The Mercenary
By 
Jerry Pournelle
TO: Sergeant Herman Liech, Regular Army, U.S.A.; and Second Lieutenant Zeneke 
Asfaw, Kagnew Battalion, Imperial Guard of Ethiopia. 
Acknowledgments 
The battle in Chapter XIX is based in large part on the actual experience of Lieutenant 
Zeneke Asfaw, Ethiopian Imperial Guard, during the Korean War. 
Author's Note 
This novel is part of the series of "future histories" in which The Mote in God's Eye takes 
place, and it gives the early history of the events in that novel. 

NEW WASHINGTON

Chronology
1969 Neil Armstrong sets foot on Earth's Moon.
1990 Series of treaties between U.S. and Soviet Union creates the CoDominium. Military 
research and development outlawed.
1996 French Foreign Legion forms the basic element of the CoDominium Armed Ser-
vices.
2004 Alderson Drive perfected at Cal Tech.
2008 First Alderson Drive exploratory ships leave the Solar System.
2010-2100 CoDominium Intelligence Services engage in serious effort to suppress all 
research into technologies with military applications. They are aided by zero-growth 
organizations. Most scientific research ceases.
2010 Inhabitable planets discovered. Commercial exploitation begins.
2020 First interstellar colonies are founded. The CoDominium Space Navy and Marines 
are created, absorbing the original CoDominium Armed Services.
2020 Great Exodus period of colonization begins. First colonists are dissidents, mal-
contents, and voluntary adventurers.
2030 Sergei Lermontov is born in Moscow.
2040 Bureau of Relocation begins mass outsystem shipment of involuntary colonists.
2043 John Christian Falkenberg is born in Rome, Italy.
2060 Beginnings of nationalistic revival movements.
Prologue. 
An oily, acrid smell assaulted him, and the noise was incessant. Hundreds of 
thousands had passed through the spaceport. Their odor floated through the embarkation 
hall to blend with the yammer of the current victims crammed into the enclosure. 
The room was long and narrow. White painted concrete walls shut out bright 
Florida sunshine; but the walls were dingy with film and dirt that had been smeared about 
and not removed by the Bureau of Relocation's convict laborers. Cold luminescent panels 
glowed brightly above. 
The smell and sounds and glare blended with his own fears. He didn't belong here, 
but no one would listen.- No one wanted to. Anything he said was lost in the brutal totality 
of shouted orders, growls of surly trustee guards in their wire pen running the full length of 
the long hall; screaming children; the buzz of frightened humanity. 
They marched onward, toward the ship that would take them out of the solar system 
and toward an unknown fate. A few colonists blustered and argued. Some suppressed rage 
until it might be of use. Most were ashen-faced, shuffling forward without visible emotion, 
beyond fear. 
There were red lines painted on the concrete floor, and the colonists stayed carefully 

inside them. Even the children had learned to cooperate with BuRelock's guards. The 
colonists had a sameness about them; shabbily dressed in Welfare Issue clothing sprinkled 
with finery cast off by taxpayers and gleaned from Reclamation Stores or by begging or 
from a Welfare District Mission. 
John Christian Falkenberg knew he didn't look much like a typical colonist. He was 
a gangland youth, already at fifteen approaching six feet in height and thin because he hadn't 
yet filled out to his latest spurt of growth. No one would take him for a man, no matter how 
hard he tried to act like one. 
A forelock of sand-colored hair fell across his forehead and threatened to blind him, 
and he-automatically brushed it aside with a nervous gesture. His bearing and posture set 
him apart from the others, as did his almost comically serious expression. His clothing was 
also unusual: it was new, and fit well, and obviously not reclaimed. He wore a brocaded 
tunic of real wool and cotton, bright flared trousers, a new belt, and a tooled leather purse at 
his left hip. His clothes had cost more than his father could afford, but they did him little 
good here. Still he stood straight and tall, his lips set in defiance. 
John stalked forward to keep his place in the long line. His bag, regulation space 
duffel without tags, lay in front of him and he kicked it forward rather than stoop to pick it 
up. He thought it would look undignified to bend over, and his dignity was all he had left. 
Ahead of him was a family of five, three screaming children and their apathetic 
parents -- or, possibly, he thought, not parents. Citizen families were never very stable. 
BuRelock agents often farmed out their quotas, and their superiors were seldom concerned 
about the precise identities of those scooped up. 
The disorderly crowds moved inexorably toward the end of the room. Each line 
terminated at a wire cage containing a plastisteel desk. Each family group moved into a 
cage, the doors were closed, and their interviews began. 
The bored trustee placement officers hardly listened to their clients, and the colonists 
did not know what to say to them. Most knew nothing about Earth's outsystem worlds. A 
few had heard that Tanith was hot, Fulson’s World cold, and Sparta a hard place to live, 
but free. Some understood that Hadley had a good climate and was under the benign 
protection of American Express and the Colonial Office. For those sentenced to 
transportation without confinement, knowing that little could make a lot of difference to their 
futures; most didn't know and were shipped off to labor-hungry mining and agricultural 
worlds, or the hell of Tanith, where their lot would be hard labor, no matter what their 
sentences might read. 
The fifteen-year-old boy -- he liked to consider himself a man, but he knew many of 
his emotions were boyish no matter how hard he tried to control them -- had almost reached 
the interview cage. He felt despair. 
Once past the interview, he'd be packed into a BuRelock transportation ship. John 
turned again toward the gray-uniformed guard standing casually behind the large-mesh 
protective screen. “I keep trying to tell you, there's been a mistake! I shouldn’t -“ 

"Shut up," the guard answered. He motioned threateningly with the bell-shaped 
muzzle of his sonic stunner. "It's a mistake for everybody, right? Nobody belongs here. Tell 
the interview officer, sonny." 
John's lip curled, and he wanted to attack the guard, to make him listen. He fought 
to control the rising flush of hatred. "Damn you, I -“ 
The guard raised the weapon. The Citizen family in front of John huddled together, 
shoving forward to get away from this mad kid who could get them all tingled. John 
subsided and sullenly shuffled forward in the line. 
Tri-V commentators said the stunners were painless, but John wasn't eager to have 
it tried on him. The Tri-V people said a lot of things. They said most colonists were 
volunteers, and they said transportees were treated with dignity by the Bureau of Relocation. 
No one believed them. No one believed anything the government told them. They 
did not believe in the friendship among nations that had created the CoDominium, or in the 
election figures, or --
He reached the interview cage. The trustee wore the same uniform as the guards, 
but his gray coveralls had numbers stenciled across back and chest. There were wide gaps 
between the man's jaggedly pointed teeth, and the teeth showed yellow stains when he 
smiled. He smiled often, but there was no warmth in the expression. 
“Whatcha got for me?" the trustee asked. "Boy dressed like you can afford anything 
he wants. Where you want to go, boy?" 
"I'm not a colonist," John insisted. His anger rose. The trustee was no more than a 
prisoner himself -- what right had he to speak this way? "I demand to speak with a 
CoDominium officer." 
"One of those, huh?" The trustee's grin vanished. “Tanith for you." He pushed a 
button and the door on the opposite side of the cage opened. "Get on," he snapped. "Fore I 
call the guards." His finger poised menacingly over the small console on his desk. 
John took papers out of an inner pocket of his tunic. "I have an appointment to 
CoDominium Navy Service," he said. "I was ordered to report to Canaveral Embarkation 
Station for transport by BuRelock ship to Luna Base." "Get movin’-- uh?” The trustee 
stopped himself and the grin reappeared. "Let me see that." He held out a grimy hand. 
"No." John was more sure of himself now. "I'll show them to any CD officer, but 
you won't get your hands on them. Now call an officer." 
"Sure." The trustee didn't move. "Cost you ten credits." "What?" 
"Ten credits. Fifty bucks if you ain't got CD credits. Don't give me that look, kid. 
You don't pay, you go on the Tanith ship. Maybe they'll put things straight there, maybe they 
won't, but you'll be late reporting. Best you slip me something." 

John held out a twenty-dollar piece. "That all you got?" the trustee demanded. 
"O.K., O.K., have to do." He punched a code into the phone, and a minute later a petty 
officer in blue CoDominium Space Navy coveralls came into the cage 
"What you need, Smiley?" 
"Got one of yours. New middy. Got himself mixed up with the colonists." The 
trustee laughed as John struggled to control himself. 
The petty officer eyed Smiley with distaste. "Your orders, sir?" he said. 
John handed him the papers, afraid that he would never see them again. The Navy 
man glanced through them. "John Christian Falkenberg?” "Yes." 
"Thank you, sir." He turned to the trustee. "Gimme." "Aw, he can afford it." "Want 
me to call the Marines, Smiley?" "Jesus, you hardnosed - “ The trustee took the coin from 
his pocket and handed it over. 
"This way, please, sir," the Navy man said. He bent to pick up John's duffel. "And 
here's your money, sir." "Thanks. You keep it." 
The petty officer nodded. "Thank you, sir. Smiley, you bite one of our people again 
and I'll have the Marines look you up when you're off duty. Let's go, sir." 
John followed the spacer out of the cubicle. The petty officer was twice his age, and 
no one had ever called John "sir" before. It gave John Falkenberg a sense of belonging, a 
sense of having found something he had searched for all his life. Even the street gangs had 
been closed to him, and friends he had grown up with had always seemed part of someone 
else's life, not his own. Now, in seconds, he seemed to have found -- found what, he 
wondered. 
They went through narrow whitewashed corridors, then into the bright Florida 
sunshine. A narrow gangway led to the forward end of an enormous winged landing ship 
that floated at the end of a long pier crowded with colonists and cursing guards. 
The petty officer spoke briefly to the Marine sentries at the officers' gangway, then 
carefully saluted the officer at the head of the boarding gangway. John wanted to do the 
same, but he knew that you didn't salute in civilian clothing. His father had made him read 
books on military history and the customs of the Service as soon as he decided to find John 
an appointment to the Academy. 
Babble from the colonists filled the air until they were inside the ship. As the hatch 
closed behind him the last sounds he heard were the curses of the guards. 
"If you please, sir. This way." The petty officer led him through a maze of steel 
corridors, airtight bulkheads, ladders, pipes, wire races, and other unfamiliar sights. Although 
the CD Navy operated it, most of the ship belonged to BuRelock, and she stank. 
There were no view ports and John was lost after several turns in the corridors. 

