for himself, doesn't he? If you're smart you can get along anywhere."

"I guess we just aren't smart, Alec," Thomas commented. He sat still for 
several minutes, then said, "I think he's told us everything he knows. 
I'm trying to decide just what to do with him."

"If I give him another shot he may talk some more."

Johnson said, "You can't make me talk!" He seemed unaware that he 
already had talked.

Thomas struck him across the face with the back of his hand. "Shut up, 
you. You'll talk whenever we give you the needle. Right now you'll keep 
quiet." He went on to Alec, "There is a bare chance that they might get 
more out of him if we shipped him back to base. But I don't think so and 
it would be difficult and dangerous. If we got caught with him or if he 
escaped, the jig would be up. I think we had best dispose of him here 
and now."

Johnson looked stunned and tried to sit up, but Alec's staff kept him 
pinned to the cot. "Hey! What are you talking about? That's murder!"

"Give him another shot, Alec. We can't have him raising Cain while we 
work."

Howe said nothing, but quickly made the injection. Johnson tried to 
squirm away from it, then struggled a little before he gave in to the 
drug. Howe straightened up. His face was almost as disturbed as 
Johnson's had been. "Did you mean that the way it sounded, Jeff? If so, 
I didn't sign up for murder, either."

"It's not murder, Alec. We are executing a spy."

Howe chewed his lip. "It wouldn't bother me a bit, I guess, to kill a 
man in a fair fight. But to tie him down and butcher him, like he was a 
hog, turns my stomach."

"Executions are always like that, Alec. Ever see a man die in a gas 
chamber?"

"But it is murder, Jeff. We don't have the authority to execute him."

"1 have the authority, Alec. I am a commanding officer, acting 
independently, in war time."

"But consarn it, Jeff, you didn't even give him a drumhead 
court-martial."

"A trial is for the purpose of establishing guilt or innocence. Is he 
guilty?"

"Oh, he's guilty all right. But a man's entitled to a trial. "

Jeff took a long breath. "Alec, I used to be a lawyer. The whole purpose 
of the complicated structure of western jurisprudence in criminal 
matters, as built up over the centuries, has been to keep the innocent 
from being convicted and punished through error. It sometimes lets the 
guilty go free in the process, but that's not the purpose. I don't have 
the personnel nor the time to form a military court and give this man a 
formal trial -- but his guilt has been established with much more 
certainty than a court could possibly establish it and I don't propose 
to endanger my command and risk the ultimate outcome of the war by 
extending to him the protections that were devised to protect the 
innocent.

"If I could cut out his memory and turn him loose to report back that 
all he found was a screwy church and a lot of hungry people eating, I 
would do it, not to avoid the chore of killing him, but because it would 
confuse the enemy. I can't possibly turn him loose --"

"I didn't want you to do that, Jeff!"

"Shut up, soldier, and listen. If I turn him loose with the knowledge he 
has gained, the PanAsians will get it, the same way we made him talk, 
even if he tried to hold it back. We haven't the facilities to keep him 
here; it is dangerous to ship him back to base. I intend to execute him 
now." He paused.

Alec said diffidently, "Captain Thomas?"

"Yes?"

"Why don't you call up Major Ardmore and see what he thinks?"

"Because there is no reason to. If I have to ask him to make up my mind 
for me I'm no good on this job. I've just one thing more to add: you are 
too soft and mush-headed for this job. You apparently think that the 
United States can win this war without anyone getting hurt you don't 
even have the guts to watch a traitor die. I had hoped to turn this 
command over to you shortly; instead I am shipping you back to the 
Citadel tomorrow with a report to the commander-in-chief that you are 
utterly unfit to be trusted with work in the face of the enemy. In the 
meantime you will carry out orders. Help me lug that hulk into the 
bathroom. "

Howe's mouth quivered, but he said nothing. The two carried the 
unconscious man into the adjoining room. Before the temple was 
"consecrated" Thomas had had a partition knocked out between the 
janitor's toilet and the space adjoining and in that space had had an 
old-fashioned bath tub installed. They dumped him in the tub.

Howe wet his lips. "Why in the tub?"

"Because it will be a bloody mess."

"You aren't going to use your staff?"

"No, it would take me an hour to disassemble it and take out the 
suppressor circuit for the white-man band of frequencies. And I'm not 
sure I could get it back together right. Give me that straight razor of 
yours and get out."

Howe got the razor and came back. He did not hand it over. "You ever 
butchered a hog?" he inquired.

"No."

"Then I know more about how to do it." Stooping, he lifted Johnson's 
chin. The man breathed heavily and grunted. Howe made one quick slash 
and the man's throat was cut. He dropped the head, stood up and stared 
at the spreading red stream. He spat in it, then stepped to the wash 
stand and cleaned his razor.

Jeff said, "I guess I spoke too hastily, Alec."

Alec did not look up. "No," he said slowly, "not a bit too hastily. I 
guess it takes some time to get used to the notion of war."

"Yeah, I guess so. Well, let's dispose of this thing."

Despite a very short night Jeff Thomas was up unusually early as he 
wanted to report to Ardmore before the morning service. Ardmore listened 
carefully to the account, then said, "I'll send Scheer down to install a 
shield on the basement door. Some such rig will be standard for ail 
temple installations from now on. How about Howe? Do you want to send 
him back?"

"No," Thomas decided, "I think he's over the hump now. He's squeamish by 
nature, but he's got plenty of moral courage. Damn it, boss, we've got 
to trust somebody."

"Are you willing to turn the temple over to him?"

"Well . . . yes, I am -- now. Why?"

"Because I want you to move on to Salt Lake City practically at once. I 
lay awake most of the night thinking over what you told me yesterday. 
You stirred me up, Jeff; I had been getting fat and sloppy in my 
thinking. How many potential recruits have you got now?"

"Thirteen, now that Johnson is out of it. Not all of them candidates for 
'priesthood,' of course."

"I want you to send them all here, at once."

"But, boss, I haven't examined them."

"I'm making a radical revision in procedure. We'll cut out examination 
under drugs except at the Citadel. You haven't the facilities to do it 
gracefully. I'm assigning Brooks to it; he will do all of it from now on 
and I will pass on the ones who get by his elimination. From now on the 
'priests' will have the prime duty of locating likely candidates and 
sending them in to the mother temple."

Thomas thought about it. "How about characters like Johnson? We sure 
don't want his type penetrating into the Citadel."

"I've anticipated that -- and that's why the examinations will be held 
here. A candidate will be doped before he goes to bed, but he won't know 
it. He will be given a hypo, roused, and examined during the night. If 
he passes, well and good. If he doesn't then he never will know he has 
been examined under drugs but he will be allowed to think that he has 
passed. "

"That's the beauty of it. He will be accepted into the service of the 
great god Mota, sworn in as a lay brother -- and then we will work the 
tail off him! He'll sleep in a bare cell, scrub floors, eat poor food 
and damn little of it, and spend hours each day on his knees at his 
devotions. He'll be regimented so thoroughly that he will never have a 
chance to suspect that there is anything under this mountain but country 
rock. When he's got his bellyful, he will be sorrowfully allowed to give 
up his vows, then he can trot back and tell his Masters anything he 
jolly well pleases."

Thomas looked pleased. "It sounds swell, Major. It sounds like fun -- 
and it sounds as if it would work."

"I think it will and it will turn their agents to our advantage. After 
the war is over we'll round them up and shoot 'em -- the actual spies, I 
mean, not the soft heads. But that's a sideshow; let's talk about the 
candidates that pass. I want recruits and I want them fast. I want 
several hundred right away. Out of that several hundred I want to get at 
least sixty satisfactory candidates for 'priesthood'; I want to train 
them simultaneously and send them all out into the field at once. You've 
thoroughly sold me on the dangers of waiting, Jeff; I want to penetrate 
every major PanAsian center at the same time. You've convinced me that 
this is our only chance to pull off this masquerade."

Thomas whistled. "You don't want much, do you, loss?"

"It can be done. Here is the new doctrine for recruiting. Turn on your 
recorder."

"It's on."

"Good. Send in only such candidates as have lost immediate members of 
their families as a result of the PanAsian invasion, or have other 
superficial, prima facie evidences that they are likely to be loyal 
under stress. Eliminate obviously unstable persons but leave any other 
psychological elimination to the staff at the Citadel. Send in 
candidates from the following categories only: for the 'priesthood' -- 
salesmen, advertising men, publicity men, newspapermen, preachers, 
politicians, psychologists, carnival pitch men or talkers, personnel 
managers, psychiatrists, trial lawyers, theatrical managers; for work 
not in contact with the public nor the enemy -- skilled metal workers of 
all sorts, electronics technicians, jewelers, watchmakers, skilled 
precision workers in any engineering art, cooks, stenographers, 
laboratory technicians, physicists, seamstresses. Any of the latter 
group may be female."

"No female priests?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm against it. These babies rate women as zero or even minus. I don't 
think a female 'priest' could possibly operate in contact with them."

"I feel the same way. Now, can Alec take over the recruiting under this 
doctrine?"

"Hmm . . . boss, I hate, to throw him on his own just yet."

"He wouldn't make a slip and give us away, would he?"

"No, but he might not get much in the way of results, either."

"Well, you'll just have to push him in, sink or swim. From here on we 
force the moves, Jeff. Turn the temple over to Alec and report here. You 
and Scheer will leave for Salt Lake City at once, publicly. Buy another 
car and use the driver you have now. Alec can recruit another driver. I 
want Scheer back here in forty-eight hours and I want your first 
recruits headed this way a couple of days thereafter. Two weeks from now 
I'll send someone out to relieve you, either Graham or Brooks --"

"Huh? Neither one of them has the temperament for it."

"They can pinch hit after you've broken the ground. We'll relieve the 
one I send as soon as possible with the proper type. You'll come back 
here and start a school for 'priests' -- or, rather, continue it and 
improve it. I'm starting it now, with the people at hand. That's your 
job; I don't expect to send you into the field again, except possibly as 
a trouble shooter."

Thomas sighed. "I sure talked myself into a job, didn't I?"

"You did indeed. Get moving."

"Just a minute. Why Salt Lake City?"

"Because I think it's a good spot for recruiting. Those Mormons are 
shrewd, practical people and I don't think you'll find a traitor among 
them. If you work at it, I think you can convince their Elders that the 
great god Mota is a good thing to have around and no menace to their own 
faith. We haven't made half enough use of the legitimate churches; they 
should be the backbone of the movement. Take the Mormons -- they run to 
lay missionaries; if you work it right you can recruit a number of them 
with such experience, courageous, used to organizing in hostile 
territory, good talkers, smart. Get it?"

"I get you. Well, I'll sure try."

"You can do it. As soon as possible we'll send someone to relieve Alec 
and let him try his hand alone in Cheyenne. It's not a big place; if he 
flops it won't matter too much. But I'm betting he can take Cheyenne. 
Now you go take Salt Lake City."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Denver, Cheyenne, Salt Lake City, Portland, Seattle, San Francisco. 
Kansas City, Chicago, Little Rock. New Orleans, Detroit, Jersey City. 
Riverside, Five Points, Butler, Hackettstown, Natick, Long Beach, Yuma, 
Fresno, Amarillo, Grants, Parktown, Bremerton, Coronado, Worcester, 
Wickenberg, Santa Ana, Vicksburg, LaSalle, Morganfield, Blaisville, 
Barstow, Wallkyll, Boise, Yakima, St. Augustine, Walla Walla, Abilene, 
Chattahoochee, Leeds, Laramie, Globe, South Norwalk, Corpus Christi.

"Peace be unto you! Peace, it's wonderful! Come, all you sick and heavy 
laden! Come! Bring your troubles to .the temple of the Lord Mota. Enter 
the sanctuary where the Masters dare not follow. Hold up your heads as 
white men, for 'The Disciple is Coming!'

"Your baby daughter is dying from typhoid? Bring her in! Bring her in! 
Let the golden rays of Tamar make her well again. Your job is gone and 
you face the labor camps? Come in! Come in! Sleep on the benches and eat 
at the table that is never bare. There will be work aplenty for you to 
do; you can be a pilgrim and carry the word to others. You need only 
profit by instruction.

"Who pays for it all? Why, Lord love you, man, gold is the gift of Mota! 
Hurry! 'The Disciple is coming!' "

They poured in. At first they came through curiosity, because this new 
and startling and cockeyed religion was a welcome diversion from painful 
and monotonous facts of their slavelike existences. Ardmore's 
instinctive belief in flamboyant advertising justified itself in 
results; a more conventional, a more dignified cult would never have 
received the "house" that this one did.

Having come to be entertained, they came back for other reasons. Free 
food, and no questions asked who minded singing a few innocuous hymns 
when they could stay for supper? Why, those priests could afford to buy 
luxuries that Americans rarely saw on their own tables, butter, oranges, 
good lean meat, paying for them at the Imperial storehouses with hard 
gold coin that brought smiles to the faces of the Asiatic bursars.

Besides that, the local priest was always good for a touch if a man was 
really hard up for the necessary. Why be fussy about creeds? Here was a 
church that did not ask a man to subscribe to its creeds; you could come 
and enjoy all the benefits and never be asked to give up your old-time 
religion -- or even be asked if you had a religion. Sure, the priests 
and their acolytes appeared to take their god-with-six-attributes pretty 
seriously, but what of it? That was their business. Haven't we always 
believed in religious freedom? Besides, you had to admit they did good 
work.

Take Tamar, Lady of Mercy, now -- maybe there was something to it. If 
you've seen a child choking to death with diphtheria, and seen it put to 
sleep by the server of Shaam, then washed in the golden rays of Tamar, 
and then seen it walk out an hour later, perfectly sound and whole, you 
begin to wonder. With half the doctors dead, with the army and a lot of 
the rest sent to concentration camps, anyone who could cure disease had 
to be taken seriously. What if it did look like superstitious mumbo 
jumbo? Aren't we a practical people? It's results that count.

But cutting more deeply than the material advantages, were the 
psychological benefits. The temple of Mota was a place -- where a man 
could hold up his head and not be afraid, something he could not do even 
in his own home. "Haven't you heard? Why, they say that no flatface has 
ever set foot in one of their temples, even to inspect. They can't even 
get in by disguising themselves as white men; something knocks them out 
cold, right at the door. Personally, I think those apes are scared to 
death of Mota. I don't know what it is they've got, but you can breathe 
easy in the temple. Come along with me -- you'll see!"