The petty officer led on at a brisk pace until he came to a door that seemed no 
different from any other. He pressed a button on a panel outside it. 
"Come in," the panel answered. 
The compartment held eight tables, but only three men, all seated at a single booth. 
In contrast to the gray steel corridors outside, the compartment was almost cheerful, with 
paintings on the walls, padded furniture, and what seemed like carpets. 
The CoDominium seal hung from the far wall -- American eagle and Soviet sickle 
and hammer, red, white, and blue, white stars and red stars. 
The three men held drinks and seemed relaxed. All wore civilian clothing not much 
different from John's except that the older man wore a more conservative tunic. The others 
seemed about John's age, perhaps a year older; no more. 
"One of ours, sir," the petty officer announced. "New middy got lost with the 
colonists." 
One of the younger men laughed, but the older cut him off with a curt wave. "All 
right, coxswain. Thank you. Come in, we don't bite." 
"Thank you, sir," John said. He shuffled uncertainly in the doorway, wondering who 
these men were. Probably CD officers, he decided. The petty officer wouldn't act that way 
toward anyone else. Frightened as he was, his analytical, mind continued to work, and his 
eyes darted around the compartment. 
Definitely CD officers, he decided. Going back up to Luna Base after leave, or 
perhaps a duty tour in normal gravity. Naturally they'd worn civilian clothing. Wearing the 
CD uniform off duty earthside was an invitation to be murdered. 
"Lieutenant Hartmann, at your service," the older man introduced himself. 
"And Midshipmen Rolnikov and Bates. Your orders, please?" 
"John Christian Falkenberg, sir," John said. "Midshipman. Or I guess I'm a 
midshipman. But I'm not sure. I haven't been sworn in or anything." 
All three men laughed at that. "You will be, Mister," Hartmann said. He took John's 
orders. "But you're one of the damned all the same, swearing in or no." 
He examined the plastic sheet, comparing John's face to the photograph, then 
reading the bottom lines. He whistled. "Grand Senator Martin Grant. Appointed by the 
Navy's friend, no less. With him to bat for you, I wouldn't be surprised to see you outrank 
me in a few years." 
"Senator Grant is a former student of my father's," John said. 
"I see," Hartmann returned the orders and motioned John to sit with them. 

Then he turned to one of the other midshipmen. "As to you, Mister Bates, I fail to 
see the humor. What is so funny about one of your brother officers becoming lost among the 
colonists? You have never been lost?" 
Bates squirmed uncomfortably. His voice was high-pitched, and John realized that 
Bates was no older than himself. "Why didn't he show the guards his taxpayer status card?" 
Bates demanded. "They would have taken him to an officer. Wouldn't they?" 
Hartmann shrugged. 
"I didn't have one," John said. 
“Um.” Hartmann seemed to withdraw, although he didn't actually move. "Well," he 
said. "We don't usually get officers from Citizen families -“ 
"We are not Citizens," John said quickly. "My father is a CoDominium University 
professor, and I was born in Rome." 
"Ah," Hartmann said. "Did you live there long?" 
"No, sir. Father prefers to be a visiting faculty member. We have lived in many 
university towns." The lie came easily now, and John thought that Professor Falkenberg 
probably believed it after telling it so many times. John knew better: he had seen his father 
desperate to gain tenure, but always, always making too many enemies. 
He is too blunt and too honest. One explanation. He is a revolting S.O.B. and can't 
get along with anyone. That's another. I've lived with the situation so long I don't care 
anymore. But, it would have been nice to have a home. I think. 
Hartmann relaxed slightly. "Well, whatever the reason, Mister Falkenberg, you 
would have done better to arrange to be born a United States taxpayer. Or a Soviet party 
member. Unfortunately, you, like me, are doomed to remain in the lower ranks of the officer 
corps." 
There was a trace of accent to Hartmann's voice, but John couldn't place it exactly. 
German, certainly; there were many Germans in the CD fighting services. This was not the 
usual German, though; John had lived in Heidelberg long enough to learn many shades of the 
German speech. East German? Possibly. 
He realized the others were waiting for him to say something. "I thought, sir, I 
thought there was equality within the CD services." 
Hartmann shrugged. "In theory, yes. In practice -- the generals and admirals, even 
the captains who command ships, always seem to be Americans or Soviets. It is not the 
preference of the officer corps, Mister. We have no countries of origin among ourselves and 
no politics. Ever. The Fleet is our fatherland, and our only fatherland." He glanced at his 
glass. "Mister Bates, we need more to drink, and a glass for our new comrade. Hop it." 

"Aye, aye, sir." The pudgy middy left the compartment, passing the unattended bar 
in the corner on his way. He returned a moment later with a full bottle of American whiskey 
and an empty glass. 
Hartmann poured the glass full and pushed it toward John. "The Navy will teach you 
many things, Mister Midshipman John Christian Falkenberg. One of them is to drink. We all 
drink too much. Another thing we will teach you is why we do, but before you learn why, 
you must learn to do it." 
He lifted the glass. When John raised his and took only a sip, Hartmann frowned. 
"More," he said. The tone made it an order. 
John drank half the whiskey. He had been drinking beer for years, but his father did 
not often let him drink spirits. It did not taste good, and it burned his throat and stomach. 
"Now, why have you joined our noble band of brothers?" Hartmann asked. His 
voice carried a warning: he used bantering words, but under that was a more serious moodperhaps 
he was not mocking the Service at all when he called it a band of brothers. 
John hoped he was not. He had never had brothers. He had never had friends, or a 
home, and his father was a harsh schoolmaster, teaching him many things, but never giving 
him any affection-or friendship. 
"Honesty," Hartmann warned. "I will tell you a secret, the secret of the Fleet. We do 
not lie to our own." He looked at the other two midshipmen, and they nodded, Rolnikov 
slightly amused, Bates serious, as if in church. 
"Out there," Hartmann said, "out there they lie, and they cheat, and they use each 
other. With us this is not true. We are used, yes. But we know that we are used, and we are 
honest with each other. That is why the men are loyal to us. And why we are loyal to the 
Fleet." 
And that's significant, John thought, because Hartmann had glanced at the 
CoDominium banner on the wall, but he said nothing about the CD at all. Only the Fleet. 
"I'm here because my father wanted me out of the house and was able to get an appointment 
for me," John blurted. 
"You will find another reason, or you will not stay with us," Hartmann said. 
"Drink up." 
"Yes, sir." 
"The proper response is 'aye aye, sir.' " 
"Aye aye, sir." John drained the glass. 
Hartmann smiled. "Very good." He refilled his glass, then the others. "What is the 
mission of the CoDominium Navy, Mister Falkenberg?" 

"Sir? To carry out the will of the Grand Senate-" 
"No. It is to exist. And by existing, to keep some measure of peace and order in this 
corner of the galaxy. To buy enough time for men to get far enough away from Earth that 
when the damned fools kill themselves they will not have killed the human race. And that is 
our only mission." 
"Sir?" Midshipman Rolnikov spoke quietly and urgently. "Lieutenant, sir, should you 
drink so much?" 
"Yes. I should," Hartmann replied. "I thank you for your concern, Mister Rolnikov. 
But as you see, I am, at present, a passenger. The Service has no regulation against 
drinking. None at all, Mister Falkenberg. There is a strong prohibition against being unfit for 
one's duties, but none against drinking. And I have no duties at the moment." He raised his 
glass. "Save one. To speak to you, Mister Falkenberg, and to tell you the truth, so that you 
will either run from us or be damned with us for the rest of your life, for we never lie to our 
own." 
He fell silent for a moment, and Falkenberg wondered just how drunk Hartmann 
was. The officer seemed to be considering his words more carefully than his father ever had 
when he was drinking. 
"What do you know of the history of the CoDominium Navy, Mister Falkenberg?" 
Hartmann demanded. 
Probably more than you, John thought. Father's lecture on the growth of the 
CoDominium was famous. "It began with detente, and soon there was a web of formal 
treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union. The treaties did not end the basic 
enmity between these great powers, but their common interest was greater than their 
differences; for it was obviously better that there be only two great powers, than for there to 
be " No. Hartmann did not want to hear Professor Falkenberg's lecture. "Very little, sir." 
"We were created out of the French Foreign Legion," Hartmann said. "A legion of 
strangers, to fight for an artificial alliance of nations that hate each other. How can a man 
give his soul and life to that, Mister Falkenberg? What heart has an alliance? What power to 
inspire men's loyalty?" 
"I don't know, sir." 
"Nor do they." Hartmann waved at the other middies, who were carefully leaning 
back in their seats, acting as if they were listening, as if they were not listening-John couldn't 
tell. Perhaps they thought Hartmann was crazy drunk. Yet it had been a good question. 
"I don't know," John repeated. 
"Ah. But no one knows, for there is no answer. Men cannot die for an alliance. Yet 
we do fight. And we do die." . 

"At the Senate's orders," Midshipman" Rolnikov said quietly. 
"But we do not love the Senate," Hartmann said. "Do you love the Grand Senate, 
Mister Rolnikov? Do you, Mister Bates? We know what the Grand Senate is. Corrupt, 
politicians who lie to each other, and who use us to gather wealth for themselves, power for 
their own factions. If they can. They do not use us as much as they once did. Drink, 
gentlemen. Drink." 
The whiskey had taken its effect, and John's head buzzed. He felt sweat break out 
at his temples and in his armpits, and his stomach rebelled, but he lifted the glass and drank 
again, in unison with Rolnikov and Bates, and it was more meaningful than the Communion 
cup had ever been. He tried to ask himself why, but there was only emotion, no thought. He 
belonged here, with this man, with these men, and he was a man with them. 
As if he had read John's thoughts, Lieutenant Hartmann put his arms out, across the 
shoulders of the three boys, two on his left, John alone on his right, and he lowered his voice 
to speak to all of them. "No. We are here because the Fleet is our only fatherland, and our 
brothers in the Service are our only family. And if the Fleet should ever demand our lives, 
we give them as men because we have no other place to go." 
Twenty-seven years later . . . 
Earth floated eternally lovely above bleak lunar mountains. Daylight lay across 
California and most of the Pacific, and the glowing ocean made an impossibly blue 
background for a vortex of bright clouds swirling in a massive tropical storm. Beyond the 
lunar crags, man's home was a fragile ball amidst the black star-studded velvet of space; a 
ball that a man might reach out to grasp and crush in his bare hands. 
Grand Admiral Sergei Lermontov looked at the bright viewscreen image and 
thought how easy it would be for Earth to die. He kept her image on the viewscreen to 
remind himself of that every time he looked up. 
"That's all we can get you, Sergei." His visitor sat with hands carefully folded in his 
lap. A photograph would have shown him in a relaxed position, seated comfortably in the 
big visitor's chair covered with leathers from animals that grew on planets a hundred lightyears 
from Earth. Seen closer, the real man was not relaxed at all. He looked that way from 
his long experience as a politician. 
"I wish it could be more." Grand Senator Martin Grant shook his head slowly from 
side to side. "At least it's something." 
"We will lose ships and disband regiments. I cannot operate the Fleet on that 
budget." Lermontov's voice was flat and precise. He adjusted his rimless spectacles to a 
comfortable position on his thin nose. His gestures, like his voice, were precise and correct, 
and it was said in Navy wardrooms that the Grand Admiral practiced in front of a mirror. 
"You'll have to do the best you can. It's not even certain the United Party can 
survive the next election. God knows we won't be able to if we give any more to the Fleet." 

"But there is enough money for national armies." Lermontov looked significantly at 
Earth's image on the viewscreen. "Armies that can destroy Earth. Martin, how can we keep 
the peace if you will not let us have ships and men?" 
"You can't keep the peace if there's no CoDominium." Lermontov frowned. "Is 
there a real chance that the United Party will lose, then?" 
Martin Grant's head bobbed in an almost imperceptible movement. "Yes." 
"And the United States will withdraw from the CD." Lermontov thought of all that 
would mean, for Earth and for the nearly hundred worlds where men lived. "Not many of the 
colonies will survive without us. It is too soon. If we did not suppress science and research it 
might be different, but there are so few independent worlds- Martin, we are spread thin 
across the colony worlds. The CoDominium must help them. We created their problems 
with our colonial governments. We gave them no chances at all to live without us. We 
cannot let them go suddenly." Grant sat motionless, saying nothing. "Yes, I am preaching to 
the converted. But it is the Navy that gave Grand Senate this power over the colonies. I 
cannot help feeling responsible." 
Senator Grant's head moved slightly again, either a nod or a tremor. "I would have 
thought there was a lot you could do, Sergei. The Fleet obeys you, not the Senate. I know 
my nephew has made that clear enough. The warriors respect another warrior, but they've 
only contempt for us politicians." "You are inviting treason?" 
"No. Certainly I'm not suggesting that the Fleet try running the show. Military rule 
hasn't worked very well for us, has it?" Senator Grant turned his head slightly to indicate the 
globe behind him. Twenty nations on Earth were governed by armies, none of them very 
well. 
On the other hand, the politicians aren't doing a much better job, he thought. 
Nobody is. "We don't seem to have any goals, Sergei. We just hang on, hoping that things 
will get better. Why should they?" 
"I have almost ceased to hope for better conditions," Lermontov replied. "Now I 
only pray they do not get worse." His lips twitched slightly in a thin smile. "Those prayers are 
seldom answered." 
"I spoke with my brother yesterday," Grant said. "He's threatening to retire again. I 
think he means it this time." 
"But he cannot do that!" Lermontov shuddered. "Your brother is one of the few men 
in the U.S. government who understands how desperate is our need for time." 
"I told him that." 
"And?" 
Grant shook his head. "It's the rat race, Sergei. John doesn't see any end to it. It's all 

very well to play rear guard, but for what?" 
"Isn't the survival of civilization a worthwhile goal?" 
"If that's where we're headed, yes. But what assurance do we have that we'll 
achieve even that?" 
The Grand Admiral's smile was wintry. "None, of course. But we may be sure that 
nothing will survive if we do not have more time. A few years of peace, Martin. Much can 
happen in a few years. And if nothing does- why, we will have had a few years." 
The wall behind Lermontov was covered with banners and plaques. Centered 
among them was the CoDominium Seal, American eagle, Soviet sickle and hammer, red 
stars and white stars. Beneath it was the Navy's official motto: PEACE IS OUR 
PROFESSION. 
We chose that motto for them, Grant thought. The Senate made the Navy adopt it. 
Except for Lermontov I wonder how many Fleet officers believe it? What would they have 
chosen if left to themselves? 
There are always the warriors, and if you don't give them something worthwhile to But we can't live without them, because there comes a time when you have to 
have warriors. Like Sergei Lermontov. 
But do we have to have politicians like me? "I'll talk to John again. I've never been 
sure how serious he is about retiring anyway. You get used to power, and it's hard to lay it 
down. It only takes a little persuasion, some argument to let you justify keeping it. Power's 
more addicting than opiates." 
"But you can do nothing about our budget." "No. Fact is, there's more problems. 
We need Bronson's votes, and he's got demands." 
Lermontov's eyes narrowed, and his voice was thick with distaste. "At least we 
know how to deal with men like Bronson." And it was strange, Lermontov thought, that 
despicable creatures like Bronson should be so small as problems. They could be bribed. 
They expected to be bought. 
It was the men of honor who created the real problems. Men like Harmon in the 
United States and Kaslov in the Soviet Union, men with causes they would die for-they had 
brought mankind to this. 
But I would rather know Kaslov and Harmon and their friends than Bronson's 
people who support us. 
"You won't like some of what he's asked for," Grant said. "Isn't Colonel Falkenberg 
a special favorite of yours?" 
"He is one of our best men. I use him when the situation seems desperate. His men 
will follow him anywhere, and he does not waste lives in achieving our objectives." 

"He's apparently stepped on Bronson's toes once too often. They want him 
cashiered." 
"No." Lermontov's voice was firm. 
Martin Grant shook his head. Suddenly he felt very tired, despite the low gravity of 
the moon. "There's no choice, Sergei. It's not just personal dislike, although there's a lot of 
that too. Bronson's making up to Harmon, and Harmon thinks Falkenberg's dangerous." 
"Of course he is dangerous. He is a warrior. But he is a danger only to enemies of 
the CoDominium...." 
"Precisely." Grant sighed again. "Sergei, I know. We're robbing you of your best 
tools and then expecting you to do the work without them." 
"It is more than that, Martin. How do you control warriors?" 
"I beg your pardon?" 
"I asked, 'How do you control warriors?'" Lermontov adjusted his spectacles with 
the tips of the fingers of both hands. "By earning their respect, of course. But what happens 
if that respect is forfeit? There will be no controlling him; and you are speaking of one of the 
best military minds alive. You may live to regret this decision, Martin." 
"Can't be helped. Sergei, do you think I like telling you to dump a good man for a 
snake like Bronson? But it doesn't matter. The Patriot Party's ready to make a big thing out 
of this, and Falkenberg couldn't survive that kind of political pressure anyway, you know 
that. No officer can. His career's finished no matter what." "You have always supported him 
in the past." 
"God damn it, Sergei, I appointed him to the Academy in the first place. I cannot 
support him, and you can't either. He goes, or we lose Bronson's vote on the budget." 
"But why?" Lermontov demanded. "The real reason." 
Grant shrugged. "Bronson's or Harmon's? Bronson has hated Colonel Falkenberg 
ever since that business on Kennecott. The Bronson family lost a lot of money there, and it 
didn't help that Bronson had to vote in favor of giving Falkenberg his medals either. I doubt 
there's any more to it than that. 
"Harmon's a different matter. He really believes that Falkenberg might lead his 
troops against Earth. And once he asks for Falkenberg's scalp as a favor from Bronson-" 
"I see. But Harmon's reasons are ludicrous. At least at the moment they are 
ludicrous-" 
"If he's that damned dangerous, kill him," Grant said. He saw the look on" 
"Lermontov's face. "I don't really mean that, Sergei, but you'll have to do something." 

"I will." 
"Harmon thinks you might order Falkenberg to march on Earth." 
Lermontov looked up in surprise. 
"Yes. It's come to that. Not even Bronson's ready to ask for your scalp. Yet. But 
it's another reason why your special favorites have to take a low profile right now." 
"You speak of our best men." 
Grant's look was full of pain and sadness. "Sure. Anyone who's effective scares hell 
out of the Patriots. They want the CD eliminated entirely, and if they can't get that, they'll 
weaken it. They'll keep chewing away, too, getting rid of our most competent officers, and 
there's not a lot we can do. Maybe in a few years things will be ' better." 
"And perhaps they will be worse," Lermontov said. 
"Yeah. There's always that, too." 
Sergei Lermontov stared at the viewscreen long after Grand Senator Grant had left 
the office. Darkness crept slowly across the Pacific, leaving Hawaii in shadow, and still 
Lermontov sat without moving, his fingers drumming restlessly on the polished wood desk 
top. 
I knew it would come to this, he thought. Not so soon, though, not so soon. There is 
still so much to do before we can let go. 
And yet it will not be long before we have no choice. Perhaps we should act now. 
Lermontov recalled his youth in Moscow, when the Generals controlled the 
Presidium, and shuddered. No, he thought. The military virtues are useless for governing 
civilians. But the politicians are doing no better. 
If we had not suppressed scientific research. But that was done in the name of the 
peace. Prevent development of new weapons. Keep control of technology in the hands of 
the government, prevent technology from dictating policy-to all of us; it had seemed so 
reasonable, and besides, the policy was very old now. There were few trained scientists, 
because no one wanted to live under the restrictions of the Bureau of Technology. 
What is done is done, he thought, and looked around the office. Open cabinets held 
shelves covered with the mementos of a dozen worlds. Exotic shells lay next to reptilian 
stuffed figures and were framed by gleaming rocks that could bring fabulous prices if he 
cared to sell. 
Impulsively he reached toward the desk console and turned the selector switch. 
Images flashed across the view-screen until he saw a column of-men marching through a 
great open bubble of rock. They seemed dwarfed by the enormous cave. 

A detachment of CoDominium Marines marching through the central area of Luna 
Base. Senate chamber and government offices were far below the cavern, buried so deeply 
into rock that no weapon could destroy the CoDominium's leaders by surprise. Above them 
were the warriors who guarded, and this group was marching to relieve the guard. 
Lermontov turned the sound pickup but heard no more than the precise measured 
tramp of marching boots. They walked carefully in low gravity, their pace modified to 
accommodate their low weight; and they would, he knew, be just as precise on a highgravity 
world. 
They wore uniforms of blue and scarlet, with gleaming buttons of gold, badges of the 
dark rich bronze alloys found on Kennicott, berets made from some reptile that swam in 
Tanith's seas. Like the Grand Admiral's office, the CoDominium Marines showed the 
influence of worlds light-years away. "Sound off!" 
The order came through the pickup so loud that it startled the Admiral, and he 
turned down the volume as the men began to sing. 
Lermontov smiled to himself. That song was officially forbidden, and it was certainly 
not an appropriate choice for the guard mount about to take posts outside the Grand Senate 
chambers. It was also very nearly the official marching song of the Marines. And that, 
Admiral Lermontov thought, ought to tell something to any Senator listening. 
If Senators ever listened to anything from the military people. 
The measured verses came through, slowly, in time with the sinister gliding step of 
the troops. 
"We've left blood in the dirt of twenty-five worlds, we've built roads on a dozen 
more, and all that we have at the end of our hitch, buys a night with a second-class whore. 
"The Senate decrees, the Grand Admiral calls, the orders come down from on high, 
It's 'On Full Kits' and sound 'Board Ships,' We're sending you where you can die. 
"The lands that we take, the Senate gives back, rather more often than not, so the 
more that are killed, the less share the loot, and we won't be back to this spot 
"We'll break the hearts of your women and girls, we may break your arse as well, 
Then the Line Marines with their banners unfurled, will follow those banners to Hell. 
"We know the devil, his pomps and his works, Ah yes! we know them well! When 
we've served out our hitch as Line Marines, we can bugger the Senate of Hell! 
"Then we'll drink with our comrades and lay down our packs, we'll rest ten years on 
the flat of our backs, then it's 'On Full Kits' and 'Out of Your Racks,' you must build a new 
road through Hell! 
"The Fleet is our country, we sleep with a rifle, no one ever begot a son on his rifle, 

they pay us in gin and curse when we sin, there's not one that can stand us unless we're 
down wind, we're shot when we lose and turned out when we win, but we bury our 
comrades wherever they fall, and there's none that can face us though we've nothing at all." 
The verse ended with a flurry of drums, and Lermontov gently changed the selector 
back to the turning Earth. 
Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps there's hope, but only if we have time. 
Can the politicians buy enough time? 
II 
The honorable john Rogers Grant laid a palm across a winking light on his desk 
console and it went out, shutting off the security phone to Luna Base. His face held an 
expression of pleasure and distaste, as it always did when he was through talking with his 
brother. 
I don't think I've ever won an argument with Martin, he thought. Maybe it's because 
he knows me better than I know myself. 
Grant turned toward the Tri-V, where the speaker was in full form. The speech had 
begun quietly as Harmon's speeches always did, full of resonant tones and appeals to 
reason. The quiet voice had asked for attention, but now it had grown louder and demanded 
it. 
The background behind him changed as well, so that Harmon stood before the stars 
and stripes covering the hemisphere, with an American eagle splendid over the capitol. 
Harmon was working himself into one of his famous frenzies, and his face was contorted 
with emotion. 
"Honor? It is a word that Lipscomb no longer understands! Whatever he might have 
been-and my friends, we all know how great he once was-he is no longer one of us! His 
cronies, the dark little men who whisper to him, have corrupted even as great a man as 
President Lipscomb! 
"And our nation bleeds! She bleeds from a thousand wounds! People of America, 
hear me! She bleeds from the running sores of these men and their CoDominium! 
"They say that if we leave the CoDominium it will mean war. I pray God it will not, 
but if it does, why these are hard times. Many of us will be killed, but we would die as men! 
Today our friends and allies, the people of Hungary, the people of Rumania, the Czechs, the 
Slovaks, the Poles, all of them groan under the oppression of their Communist masters. 
Who keeps them there? We do! Our CoDominium! 
“We have become no more than slave masters. Better to die as men.” 