The Rev. Dr. David Wood called on his friend the equally reverend Father 
Doyle. The older man let him in himself. "Come in, David, come in," he 
greeted him. "You're a pleasant sight. It's been too many days since 
I've seen you." He brought him into his little study and sat him down 
and offered tobacco. Wood refused it in a preoccupied manner.

Their conversation drifted in a desultory way from one unimportant 
subject to another. Doyle could see that Wood had something on his mind, 
but the old priest was accustomed to being patient. When it became 
evident that the younger man could not, or would not, open the subject, 
he steered him to it. "You seem like a man with something preying on his 
mind, David. Should I ask what it is?"

David Wood took the plunge. "Father, what do you think of this outfit 
that call themselves the priests of Mota?"

"Think of it? What should I think of it?"

"Don't evade me, Francis. Doesn't it matter to you when a heathen heresy 
sets up in business right under your nose?"

"Well, now, it seems to me that you have raised some points for 
discussion there, David. just what is a heathen religion?"

Wood snorted. "You know what I mean! False gods! Robes, and bizarre 
temple, and mummeries!"

Doyle smiled gently. "You were about to say 'papist mummeries,' were you 
not, David? No, I can't say that I am greatly concerned over odd 
paraphernalia. But as to the definition of the word 'heathen' -- from a 
strict standpoint of theology I am forced to consider any sect that does 
not admit authority of the Vicar on Earth --"

"Don't play with me, man! I'm in no mood for it."

"I am not playing with you, David. I was about to add that in spite of 
the strict logic of theology, God in His mercy and infinite wisdom will 
find some way to let even one like yourself into the Holy City. Now as 
for these priests of Mota, I have not searched their creed for flaws, 
but it seems to me that they are doing useful work; work that I have not 
been able to accomplish."

"That is exactly what worries me, Francis. There was a woman in my 
congregation who was suffering from an incurable cancer. I knew of cases 
like hers that had apparently been helped by . . . by those charlatans! 
What was I to do? I prayed and found no answer."

"What did you do?"

"In a moment of weakness I sent her to them."

"Well?"

"They cured her."

"Then I wouldn't worry about it too much. God has more vessels than you 
and me."

"Wait a moment. She came back to my church just once. Then she went away 
again. She entered the sanctuary, if you can call it that, that they 
have set up for women. She's gone, lost entirely to those idolaters! It 
has tortured me, Francis. What does it avail to heal her mortal body if 
it jeopardizes her soul?"

"Was she a good woman?"

"One of the best."

"Then I think God will look out for her soul, without your assistance, 
or mine. Besides, David," he continued, refilling his pipe, "those 
so-called priests -- They are not above seeking your help, or mine, in 
spiritual matters. They don't perform weddings, you know. If you should 
wish to use their buildings, I am sure you would find it easy --"

"I can't imagine it!"

"Perhaps, perhaps, but I found a listening device concealed in my 
confessional -- " The priest's mouth became momentarily a thin angry 
line. "Since then I've been borrowing a corner of the temple to listen 
to anything which might possibly be of interest to our Asiatic masters."

"Francis, you haven't!" Then, more moderately, "Does your bishop know of 
this?"

"Well, now, the bishop is a very busy man --"

"Really, Francis --"

"Now, now -- I did write him a letter, explaining the situation as 
clearly as possible. One of these days I will find someone who is 
traveling in that direction and can carry it to him. I dislike to turn 
church business over to a public translator; it might be garbled. "

"Then you haven't told him?"

"Didn't I just say that I had written him a letter? God has seen that 
letter; it won't harm the bishop to wait to read it."

It was nearly two months later that David Wood was sworn into the Secret 
Service of the United States Army. He was only mildly surprised when he 
found that his old friend, Father Doyle, was able to exchange 
recognition signals with him.

It grew and it grew. Organization -- and communication -- underneath 
each gaudy temple, shielded from any possible detection by orthodox 
science, operators stood watch and watch, heel and toe, at the pararadio 
equipment operating in one band of additional spectra-operators who 
never saw the light of day, who never saw anyone but the priest of their 
own temple; men marked as missing in the fields of the Asiatic warlords; 
men who accepted their arduous routine philosophically as the necessary 
exigency of war. Their morale was high, they were free men again, free 
and fighting, and they looked forward to the day when their efforts 
would free all men, from coast to coast.

Back in the Citadel women in headphones neatly typed everything that the 
pararadio operators had to report; typed it, classified it, condensed 
it, cross-indexed it. Twice a day the communication watch officer laid a 
brief of the preceding twelve hours on Major Ardmore's desk. Constantly 
throughout the day dispatches directed to Ardmore himself poured in from 
a dozen and a half dioceses and piled up on his desk. In addition to 
these myriad sheets of flimsy paper, each requiring his personal 
attention, reports piled up from the laboratories, for Calhoun now had 
enough assistants to fill every one of those ghost crowded rooms and he 
worked them sixteen hours a day.

The personnel office crowded more reports on him, temperament 
classifications, requests for authorization, notifications that this 
department or that required such and such additional personnel; would 
the recruiting service kindly locate them? Personnel there was a 
headache! How many men can keep a secret? There were three major 
divisions of personnel, inferiors in routine jobs such as the female 
secretaries and clerks who were kept completely insulated from any 
contact with the outside world; local temple personnel in contact with 
the public who were told only what they needed to know and were never 
told that they were serving in the army, and the "priests" themselves 
who of necessity had to be in the know.

These latter were sworn to secrecy, commissioned in the United States 
army, and allowed to know the real significance of the entire set-up. 
But even they were not trusted with the underlying secret, the 
scientific principles behind the miracles they performed. They were 
drilled in the use of the apparatus entrusted to them, drilled with 
care, with meticulous care, in order that they might handle their deadly 
symbols of office without error. But, save for the rare sorties of the 
original seven, no person having knowledge of the Ledbetter effect and 
its corollaries ever left the Citadel.

Candidates for priesthood were sent in as pilgrims from temples 
everywhere to the Mother Temple near Denver. There they sojourned in the 
monastery, located underground on a level between the temple building 
and the Citadel. There they were subjected to every test of temperament 
that could be devised. Those who failed were sent back to their local 
temples to serve as lay brothers, no wiser than when they had left home.

Those who passed, those who survived tests intended to make them angry, 
to make them loquacious, to strain their loyalty, to crack their nerve, 
were interviewed by Ardmore in his persona as High Priest of Mota, Lord 
of All. Over half of them he turned down for no reason at all, hunch 
alone, some vague uneasiness that. this was not the man.

In spite of these precautions he never once commissioned a new officer 
and sent him forth to preach without a deep misgiving that here perhaps 
was the weak link that would bring ruin to them all.

The strain was getting him. It was too much responsibility for one man, 
too many details, too many decisions. He found it increasingly difficult 
to concentrate on the matter at hand, hard to make even simple 
decisions. He became uncertain of himself and correspondingly irritable. 
His mood infected those in contact with him and spread throughout the 
organization.

Something had to be done.

Ardmore was sufficiently honest with himself to recognize, if not to 
diagnose, his own weakness. He called Thomas into his office, and 
unburdened his soul. Concluding, he asked, "What do you think I should 
do about it, Jeff? Has the job got too big for me? Should I try to pick 
out somebody else to take over?"

Thomas shook his head slowly. "I don't think you ought to do that, 
Chief. Nobody could work any harder than you do -- there are just 
twenty-four hours in a day. Besides, whoever relieved you would have the 
same problems without your intimate knowledge of the background and your 
imaginative grasp of what we are trying to accomplish."

"Well, I've got to do something. We're about to move into the second 
phase of this show, when we start in systematically trying to break the 
nerve of the PanAsians. When that reaches a crisis, we've got to have 
the congregation of every temple ready to act as a military unit. That 
means more work, not less. And I'm not ready to handle it! Good grief, 
man you'd think that somebody somewhere would have worked out a science 
of executive organization so that a big organization could be handled 
without driving the man at the top crazy! For the past two hundred years 
the damned scientists have kept hauling gadget after gadget out of their 
laboratories, gadgets that simply demand big organizations to use them 
-- but never a word about how to make those organizations run." He 
struck a match savagely. "It's not rational!"

"Wait a minute, Chief, wait a minute." Thomas wrinkled his brow in an 
intense effort to remember. "Maybe there has been such work done -- I 
seem to recall something I read once, something about Napoleon being the 
last of the generals."

"Huh?"

"It's pertinent. This chap's idea was that Napoleon was the last of the 
great generals to exercise direct command, because the job got too big. 
A few years later the Germans invented the principle of staff command, 
and, according to this guy, generals were through: as generals. He 
thought that Napoleon wouldn't have stood a chance against an army 
headed by a general staff. Probably what you need is a staff:"

"For Pete's sake, I've got a staff! A dozen secretaries and twice that 
many messengers and clerks -- I fall over 'em."

"I don't think it was that kind of a staff he was talking about. 
Napoleon must have had that kind of a staff."

"Well, what did he mean?"

"I don't know exactly, but apparently it was a standard notion in modern 
military organization. You're not a graduate of the War College?"

"You know damn well I'm not." It was true. Thomas had guessed from very 
early in their association that Ardmore was a layman, improvising as he 
went along, and Ardmore knew that he knew; yet each had kept his mouth 
closed.

"Well, it seems to me that a graduate of the War College might be able 
to give us some hints about organization."

"Fat chance. They either died in battle, or were liquidated after the 
collapse. If any escaped, they are lying very low and doing their best 
to conceal their identity -- for which you can't blame them."

"No, you can't. Well, forget it -- I guess it wasn't such a good idea 
after all."

"Don't be hasty. It was a good idea. Look -- armies aren't the only big 
organizations. Take the big corporations, like Standard Oil and U. S. 
Steel and General Motors -- they must have worked out the same 
principles."

"Maybe. Some of them, anyhow -- although some of them burn their 
executives out pretty young. Generals have to be killed with an ax, it 
seems to me."

"Still, some of them must know something. Will you see if you can stir 
out a few?"

Fifteen minutes later a punched-card selector was rapidly rifling 
through the personnel files of every man and woman who had been reported 
on by the organization. It turned out that several men of business 
executive experience were actually then working in the Citadel in jobs 
of greater or lesser administrative importance. Those were called in, 
and dispatches were sent out summoning about a dozen more to "make a 
pilgrimage" to the Mother Temple.

The first trouble shooter turned out sour. He was a high-pressure man, 
who had run his own business much along the lines of personal 
supervision which Ardmore had been using up to then. His suggestions had 
to do with routing and forms and personal labor savers -- rather than 
any basic change in principles. But in time several placid unhurried men 
were located who knew instinctively and through practice the principle 
of doctrinal administration.

One of them, formerly general manager of the communications trust, was 
actually a student and an admirer of modern military organizational 
methods. Ardmore made him Chief of Staff. With his help, Ardmore 
selected several others: the former personnel manager of Sears, Roebuck; 
a man who had been permanent undersecretary of the department of public 
works in one of the Eastern states; executive secretary of an insurance 
company. Others were added as the method was developed.

It worked. Ardmore had a little trouble getting used to it at first; he 
had been a one-man show all his life and it was disconcerting to find 
himself split up into several alter egos, each one speaking with his 
authority, and signing his name "by direction." But in time he realized 
that these men actually were able to apply his own policy to a situation 
and arrive at a decision that he might have made himself. Those who 
could not he got rid of, at the suggestion of his Chief of Staff: But it 
was strange to be having time enough to watch other men doing HIS work 
HIS way under the simple but powerful scientific principle of general 
staff command.

He was free at last to give his attention to perfecting that policy and 
to deal thoroughly with the occasional really new situation which his 
staff referred to him for solution and development of new policy. And he 
slept soundly, sure that one, or more, of his "other brains" was alert 
and dealing with the job. He knew now that, even if he should be killed, 
his extended brain would continue until the task was completed.

It would be a mistake to assume that the PanAsian authorities had 
watched the growth and spread of the new religion with entire 
satisfaction, but at the critical early stage of its development they 
simply had not realized that they were dealing with anything dangerous. 
The warning of the experience of the deceased lieutenant who first made 
contact with the cult of Mota went unheeded, the simple facts of his 
tale unbelieved.

Having once established their right to travel and operate, Ardmore and 
Thomas impressed on each missionary the importance of being tactful and 
humble and of establishing friendly relations with the local 
authorities. The gold of the priests was very welcome to the Asiatics, 
involved as they were in making a depressed and recalcitrant country pay 
dividends, and this caused them to be more lenient with the priests of 
Mota than they otherwise would have been. They felt, not unreasonably, 
that a slave who helps to make the books balance must be a good slave. 
The word went around at first to encourage the priests of Mota, as they 
were aiding in consolidating the country.

True, some of the PanAsian police and an occasional minor official had 
very disconcerting experiences in dealing with priests, but, since these 
incidents involved loss of face to the PanAsians concerned, they were 
strongly disposed not to speak of them.

It took some time for enough unquestioned data to accumulate to convince 
the higher authorities that the priests of Mota, all of them, had 
several annoying -- yes, even intolerable characteristics. They could 
not be touched. One could not even get very close to one of them -- it 
was as if they were surrounded by a frictionless pellucid wall of glass. 
Vortex pistols had no effect on them. They would submit passively to 
arrest but somehow they never stayed in jail. Worst of all, it had 
become certain that a temple of Mota could not, under any circumstances, 
be inspected by a PanAsian.

It was not to be tolerated.

CHAPTER NINE

It was not tolerated. The Prince Royal himself ordered the arrest of 
Ardmore.

It was not done as crudely as that. Word was sent to the Mother Temple 
that the Grandson of Heaven desired the High Priest of the Lord of Mota 
to attend him. The message reached Ardmore in his office in the Citadel, 
delivered to him by his Chief of Staff, Kendig, who for the first time 
in their relationship showed signs of agitation. "Chief," he burst out, 
"a battle cruiser has landed in front of the temple, and the commanding 
officer says he has orders to take you along!"