"But it will not come to that. The Russians will never fight. They are soft, as soft as 
we, their government is riddled with the same corruptions as ours. People of America, hear 
me! People of America, listen!" 
Grant spoke softly and the Tri-V turned itself off. A walnut panel slid over the 
darkened screen, and Grant spoke again. 
The desk opened to offer a small bottle of milk. There was nothing he could do for 
his ulcer despite the advances in medical science. Money was no problem, but there was 
never time for surgery and weeks with the regeneration stimulators. 
He leafed through papers on his desk. Most were reports with bright red security 
covers, and Grant closed his eyes for a moment. Harmon's speech was important and would 
probably affect the upcoming elections. The man is getting to be a nuisance, Grant thought. 
I should do something about him. 
He put the thought aside with a shudder. Harmon had been a friend, once. Lord, 
what have we come to? He opened the first report. 
There had been a riot at the International Federation of Labor convention. Three 
killed and the smooth plans for the re-election of Matt Brady thrown into confusion. Grant 
grimaced again and drank more milk. The Intelligence people had assured him this one 
would be easy. 
He dug through the reports and found that three of Harvey Bertram's child crusaders 
were responsible. They'd bugged Brady's suite. The idiot hadn't known better than to make 
deals in his room. Now Bertram's people had enough evidence of sell-outs to inflame floor 
sentiment in a dozen conventions. 
The report ended with a recommendation that the government drop Brady and 
concentrate support on MacKnight, who had a good reputation and whose file in the CIA 
building bulged with information. MacKnight would be easy to control. Grant nodded to 
himself and scrawled his signature on the action form. 
He threw it into the "Top Secret: Out" tray and watched it vanish. There was no 
point in wasting time. Then he wondered idly what would happen to Brady. Matt Brady had 
been a good United Party man; blast Bertram's people anyway. 
He took up the next file, but before he could open it his secretary came in. Grant 
looked up and smiled, glad of his decision to ignore the electronics. Some executives never 
saw their secretaries for weeks at a time. 
"Your appointment, sir," she said. "And it's time for your nerve tonic." 
He grunted. "I'd rather die." But he let her pour a shot glass of evil-tasting stuff, and 
he tossed it off and chased it with milk. Then he glanced at his watch, but that wasn't 
necessary. Miss Ackridge knew the travel time to every Washington office. There'd be no 

time to start another report, which suited Grant fine. 
He let her help him into his black coat and brush off a few silver hairs. He didn't feel 
sixty-five, but he looked it now. It happened all at once. Five years ago he could pass for 
forty. John saw the girl in the mirror behind him and knew that she loved him, but it wouldn't 
work. 
And why the hell not? he wondered. It isn't as if you're pining away for Priscilla. By 
the time she died you were praying it would happen, and we married late to begin with. So, 
why the hell do you act as if the great love of your life has gone out forever? All you'd have 
to do is turn around, say five words, and-and what? She wouldn't be the perfect secretary 
any longer, and secretaries are harder to find than mistresses. Let it alone. 
She stood there a moment longer, then moved away. "Your daughter wants to see 
you this evening," she told him. "She's driving down this afternoon and says it's important." 
"Know why?" Grant asked. Ackridge knew more about Sharon than Grant did. 
Possibly a lot more. 
"I can guess. I think her young man has asked her." 
John nodded. It wasn't unexpected, but still it hurt. So soon, so soon. They grow so 
fast when you're an old man. John Jr. was a commander in the CoDominium Navy, soon to 
be a captain with a ship of his own. Frederick was dead in the same accident as his mother. 
And now Sharon, the baby, had found another life . .. not that they'd been close since he'd 
taken this job. 
"Run his name through CIA, Flora. I meant to do that months ago. They won't find 
anything, but we'll need it for the records." 
"Yes, sir. You'd better be on your way now. Your drivers are outside." 
He scooped up his briefcase. "I won't be back tonight. Have my car sent around to 
the White House, will you? I'll drive myself home tonight." 
He acknowledged the salutes of the driver and armed mechanic with a cheery wave 
and followed them to the elevator at the end of the long corridor. Paintings and photographs 
of ancient battles hung along both sides of the hall, and there was carpet on the floor, but 
otherwise it was like a cave. Blasted Pentagon, he thought for the hundredth time. Silliest 
building ever constructed. Nobody can find anything, and it can't be guarded at any price. 
Why couldn't someone have bombed it? 
They took a surface car to the White House. A flight would have been another detail 
to worry about, and besides, this way he got to see the cherry trees and flower beds around 
the Jefferson. The Potomac was a sludgy brown mess. You could swim in it if you had a 
strong stomach, but the Army Engineers had "improved" it a few administrations back. 
They'd given it concrete banks. Now they were ripping them out, and it brought down 
mudslides. 

They drove through rows of government buildings, some abandoned. Urban renewal 
had given Washington all the office space the Government would ever need, and more, so 
that there were these empty buildings as relics of the time when D.C. was the most crimeridden 
city in the world. Sometime in Grant's youth, though, they'd hustled everyone out of 
Washington who didn't work there, with bulldozers quickly following to demolish the 
tenements. For political reasons the offices had gone in as quickly as the other buildings 
were torn down. 
They passed the Population Control Bureau and drove around the Ellipse and past 
Old State to the gate. The guard carefully checked his identity and made him put his palm on 
the little scanning plate. Then they entered the tunnel to the White House basement. 
The President stood when Grant entered the Oval Office, and the others shot to 
their feet as if they had ejection charges under them. Grant shook hands around but looked 
closely at Lipscomb. The President was feeling the strain, no question about it. Well, they all 
were. 
The secretary of defense wasn't there, but then he never was. The secretary was a 
political hack who controlled a bloc of Aerospace Guild votes and an even larger bloc of 
aerospace industry stocks. As long as government contracts kept his companies busy 
employing his men, he didn't give a damn about policy. He could sit in on formal Cabinet 
sessions where nothing was ever said, and no one would know the difference. John Grant 
was Defense as much as he was CIA. 
Few of the men in the Oval Office were well known to the public. Except for the 
President any one of them could have walked the streets of any city except Washington 
without fear of recognition. But the power they controlled, as assistants and deputies, was 
immense, and they all knew it. There was no need to pretend here. 
The servitor brought drinks and Grant accepted Scotch. Some of the others didn't 
trust a man who wouldn't drink with them. His ulcer would give him hell, and his doctor 
more, but doctors and ulcers didn't understand the realities of power. Neither, thought 
Grant, do I or any of us, but we've got it. 
"Mr. Karins, would you begin?" the President asked. Heads swiveled to the west 
wall where Karins stood at the briefing screen. To his right a polar projection of Earth 
glowed with lights showing the status of the forces that the President ordered, but Grant 
controlled. 
Karins stood confidently, his paunch spilling out over his belt. The fat was an 
obscenity in so young a man. Herman Karins was the second youngest man in the room, 
assistant director of the office of management and budget, and said to be one of the most 
brilliant economists Yale had ever produced. He was also the best political technician in the 
country, but he hadn't learned that at Yale. 
He activated the screen to show a set of figures. "I have the latest poll results," 
Karins said too loudly. "This is the real stuff, not the slop we give the press. It stinks." 
Grant nodded. It certainly did. The Unity Party was hovering around thirty-eight 

percent, just about evenly divided between the Republican and Democratic wings. Harmon's 
Patriot Party had just over twenty-five. Millington's violently left wing Liberation Party had 
its usual ten, but the real shocker was Bertram's Freedom Party. Bertram's popularity stood 
at an unbelievable twenty percent of the population. 
"These are figures for those who have an opinion and might vote," Karins said. "Of 
course there's the usual gang that doesn't give a damn, but we know how they split off. They 
go to whomever got to 'em last anyway. You see the bad news." 
"You're sure of this?" the assistant postmaster general asked. He was the leader of 
the Republican wing of Unity, and it hadn't been six months since he had told them they 
could forget Bertram. 
"Yes, sir," Karins said. "And it's growing. Those riots at the labor convention 
probably gave 'em another five points we don't show. Give Bertram six months and he'll be 
ahead of us. How you like them apples, boys and girls?" 
"There is no need to be flippant, Mr. Karins," the President said. 
"Sorry, Mr. President." Karins wasn't sorry at all and he grinned at the assistant 
postmaster general with triumph. Then he flipped the switches to show new charts. 
"Soft and hard," Karins said. "You'll notice Bertram's vote is pretty soft, but 
solidifying. Harmon's is so hard you couldn't get 'em away from him without you use nukes. 
And ours is a little like butter. Mr. President, I can't even guarantee we'll be the largest party 
after the election, much less that we can hold a majority." 
"Incredible," the chairman of the joint chiefs muttered. 
"Worse than incredible." The commerce rep shook her head in disbelief. "A disaster. 
Who will win?" 
Karins shrugged. "Toss-up, but if I had to say, I'd pick Bertram. He's getting more 
of our vote than Harmon." . 
"You've been quiet, John," the President said. "What are your thoughts here?" 
"Well, sir, it's fairly obvious what the result will be no matter who wins as long as it 
isn't us." Grant lifted his Scotch and sipped with relish. He decided to have another and to 
hell with the ulcer. "If Harmon wins, he pulls out of the CoDominium, and we have war. If 
Bertram takes over, he relaxes security, Harmon drives him out with his storm troopers, and 
we have war anyway." 
Karins nodded. "I don't figure Bertram could hold power more'n a year, probably 
not that long. Man's too honest." 
The President sighed loudly. "I can recall a time when men said that about me, Mr. 
Karins." 

"It's still true, Mr. President." Karins spoke hurriedly. "But you're realistic enough to 
let us do what we have to do. Bertram wouldn't." 
"So what do we do about it?" the President asked gently. 
"Rig the election," Karins answered quickly. "I give out the popularity figures here." 
He produced a chart indicating a majority popularity for Unity. "Then we keep pumping out 
more faked stuff while Mr. Grant's people work on the vote-counting computers. Hell, it's 
been done before." 
"Won't work this time." They turned to look at the youngest man in the room. Larry 
Moriarty, assistant to the President, and sometimes called the "resident heretic," blushed at 
the attention. "The people know better. Bertram's people are already taking jobs in the 
computer centers, aren't they, Mr. Grant? They'll see it in a minute." 
Grant nodded. He'd sent the report over the day before; interesting that Moriarty 
had already digested it. 
"You make this a straight rigged election, and you'll have to use CoDominium 
Marines to keep order," Moriarty continued. 
"The day I need CoDominium Marines to put down riots in the United States is the 
day I resign," the President said coldly. "I may be a realist, but there are limits to what I will 
do. You'll need a new chief, gentlemen." 
"That's easy to say, Mr. President," Grant said. He wanted his pipe, but the doctors 
had forbidden it. To hell with them, he thought, and took a cigarette from a pack on the 
table. "It's easy to say, but you can't do it." 
The President frowned. "Why not?" 
Grant shook his head. "The Unity Party supports the CoDominium, and the 
CoDominium keeps the peace. An ugly peace, but by God, peace. I wish we hadn't got 
support for the CoDominium treaties tied so thoroughly to the Unity Party, but it is and that's 
that. And you know damn well that even in the Party it's only a thin majority that supports 
the CoDominium. Right, Harry?" 
The assistant postmaster general nodded. "But don't forget, there's support for the 
CD in Bertram's group." 
"Sure, but they hate our guts," Moriarty said. "They say we're corrupt. And they're 
right." 
"So flipping what if they're right?" Karins snapped. "We're in, they're out. Anybody 
who's in for long is corrupt. If he isn't, he's not in." 
"I fail to see the point of this discussion," the President interrupted. "I for one do not 
enjoy being reminded of all the things I have done to keep this office. The question is, what 
are we going to do? I feel it only fair to warn you that nothing could make me happier than 

to have Mr. Bertram sit in this chair. I've been President for a long time, and I'm tired. I 
don't want the job anymore." 
III 
Everyone spoke at once, shouting to the President, murmuring to their neighbors, 
until Grant cleared his throat loudly. "Mr. President," he said, using the tone of command 
he'd been taught during his brief tour in the Army Reserve. "Mr. President, if you will pardon 
me, that is a ludicrous suggestion. There is no one else in the Unity Party who has even a 
ghost of a chance of winning. You alone remain popular. Even Mr. Harmon speaks as well 
of you as he does of anyone not in his group. You cannot resign without dragging the Unity 
Party with you, and you cannot give that chair to Mr. Bertram because he couldn't hold it six 
months." 
"Would that be so bad?" President Lipscomb leaned toward Grant with the 
confidential manner he used in his fireside chats to the people. "Are we really so sure that 
only we can save the human race, John? Or do we only wish to keep power?" 
"Both, I suppose," Grant said. "Not that I'd mind retiring myself." 
"Retire!" Karins snorted. "You let Bertram's clean babies in the files for two hours, 
and none of us will retire to anything better'n a CD prison planet. You got to be kidding, 
retire." 
"That may be true," the President said. "There's other ways," Karins suggested. 
"General, what happens if Harmon takes power and starts his war?" 
"Mr. Grant knows better than I do," General Carpenter said. When the others 
stared at him, Carpenter continued. "No one has ever fought a nuclear war. Why should the 
uniform make me more of an expert than you? Maybe we could win. Heavy casualties, very 
heavy, but our defenses are good." 
Carpenter gestured at the moving lights on the wall projection. "We have better 
technology than the Russki's. Our laser guns ought to get most of their missiles. CD Fleet 
won't let either of us use space weapons. We might win." 
"We might." Lipscomb was grim. "John?" 
"We might not win. We might kill more than half the human race. We might get 
more. How in God's name do I know what happens when we throw nuclear weapons 
around?" 
"But the Russians aren't prepared," Commerce said. "If we hit them without 
warning-people never change governments in the middle of a war." 
President Lipscomb sighed. "I am not going to start a nuclear war to retain power. 

Whatever I have done, I have done to keep peace. That is my last excuse. I could not live 
with myself if I sacrifice peace to keep power." 
Grant cleared his throat gently. "We couldn't do it anyway. If we start converting 
defensive missiles to offensive, CoDominium Intelligence would hear about it in ten days. 
The Treaty prevents that, you know." 
He lit another cigarette. "We aren't the only threat to the CD, anyway. There's 
always Kaslov." 
Kaslov was a pure Stalinist, who wanted to liberate Earth for Communism. Some 
called him the last Communist, but of course he wasn't the last. He had plenty of followers. 
Grant could remember a secret conference with Ambassador Chernikov only weeks ago. 
The Soviet was a polished diplomat, but it was obvious that he wanted something 
desperately. He wanted the United States to keep the pressure on, not relax her defenses at 
the borders of the U.S. sphere of influence, because if the Communist probes ever took 
anything from the U.S. without a hard fight, Kaslov would gain more influence at home. He 
might even win control of the Presidium. 
"Nationalism everywhere," the President sighed. "Why?" 
No one had an answer to that. Harmon gained power in the U.S. and Kaslov in the 
Soviet Union; while a dozen petty nationalist leaders gained power in a dozen other 
countries. Some thought it started with Japan's nationalistic revival. 
"This is all nonsense," said the Assistant Postmaster General. "We aren't going to 
quit and we aren't starting any wars. Now what does it take to get the support away from 
Mr. Clean Bertram and funnel it back to us where it belongs? A good scandal, right? Find 
Bertram's dirtier than we are, right? Worked plenty of times before. You can steal people 
blind if you scream loud enough about how the other guy's a crook." 
"Such as?" Karins prompted. 
"Working with the Japs. Giving the Japs nukes, maybe. Supporting Meiji's 
independence movement. I'm sure Mr. Grant can arrange something." 
Karins nodded vigorously. "That might do it. Disillusion his organizers. The pro-
CoDominium people in his outfit would come to us like a shot." 
Karins paused and chuckled. "Course some of them will head for Millington's 
bunch, too." 
They all laughed. No one worried about Millington's Liberation Party. His madmen 
caused riots and kept the taxpayers afraid, and made a number of security arrangements 
highly popular. The Liberation Party gave the police some heads to crack, nice riots for Tri-
V to keep the Citizens amused and the taxpayers happy. 
"I think we can safely leave the details to Mr. Grant." Karins grinned broadly. 

"What will you do, John?" the President asked.. 
"Do you really want to know, Mr. President?" Moriarty interrupted. "I don't." 
"Nor do I, but if I can condone it, I can at least find out what it is. What will you do, 
John?" 
"Frame-up, I suppose. Get a plot going, then uncover it." 
"That?" Moriarty shook his head. "It's got to be good. The people are beginning to 
wonder about all these plots." 
Grant nodded. "There will be evidence. Hard-core evidence. A secret arsenal of 
nuclear weapons." 
There was a gasp. Then Karins grinned widely again. "Oh, man, that's tore it. 
Hidden nukes. Real ones, I suppose?" 
"Of course." Grant looked with distaste at the fat youth. What would be the point of 
fake nuclear weapons? But Karins lived in a world of deception, so much so that fake 
weapons might be appropriate in it. 
"Better have lots of cops when you break that story," Karins said. "People hear that, 
they'll tear Bertram apart." 
True enough, Grant thought. It was a point he'd have to remember. Protection of 
those kids wouldn't be easy. Not since one militant group atom-bombed Bakersfield, 
California, and a criminal syndicate tried to hold Seattle for a hundred million ransom. 
People no longer thought of private stocks of atomic weapons as something to laugh at. 
"We won't involve Mr. Bertram personally," the President said grimly. "Not under 
any circumstances. Is that understood?" 
"Yes, sir," John answered quickly. He hadn't liked the idea either. "Just some of his 
top aides." Grant stubbed out the cigarette. It, or something, had left a foul taste in his 
mouth. "I'll have them end up with the CD for final custody. Sentenced to transportation. My 
brother can arrange it so they don't have hard sentences." 
"Sure. They can be independent planters on Tanith if they'll cooperate," Karins said. 
"You can see they don't suffer." 
Like hell, Grant thought. Life on Tanith was no joy under the best conditions. 
"There's one more thing," the President said. "I understand Grand Senator Bronson 
wants something from the CD. Some officer was a little too efficient at uncovering the 
Bronson family deals, and they want him removed." The President looked as if he'd tasted 
sour milk. "I hate this, John. I hate it, but we need Bronson's support. Can you speak to 
your brother?" 

"I already have," Grant said. "It will be arranged." 
Grant left the meeting a few minutes later. The others could continue in endless 
discussion, but Grant saw no point to them. The action needed was clear, and the longer 
they waited the more time Bertram would have to assemble his supporters and harden his 
support. If something were to be done, it should be now. 
Grant had found all his life that the wrong action taken decisively and in time was 
better than the right action taken later. After he reached the Pentagon he summoned his 
deputies and issued orders. It took no more than an hour to set the machinery in motion. 
Grant's colleagues always said he was rash, too quick to take action without 
examining the consequences. They also conceded that he was lucky. To Grant it wasn't 
luck, and he did consider the consequences; but he anticipated events rather than reacted to 
crisis. He had known that Bertram's support was growing alarmingly for weeks and had 
made contingency plans long before going to the conference with the President. 
Now it was clear that action must be taken immediately. Within days there would be 
leaks from the conference. Nothing about the actions to be taken, but there would be 
rumors about the alarm and concern. A secretary would notice that Grant had come back to 
the Pentagon after dismissing his driver. Another would see that Karins chuckled more than 
usual when he left the Oval Office, or that two political enemies came out together and went 
off to have a drink. Another would hear talk about Bertram, and soon it would be all over 
Washington: the President was worried about Bertram's popularity. 
Since the leaks were inevitable, he should act while this might work. Grant dismissed 
his aides with a sense of satisfaction. He had been ready, and the crisis would be over 
before it began. It was only after he was alone that he crossed the paneled room to the teak 
cabinet and poured a double Scotch. 
The Maryland countryside slipped past far below as the Cadillac cruised on 
autopilot. A ribbon antenna ran almost to Grant's house, and he watched the twilight scene 
with as much relaxation as he ever achieved lately. House lights blinked below, and a few 
surface cars ran along the roads. Behind him was the sprawling mass of Columbia Welfare 
Island where most of those displaced from Washington had gone. Now the inhabitants were 
third generation and had never known any other life. 
He grimaced. Welfare Islands were lumps of concrete buildings and roof parks, 
containers for the seething resentment of useless lives kept placid by Government furnished 
supplies of Tanith hashpot and borloi and American cheap booze. A man born in one of 
those complexes could stay there all his life, and many did. 
Grant tried to imagine what it would be like there, but he couldn't. Reports from his 
agents gave an intellectual picture, but there was no way to identify with those people. He 
could not feel the hopelessness and dulled senses, burning hatreds, terrors, bitter pride of 
street gangs. 