Ardmore put down the papers he had been studying. "Hmm-m-m," he said, 
"it looks like we're getting down to the slugging. A little bit earlier 
than I had counted on." He frowned.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"You know my methods. What do you think I'll do about it?"

"Well -- I guess you'll probably go along with him, but it worries me. I 
wish you wouldn't."

"What else can I do? We aren't ready yet for an open breach; a refusal 
would be out of character. Orderly!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Send my striker in. Tell him full robes and paraphernalia. Then present 
my compliments to Captain Thomas and ask him to come here at once."

"Yes, sir." The orderly was already busy with the viewphone.

Ardmore talked with Kendig and Thomas as his striker robed him. "Jeff, 
here's the sack -- you're holding it."

"Huh?"

"If anything happens so that I lose communication with headquarters, you 
are commanding officer. You'll find your appointment in, my desk, signed 
and sealed."

"But Chief"

"Don't 'But Chief' me. I made my decision on this a long time ago. 
Kendig knows about it; so does the rest of the staff. I'd have had you 
in the staff before this if I hadn't needed you as Chief of 
Intelligence." Ardmore glanced in a mirror and brushed at his curly 
blond beard. They had all grown beards, all those who appeared in public 
as priests. It tended to give the comparatively hairless Asiatics a 
feeling of womanly inferiority while at the same time arousing a vague 
unallocated repugnance. "You may have noticed that no one holding a line 
commission has ever been made senior to you. I had this eventuality in 
mind."

"How about Calhoun?"

"Oh, yes -- Calhoun. Your commission as a line-officer automatically 
makes you senior to him, of course. But I'm afraid that won't cut much 
ice in handling him. You just have to deal with him as best you can. 
You've got force majeure at your disposal, but go easy. But I don't have 
to tell you that."

A messenger, dressed as an acolyte, hurried in and saluted. "Sir, the 
temple officer of the watch says that the PanAsian Commander is getting 
very impatient."

"Good. I want him to be. Are the subsonics turned on?"

"Yes, sir, they make us all very nervous."

"You can stand it; you know what it is. Tell the watch officer to have 
the engineer on duty vary the volume erratically with occasional 
complete let-ups. I want those Asiatics to be fit to be tied by the time 
I get there."

"Yes, sir. Any word to the cruiser commander?"

"Not directly. Have the watch officer tell him that I am at my devotions 
and can't be disturbed."

"Very good, sir." The messenger trotted away. This was something like! 
He would hang around where he could see the face of that skunk when he 
heard that one!

"I'm glad we got these new headsets fitted out in time," Ardmore 
observed as his striker fitted his turban to his head.

The turbans had originally been intended simply to conceal the mechanism 
which produced the shining halo which floated above the heads of all 
priests of Mota. The turban and the halo together made a priest look 
about seven feet tall with consequent unfavorable effect on the psyche 
of the Asiatics. But Scheer had seen the possibility of concealing a 
short range transmitter and receiver under the turban as well; they were 
now standard equipment.

He settled the turban with his hands, made sure that the bone conduction 
receiver was firm against his mastoid, and spoke in natural low tones, 
apparently to no one, "Commanding officer -- testing."

Apparently inside his head, a voice, muffled but distinct, answered him, 
"Communication watch officer -- test check."

"Good," he approved. "Have direction finders crossed on me until further 
notice. Arrange your circuits to hook me in through the nearest temple 
to headquarters here. I may want Circuit A at any moment. "

Circuit A was a general broadcast to every temple in the country. "Any 
news from Captain Downer?"

"One just this moment came in, sir; I've just sent it to your office," 
the inner voice informed him.

"So? Yes, I see." Ardmore stepped to his desk, flipped a switch which 
turned off a shining red transparency reading Priority, and tore a sheet 
of paper from the facsimile recorder.

"Tell the Chief," the message ran, "that something is about to bust. I 
can't find out what it is, but all the brasshats are looking very cocky. 
Watch everything and be careful." That was all, and that little possibly 
garbled in word of mouth relay.

Ardmore frowned and pursed his mouth, then signaled his orderly. "Send 
for Mr. Mitsui."

When Mitsui came in, Ardmore handed him the message. "I suppose you've 
heard that I am to be arrested?"

"It's all over the place," Mitsui acknowledged soberly, and handed the 
message back.

"Frank, if you were Prince Royal, what would you be trying to accomplish 
by arresting me?"

"Chief," protested Mitsui, distress in his eyes, "you act as if I were 
one of those . . . those murdering --"

"Sorry -- but I still want your advice."

"Well -- I guess I'd be intending to put you on ice, then clamp down on 
your church."

"Anything else?"

"I don't know. I don't guess I'd be doing it unless I was fairly sure 
that I had some .way to get around your protections."

"No, I suppose so." He spoke again to the air. "Communication office, 
priority for Circuit A."

"Direct, or relay?"

"You send it out. I want every priest to return to his temple, if he is 
now out of it, and I want him to do it fast. Priority, urgent, 
acknowledge and report." He turned back to those with him.

"Now for a bite to eat, and I'll go. Our yellow friend upstairs ought to 
be about done to a turn by then. Anything else we should take up before 
I leave?"

Ardmore entered the main hall of the temple from the door in the rear of 
the altar. His approach to the great doors, now standing open, was a 
stately progress. He knew that the Asiatic commander could see him 
coming; he covered the two hundred yards with leisured dignity, attended 
by a throng of servers clad in robes of red, of green, of blue, and 
golden. His own vestments were immaculate white. His attendants fanned 
out as they neared the great archway; he marched out and up to the 
fuming Asiatic alone. "Your master wishes to see me?"

The PanAsian had difficulty in composing himself sufficiently to speak 
in English. Finally he managed to get out, "You were ordered to report 
to me. How dare you --"

Ardmore cut him short. "Does your master wish to see me?"

"Decidedly! Why didn't you --"

"Then you may escort me to him." He moved on past the officer and 
marched down the steps, giving the Asiatics the alternatives of running 
to catch up with him, or trailing after. The commander of the cruiser 
obeyed his first impulse to hurry, nearly fell on the broad steps, and 
concluded by bringing up ignominiously in the rear, his guard attending 
him.

Ardmore had been in the city chosen by the Prince Royal as his capital 
before, but not since the Asiatics had moved in. When they debarked on 
the municipal landing platform he looked about him with concealed 
eagerness to see what changes had been made. The skyways seemed to be 
running -- probably because of the much higher percentage of Asiatic 
population here. Otherwise there was little apparent change. The dome of 
the State capitol was visible away to the right; he knew it to be the 
palace of the

warlord. They had done something to its exterior; he could not put his 
finger on the change but it no longer looked like Western architecture.

He was too busy for the next few minutes to look at the city. His guard, 
now caught up with him and surrounding him, marched him to the escalator 
and down into the burrows of the city. They passed through many doors, 
each with its guard of soldiers. Each guard presented arms to Ardmore's 
captor as the party passed. Ardmore solemnly returned each, salute with 
a gesture of benediction, acting as if the salute had been intended for 
him and him alone. His custodian was indignant but helpless; it soon 
developed into a race to see which could acknowledge a salute first. The 
commander won, but at the cost of saluting his startled juniors first.

Ardmore took advantage of a long unbroken passageway to check his 
communications. "Great Lord Mota," he said, "dost thou hear thy 
servant?" The commander glanced at him, but said nothing.

The muffled inner voice answered at once, "Got you, Chief. You are 
hooked in through the temple in the capitol." It was Thomas' voice.

"The Lord Mota speaks, the servant hears. Truly it is written that 
little pitchers have long ears.'

"You mean the monkeys can overhear you?"

"Yea, verily, now and forever. The Lord Mota will understand igpay 
atinlay?"

"Sure, Chief -- pig latin. Take it slow if you can."

"At-thay is oodgay. Ore-may aterlay." Satisfied, he desisted. Perhaps 
the PanAsians had a mike and a recorder on him even now. He hoped so, 
for he thought it would give them a useless headache. A man has to grow 
up in a language to be able to understand it scrambled.

The Prince Royal had been impelled by curiosity as much as by concern 
when he ordered the apprehension of the High Priest of Mota. It was true 
that affairs were not entirely to his liking, but he felt that his 
advisers were hysterical old women. When had a slave religion proved 
anything but an aid to the conqueror? Slaves needed a wailing wall; they 
went into their temples, prayed to their gods to deliver them from 
oppression, and came out to work in the fields and factories, relaxed 
and made harmless by the emotional catharsis of prayer.

"But," one of his advisers had pointed out, "it is always assumed that 
the gods do nothing to answer those prayers."

That was true; no one expected a god to climb down off his pedestal and 
actually perform. "What, if anything, has this god Mota done? Has anyone 
seen him?"

"No, Serene One, but --"

"Then what has he done?"

"It is difficult to say. It is impossible to enter their temples --"

"Did I not give orders not to disturb the slaves in their worship?" The 
Prince's tones were perilously sweet.

"True. Serene One, true," he was hastily assured, "nor have they been, 
but your secret police have been totally unable to enter in order to 
check up for you, no matter how cleverly they were disguised."

"So? Perhaps they were clumsy. What stopped them?"

The adviser shook his head. "That is the point, Serene One. None can 
remember what happened."

"What is that you say? -- but that is ridiculous. Fetch me one to 
question."

The adviser spread his hands. "I regret, sire --"

"So? Of course, of course -- peace be to their spirits." He smoothed an 
embroidered silken panel that streamed down his chest. While he thought, 
his eye was caught by ornately and amusingly carved chessmen set up on a 
table at his elbow. Idly he tried a pawn in a different square. No, that 
was not the solution; white to move and checkmate in four moves -- that 
took five. He turned back. "It might be well to tax them."

"We have already tried --"

"Without my permission?" The Prince's voice was gentler than before. 
Sweat showed on the face of the other.

"If it were an error, Serene One, we wished the error to be ours."

"You think me capable of error?" The Prince was the author of the 
standard text on the administration of subject races, written while a 
young provincial governor in India. "Very well, we will pass it. You 
taxed them, heavily I presume -- what then?"

"They paid it, sire."

"Triple it."

"I am sure they would pay it, for --"

"Make it tenfold. Set it so high they can not pay it. "

"But Serene One, that is the point. The gold with which they pay is 
chemically pure. Our doctors of temporal wisdom tell us that this gold 
is made, transmuted. There is no limit to the tax they can pay. In 
fact," he went on hurriedly, "it is our opinion, subject always to the 
correction of superior wisdom" -- he bowed quickly -- "that this is not 
a religion at all, but scientific forces of an unknown sort!"

"You are suggesting that these barbarians have greater scientific 
attainments than the Chosen Race?"

"Please, sire, they have something, and that something is demoralizing 
your people. The incidence of honorable suicide has climbed to an 
alarming high, and there have been far too many petitions to return to 
the land of our fathers.

"No doubt you have found means to discourage such requests?"

"Yes, Serene One, but it has only resulted in a greater number of 
honorable suicides among those thrown in contact with the priests of 
Mota. I fear to say it, but such contact seems to weaken the spirit of 
your children."

"Hm-m-m. I think, yes, I think that I will see this High Priest of Mota."

"When will the Serene One see him?"

"That I will tell you. In the meantime, let it be said that my learned 
doctors, if they have not lived too many years and passed their 
usefulness, will be able to duplicate and counteract any science the 
barbarians may have."

"The Serene One has spoken."

The Prince Royal watched with great interest as Ardmore approached him. 
The man walked without fear. And, the Prince was forced to admit, the 
man had a certain dignity about him, for a barbarian. This would be 
interesting. What was that shining thing around his head? -- an amusing 
conceit, that.

Ardmore stopped before him and pronounced a benediction, hand raised 
high. Then -- "You asked that I visit you, Master."

"So I did." Was the man unaware that he should kneel?

Ardmore glanced around. "Will the Master cause his servants to fetch me 
a chair?"

Really, the man was delightful -- regrettable that he must die. Or would 
it be possible to keep him around the palace for diversion? Of course, 
that would entail the deaths of all who had watched this scene and 
perhaps more such expedient deaths later, if his delicious vagaries 
continued. The Prince concluded that it was not the initial cost, but 
the upkeep.

He raised a hand. Two scandalized menials hastened up with a stool. 
Ardmore sat down. His eye rested on the chess table by the Prince. The 
Prince followed his glance and inquired, "Do you play the Battle Game?"

"A little, Master."

"How would you solve this problem?"

Ardmore got up and stood over the board. He studied it for a few 
moments, while the Oriental watched him. The courtiers were as silent as 
the pieces on the board -- waiting.

"I would move this pawn -- so," Ardmore announced at last.

"In such a fashion? That is a most unorthodox move."

"But necessary. From there it is mate in three moves -- but, of course, 
the Master sees that.",

"Of course. Yes, of course. But I did not fetch you here for chess," he 
added, turning away. "We must speak of other matters. I learn with 
sorrow that there have been complaints about your followers."

"The Master's sorrow is my sorrow. May the servant ask in what manner. 
his children have erred?"

But the Prince was again studying the chessboard. He raised a finger; a 
servant was kneeling beside him with writing board. He dipped a brush in 
ink and quickly executed a group of ideographs, sealing. the letter with 
his ring. The servant bowed himself away, while a messenger sped out 
with the dispatch.

"What was that? Oh, yes -- it is reported that they lack in grace. Their 
manner is unseemly in dealing with the Chosen Ones."

"Will the Master help an humble priest by telling him which of his 
children have been guilty of lapses from propriety and in what respects 
that he may correct them?"

This request, the Prince admitted to himself, was awkward. In some 
manner this uncouth creature had managed to put him on the defensive. He 
was not used to being asked for details; it was improper. Furthermore 
there was no answer; the conduct of the priests of Mota had been 
impeccable, flawless, in every fashion that could be cited.

Yet his court stood there, waiting, to hear what answer he would make to 
this crude indecency. How went the ancient lines? " . . . Kung F'tze 
confounded by the question of a dolt!"

"It is not meet that the servant should question the master. At this 
moment you err in the fashion of your followers."

"Your pardon, Master. Though the slave may not question, is it not 
written that he may pray for mercy and help? We are simple servants, 
possessing not the wisdom of the Sun and of the Moon. Are you not our 
father and our mother? Will you not, from your heights, instruct us?"

The Prince refrained from biting his lip. How had this happened? By some 
twist of words this barbarian had put him in the wrong again. It was not 
safe to let the man open his mouth! Still -- this must be met; when a 
slave cries for mercy, honor requires an answer.

"We consent to instruct you in one particular; learn the lesson well and 
other aspects of wisdom will come to you of themselves." He paused and 
considered his words. "The manner of address used by you and your lesser 
priests in greeting the Chosen Ones is not seemly. This afront corrupts 
the character of all who see it."

"Am I to believe that the Chosen Race disdains the blessing of the Lord 
Mota?"

He had twisted it -- again! Sound policy required that the ruler assume 
that the gods of the slaves were authentic. "The blessing is not 
refused, but the form of greeting must be that of servant to master."

Ardmore was suddenly aware that he was being called with urgency. 
Ringing in his head was the voice of Thomas: "Chief! Chief! Can you hear 
me? There's a squad of police at every temple, demanding the surrender 
of the priests -- we're getting reports in from all over the country!"

"The Lord Mota hears!" It was addressed to the Prince; would Jeff 
understand also?

Jeff again -- "Was that to me, Chief?"

"See to it that his followers understand." The Prince had answered too 
quickly for Ardmore to devise another double meaning in which to speak 
to Thomas. But he knew something that the Prince did not know he knew. 
Now to use it.

"How can I instruct my priests when you are even now arresting them?" 
Ardmore's manner changed suddenly from humble to accusatory.

The face of the Prince was impassive, his eyes alone gave away his 
astonishment. Had the man guessed the nature of that dispatch? "You 
speak wildly."

"I do not! Even while you have been instructing me in the way that I 
must instruct my priests, your soldiers have been knocking at the gates 
of all the temples of Mota. Wait! I have a message to you from the Lord 
Mota: His priests do not fear worldly power. You have not succeeded in 
arresting them, nor would you, did not the Lord Mota bid them to 
surrender. In thirty minutes, after the priests have cleansed themselves 
spiritually and girded themselves for the ordeal, each will surrender 
himself at the threshold of his temple. Until then, woe to the soldier 
who attempts to violate the House of Mota!"

"'At's telling 'em Chief! 'At's telling 'em! You mean for each temple 
priest to hold off thirty more minutes, then surrender -- is that right? 
And for them to be loaded for bear, power units, communicators, and all 
the latest gadgets. Acknowledge, if you can."

"In the groove, Jeff." He had to chance it four meaningless syllables to 
the Prince, but Jeff would understand.

"O. K., Chief. I don't know what you're up to, but we'll go along a 
thousand percent!"

The face of the Prince was a frozen mask. "Take him away."

For some minutes after Ardmore was gone the Serene One sat staring at 
the chessboard and pulling at his underlip.

They placed Ardmore in a room underground, a room with metal walls and 
massive locks on the door. Not content with that, he was hardly inside 
when he heard a soft hissing noise and saw a point at the edge of the 
door turn cherry red. Welding! They evidently intended to make sure that 
no possible human weakness of his guards could result in escape. He 
called the Citadel.

"Lord Mota, hear thy servant!"

"Yes, Chief."

"A wink is as good as a nod."

"Got you, Chief. You are still where you can be overheard. Slang it up. 
I'll get your drift!"

"The headman witch doctor hankers to chew the rag with the rest of the 
sky pilots."

"You want Circuit A?"

"Most bodaciously."

There was a brief pause, then Thomas answered. "O. K., Chief, you've got 
it. I'll stay cut in to interpret it

probably won't be necessary, since the boys have practiced this kind of 
double talk. Go ahead you've got five minutes, if they are to surrender 
on time."

Any cipher can be broken, any code can be compromised. But the most 
exact academic knowledge of a language gives no clue to its slang, its 
colloquial allusions, its half statements, over statements, and inverted 
meanings. Ardmore felt logically certain that the PanAsians had planted 
a microphone in his cell. Very well, since they were bound to listen to 
his end of the conversation, let them be confused and baled by it, 
uncertain whether he spoke in gibberish to his god, or had possibly lost 
his mind.

"Look, cherubs -- mamma wants baby to go to the nice man. It's all 
hunkydory as long as baby-bunting carries his nice new rattle. Yea, 
verily, rattle is the watchword -- you don't and they do. Deal this cold 
deck the way it's stacked and the chopstick laddies are stonkered and 
discombobulated. The stiff upper lip does it."

"Check me if I'm wrong, Chief. You want the priests to give themselves 
up, and to rattle the PanAsians by their apparent unconcern. You want 
them to carry it off the way you did, cool as a cucumber, and bold as 
brass. I also take it that you want them to hang on to their staffs, but 
not to use them unless you tell them to. Is that right?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson!"

"What happens after that?"

"No thirty."

"What's that? Oh, 'No thirty' -- more to come on this story; you'll tell 
us later. All right, Chief -- it's time!"

"Okey-dokey!"

Ardmore waited until he was reasonably certain that all the PanAsians 
not immediately concerned with guarding the prisoners would be asleep, 
or at least in their quarters. What he proposed to do would be effective 
fully only in the event that no one knew just what had happened. The 
chances were better at night.

He called Thomas by whistling a couple of bars of "Anchors Aweigh." He 
responded at once -- he had not gone off duty, but had remained at the 
pararadio, giving the prisoners an occasional fight talk and playing 
records of martial music. "Yes, Chief?"

"The time has come to take a powder. Allee-allee out's in free!"

"Jailbreak?"

"In the manner of the proverbial Arab -- the exact manner."

They had discussed this technique before; Thomas gave itemized 
instructions and then said, "Say when, Chief. "

"When!"

He could almost see Thomas nod. "Right -- oh! O. K., troops, get going!"

Ardmore stood up and stretched his cramped limbs. He walked over to one 
wall of his prison and stood so that the single light cast a shadow on 
the wall. That would be about right there! He set the controls of his 
staff for maximum range in the primary Ledbetter effect, checked to see 
that the frequency band covered the Mongolian race, and adjusted it to 
stun rather than kill. Then he turned on power.

A few moments later he turned it off, and again regarded his shadow on 
the wall. This required an entirely different setting, directional and 
with fine discrimination. He turned on the red ray of Dis to guide him 
in his work, completed his set-up, and again turned on power.

Quietly and without fuss, atoms of metal rearranged themselves and 
appeared as nitrogen, to mix harmlessly with the air. Where there had 
been a solid wall was now an opening the size and shape of ,a tall man 
dressed in priestly robes. He looked at it, and, as an after thought, he 
meticulously traced an ellipse over the head of the representation, an 
ellipse the size and shape of his halo. That done, he reset the controls 
of his staff to that he had used before, turned on power, and stepped 
through the opening. It was a close fit; he had to wriggle through 
sideways.

Outside it was necessary to step over the piled-up bodies of a dozen or 
more PanAsian soldiers. This was not the side of the welded-up entrance; 
he guessed that he would have found guards outside each and any of the 
four walls, probably floor and ceiling as well.

There were more doors to pass, more bodies to clamber over before he 
found himself outside. When he did, he was completely unoriented. 
"Jeff," he called, "where am I?"

"Just a second, Chief. You're -- No, we can't get a fix on you, but you 
are on a line of bearing almost due south of the nearest temple. Are you 
still near the palace?"

"Just outside it."

"Then head north -- it's about nine squares."

"Which way is north? I'm all turned around. No wait a minute -- I just 
located the Big Dipper, I'm all right."

"Hurry, Chief."

"I will." He set out at a quick dogtrot, kept it up for a couple of 
hundred yards, then dropped into a fast walk. Damn it, he thought, a man 
gets out of condition with all this desk work.

Ardmore encountered several Asiatic police, but they were in no 
condition to notice him; he had kept the primary effect turned on. There 
were no whites about -- the curfew was strict with the exception of a 
pair of startled street cleaners. It occurred to him that he should 
induce them to go with him to the temple, but he decided against it; 
they were in no more danger than a hundred fifty million others.

There was the temple! -- its four walls glowing with the colors of 
attributes. He broke into a run and burst inside. The local priest was 
almost at his heels, arriving from the other direction.

He greeted the priest heartily, suddenly realizing the strain he had 
been under in finding how good it was to speak to a man of his own kind 
-- a comrade. The two of them ducked around back of the altar and went 
down below to the control and communication room, where the pararadio 
operator and his opposite number were almost hysterically glad to see 
them. They offered him black coffee, which he accepted gratefully. Then 
he told the operator to cut out of Circuit A and establish direct 
two-way connection with headquarters with vision converted into the 
circuit.

Thomas appeared to be about to jump out of the screen. "Whitey!" he 
yelled. It was the first time since the Collapse that anyone had called 
Ardmore by his nickname. He was not even aware that Thomas knew it. But 
he felt warmed by the slip.

"Hi, Jeff," he called to the image, "good to see you. Any reports in 
yet?"

"Some. They are coming in all the time."

"Shift to relay through the diocese offices; Circuit A is too clumsy. I 
want a quick report."

It was forthcoming. Within less than twenty minutes the last diocese had 
reported in. Every priest was back in his own temple. "Good," he told 
Thomas. "Now I want the proprietor in each temple set for counteraction, 
and wake all those monkeys up. They ought to be able to use a 
directional concentration down the line each priest returned on, and 
reach clear back to the local jailhouse."

"O.K., if you say so, Chief. May I ask why you don't simply let 'em wake 
up when the effect wears off?'

"Because," he explained, "if they simply come to before anybody finds 
them the effect will be much more mysterious than if they are found 
apparently dead. The object of the whole caper was to break the morale 
of the Asiatics. This increases the effect."

"Right -- as usual, Chief. The word is going out."

"Fine. When that's done, have them check the shielding of their temples, 
turn on the fourteen-cycle note, and go to bed -- all that aren't on 
duty. I imagine we'll have a busy day tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Aren't you coming back here, Chief?"

Ardmore shook his head. "It's an unnecessary risk. I can supervise just 
as effectively through television as I could if I were standing right 
beside you."

"Scheer is all set to fly over and pick you up. 'He could set her down 
right on the temple roof."

"Tell him thanks, but to forget it. Now you turn it over to the staff 
duty officer and get some sleep."

"Just as you say, Chief."

He had a midnight lunch with the local priest and some conversation, 
then. let the priest show him to a stateroom down underground.

CHAPTER TEN

Ardmore was awakened by the off duty pararadio operator shaking him 
vigorously. "Major Ardmore! Major! Wake up!"

"Unnh . . . . M-m-m-m . . . . Wassa matter?"

"Wake up -- the Citadel is calling you -- urgently!"

"What time is it?"

"About eight. Hurry, sir!"

He was reasonably wide awake by the time he reached the phone. Thomas 
was there, on the other end, and started to talk as soon as he saw 
Ardmore. "A new development, Chief -- and a bad one. The PanAsian police 
are rounding up every member of our congregations -- systematically."

"H-m-m-m -- it was an obvious next move, I guess. How far along are 
they?"

"I don't know. I called you when the first report came in; they are 
coming in steadily now from all over the country."

"Well, I reckon we had better get busy." It was one thing for a priest, 
armed and protected, to risk arrest; these people were absolutely 
helpless.

"Chief -- you remember what they did after the first uprising? This 
looks bad, Chief -- I'm scared!"

Ardmore understood Thomas' fear; he felt it himself. But he did not 
permit his expression to show it.

"Take it easy, old son," he said in a gentle voice.

"Nothing has happened to our people yet and I don't think we'll let 
anything happen."

"But, Chief, what are you going to do about it? There aren't enough of 
us to stop them before they kill a lot of people."

"Not enough to do it directly, perhaps, but there is a way. You stick to 
collecting data and warn everybody not to go off half-cocked. I'll call 
you back in about fifteen minutes." He flipped the disconnect switch 
before Thomas could answer.

It required some thought. If he could equip each man with a staff, it 
would be simple. The shielding effect from a staff could theoretically 
protect a man against almost anything; except, perhaps, an A-bomb or the 
infiltration of poison gas. But the construction and repair department 
had been hard pushed to provide enough staffs to equip each new priest; 
one for each man was out of the question, since they lacked factory mass 
production. Anyhow, he needed them now -- this morning.

A priest could extend his shield to include any given area or number of 
people, but in great extension the field became so tenuous that a 
well-thrown snowball would break through it. Nuts!

He realized suddenly that he was thinking of the problem in direct terms 
again, in spite of his conscious knowledge that such an approach was 
futile. What he wanted was psychological jiu-jitsu -- some way to turn 
their own strength against them. Misdirection -- that was the idea! 
Whatever it was they expected him to do, don't do it! Do something else.

But what else? When he thought he had found an answer to that question 
he called Thomas to the screen. "Jeff," he said at once, "give me 
Circuit A."

He spoke for some minutes to his priests, slowly and in detail, and 
emphasizing certain points. "Any questions?" he then asked, and spent 
several more minutes in dealing with such as they were relayed in from 
the diocese stations.

Ardmore and the local priest left the temple together. The priest 
attempted to persuade him to stay behind, but he brushed the objections 
aside. The priest was right; he knew in his heart that he should not 
take personal risks that could be avoided, but it was a luxury to be out 
from under Jeff Thomas' restraining influence.

"How do you plan to find out where they have taken our people?" asked 
the priest. He was a former real-estate operator named Ward, a man of 
considerable native intelligence. Ardmore liked him.

"Well, what would you do if I weren't along?"

"I don't know. I suppose I would walk into a police station and try to 
scare the information out of the flatface in charge."

"That's sound enough. Where is one?"

The central police station of the PanAsian police lay in the shadow of 
the palace, between eight and nine blocks to the south. They encountered 
many PanAsians en route, but were not interfered with. The Asiatics 
seemed dumbfounded to see two priests of Mota striding along in apparent 
unconcern. Even those garbed as police appeared uncertain what to do, as 
if their instructions had not covered the circumstance.

However, someone had phoned ahead; they were met on the steps by a 
nervous Asiatic officer who demanded of them, "Surrender! You are under 
arrest!"