Karins knew, though. Karins had begun his life in a Welfare Island somewhere in the 
Midwest. Karins clawed his way through the schools to a scholarship and a ticket out 
forever. He'd resisted stimulants and dope and Tri-V. Was it worth it? Grant wondered. 
And of course there was another way out of Welfare, as a voluntary colonist; but so few 
took that route now. Once there had been a lot of them. 
The speaker on the dash suddenly came to life cutting off Beethoven in mid bar. 
"WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING A GUARDED AREA. UNAUTHORIZED 
CRAFT WILL BE DESTROYED WITHOUT FURTHER WARNING. IF YOU HAVE 
LEGITIMATE ERRANDS IN THIS RESTRICTED AREA, FOLLOW THE GUIDE 
BEAM TO THE POLICE CHECK STATION. THIS IS A FINAL WARNING." 
The Cadillac automatically turned off course to ride the beam down to State Police 
headquarters, and Grant cursed. He activated the mike and spoke softly. "This is John Grant 
of Peachem's Bay. Something seems to be wrong With my transponder." 
There was a short pause, then a soft feminine voice came from the dash speaker. 
"We are very sorry, Mr. Grant. Your signal is correct. Our identification unit is out of order. 
Please proceed to your home." 
"Get that damned thing fixed before it shoots down a taxpayer," Grant said. Ann 
Arundel County was a Unity stronghold. How long would that last after an accident like 
that? He took the manual controls and cut across country, ignoring regulations. They could 
only give him a ticket now that they knew who he was, and his banking computer would pay 
it without bothering to tell him of it. 
It brought a grim smile to his face. Traffic regulations were broken, computers noted 
it and levied fines, other computers paid them, and no human ever became aware of them. It 
was only if there were enough tickets accumulated to bring a warning of license suspension 
that a taxpayer learned of the things-unless he liked checking his bank statements himself. 
His home lay ahead, a big rambling early twentieth-century place on the cove. His 
yacht was anchored offshore, and it gave him a guilty twinge. She wasn't neglected, but she 
was too much in the hands of paid crew, too long without attention from her owner. 
Carver, the chauffeur, rushed out to help Grant down from the Cadillac. Hapwood 
was waiting in the big library with a glass of sherry. Prince Bismark, shivering in the presence 
of his god, put his Doberman head on Grant's lap, ready to leap into the fire at command. 
There was irony in the situation, Grant thought. At home he enjoyed the power of a 
feudal lord, but it was limited by how strongly the staff wanted to stay out of Welfare. But he 
only had to lift the Security phone in the corner, and his real power, completely invisible and 
limited only by what the President wanted to find out, would operate. Money gave him the 
visible power, heredity gave him the power over the dog; what gave him the real power of 
the Security phone? 
"What time would you like dinner, sir?" Hapwood asked. "And Miss Sharon is here 
with a guest." 

"A guest?" 
"Yes, sir. A young man, Mr. Allan Torrey, sir." 
"Have they eaten?" 
"Yes, sir. Miss Ackridge called to say that you would be late for dinner." 
"All right, Hapwood. I'll eat now and see Miss Grant and her guest afterwards." 
"Very good, sir. I will inform the cook." Hapwood left the room invisibly. 
Grant smiled again. Hapwood was another figure from Welfare and had grown up 
speaking a dialect Grant would never recognize. For some reason he had been impressed 
by English butlers he'd seen on Tri-V and cultivated their manner-and now he was known all 
over the county as the perfect household manager. 
Hapwood didn't know it, but Grant had a record of every cent his butler took in: 
kickbacks from grocers and caterers, contributions from the gardeners, and the surprisingly 
well-managed investment portfolio. Hapwood could easily retire to his own house and live 
the life of a taxpayer investor. 
Why? Grant wondered idly. Why does he stay on? It makes life easier for me, but 
why? It had intrigued Grant enough to have his agents look into Hapwood, but the man had 
no politics other than staunch support for Unity. The only suspicious thing about his contacts 
was the refinement with which he extracted money from every transaction involving Grant's 
house. Hapwood had no children, and his sexual needs were satisfied by infrequent visits to 
the fringe areas around Welfare. 
Grant ate mechanically, hurrying to be through and see his daughter, yet he was 
afraid to meet the boy she had brought home. For a moment he thought of using the Security 
phone to find out more about him, but he shook his head angrily. Too much security thinking 
wasn't good. 
For once he was going to be a parent, meeting his daughter's intended and nothing 
more. 
He left his dinner unfinished without thinking how much the remnants of steak would 
have cost, or that Hapwood would probably sell them somewhere, and went to the library. 
He sat behind the massive Oriental fruitwood desk and had a brandy. 
Behind him and to both sides the walls were lined with book shelves, immaculate 
dust-free accounts of the people of dead empires. It had been years since he had read one. 
Now all his reading was confined to reports with bright red covers. The reports told live 
stories about living people, but sometimes, late at night, Grant wondered if his country were 
not as dead as the empires in his books. 
Grant loved his country but hated her people, all of them: Karins and the new breed, 
the tranquilized Citizens in their Welfare Islands, the smug taxpayers grimly holding on to 

their privileges. What, then, do I love? he wondered. Only our history, and the greatness 
that once was the United States, and that's found only in those books and in old buildings, 
never in the security reports. 
Where are the patriots? All of them have become Patriots, stupid men and women 
following a leader toward nothing. Not even glory. 
Then Sharon came in. She was a lovely girl, far prettier than her mother had ever 
been, but she lacked her mother's poise. She ushered in a tall boy in his early twenties. 
Grant studied the newcomer as they came toward him. Nice-looking boy. Long 
hair, neatly trimmed, conservative mustache for these times. Blue and violet tunic, red scarf 
... a little flashy, but even John Jr. went in for flashy clothes when he got out of CD uniform. 
The boy walked hesitantly, almost timidly, and Grant wondered if it were fear of him 
and his position in the government, or only the natural nervousness of a young man about to 
meet his fiancée’s wealthy father. The tiny diamond on Sharon's hand sparkled in the yellow 
light from the fireplace, and she held the hand in an unnatural position. 
"Daddy, I ... I've talked so much about him, this is Allan. He's just asked me to 
marry him!" She sparkled, Grant saw; and she spoke trustingly, sure of his approval, never 
thinking he might object. Grant wondered if Sharon weren't the only person in the country 
who didn't fear him. Except for John Jr., who didn't have to be afraid. 
John was out of the reach of Grant's Security phone. The CD Fleet takes care of its 
own. 
At least he's asked her to marry him. He might have simply moved in with her. Or 
has he already? Grant stood and extended his hand. "Hello, Allan." 
Torrey's grip was firm, but his eyes avoided Grant's. "So you want to marry my 
daughter." Grant glanced pointedly at her left hand. "It appears that she approves the idea." 
"Yes, sir. Uh, sir, she wanted to wait and ask you, but I insisted. It's my fault, sir." 
Torrey looked up at him this time, almost in defiance. 
"Yes." Grant sat again. "Well, Sharon, as long as you're home for the evening, I wish 
you'd speak to Hapwood about Prince Bismark. I do not think the animal is properly fed." 
"You mean right now?" she asked. She tightened her small mouth into a pout. 
"Really, Daddy, this is Victorian! Sending me out of the room while you talk to my 
fiancée!" 
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Grant said nothing else, and finally she turned away. 
Then: "Don't let him frighten you, Allan. He's about as dangerous as that-as that 
moosehead in the trophy room!" She fled before there could be any reply. 

IV 
They sat awkwardly. Grant left his desk to sit near the fire with Torrey. Drinks, offer 
of a smoke, all the usual amenities-he did them all; but finally Hapwood had brought their 
refreshments and the door was closed. 
"All right, Allan," John Grant began. "Let us be trite and get it over with. How do 
you intend to support her?" 
Torrey looked straight at him this time. His eyes danced with what Grant was certain 
was concealed amusement. "I expect to be appointed to a good post in the Department of 
the Interior. I'm a trained engineer." 
"Interior?" Grant thought for a second. The answer surprised him-he hadn't thought 
the boy was another office seeker. "I suppose it can be arranged." 
Torrey grinned. It was an infectious grin, and Grant liked it. "Well, sir, it's already 
arranged. I wasn't asking for a job." 
"Oh?" Grant shrugged. "I hadn't heard." 
"Deputy Assistant Secretary for Natural Resources. I took a master's in ecology." 
"That's interesting, but I would have thought I'd have heard of your coming 
appointment." 
"It won't be official yet, sir. Not until Mr. Bertram is elected President. For the 
moment I'm on his staff." The grin was still there, and it was friendly, not hostile. The boy 
thought politics was a game. He wanted to win, but it was only a game. 
And he's seen real polls, Grant thought. "Just what do you do for Mr. Bertram, 
then?" 
Allan shrugged. "Write speeches, carry the mail, run the Xerox-you've been in 
campaign headquarters. I'm the guy who gets the jobs no one else wants." 
Grant laughed. "I did start as a gopher, but I soon hired my own out of what I once 
contributed to the Party. They did not try that trick again with me. I don't suppose that 
course is open to you." 
"No, sir. My father's a taxpayer, but paying taxes is pretty tough just now-" 
"Yes." Well, at least he wasn't from a Citizen family. Grant would learn the details 
from Ackridge tomorrow, for now the important thing was to get to know the boy. 
It was difficult. Allan was frank and relaxed, and Grant was pleased to see that he 
refused a third drink, but there was little to talk about. Torrey had no conception of the 

realities of politics. He was one of Bertram's child crusaders, and he was out to save the 
United States from people like John Grant, although he was too polite to say so. 
And I was once that young, Grant thought. I wanted to save the world, but it was so 
different then. No one wanted to end the CoDominium when I was young. We were too 
happy to have the Second Cold War over with. What happened to the great sense of relief 
when we could stop worrying about atomic wars? When I was young that was all we 
thought of, that we would be the last generation. Now they take it for granted that we'll have 
peace forever. Is peace such a little thing? 
"There's so much to do," Torrey was saying. "The Baja Project, thermal pollution of 
the Sea of Cortez They're killing off a whole ecology just to create estates for the taxpayers. 
"I know it isn't your department, sir, you probably don't even know what they're 
doing. But Lipscomb has been in office too long! Corruption, special interests, it's time we 
had a genuine two-party system again instead of things going back and forth between the 
wings of Unity. It's time for a change, and Mr. Bertram's the right man, I know he is." 
Grant's smile was thin, but he managed it. "You'll hardly expect me to agree with 
you," Grant said. "No, sir." 
Grant sighed. "But perhaps you're right at that. I must say I wouldn't mind retiring, 
so that I could live in this house instead of merely visiting it on weekends." 
What was the point? Grant wondered. He'd never convince this boy, and Sharon 
wanted him. Torrey would drop Bertram after the scandals broke. 
And what explanations were there anyway? The Baja Project was developed to aid 
a syndicate of taxpayers in the six states of the old former Republic of Mexico. The 
Government needed them, and they didn't care about whales and fish. Shortsighted, yes, 
and Grant had tried to argue them into changing the project, but they wouldn't, and politics is 
the art of the possible. 
Finally, painfully, the interview, ended. Sharon came in, grinning sheepishly because 
she was engaged to one of Bertram's people, but she understood that no better than Allan 
Torrey. It was only a game. Bertram would win and Grant would retire, and no one would 
be hurt. 
How could he tell them that it didn't work that way any longer? Unity wasn't the 
cleanest party in the world, but at least it had no fanatics-and all over the world the causes 
were rising again. The Friends of the People were on the move, and it had all happened 
before, it was all told time and again in those aseptically clean books on the shelves above 
him. 
BERTRAM AIDES ARRESTED BY INTERCONTINENTAL BUREAU OF 
INVESTIGATION!! IBI RAIDS SECRET WEAPONS CACHE IN BERTRAM 
HEADQUARTERS. NUCLEAR WEAPONS HINTED!!! 
Chicago, May 15, (UPI)-IBI agents here have arrested five top aides to Senator 

Harvey Bertram in what government officials call one of the most despicable plots ever 
discovered.... 
Grant read the transcript on his desk screen without satisfaction. It had all gone 
according to plan, and there was nothing left to do, but he hated it. 
At least it was clean. The evidence was there. Bertram's people could have their 
trial, challenge jurors, challenge judges. The Government would waive its rights under the 
Thirty-first Amendment and let the case be tried under the old adversary rules. It wouldn't 
matter. 
Then he read the small type below. "Arrested were Grigory Kalamintor, nineteen, 
press secretary to Bertram; Timothy Giordano, twenty-two, secretary; Allan Torrey, 
twenty-two, executive assistant-" The page blurred, and Grant dropped his face into his 
hands. 
"My God, what have we done?" 
He hadn't moved when Miss, Ackridge buzzed. "Your daughter on four, sir. She 
seems upset." 
"Yes." Grant punched savagely at the button. Sharon's face swam into view. Her 
makeup was ruined by long streaks of tears. She looked older, much like her mother during 
one of their-
"Daddy! They've arrested Allan! And I know it isn't true, he wouldn't have anything 
to do with nuclear weapons! A lot of Mr. Bertram's people said there would never be an 
honest election in this country. They said John Grant would see to that! I told him they were 
wrong, but they weren't, were they? You've done this to stop the election, haven't you?" 
There was nothing to say because she was right. But who might be listening? "I don't 
know what you're talking about. I've only seen the Tri-V casts about Allan's arrest, nothing 
more. Come home, kitten, and we'll talk about it." 
"Oh no! You're not getting me where Dr. Pollard can give me a nice friendly little 
shot and make me forget about Allan! No! I'm staying with my friends, and I won't be 
home, Daddy. And when I go to the newspapers, I think they'll listen to me. I don't know 
what to tell them yet, but I'm sure Mr. Bertram's people will think of something. How do 
you like that, Mr. God?" 
"Anything you tell the press will be lies, Sharon. You know nothing." One of his 
assistants had come in and now left the office. 
"Lies? Where did I learn to lie?" The screen went blank. 
And is it that thin? he wondered. All the trust and love, could it vanish that fast, was 
it that thin? 
"Sir?" It was Hartman, his assistant. 