They walked straight toward him. Ward lifted one, hand in blessing and 
intoned, "Peace! Take me to my people."

"Don't you understand my language?" snapped the PanAsian, his voice 
becoming shrill. "You are under arrest!" His hand crept nervously toward 
his holster.

"Your earthly weapons avail you not," said Ardmore calmly, "in dealing 
with the great Lord Mota. He commands you to lead me to my people. Be 
warned!" He continued to advance until his personal screen pushed 
against the man's body.

It -- the disembodied pressure of the invisible screen -- was more than 
the PanAsian could stand. He fell back a pace, jerked his sidearm clear 
and fired point-blank. The vortex ring struck harmlessly against the 
screen, was absorbed by it.

"Lord Mota is impatient," remarked Ardmore in a mild tone. "Lead his 
servant, before the Lord Mota sucks the soul from your body." He shifted 
to another effect, never before used in dealing with the PanAsians.

The principle involved was very simple; a cylindrical tractor-pressor 
stasis was projected, forming in effect a tube. Ardmore let it rest over 
the man's face, then applied a tractor beam down the tube. The 
unfortunate PanAsian gasped for air where there was no air and pawed at 
his face. When his nose began to bleed, Ardmore let up on him. "Where 
are my children?" he inquired again as softly as before.

The police officer, probably in sheer reflex, tried to run. Ardmore 
nailed him with a pressor beam against the door and again applied 
momentarily the suction tube, this time to the fellow's midriff. "Where 
are they?"

"In the park," the man gasped, and regurgitated violently.

They turned with leisured dignity, and headed back down the steps, 
sweeping those who had pressed too close casually out of the way with 
the pressor beam.

The park surrounded the erstwhile State capitol building. They found the 
congregation herded into a hastily erected bull pen which was surrounded 
by ranks of Asiatic soldiers. On a platform nearby, technicians were 
installing television pick-up. It was easy to infer that another public 
"lesson" was to be given the serfs. Ardmore saw no evidence of the 
rather bulky apparatus used to produce the epileptogenetic ray; either 
it had not been brought up, or some other method of execution was to be 
used -- perhaps the soldiers present were an enormous firing squad.

Momentarily he was tempted to use the staff to knock out all the 
soldiers present they were standing at ease with arms stacked, and it 
was conceivably possible that he might be able to do so before they 
could harm, not

Ardmore, but the helpless members of the congregation. But he decided 
against it; he had been right when he gave his orders to his priests -- 
this was a game of bluff; he could not combat all of the soldiers that 
the PanAsian authorities could bring to bear, yet he must get this crowd 
safely inside the temple.

The massed people in the bull pen recognized Ward, and perhaps the high 
priest as well, at least by reputation. He could see sudden hope wipe 
despair from their faces -- they surged expectantly. But he passed on by 
them with the briefest of blessing, Ward in his train, and hope gave way 
to doubt and bewilderment as they saw him stride up to the PanAsian 
commander and offer him the same blessing.

"Peace!" cried Ardmore. "I come to help you."

The PanAsian barked an order in his own tongue. Two PanAsians ran up to 
Ardmore and attempted to seize him. They slithered off the screen, tried 
again, and then stood looking to their superior officer for 
instructions, like a dog bewildered by an impossible command.

Ardmore ignored them and continued his progress until he stood 
immediately in front of the commander. "I am told that my people have 
sinned," he announced. "The Lord Mota will deal with them."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned his back on the perplexed 
official and shouted, "In the name of Shaam, Lord of Peace!" and turned 
on the green ray from his staff.

He played it over the imprisoned congregation. Down they went, as if the 
ray were a strong gale striking a stand of wheat. In seconds' time, 
every man, woman and child lay limp on the ground, to all appearance 
dead. Ardmore turned back to the PanAsian officer and bowed low. "The 
servant asks this penance be accepted."

To say that the Oriental was disconcerted is to expose the inadequacy of 
language. He knew how to deal with opposition, but this whole-hearted 
cooperation left him without a plan; it was not in the rules.

Ardmore left him no time to think of a plan. "The Lord Mota is not 
content," he informed him, "and directs that I give you and your men 
presents, presents of gold!"

With that he switched on a dazzling white light and played it over the 
stacked arms of the soldiers to his right. Ward followed his motions, 
giving his attention to the left flank. The stacked small arms glowed 
and scintillated under the ray. Wherever it touched, the metal shone 
with a new luster, rich and ruddy. Gold! Raw gold!

The PanAsian common soldier was paid no better than common soldiers 
usually are. Their lines shifted uneasily, like race horses at the 
barrier. A sergeant stepped up to the weapons, examined one and held it 
up. He called out something in his own tongue, his voice showing high 
excitement.

The soldiers broke ranks.

They shouted and swarmed and danced. They fought each other for 
possession of the useless, precious weapons. They paid no attention to 
their officers; nor were their officers free of the gold fever.

Ardmore looked at Ward and nodded. "Let 'em have it!" he commanded, and 
turned his knockout ray on the PanAsian commander.

The Asiatic toppled over without learning what had hit him, for his 
agonized attention was on his demoralized command. Ward had gone to work 
on the staff officers.

Ardmore gave the American prisoners the counteracting effect while Ward 
disintegrated a large gate in the bull pen. There developed the most 
unexpected difficult part of the task -- to persuade three hundred-odd, 
dazed and disorganized people to listen and to move all in one 
direction. But two loud voices and a fixed determination accomplished 
it. It was necessary to clear a path through the struggling, wealth-mad 
Orientals with the aid of the tractor and pressor beams. This gave 
Ardmore an idea; he used the beams an his own followers much as a goose 
girl touches up a flock of geese with her switch.

They made the nine blocks to the temple in ten minutes, moving at a 
dogtrot that left many gasping and protesting. But they made it, made it 
without interruption by major force, although both Ward and Ardmore 
found it necessary to knock out an occasional PanAsian en route.

Ardmore wiped sweat from his face when he finally stumbled in the temple 
door, sweat that was not due entirely to precipitate progress. "Ward," 
he asked with a sigh, "have you got a drink in the place?"

Thomas was calling him again before he had had time to finish a 
cigarette. "Chief," he said, "we are beginning to get some reports in. I 
thought you would like to know."

"Go ahead."

"It looks successful -- so far. Maybe twenty percent of the priests have 
reported so far through their bishops that they are back with their 
congregations."

"Any casualties?"

"Yes. We lost the entire congregation in Charleston, South Carolina. 
They were dead before the priest got there. He tore into the PanAsians 
with his staff at full power and killed maybe two or three times as many 
of the apes as they had killed of us before he beat his way to his 
temple and reported."

Ardmore shook his head at this. "Too bad. I'm sorry about his 
congregation, but I'm sorrier that he cut loose and killed a bunch of 
PanAsians. It tips my hand before I'm ready."

"But, Chief, you can't blame him -- his wife was in that crowd!"

"I'm not blaming him. Anyhow, it's done -- the gloves had to come off 
sooner or later; this just means that we will have to work a little 
faster. Any other trouble?"

"Not much. Several places they fought a sort of rear-guard action 
getting back to the temples and lost some people." Ardmore saw a 
messenger in the screen hand a sheaf of_ flimsies to Thomas. Thomas 
glanced at them and continued. "A bunch more reports, Chief. Want to 
hear 'em?"

"No. Give me a consolidated report when they are all in. Or when most of 
them are in, not later than an hour from now. I'm cutting off."

The consolidated report showed that over ninety-seven percent of the 
members of the cult of Mota had been safely gathered into the temples. 
Ardmore called a staff meeting and outlined his immediate plans. The 
meeting was, in effect, face to face, as Ardmore's place at the 
conference table was taken by the pick-up and the screen of the 
receiver. "We've had our hands forced," he told them. "As you know, we 
had not expected to start action of our own volition for another two 
weeks, perhaps three. But we have no choice now. As I see it, we have to 
act and act so fast that we will always have the jump on them."

He threw the situation open to general discussion; there was agreement 
that immediate action was necessary, but some disagreement as to 
methods. After listening to their several opinions Ardmore selected 
Disorganization Plan IV and told them to go ahead with preparations. 
"Remember," he cautioned, "once we start, it's too late to turn back. 
This thing moves fast and accelerates. How many basic weapons have been 
provided?"

The "basic weapon" was the simplest Ledbetter projector that had been 
designed. It looked very much like a pistol and was intended to be used 
in similar fashion. It projected a directional beam of the primary 
Ledbetter effect in the frequency band fatal in those of Mongolian blood 
and none other. It could be used by a layman after three minutes' 
instruction, since all that was required was to point it and press a 
trigger, but it was practically foolproof -- the user literally could 
not harm a fly with it, much less a Caucasian man. But it was sudden 
death to Asiatics.

The problem of manufacturing and distributing quantities of weapons to 
be used in the deciding conflict had been difficult. The staffs used by 
the priests were out of the question; each was a precision instrument 
comparable to a fine Swiss watch. Scheer himself had laboriously 
fashioned by hand the most delicate parts of each staff, and, 
nevertheless, required the assistance of many other skilled metalsmiths 
and toolmakers to keep pace with the demand. It was all handwork; mass 
production was impossible until Americans once more controlled their own 
factories.

Furthermore, detailed instruction and arduous supervised practice were 
indispensable in order for a priest to become even moderately skillful 
in the use of the remarkable powers of his staff.

The basic weapon was the pragmatic answer. It was simple and rugged and 
contained no moving parts other than the activating switch, or trigger. 
Even so, it could not be manufactured in quantity at the Citadel, as 
there would have been no way to distribute the weapons to widely 
separated parts of the country without attracting unhealthy attention 
from the PanAsian authorities. Each priest carried to his own temple one 
sample of the basic weapon; it was then his responsibility to locate and 
enlist in his own community, workmen with the necessary skill in 
metalwork for producing the comparatively simple device.

In the secret places down underneath each temple, workmen had been busy 
for weeks at the task grinding, polishing, shaping, reproducing by hand 
row on row of the lethal little gadgets.

The supply staff officer gave Ardmore the information he had requested. 
"Very well," Ardmore acknowledged, "that's fewer weapons than we have 
members of our congregations, but it will have to do. There will be a 
lot of dead wood, anyway. This damned cult business has attracted every 
screwball and crackpot in the country -- all the long-haired men and 
short-haired women. By the time we count them out we may have a few 
basic weapons left over. Which reminds me -- if we do have any left 
over, there ought to be some women in every congregation who are young 
and strong and tough-minded enough to be useful in a fight. We'll arm 
them. About the crackpots you'll find a note in the general 
indoctrination plan as to how each priest is to break the news to his 
flock that the whole thing is really a hoax for military purposes. I 
want to add to it. Nine people out of ten will be overjoyed to hear the 
truth and strongly cooperative. That tenth one may cause trouble, get 
hysterical, maybe try to do a bunk out of the temple. Caution each 
priest, for God's sake, to be careful; break the news to them in small 
numbers at a time, and be ready to turn the sleepy ray on anybody that 
looks like a source of trouble. Then lock 'em up until the fun is over 
-- we haven't time to try to reorient the soft-minded.

"Now get on with it. The priests will need the rest of the day to 
indoctrinate their congregations and to get them organized into 
something resembling military lines. Thomas, I want the scout car 
assigned tonight to the job involving the Prince Royal to stop here 
first and pick me up. Have Wilkie and Scheer man it."

"Very well, sir. But I had planned to be in that car myself. Do you 
object to that slight change?"

"I do," Ardmore said dryly. "If you will look at Disorganization Plan IV 
you will see that it calls for the commanding officer to remain in the 
Citadel. Since I am already here, outside the Citadel, you will remain 
in my place."

"But, Chief --"

"We are not going to risk both of us, not at this stage of the game. Now 
pipe down."

"Yes, sir."

Ardmore was called back to the communicator later that morning. The face 
of the headquarters communication watch officer peered out of the screen 
at him. "Oh! -- Major Ardmore, Salt Lake City is trying to reach you 
with a priority routing."

"Put them on."

The face gave way to that of the priest at Salt Lake City.

"Chief," he began, "we've got a most extraordinary prisoner. I'm of the 
opinion you'd better question him yourself."

"I'm short of time. Why?"

"Well, he's a PanAsian, but claims he is a white man and that you will 
know him. The funny thing about it is that he got past our screen. I 
thought that was impossible."

"So it is. Let me see him."

It was Downer, as Ardmore had begun to suspect. Ardmore introduced him 
to the local priest and as cured that official that his screens had not 
failed him. "Now, Captain, out with it."

"Sir, I decided to come in and report to you in detail because things 
are coming to a head."

"I know it. Give me all the details you can."

"I will, sir. I wonder if you have any idea how much damage you've done 
the enemy already? -- their morale is cracking up like rotten ice in a 
thaw. They axe all nervous, uncertain of themselves. What happened?"

Ardmore sketched out briefly the events of the past twenty -- four 
hours, his own arrest, the arrest of the priests, the arrest of the 
entire cult of Mota, and the subsequent delivery. Downer nodded. "That 
explains it. I couldn't really tell what had happened; they never tell a 
common soldier anything -- but I could see them going to pieces, and I 
thought you had better know."

"What happened?"

"Well -- I guess I had better just tell you what I saw, and let you make 
your own inferences. The second battalion of the Dragon Regiment at Salt 
Lake City is under arrest. I heard a rumor that every officer in it had 
committed suicide. I suppose that is the outfit that let the local 
congregation escape, but I don't know."

"Probably. Go ahead."

"All I know is what I saw. They were marched in about the middle of the 
morning with their banners reversed and confined to their barracks, with 
a heavy guard  around the buildings. But that's not all. It affects more 
than the one outfit under arrest. Chief, you know how an entire regiment 
will go to pieces if the colonel starts losing his grip?"

"I do. Is that the way they act?"

"Yes -- at least the command stationed at Salt Lake City. I'm damned 
well certain that the big shot there is afraid of something he can't 
understand, and his fear has infected his troops, right down to the 
ordinary soldiers. Suicides, lots of 'em, even among the common 
soldiers. A man will get moody for about a day, then sit down facing 
toward the Pacific and rip out his guts.

"But here is the tip-off, the thing that proves that morale is bad all 
over the country. There has been a general order issued by the Prince 
Royal, in the name of the Heavenly Emperor, forbidding any more 
honorable suicides."

"What effect did that have?"

"Too soon to tell -- it just came out today. But you don't appreciate 
what that means, Chief. You have to live among these people, as I have, 
to appreciate it. With the PanAsians, everything is face -- everything. 
They care more for appearances than an American can possibly understand. 
To tell a man who has lost face that he can't balance the books and get 
square with his ancestors by committing suicide is to take the heart 
right out of him. It jeopardizes his most precious possession.

"You can count on it that the Prince Royal is scared, too, or he would 
never have resorted to any such measures. He must have lost an 
incredible number of his officers lately ever to have thought of such a 
thing."

"That is reassuring. Before this night is out, I think we will have 
damaged their morale at least as much more as we have already. So you 
think we've got them on the run?"

"I didn't say that, Major -- don't ever think so. These damned yellow 
baboons" -- he spoke quite earnestly, evidently forgetting his own exact 
physical resemblance to the Asiatics -- "are just about four times as 
deadly and dangerous as their present frames of mine as they were when 
they were cock o' the walk. They are likely to run amuck with just a 
slight push and start slaughtering right and left -- babies, women -- 
indiscriminately!"

"H-m-m. Any recommendations?"

"Yes, Chief, I have. Hit 'em with everything you've got just as soon as 
possible, and before they start in on a general massacre. You've got 'em 
softened up now -- sock it to 'em! before they have time to think about 
the general population. Otherwise you'll have a blood letting that will 
make the Collapse look like a tea party.

"That's the other reason I came in," he added. "I didn't want to find 
myself ordered out to butcher my own kind."

Downer's report left Ardmore plenty to worry about. He conceded that 
Downer was probably right in his judgment of the workings of the 
Oriental mind. The thing that Downer warned against retaliation against 
the civilian population always had been the key to the whole problem -- 
that was why the religion of Mota had been founded; because they dare 
not strike directly for fear of systematic retaliation against the 
helpless. Now -- if Downer was a judge in attacking indirectly, Ardmore 
had rendered an hysterical retaliation almost as probable.

Should he call off Plan IV and attack today?

No -- it simply was not practicable. The priests had to have a few hours 
at least in which to organize the men of their flocks into guerrilla 
warriors. That being the case, one might as well go ahead with Plan IV 
and soften up the war lords still further. Once it was under way, the 
PanAsians would be much too busy to plan massacres.

A small, neat scout car dropped from a great height and settled softly 
and noiselessly on the roof of the temple in the capital city of the 
Prince Royal. Ardmore stepped up to it as the wide door in its side 
opened and Wilkie climbed out. He saluted. "Howdy, Chief!"

"H'lo, Bob. Right on time, I see -- just midnight. Think you were 
spotted?"

"I don't think so; at least, no one turned a spot on us. And we cruised 
high and fast; this gravitic control is great stuff." As they climbed 
in, Scheer gave his C.O. a brief nod accompanied by, "Evening, sir," 
with his hands still on the controls. As soon as the safety belts were 
buckled he shot the car vertically into the air.

"Orders, sir?"

"Roof of the palace -- and be careful."

Without lights, at great speed, with no power source the enemy could 
detect, the little car plummeted to the roof designated. Wilkie started 
to open the door. Ardmore checked him. "Look around first."

An Asiatic cruiser, on routine patrol over the residence of the 
vice-royal, changed course and stabbed out with a searchlight. The 
radar-guided beam settled on the scout car.

"Can you hit him at this range?" inquired Ardmore, whispering 
unnecessarily.

"Easiest thing in the world, Chief." Cross hairs matched on the target; 
Wilkie depressed his thumb. Nothing seemed to happen, but the beam of 
the searchlight swept on .past them.

"Are you sure you hit him?" Ardmore inquired doubtfully.

"Certain. That ship'll go ahead on automatic control till her fuel gives 
out. But it's a dead hand at the helm."

"O. K. , Scheer, you take Wilkie's place at the projector. Don't let fly 
unless you are spotted. If we aren't back in thirty minutes, return to 
the Citadel. Come on, Wilkie -- now for a little hocus-pocus."

Scheer acknowledged the order, but it was evident from the way his 
powerful jaw muscles worked that he did not like it. Ardmore and Wilkie, 
each attired in the full regalia of a priest, moved out across the roof 
in search of a way down. Ardmore kept his staff set and projecting in 
the wave band to which Mongolians were sensitive, but at a power-level 
anesthetic rather than lethal in its effect. The entire palace had been 
radiated with a cone of these frequencies before they had landed, using 
the much more powerful projector mounted in the scout car. Presumably 
every Asiatic in the building was unconscious -- Ardmore was not taking 
unnecessary chances.

They found an access door to the roof, which saved them cutting a hole, 
and crept down a steep iron stairway intended only for janitors and 
repair men. Once inside, Ardmore had trouble orienting himself and 
feared that he would be forced to find a PanAsian, resuscitate him, and 
wring the location of the Prince's private chambers out of him by most 
ungentle methods. But luck favored them; he happened on the right floor 
and correctly inferred the portal of the Prince's apartment by the size 
and nature of the guard collapsed outside of it.

The door was not locked; the Prince depended on a military watch being 
kept rather than keys and bolts -- he had never turned a key in his 
life. They found him lying in his bed, a book fallen from his limp 
fingers. A personal attendant lay crumpled in each of the four corners 
of the spacious room.

Wilkie eyed the Prince with interest. "So that's his nibs. What do we do 
now, Major?"

"You get on one side of the bed; I'll get on the other. I want him to be 
forced to divide his attention two ways. And stand up close so that he 
will have to look up at you. I'll talk all the business, but you throw 
in a remark or two every now and then to force him to split his 
attention."

"What sort of a remark?"

"Just priestly mumbo-jumbo. Impressive and no real meaning. Can you do 
it?"

"I think so -- I used to sell magazine subscriptions."

"O. K. This guy is a tough nut really tough. I am going to try to get at 
him with the two basic congenital fears common to everybody; fear of 
constriction and fear of falling. I could handle it with my staff but it 
will be simpler if you do it with yours. Do you think you can follow my 
motions and catch what I want done?"

"Can you make it a little clearer than that?"

Ardmore explained in detail, then added, "All right let's get busy. Take 
your place." He turned on the four colored

lights of his staff. Wilkie did likewise. Ardmore stepped across the 
room and switched out the lights of the room.

When the PanAsian Prince Royal, Grandson of the Heavenly One and ruler 
in his name of the Imperial Western Realm, came to his senses, he saw 
standing. over him in the darkness two impressive figures. The taller 
was garbed in robes of shimmering, milky luminescence. His turban, too, 
glowed with a soft white fire -- a halo.

The staff in his left hand streamed light from all four faces of its 
cubical capital -- ruby, golden, emerald, and sapphire.

The second figure was like the first, save that his robes glowed ruddy 
like iron on an anvil. The face of each was partially illuminated by the 
rays from their wands.

The figure in shining white raised his right hand in a gesture not 
benign, but imperious. "We meet again, O unhappy Prince!"

The Prince had been trained truly and well; fear was not natural to him. 
He started to sit up, but an impalpable force shoved against his chest 
and thrust him back against the bed. He started to speak.

The air was sucked from his throat. "Be silent, child of iniquity! The 
Lord Mota speaks through me. You will listen in peace."

Wilkie judged it to be about time to divert the Asiatic's attention. He 
intoned, "Great is the Lord Mota!"

Ardmore continued, "Your hands are wet with the blood of innocence. 
There must be an end to it!"

"Just is the Lord Mota!"

"You have oppressed his people. You have left the land of your fathers, 
bringing with you fire and sword. You must return!"

"Patient is the Lord Mota!"

"But you have tried his patience," agreed Ardmore. "Now he is angry with 
you. I bring you warning; see that you heed it!"

"Merciful is the Lord Mota!"

"Go back to the place whence you came -- go back at once, taking with 
you all your people -- and return not again!" Ardmore thrust out a hand 
and closed it slowly. "Heed not this warning -- the breath will be 
crushed from your body!" The pressure across the chest of the Oriental 
increased intolerably, his eyes bulged out, he gasped for air.

"Heed not this warning -- you will be cast down from your high place!" 
The Prince felt himself suddenly become light; he was cast into the air, 
pressed hard against the high ceiling. Just . as suddenly his support 
left him; he fell heavily back to the bed.

"So speaks my Lord Mota!"

"Wise is the man who heeds him!" Wilkie was running short of choruses.

Ardmore was ready to conclude. His eye swept around the room and noted 
something he had seen before -- the Prince's ubiquitous chess table. It 
was set up by the head of the bed, as if the Prince amused himself with 
it on sleepless nights. Apparently the man set much store by the game. 
Ardmore added a postscript. "My Lord Mota is done -- but heed the advice 
of an old man: men and women are not pieces in a game!" An invisible 
hand swept the costly, beautiful chessmen to the floor. In spite of his 
rough handling, the Prince had sufficient spirit left in him to glare.

"And now my Lord Shaam bids you sleep." The green light flared up to 
greater brilliance; the Prince went limp.

"Whew!" sighed Ardmore. "I'm glad that's over. Nice cooperation, Wilkie 
-- I was never cut out to be an actor." He hoisted up one side of his 
robes and dug a package of cigarettes out of his pants-pocket. "Better 
have one," he offered. "We've got a really dirty job ahead of us."

"Thanks," said Wilkie, accepting the offer. "Look, Chief -- is it really 
necessary to kill everybody here? I don't relish it."

"Don't get chicken, son," admonished Ardmore with an edge in his voice. 
"This is war -- and war is no joke. There is no such thing as humane 
war. This is a military fortress we are in; it is necessary to our plans 
that it be reduced completely. We couldn't do it from the air because 
the plan requires keeping the Prince alive."

"Why wouldn't it do just as well to leave them unconscious?"

"You argue too much. Part of the disorganization plan is to leave the 
Prince still alive and in command, but cut off from all his usual 
assistants. That will create a turmoil of inefficiency much greater than 
if we had simply killed him and let their command devolve to their 
number-two man. You know that. Get on with your job."

With the lethal ray from their staffs turned to maximum power, they 
swept the walls and floor and ceiling, varying death to Asiatics for 
hundreds of feet -- through rock and metal, plaster and wood. Wilkie did 
his job with white-lipped efficiency.

Five minutes later they were carving the stratosphere for home -- the 
Citadel.

Eleven other scout cars were hurrying through the night. In Cincinnati, 
in Chicago, in Dallas, in major cities across the breadth of the 
continent they dove out of the darkness, silencing opposition where they 
found it, and landed little squads of intent and resolute men. In they 
went, past sleeping guards, and dragged out local senior officials of 
the PanAsians provincial governors, military commanders, the men on 
horseback. They dumped each unconscious kidnapped Oriental on the roof 
of the local temple of Mota, there to be received and dragged down below 
by the arms of a robed and bearded priest.

Then to the next city to repeat it again, as long as the night lasted.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Calhoun buttonholed Ardmore almost as soon as he was back in the 
Citadel. "Major Ardmore," he announced, clearing his throat, "I have 
waited up to discuss a matter of import with you."

This man, Ardmore thought, can pick the damnedest times for a 
conference. "Yes?"

"I believe you expect a rapid culmination of events?"

"Things are coming to a head, yes."

"I presume the issue will be decided very presently. I have not been 
able to get the details I want from your man Thomas -- he is not very 
cooperative; I fail to see why you have thrust him up to the position of 
speaking for you in your absence -- but that is beside the point," 
Calhoun conceded with a magnanimous gesture. "What I wanted to say is 
this: Have you given any thought to the form of government after we 
drive out the Asiatic invader?"

What the devil was the man getting at? "Not particularly -- why should 
I? Of course, there will have to be a sort of provisional interim 
period, military government of sorts, while we locate all the old 
officials left alive and get them back on the job and arrange for a 
national election. But that ought not to be too hard -- we'll have the 
local priests to work through."

Calhoun's eyebrows shot up. "Do you really mean to tell me, my dear man, 
that you are seriously contemplating returning to the outmoded 
inefficiencies of elections and all that sort of thing?"

Ardmore stared at him. "What else are you suggesting?"

"It seems obvious. We have here a unique opportunity to break with the 
stupidities of the past and substitute a truly scientific rule, headed 
by a man chosen for his intelligence and scientific training rather than 
for his skill in catering to the prejudices of the mob. "

"Dictatorship, eh? And where would I find such a man?" Ardmore's voice 
was disarmingly, dangerously gentle.

Calhoun did not speak, but indicated by the slightest of smug 
self-deprecatory gestures that Ardmore would not have far to look to 
find the right man.

Ardmore chose not to notice Calhoun's implied willingness to serve. 
"Never mind," he said, and his voice was no longer gentle, but sharp. 
"Colonel Calhoun, I dislike to have to remind you of your duty -- but 
understand this: you and I are military men. It is not the business of 
military men to monkey with politics. You and I hold our commissions by 
grace of a constitution, and our sole duty is to that constitution. If 
the people of the United States want to streamline their government, 
they will let us know!

"In the meantime, you have military duties, and so do I. Go ahead with 
yours."

Calhoun seemed about to burst into speech. Ardmore cut him short. "That 
is all. Carry out your orders, sir!"

Calhoun turned abruptly and left.

Ardmore called his Chief of Intelligence to him. "Thomas," he said, "I 
want a close, but discreet, check kept on Colonel Calhoun's movements."

"Yes, sir."

"The last of the scout cars are in, sir."

"Good. How does the tally stand now?" Ardmore asked.

"Just a moment, sir. It was running about six raids to a ship -- with 
this last one that makes a total of . . . uh . . . nine and two makes 
eleven-seventy-one prisoners in sixty-eight raids. Some of them doubled 
up...

"Any casualties?"

"Only to the PanAsians --"

"Damn it that's what I meant! No, I mean to our men, of course."

"None, Major. One man got a broken arm when he fell down a staircase in 
the dark."

"I guess we can stand that. We should get some reports on the local 
demonstrations -- at least from the East coast cities -- before long. 
Let me know."