"Yes?" 
"She was calling from Champaign, Illinois. A Bertram headquarters they think we 
don't know about. The phone had one of those guaranteed no-trace devices." 
"Trusting lot, aren't they?" Grant said. "Have some good men watch that house, but 
leave her alone." He stood and felt a wave of nausea so strong that he had to hold the edge 
of the desk. "MAKE DAMNED SURE THEY LEAVE HER ALONE. DO YOU 
UNDERSTAND?" he shouted. 
Hartman went as pale as Grant. The chief hadn't raised his voice to one of his own 
people in five years. "Yes, sir, I understand." 
"Then get out of here." Grant spoke carefully, in low tones, and the cold mechanical 
voice was more terrifying than the shout. 
He sat alone and stared at the telephone. What use was its power now? 
What can we do? It wasn't generally known that Sharon was engaged to the boy. 
He'd talked them out of a formal engagement until the banns could be announced in the 
National Cathedral and they could hold a big social party. It had been something to do for 
them at the time, but... 
But what? He couldn't have the boy released. Not that boy. He wouldn't keep silent 
as the price of his own freedom. He'd take Sharon to a newspaper within five minutes of his 
release, and the resulting headlines would bring down Lipscomb, Unity, the CoDominiumand 
the peace. Newsmen would listen to the daughter of the top secret policeman in the 
country. 
Grant punched a code on the communicator, then another. Grand Admiral 
Lermontov appeared on the screen. 
"Yes, Mr. Grant?" 
"Are you alone?" 
"Yes." 
The conversation was painful, and the long delay while the signals reached the moon 
and returned didn't make it easier. 
"When is the next CD warship going outsystem? Not a colony ship, and most 
especially not a prison ship. A warship." 
Another long pause, longer even than the delay. "I suppose anything could be 
arranged," the Admiral said. "What do you need?" 
"I want . . ." Grant hesitated, but there was no time to be lost. No time at all. "I want 

space for two very important political prisoners. A married couple. The crew is not to know 
their identity, and anyone who does learn their identity must stay outsystem for at least five 
years. And I want them set down on a good colony 'world, a decent place. Sparta, perhaps. 
No one ever returns from Sparta. Can you arrange that?" 
Grant could see the changes in Lermontov's face as the words reached him. The 
Admiral frowned. "It can be done if it is important enough. It will not be easy." 
"It's important enough. My brother Martin will explain everything you'll need to 
know later. The prisoners will be delivered tonight, Sergei. Please have the ship ready. And 
-and it better not be Saratoga. My son's in that one and he-he will know one of the 
prisoners." Grant swallowed hard. 'There should be a chaplain aboard. The kids will be 
getting married." 
Lermontov frowned again, as if wondering if John Grant had gone insane. Yet he 
needed the Grants, both of them, and certainly John Grant would not ask such a favor if it 
were not vital. 
"It will be done," Lermontov said. 
"Thank you. I'll also appreciate it if you will see they have a good estate on Sparta. 
They are not to know who arranged it. Just have it taken care of and send the bill to me." 
It was all so very simple. Direct his agents to arrest Sharon and conduct her to CD 
Intelligence. He wouldn't want to see her. first. The attorney general would send Torrey to 
the same place and announce that he had escaped. 
It wasn't as neat as having all of them convicted in open court, but it would do, and 
having one of them a fugitive from justice would even help. It would be an admission of guilt. 
Something inside him screamed again and again that this was his little girl, the only 
person in the world who wasn't afraid of him, but Grant refused to listen. He leaned back in 
the chair and almost calmly dictated his orders. 
He took the flimsy sheet from the writer and his hand didn't tremble at all as he 
signed it. 
All right, Martin, he thought. All right. I've bought the time you asked for, you and 
Sergei Lermontov. Now can you do something with it? 
2087 A.D. 
The landing boat fell away from the orbiting warship. When it had drifted to a safe 
distance, retros fired, and after it had entered the thin reaches of the planet's upper 
atmosphere, scoops opened in the bows. The thin air was drawn in and compressed until 
the stagnation temperature in the ramjet chamber was high enough for ignition. 

The engines lit with a roar of flame. Wings swung out to provide lift at hypersonic 
speeds, and the space plane turned to streak over empty ocean toward the continental land 
mass two thousand kilometers away. 
The ship circled over craggy mountains twelve kilometers high, then dropped low 
over thickly forested plains. It slowed until it was no longer a danger to the thin strip of 
inhabited lands along the ocean shores. The planet's great ocean was joined to a smaller sea 
by a nearly landlocked channel no more than five kilometers across at its widest point, and 
nearly all of the colonists lived near the junction of the waters. 
Hadley's capital city nestled on a long peninsula' at the mouth of that channel, and 
the two natural harbors, one in the sea, the other in the ocean, gave the city the fitting name 
of Refuge. The name suggested a tranquility the city no longer possessed. 
The ship extended its wings to their fullest reach and floated low over the calm water 
of the channel harbor. It touched and settled in. Tugboats raced across clear blue water. 
Sweating seamen threw lines and towed the landing craft to the dock where they secured it. 
A long line of CoDominium Marines in garrison uniform marched out of the boat. 
They gathered on the gray concrete piers into neat brightly colored lines. Two men in civilian 
clothing followed the Marines from the flyer. 
They blinked at the unaccustomed blue-white of Hadley's sun. The sun was so far 
away that it would have been only a small point if either of them were foolish enough to look 
directly at it. The apparent small size was only an illusion caused by distance; Hadley 
received as much illumination from its hotter sun as Earth does from Sol. 
Both men were tall and stood as straight as the Marines in front of them, so that 
except for their clothing they might have been mistaken for a part of the disembarking 
battalion. The shorter of the two carried luggage for both of them, and stood respectfully 
behind; although older he was obviously a subordinate. They watched as two younger men 
came uncertainly along the pier. The newcomers' unadorned blue uniforms contrasted 
sharply with the bright reds and golds of the CoDominium Marines milling around them. 
Already the Marines were scurrying back into the flyer to carry out barracks bags, 
weapons, and all the other personal gear of a light infantry battalion. 
The taller of the two civilians faced the uniformed newcomers. "I take it you're here 
to meet us?" he asked pleasantly. His voice rang through the noise on the pier, and it carried 
easily although he had not shouted. His accent was neutral, the nearly universal English of 
non-Russian officers in the CoDominium Service, and it marked his profession almost as 
certainly as did his posture and the tone of command. 
The newcomers were uncertain even so. There were a lot of ex-officers of the 
CoDominium Space Navy on the beach lately. CD budgets were lower every year. "I think 
so," one finally said. "Are you John Christian Falkenberg?" 
His name was actually John Christian Falkenberg III, and he suspected that his 
grandfather would have insisted on the distinction. "Right. And Sergeant Major Calvin." 

"Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Lieutenant Banners, and this is Ensign Mowrer. 
We're on President Budreau's staff." Banners looked around as if expecting other men, but 
there were none except the uniformed Marines. He gave Falkenberg a slightly puzzled look, 
then added, "We have transportation for you, but I'm afraid your men will have to walk. It's 
about eleven miles." 
"Miles." Falkenberg smiled to himself. This was out in the boondocks. "I see no 
reason why ten healthy mercenaries can't march eighteen kilometers, Lieutenant." He turned 
to face the black shape of the landing boat's entry port and called to someone inside. 
"Captain Fast. There is no transportation, but someone will show you where to march the 
men. Have them carry all gear." 
"Uh, sir, that won't be necessary," the lieutenant protested. "We can get-well, we 
have horse-drawn transport for baggage." He looked at Falkenberg as if he expected him to 
laugh. 
"That's hardly unusual on colony worlds," Falkenberg said. Horses and mules could 
be carried as frozen embryos, and they didn't require high-technology industries to produce 
more, nor did they need an industrial base to fuel them. 
"Ensign Mowrer will attend to it," Lieutenant Banners said. He paused again and 
looked thoughtful as if uncertain how to tell Falkenberg something. Finally he shook his 
head. "I think it would be wise if you issued your men their personal weapons, sir. There 
shouldn't be any trouble on their way to barracks, but-anyway, ten armed men certainly 
won't have any problems." 
"I see. Perhaps I should go with my troops, Lieutenant. I hadn't known things were 
quite this bad on Hadley." Falkenberg's voice was calm and even, but he watched the junior 
officers carefully. 
But there's no point in taking chances." He waved 
Ensign Mowrer to the landing craft and turned back to Falkenberg. A large black shape 
rose from the water outboard of the landing craft. It splashed and vanished. Banners seemed 
not to notice, but the Marines shouted excitedly. "I'm sure the ensign and your officers can 
handle the disembarkation, and the President would like to see you immediately, sir." 
"No doubt. All right, Banners, lead on. I'll bring Sergeant Major Calvin with me." 
He followed Banners down the pier. 
There's no point to this farce, Falkenberg thought. Anyone seeing ten armed men 
conducted by a Presidential ensign will know they're mercenary troops, civilian clothes or 
not. Another case of wrong information. 
Falkenberg had been told to keep the status of himself and his men a secret, but it 
wasn't going to work. He wondered if this would make it more difficult to keep his own 
secrets. 
Banners ushered them quickly through the bustling CoDominium Marine 
barracks, past bored guards who half-saluted the Presidential Guard uniform. The Marine 