"I will. "

"Would you mind telling my orderly to step in as you leave? I want to 
send for some caffeine tablets, better have one yourself; this is going 
to be a big day."

"A good notion, Major." The communications aide went out.

In sixty-eight cities throughout the land, preparations were in progress 
for the demonstrations that constituted Phase 2 of Disorganization Plan 
IV. The priest of the temple in Oklahoma City had delegated part of his 
local task to two men, Patrick Minkowski, taxi driver, and John W. 
(Jack) Smyth, retail merchant. They were engaged in fitting leg irons to 
the ankles of the Voice of the Hand, PanAsian administrator of Oklahoma 
City. The limp, naked body of the Oriental lay on a long table in a 
workshop down under the temple.

"There," announced Minkowski, "that's the best job of riveting I can do 
without heating tools. It'll take him a while to get it off, anyway. 
Where's that stencil?"

"By your elbow. Captain Isaacs said he'd weld those joints with his 
staff after we finished; I wouldn't worry about them. Say, it seems odd 
to call the priest Captain Isaacs, doesn't it? Do you think we're really 
in the army -- legally, I mean?"

"I wouldn't know about that -- and as long as it gives me a chance to 
take a crack at those flat-faced apes, I don't care. I suppose we are, 
though -- if you admit that Isaacs is an army officer, I guess he can 
take recruits. Look -- do we put this stencil on his back or on his 
stomach?"

"I'd say to put it on both sides. It does seem funny, though, about this 
army business, I mean. One day you're going to church; the next you're 
told it's a military outfit, and they swear you in."

"Personally, I like it," commented Minkowski. "Sergeant Minkowski -- it 
sounds good. They wouldn't take me before on account o' my heart. As for 
the church part, I never took any stock in this great God Mota business, 
anyhow; I came for the free food and the chance to breathe in peace." He 
removed the stencil from the back of the Asiatic; Smyth commenced 
filling in the traced design of an ideograph with quick-drying indelible 
paint. "I wonder what that heathen writing means?"

"Didn't you hear?" asked Smyth, and told him.

A delighted grin came over Minkowski's face. "Well, I'll be damned," he 
said. "If anybody called me that, it wouldn't do him no good to smile 
when he said it. You wouldn't kid me?"

"No, indeed. I was in the communications office when they were getting 
the design from the Mother Temple -- I mean general headquarters. Here's 
another funny thing, too. I saw the chap in the screen who was passing 
out the design, and he was Asiatic as this monkey" -- Smyth indicated 
the unconscious voice of the Hand -- "but they called him Captain Downer 
and treated him like one of us. What do you make of that?"

"Couldn't say. He must be on our side, or else he wouldn't be loose in 
headquarters. What'll we do with the rest of the paint?"

Between them they found something to do with it, which Captain Isaacs 
noticed at once when he came in to see how they were progressing. He 
suppressed a smile. "I see you have elaborated on your instructions a 
bit," he commented, trying to keep his voice soberly official.

"It seemed a pity to waste the paint," Minkowski explained ingenuously. 
"Besides, he looked so naked the way he was."

"That's a matter of opinion. Personally, I would say that he looks 
nakeder now. We'll drop the point; hurry up and get his head shaved. I 
want to leave any time now."

Minkowski and Smyth waited at the door of the temple five minutes later, 
the Voice of the Hand rolled in a blanket on the floor between them. 
They saw a sleek duocycle station wagon come shooting up to the curb in 
front of the temple and brake to a sudden stop. Its bell sounded, and 
Captain Isaacs' face appeared in the window of the driver's compartment. 
Minkowski threw down the butt of a cigarette and grabbed the shoulders 
of the muffled figure at their feet; Smyth took the legs and they 
trotted clumsily and heavily out to the car.

"Dump him in the back," ordered Captain Isaacs.

That done, Minkowski took the wheel while Isaacs and Smyth crouched in 
the back with the subject of the pending demonstration.

"I want you to find a considerable gathering of PanAsians almost 
anywhere," directed the captain. "If there are Americans present, too, 
so much the better. Drive fast and pay no attention to anyone. I'll take 
care of any difficulties with my staff." He settled himself to watch the 
street over Minkowski's shoulder.

"Right, Captain! Say, this is a sweet little buggy," he added as the car 
shot forward. "How did you pick it up so fast?"

"I knocked out a few of our Oriental friends;" answered Isaacs briefly. 
"Watch that signal!"

"Got it!" The car dewed around and dodged under the nose of oncoming 
cross traffic. A PanAsian policeman was left futilely waving at them.

A few seconds later Minkowski demanded, "How about that spot up ahead, 
Captain?" and hooked his chin in the indicated direction. It was the 
square of the civic center.

"O. K. " He bent over the silent figure on the floor of the car, busy 
with his staff.

The Asiatic began to struggle. Smyth fell on him and pinned the blanket 
more firmly about the head and shoulders of their victim. "Pick your 
spot. When you stop, we'll be ready."

The car lurched to a stomach-twisting halt. Smyth slammed open the rear 
door; he and Isaacs grabbed corners of the blanket and rolled the 
now-conscious official into the street. "Take it away, Pal"

The car jumped forward, leaving startled and scandalized Asiatics to 
deal with an utterly disgraceful situation as best they might. Twenty 
minutes later a brief but explicit account of their exploit was handed 
to Ardmore in his office at the Citadel. He glanced over it and passed 
it to Thomas. "Here's a crew with imagination, Jeff."

Thomas took the report and read it, then nodded agreement. "I hope they 
all do as well. Perhaps we should have given more detailed instructions."

"I don't think so. Detailed instructions are the death of initiative. 
This way we have them all striving to think up some particularly 
annoying way to get under the skins of our slant-eyed lords. I expect 
some very amusing arid ingenious results."

By nine a.m., headquarters time, each one of the seventy-odd PanAsian 
major officials had been returned alive, but permanently, unbearably 
disgraced, to his racial brethren. In all cases, so far as the data at 
hand went, there had been no cause given to the Asiatics to associate 
their latest trouble directly with the cult of Mota. It was simply 
catastrophe, psychological catastrophe of the worst sort, which had 
struck in the night without warning and without trace.

"You have not set the time for Phase 3 as yet, Major," Thomas reminded 
Ardmore when all reports were in.

"I know it. I don't expect it to be more than two hours from now at the 
outside. We've got to give them a little time to appreciate what has 
happened to them. The force of demoralization will be. many times as 
great when they have had time to compare notes around the country and 
realize that all of their top men have been publicly humiliated. That, 
combined with the fact that we crippled their continental headquarters 
almost to the limit, should produce as sweet a case of mass hysteria as 
one could wish: But we'll have to give it time to spread. Is Downer on 
deck?"

"He's standing by in the communications watch office."

"Tell them to cut in a relay circuit from him to my office. I want to 
listen to what he picks up here."

Thomas dialed with the interoffice communicator and spoke briefly. Very 
shortly Downer's pseudoAsiatic countenance showed on the screen above 
Ardmore's desk. Ardmore spoke to him. Downer slipped an earphone off one 
ear and gave him an inquiring look.

"I said, 'Are you getting anything yet? " repeated Ardmore.

"Some. They're in quite an uproar. What I've been able to translate is 
being canned." He flicked a thumb toward the microphone which hung in 
front of his face. A preoccupied, listening look came into his eyes, and 
he added, "San Francisco is trying to raise the palace --"

"Don't let me interrupt you," said Ardmore, and closed his own 
transmitter.

"-- the Emperor's Hand there is reported dead. San Francisco wants some 
sort of authorization Wait a minute; the comm office wants me to try 
another wave length. There it comes -- they're using the Prince Royal's 
signal, but it's in the provincial governor's frequency. I can't get 
what they're saying; it's either coded or in a dialect I don't know. 
Watch officer, try another wave band -- I'm just wasting time on that 
one . . . . That's better." Downer's face became intent, then suddenly 
lit up. "Chief, get this: Somebody is saying that the Governor of the 
gulf province has lost his mind and asks permission to supersede him! 
Here's another -- wants to know what's wrong with the palace circuits 
and how to reach the palace, wants to report an uprising --"

Ardmore cut back in. "Where?"

"Couldn't catch it. Every frequency is jammed with traffic, and about 
half of it is incoherent. They don't give each other time to clear -- 
send right through another message."

There was a gentle knock at the outer door of Ardmore's office. It 
opened a few inches and Dr. Brooks' head appeared. "May I come in?"

"Oh -- certainly, Doctor. Come in. We are listening to what Captain 
Downer can pick up from the radio."

"Too bad we haven't a dozen of him -- translators, I mean. "

"Yes, but there doesn't seem to be much to pick up but a general 
impression." They listened to what Downer could pick up for the better 
part of an hour, mostly disjointed or partial messages, but it was made 
increasingly evident that the sabotage of the palace organization, plus 
the terrific emotional impact of the disgrace of key administrators, had 
played hob with the normal, smooth functioning of the PanAsian 
government. Finally Downer said, "Here's a general order going out Wait 
a minute -- It orders a radio silence on all clear-speech messages; 
everything has to be coded."

Ardmore glanced at Thomas. "I guess that is about the right point, Jeff. 
Somebody with horse sense and poise is trying to whip them back into 
shape -- probably our old pal, the Prince. Time to stymie him." He rang 
the communications office. "O.K., Steeves," he said to the face of the 
watch officer, "give them power!"

"Jam 'em?

"That's right. Warn all temples through Circuit A, and let them all do 
it at once."

"They are standing by now, sir. Execute?"

"Very well -- execute!"

Wilkie had developed a simple little device whereby the tremendous power 
of the temple projectors could be rectified, if desired, to 
undifferentiated electromagnetic radiation in the radio frequencies -- 
static. Now they cut loose like sunspots, electrical storms, and aurora, 
all hooked up together.

Downer was seen to snatch the headphones from his ears. "For the love o' 
-- Why didn't somebody warn me?" He reapproached one receiver cautiously 
to an ear, and shook his head. "Dead. I'll bet we've burned out every 
receiver in the country."

"Maybe so," observed Ardmore to those in his office, "but we'll keep 
jamming them just the same. " At that moment, in all the United States, 
there remained no general communication system but the pararadio of the 
cult of Mota. The Asiatic rulers could not even fall back on wired 
telephony; the obsolete ground lines had long since been salvaged for 
their copper.

"How much longer, Chief?" asked Thomas.

"Not very long. We let 'em talk long enough for them to know something, 
hellacious is happening all over the country. Now we've cut 'em off. 
That should produce a feeling of panic. I want to let that panic have 
time to ripen and spread to every PanAsian in the country. When I figure 
they are ripe, we'll sock it to 'em!"

"How will you tell?"

"I can't. It will be on hunch, between ourselves.

We'll let the little darlings run around in circles for a while, not 
over an hour, then give 'em the works."

Dr. Brooks nervously attempted to make conversation. "It certainly will 
be a relief to have this entire matter settled once and for always. It's 
been very trying at times --" His voice trailed off.

Ardmore turned on him. "Don't ever think we can settle things 'once and 
for always.' "

"But surely -- if we defeat the PanAsians decisively --"

"That's where you are wrong about it." The nervous strain he was under 
showed in his brusque manner. "We got into this jam by thinking we could 
settle things once and for always.. We met the Asiatic threat by the 
Nonintercourse Act and by big West coast defenses -- so they came at us 
over the north pole!

"We should have known better; there were plenty of lessons in history. 
The old French Republic tried to freeze events to one pattern with the 
Versailles Treaty. When that didn't work they built the Maginot Line and 
went to sleep behind it. What did it get them? Final blackout!

"Life is a dynamic process and can't be made static. '-- and they all 
lived happily ever after' is fairy-tale stu --" He was interrupted by 
the jangling of a bell and the red flashing of the emergency 
transparency.

The face of the communications watch officer snapped into view on the 
reflectophone screen. "Major Ardmore!"

It was gone and replaced by the features of Frank

Mitsui, contorted .with apprehension. "Major!" he burst out. "Colonel 
Calhoun -- he's gone crazy!" "Easy, man, easy! What's happened?" "He 
gave me the slip -- he's gone up the temple. He thinks he's the god 
Mota!"

666CHAPTER TWELVE

Ardmore cut frank off by switching to the communications watch officer. 
"Get me the control board in the great altar -- move!"

He got it, but it was not the operator on watch that Ardmore saw. 
Instead it was Calhoun, bending over the console of controls. The 
operator was collapsed in his chair, head lolled to the right. Ardmore 
cut the connection at once and dived for the door.

Thomas and Brooks competed for second place, leaving the orderly a 
hopelessly outdistanced fourth. The three swept up the gravity chute to 
the temple level at maximum acceleration, and slammed out onto the 
temple floor. The altar lay before them, a hundred feet away.

"I assigned Frank to watch him," Thomas was trying to say when Calhoun 
stuck his head over the upper rail of the altar.

"Stand fast!"

They stood. Brooks whispered, "He's got the heavy projector trained on 
us. Careful, Major!"

"I know it," Ardmore acknowledged, letting the words slip out of one 
side of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Colonel Calhoun!"

"I am the great Lord Mota. Careful how you speak to me!"

"Yes, certainly, Lord Mota. But tell thy servant something -- isn't 
Colonel Calhoun one of your attributes?"

Calhoun considered this. "Sometimes," he finally answered, "sometimes I 
think that he is. Yes, he is."

"Then I wish to speak to Colonel Calhoun." Ardmore eased forward a few 
steps.

"Stand still!" Calhoun crouched rigid over the projector. "My lightnings 
are set for white men -- take care!"

"Watch it, Chief," whispered Thomas, "he can blast the whole damn place 
with that thing."

"Don't I know it!" Ardmore answered voicelessly, and started to resume 
the verbal tight-rope walk. But something had diverted Calhoun's 
attention. They saw him turn his head, then hastily swing the heavy 
projector around and depress its controls with both hands. He raised his 
head almost immediately, seemed to make some readjustment of the 
projector, and depressed the controls again. Almost simultaneously some 
heavy body struck him; he fell from sight behind the rail.

On the floor of the altar platform they found Calhoun struggling. But 
his arms were held, his legs pinioned by the limbs of a short stocky 
brown man -- Frank Mitsui. Frank's eyes were lifeless china, his muscles 
rigid.

It took four men to force Calhoun into an improvised straitjacket and to 
carry him down to sick bay. "As I figure it," said Thomas, watching the 
work party remove their psychotic burden, "Dr. Calhoun had the projector 
set to kill white men. The first blast didn't harm Frank, and he had to 
stop to reset the controls. That saved us."

"Yes -- but not Frank."

"Well -- you know his story. That second blast must have hit him while 
he was actually in the air -- full power. Did you feel his arms? 
Coagulated instantaneously -- like a hard-boiled egg."

But they had no time to dwell on the end of little Mitsui's tragic life; 
more minutes had passed. Ardmore and company hurried back to his office, 
where he found Kendig, his Chief of Staff, calmly handling the traffic 
of dispatches. Ardmore demanded a quick verbal resume.

"One change, Major -- they tried to A-bomb the temple in Nashville. A 
near miss, but it wrecked the city district south of it. Have you set 
the zero hour? Several dioceses have inquired."

"Not yet, but very soon. Unless you have some more data for me, I'll 
give them their final instructions right away on Circuit A."

"No, sir, you might as well go ahead."

When Circuit A was reported back as ready, Ardmore cleared his throat. 
He felt suddenly nervous. "Action in twenty minutes, gentlemen," he 
started in. "I want to review the main points of the plan.'

He ran over it; the twelve scout cars were assigned one each to the 
twelve largest cities, or, rather, what was almost the same list, the 
twelve heaviest concentrations of PanAsian military power. The attack of 
the scout cars would be the signal to attack on the ground in those 
areas.

The scout cars, with one exception, were poised even as he spoke, in the 
stratosphere over their objectives.

The heavy projectors mounted in the scout cars were to inflict as much 
quick damage as possible on military objectives on the ground, 
especially barracks and air fields. Priests, being nearly invulnerable, 
would supplement them on the ground, as would the projectors in the 
temples. The "troops" made up from the congregations would harry and 
hunt. "Tell them when in doubt to shoot, and shoot first. Don't wait to 
see the whites of their eyes. The basic weapons are good for thousands 
of activations without recharging, and they can't possibly hurt a white 
man with them. Shoot anything that moves!

"Also," he added, "tell them not to be alarmed at anything strange. If 
it looks impossible, one of our boys is responsible; we specialize in 
miracles!

"That's all -- good hunting!"

His last precaution referred to a special task assignment for Wilkie, 
Graham, Scheer, and Downer. Wilkie had been working on some special 
effects, with Graham's artistic collaboration. The task in battle 
required a team of four, but was not a part of the regular plan. Wilkie 
himself did not know just how well it would work, but Ardmore had 
assigned a scout car to them and had given them their head in the matter.

His striker had been dressing him in his robes as he spoke. He settled 
his turban in place, checked his personal pararadio hook-up with the 
communications office, and turned to say good-by to Kendig and Thomas. 
He noticed a queer look in Thomas' eyes, and felt his neck turn red. 
"You want to go, don't you, Jeff?"

Thomas did not say anything. Ardmore added, "Sure -- I'm a heel. I know 
that. But only one of us can go to this party, and it's going to be me!"

"You've got me wrong, Chief -- I don't like killing."

"So? I don't know that I do, either. Just the same I'm going out and 
finish Frank Mitsui's bookkeeping for him." He shook hands with both of 
them.

Thomas gave the signal of execution before Ardmore reached the PanAsian 
capital city. His pilot set him down on the roof of the temple there 
after the fighting in the capital had commenced, then gunned his craft 
away to take up his own task assignment.

Ardmore looked around. It was quiet in the immediate neighborhood of the 
temple; the big projector in the temple would have seen to that. He had 
seen one PanAsian cruiser crash while they were landing, but the speedy 
little scout car assigned to that task he had not been able to notice. 
He went down inside the temple.

It seemed deserted. A man was standing near a duocycle car parked 
garagelike on the temple floor. He came up and announced, "Sergeant 
Bryan, sir. The priest -- I mean Lieutenant Rogers -- told me to wait 
for you."

"Very well, then -- let's go." He climbed into the car. Bryan put his 
little fingers to his lips and whistled piercingly.

"Joel" he shouted. A man stuck his head over the top of the altar. 
"Going out, Joe." The head disappeared; the great doors of the temple 
opened. Bryan climbed in beside Ardmore and asked, "Where to?"

"Find me the heaviest fighting -- or, rather, PanAsians, lots of them."

"It's the same thing." The car trundled down the wide temple steps, 
turned right and picked up speed.

The street ran into a little circular parkway set with bushes. There 
were four or five figures crouched behind those bushes, and one sprawled 
prone on the ground. As the car slowed, Ardmore heard the sharp ping! of 
a vortex rifle or pistol -- he could not tell which -- and one of the 
crouching figures jerked and fell.

"They're in that office building," yelled Bryan in his ear.

He set his staff to radiate a narrow, thin wedge and fanned the beam up 
and down the building. The pinging noise stopped. An Asiatic dashed out 
a door that he had not yet touched and fled up the street. Ardmore cut 
the beam and used another setting, aiming at the figure by means of a 
thin bright beam of light. The light touched the man; there was a dull, 
heavy boom and the man disappeared. In his place was a great oily cloud 
which swelled and dispersed.

"Jumping Judas! What was that?" Bryan demanded.

"Colloidal explosion. I released the surface tension of his body cells. 
We've been saving it for this day."

"But what made him explode?"

"The pressure in his cells. They can run as high as several hundred 
pounds. But let's go."

The next few blocks were deserted of all but bodies; however, Ardmore 
kept his projector turned on and swept the buildings they passed as 
systematically as the speed would allow. He took advantage of the lull 
to call headquarters. "Any reports yet, Jeff?"

"Nothing much yet, Chief. It's too soon."

They shot out into the open before Ardmore realized where Bryan was 
taking him. It was the State university campus on the edge of the city, 
now used as barracks by the imperial army. The athletic fields and golf 
course adjoining had been turned into an airport.

Here for the first time he realized clearly how pitifully few were the 
Americans whom he had armed to destroy the PanAsians. There appeared to 
be a skirmish line of sorts in position off to the right: he could see 
the toll they were taking of the Asiatics. But there were thousands of 
them, enough to engulf the Americans by sheer multitude. Damn it, why 
hadn't the scout car assigned reduced this place? Had it met with a 
mishap?

He decided that the crew of the scout car had been kept busy with 
aircraft, too busy to clean out the barracks. He thought now that he 
should have fought city by city, using all available scout cars as a 
unit, and trusting to the jamming of the radio to permit him to do it 
that way. Was it too late now to change? Yes -- the gage was thrown, the 
battle was on all over the country. Now it must be fought.

He was already busy with his staff in an attempt to swing the issue. He 
cut into the lines of Asiatics with the primary effect set at full 
power, doing a satisfying amount of slaughter. Then he decided on a 
change in tactics -- colloidal explosion. It was slower and clumsy, but 
the effect on morale should be advantageous.

He omitted the guide ray to make it more mysterious and sighted through 
a deep hole in the cube of the staff. There! One of the rats was smoke! 
He had them ranged now -- two! Three! Four! Again and again -- a dozen 
or more.

It was too much for the Orientals. They were brave and seasoned 
soldiers, but they could not fight what they did not understand. They 
broke and ran, back toward their barracks. Ardmore heard cheers from the 
scattered Americans, dominated by an authentic rebel yell. Figures rose 
up from cover and took out after the disorganized Asiatics.

Ardmore called headquarters again. "Circuit AI"

A few seconds' delay and he was answered, "You've got it."

"All officers, attention! Use the organic explosion as much as possible. 
It scares the hell out of 'em!" He repeated the message and released the 
circuit.

He directed Bryan to go closer to the buildings. Bryan bumped the car 
over a curb and complied, weaving in and out between trees. They were 
conscious of a terrific explosion; the car rose a few feet in the air 
and came lurching down on its side. Ardmore pulled himself together and 
attempted to get up. It was then that he realized that somehow he had 
held his staff clear.

The door above him was jammed. He burned his way clear with the staff 
and clambered out. He looked back in to Bryan. "Are you hurt?"

"Not much." Bryan shook himself. "Cracked my left collarbone, maybe."

"Here -- grab my hand. Can you make it? I've got to hang on to my 
staff." Between them they got him out. "I'll have to leave you. Got your 
basic weapon?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Good luck.',' He glanced at the crater as he moved away. It 
was well, he thought, that he had had his shield turned on.

A few dozen Americans were moving cautiously among the buildings, 
shooting as they went. Twice Ardmore was fired on by men who had been 
told to shoot first. Good boys! Shoot anything that moves!

A PanAsian aircraft, flying low, cut slowly across the edge of the 
campus. It trailed a plume of heavy yellow fog. Gas! They were gassing 
their own troops in order to kill a handful of Americans. The bank of 
mist settled slowly toward the ground and rolled in his direction. He 
suddenly realized that this was serious, for him as well as for others. 
His shield was little protection against gas, for it was necessary to 
let air filter through it.

But he was attempting to get a line on the aircraft even as he decided 
that his own turn had come. The craft wavered and crashed before he 
could line up on it. So the scout car was on the job after all -- good!

The gas came on. Could he run around the edge of it? No. Perhaps he 
could hold his breath and run through it, trusting to his shield for all 
other matters. Not likely.

Some unconscious recess of his brain gave him the answer -- 
transmutation. A few seconds later, his staff set to radiate in a wide 
cone, he was blasting a hole in the deadly cloud. Back and forth he 
swept the cone, as if playing a stream of water with a hose, and the 
foggy particles changed to harmless, life-giving oxygen.

"Jeff!"

"Yes, Chief?"

"Any trouble with gas?"

"Quite a bit. In --"

"Never mind. Broadcast this on Circuit A: Set staff to --" He went on to 
describe how to fight that most intangible weapon.

The scout car came screaming down out of heaven, hovered, and began 
cruising back and forth over the dormitory barracks. The campus became 
suddenly very silent. That was better; apparently the pilot had just had 
too much to do at one time. Ardmore felt suddenly alone, the fight had 
moved past him while he was dealing with the gas threat. He looked 
around for transportation to commandeer in order to scout around and 
check up on the fighting in the rest of the city. The trouble with this 
damn battle, he thought to himself, is that it hasn't any coherence; 
it's every place at once. No help for it; it was in the nature of the 
problem.

"Chief?" It was Thomas calling.

"Go ahead, Jeff. "

"Wilkie is heading your way."

"Good. Has he had any luck?"

"Yes, but just wait till you see! I caught a glimpse of it in the 
screen, transmitted from Kansas City. That's all now."

"O.K." He looked around again for transportation. He wanted to be around 
some PanAsians, some live PanAsians, when Wilkie arrived. There was a 
monocycle standing at the curb, abandoned, about a block from the 
campus. He appropriated it.

There were PanAsians, he discovered, in plenty near the palace -- and 
the battle was not going too well for the Americans. He added the effort 
of his staff and was very busy picking out individuals and exploding 
them when Wilkie arrived.

Enormous, incredible, a Gargantuan manlike figure of perfect black -- 
more than a thousand feet high, it came striding across the buildings, 
its feet filling the streets. It was as if the Empire State Building had 
gone for a stroll -- a giant, three-dimensional shadow of a priest of 
Mota, complete with robes and staff.

It had a voice.

It had a voice that rolled with thunder, audible and distinct for miles. 
"Americans, arise! The day is at hand! The Disciple has come! Rise up 
and smite your masters!"

Ardmore wondered how the men in the car, could stand the noise, wondered 
also if they were flying inside the projection, or somewhere above it.

The voice changed to the PanAsian tongue. Ardmore could not understand 
the words, but he knew the general line it would take. Downer was 
telling the war lords that vengeance was upon them, and that any who 
wished to save their yellow skins would be wise to flee at once. He was 
telling them that, but with a great deal more emphasis and attention to 
detail and with an acute knowledge of their psychological weaknesses.

The gross and horrifying pseudo-creature stopped in the park before the 
palace, and, leaning over, touched a massive finger to a fleeing 
Asiatic. The man disappeared. He straightened up and again addressed the 
world in PanAsian -- but the square no longer contained PanAsians.

The fighting continued sporadically for hours, but it was no longer a 
battle; it was more in the nature of vermin extermination. Some of the 
Orientals surrendered; more died by their own hand; most died 
purposefully at the hands of their late serfs. A consolidated report 
from Thomas to Ardmore concerning the degree of progress in mopping up 
throughout the country was interrupted by the communications officer. 
"Urgent call from the priest in the capital city, sir."

"Put him on."

A second voice continued, "Major Ardmore?"

"Yes. Go ahead."

"We have captured the Prince Royal --"

"The hell you say!"

"Yes, sir. I request your permission to execute him."

"What was that, sir?"

"No! You heard me. I'll see him at your headquarters. Mind you don't let 
anything happen to him!"

Ardmore took time to shave off his beard and to change into uniform 
before he had the Prince Royal brought before him. When at last the 
PanAsian ruler stood before him he looked up and said without ceremony, 
"Any of your people I can save will be loaded up and shipped back where 
they came from."

"You are gracious."

"I suppose you know by now that you were tricked, hoaxed, by science 
that your culture can't match. You could have wiped us out any time, 
almost up to the last."

The Oriental remained impassive. Ardmore hoped fervently that the calm 
was superficial. He continued, "What I said about your people does not 
apply to you. I shall hold you as a common criminal."

The Prince's brows shot up. "For making war?"

"No -- you might argue your way out of that. For the mass murder you 
ordered in the territory of the United States --
your 'educational' lesson. You will be tried by a jury, like any other 
common criminal, and, I strongly suspect
hanged by the neck until you are dead!
"That's all. Take him away."

"One moment, please."

"What is it?"

"You recall the chess problem you saw in my palace?"

"What of it?"

"Could you give me the four-move solution?"

"Oh, that." Ardmore laughed heartily. "You'll believe anything, won't 
you? I had no solution; I was simply bluffing."

It was clear for an instant that something at last had cracked the 
Prince's cold self-control.

He never came to trial. They found him the next morning, his head 
collapsed across the chess-board he had asked for.