fortress was a blur of activity, every open space crammed with packs and weapons; the 
signs of a military force about to move on to another station. 
As they were leaving the building, Falkenberg saw an elderly Naval officer. "Excuse 
me a moment, Banners." He turned to the CoDominium Navy captain. "They sent someone 
for me. Thanks, Ed." 
"No problem. I'll report your arrival to the Admiral. He wants to keep track of you. 
Unofficially, of course. Good luck, John. God knows you need some right now. It was a 
rotten deal." "It's the way it goes." 
"Yeah, but the Fleet used to take better care of its own than that. I'm beginning to 
wonder if anyone is safe. Damn Senator-" 
"Forget it," Falkenberg interrupted. He glanced back to be sure Lieutenant Banners 
was out of earshot. "Pay my respects to the rest of your officers. You run a good ship." 
The captain smiled thinly. "Thanks. From you that's quite a compliment." He held 
out his hand and gripped John's firmly. "Look, we pull out in a couple of days, no more than 
that. If you need a ride on somewhere I can arrange it. The goddam Senate won't have to 
know. We can fix you a hitch to anywhere in CD territory." "Thanks, but I guess I'll stay." 
"Could be rough here," the captain said. "And it won't be everywhere else in the 
CoDominium?" Falkenberg asked. "Thanks again, Ed." He gave a half-salute and checked 
himself. 
Banners and Calvin were waiting for him, and Falkenberg turned away. Calvin lifted 
three personal effects bags as if they were empty and pushed the door open in a smooth 
motion. The CD captain watched until they had left the building, but Falkenberg did not look 
back. 
"Damn them," the captain muttered. "Damn the lot of them." 
"The car's here." Banners opened the rear door of a battered ground effects vehicle 
of no discoverable make. It had been cannibalized from a dozen other machines, and some 
parts were obviously cut-and-try jobs done by an uncertain machinist. Banners climbed into 
the driver's seat and started the engine. It coughed twice, then ran smoothly, and they drove 
away in a cloud of black smoke. 
They drove past another dock where a landing craft with wings as large as the entire 
Marine landing boat was unloading an endless stream of civilian passengers. Children 
screamed, and long lines of men and women stared about uncertainly until they were 
ungently hustled along by guards in uniforms matching Banners'. The sour smell of unwashed 
humanity mingled with the crisp clean salt air from the ocean beyond. Banners rolled up the 
windows with an expression of distaste. 
"Always like that," Calvin commented to no one in particular. "Water discipline in 
them CoDominium prison ships bein' what it is, takes weeks dirtside to get clean again." 
"Have you ever been in one of those ships?" Banners asked. 

"No, sir," Calvin replied. "Been in Marine assault boats just about as bad, I reckon. 
But I can't say I fancy being stuffed into no cubicle with ten, fifteen thousand civilians for six 
months." 
"We may all see the inside of one of those," Falkenberg said. "And be glad of the 
chance. Tell me about the situation here, Banners." 
"I don't even know where to start, sir," the lieutenant answered. "I-do you know 
about Hadley?". 
"Assume I don't," Falkenberg said. May as well see what kind of estimate of the 
situation the President's officers can make, he thought. He could feel the Fleet Intelligence 
report bulging in an inner pocket of his tunic, but those reports always left out important 
details; and the attitudes of the Presidential Guard could be important to his plans. 
"Yes, sir. Well, to begin with, we're a long way from the nearest shipping lanes-but I 
guess you knew that. The only real reason we had any merchant trade was the mines. 
Thorium, richest veins known anywhere for a while, until they started to run out. 
"For the first few years that's all we had. The mines are up in the hills, about eighty 
miles over that way." He pointed to a thin blue line just visible at the horizon. 
"Must be pretty high mountains," Falkenberg said. "What's the diameter of Hadley? 
About eighty percent of Earth? Something like that. The horizon ought to be pretty close." 
"Yes, sir. They are high mountains. Hadley is small, but we've got bigger and better 
everything here." There was pride in the young officer's voice. 
"Them bags seem pretty heavy for a planet this small," Calvin said. 
"Hadley's very dense," Banners answered. "Gravity nearly ninety percent standard. 
Anyway, the mines are over there, and they have their own spaceport at a lake nearby. 
Refuge-that's this city-was founded by the American Express Company. They brought in the 
first colonists, quite a lot of them." 
"Volunteers?" Falkenberg asked. 
"Yes. All volunteers. The usual misfits. I suppose my father was typical enough, an 
engineer who couldn't keep up with the rat race and was tired of Bureau of Technology 
restrictions on what he could learn. They were the first wave, and they took the best land. 
They founded the city and got an economy going. American Express was paid back all 
advances within twenty years." Banners' pride was evident, and Falkenberg knew it had 
been a difficult job. 
"That was, what, fifty years ago?" Falkenberg asked. 
"Yes." 

They were driving through crowded streets lined with wooden houses and a few 
stone buildings. There were rooming houses, bars, sailors' brothels, all the usual establishments 
of a dock street, but there were no other cars on the road. Instead the traffic was 
all horses and oxen pulling carts, bicycles, and pedestrians. 
The sky above Refuge was clear. There was no trace of smog or industrial wastes. 
Out in the harbor tugboats moved with the silent efficiency of electric power, and there were 
also wind-driven sailing ships, lobster boats powered by oars, even a topsail schooner 
lovely against clean blue water. She threw up white spume as she raced out to sea. A threemasted, 
full-rigged ship was drawn up to a wharf where men loaded her by hand with huge 
bales of what might have been cotton. 
They passed a wagonload of melons. A gaily dressed young couple waved 
cheerfully at them, then the man snapped a long whip at the team of horses that pulled their 
wagon. Falkenberg studied the primitive scene and said, "It doesn't look like you've been 
here fifty years." 
"No." Banners gave them a bitter look. Then he swerved to avoid a group of 
shapeless teen-agers lounging in the dockside street. He had to swerve again to avoid the 
barricade of paving stones that they had masked. The car jounced wildly. Banners gunned it 
to lift it higher and headed for a low place in the barricade. It scraped as it went over the 
top, then he accelerated away. 
Falkenberg took his hand from inside his shirt jacket. Behind him Calvin was 
inspecting a submachine gun that had appeared from the oversized barracks bag he'd 
brought into the car with him. When Banners said nothing about the incident, Falkenberg 
frowned and leaned back in his seat, listening. The Intelligence reports mentioned lawlessness, 
but this was as bad as a Welfare Island on Earth. 
"No, we're not much industrialized," Banners continued. "At first there wasn't any 
need to develop basic industries. The mines made everyone rich, so we imported everything 
we needed. The farmers sold fresh produce to the miners , for enormous prices. Refuge was 
a service industry town. People who worked here could soon afford farm animals, and they 
scattered out across the plains and into the forests." 
Falkenberg nodded. "Many of them wouldn't care for cities." 
"Precisely. They didn't want industry, they'd come here to escape it." Banners drove 
in silence for a moment. "Then some blasted CoDominium bureaucrat read the ecology 
reports about Hadley. The Population Control Bureau in Washington decided this was a 
perfect place for involuntary colonization. The ships were coming here for the thorium 
anyway, so instead of luxuries and machinery they were ordered to carry convicts. 
Hundreds of thousands of them, Colonel Falkenberg. For the last ten years there have been 
better than fifty thousand people a year dumped in on us." 
"And you couldn't support them all," Falkenberg said gently. 
"No, sir." Banners' face tightened. He seemed to be fighting tears. "God knows we 
try. Every erg the fusion generators can make goes into converting petroleum into basic 

protocarb just to feed them. But they're not like the original colonists! They don't know 
anything, they won't do anything! Oh, not really, of course. Some of them work. Some of 
our best citizens are transportees. But there are so many of the other kind." 
"Why'n't you tell 'em to work or starve?" Calvin asked bluntly. Falkenberg gave him 
a cold look, and the sergeant nodded slightly and sank back into his seat. "Because the CD 
wouldn't let us!" Banners shouted. "Damn it, we didn't have self-government. The CD 
Bureau of Relocation people told us what to do. They ran everything ..." 
"We know," Falkenberg said gently. "We've seen the results of Humanity League 
influence over BuRelock. My sergeant major wasn't asking you a question, he was expressing 
an opinion. Nevertheless, I am surprised. I would have thought your farms could 
support the urban population." 
"They should be able to, sir." Banners drove in grim silence for a long minute. "But 
there's no transportation. The people are here, and most of the agricultural land is five 
hundred miles inland. There's arable land closer, but it isn't cleared. Our settlers wanted to 
get away from Refuge and BuRelock. We have a railroad, but bandit gangs keep blowing it 
up. We can't rely on Hadley's produce to keep Refuge alive. There are a million people on 
Hadley, and half of them are crammed into this one ungovernable city.' 
They were approaching an enormous bowl-shaped structure attached to a massive 
square stone fortress. Falkenberg studied the buildings carefully, then asked what they were. 
"Our stadium," Banners replied. There was no pride in his voice now. "The CD built 
it for us. We'd rather have had a new fusion plant, but we got a stadium that can hold a 
hundred thousand people." 
"Built by the GLC Construction and Development Company, I presume," 
Falkenberg said. "Yes ... how did you know?" 
"I think I saw it somewhere." He hadn't, but it was an easy guess: GLC was owned 
by a holding company that was in turn owned by the Bronson family. It was easy enough to 
understand why aid sent by the CD Grand Senate would end up used for something GLC 
might participate in. 
"We have very fine sports teams and racehorses," Banners said bitterly. "The 
building next to it is the Presidential Palace. Its architecture is quite functional." The Palace 
loomed up before them, squat and massive; it looked more fortress than capital building. 
The city was more thickly populated as they approached the Palace. The buildings here 
were mostly stone and poured concrete instead of wood. Few were more than three stories 
high, so that Refuge sprawled far along the shore. The population density increased rapidly 
beyond the stadium-palace complex. Banners was watchful as he drove along the wide 
streets, but he seemed less nervous than he had been at dockside. 
Refuge was a city of contrasts. The streets were straight and wide, and there was 
evidently a good waste-disposal system, but the lower floors of the buildings were open 
shops, and the sidewalks were clogged with market stalls. Clouds of pedestrians moved 
through the kiosks and shops. 

There was still no motor traffic and no moving ped-ways. Horse troughs and 
hitching posts had been constructed at frequent intervals along with starkly functional street 
lights and water distribution towers. The few signs of technology contrasted strongly with the 
general primitive air of the city. 
A contingent of uniformed men thrust their way through the crowd at a street 
crossing. Falkenberg looked at them closely, then at Banners. "Your troops?" 
"No, sir. That's the livery of Glenn Foster's household. Officially they're unorganized 
reserves of the President's Guard, but they're household troops all the same." Banners 
laughed bitterly. "Sounds like something out of a history book, doesn't it? We're nearly back 
to feudalism, Colonel Falkenberg. Anyone rich enough keeps hired bodyguards. They have 
to. The criminal gangs are so strong the police don't try to catch anyone under organized 
protection, and the judges wouldn't punish them if they were caught." 
"And the private bodyguards become gangs in their own right, I suppose," 
Banners looked at him sharply. "Yes, sir. Have you seen it before?" 
"Yes. I've seen it before." Banners was unable to make out the expression on 
Falkenberg's lips. 
VI 
They drove into the Presidential Palace and received the salutes of the blue 
uniformed troopers. Falkenberg noted the polished weapons and precise drill of the 
Presidential Guard. There were well-trained men on duty here, but the unit was small. 
Falkenberg wondered if they could fight as well as stand guard. They were local citizens, 
loyal to Hadley, and would be unlike the CoDominium Marines he was accustomed to. 
He was conducted through a series of rooms in the stone fortress. Each had heavy 
metal doors, and several were guardrooms. Falkenberg saw no signs of government activity 
until they had passed through the outer layers of the enormous palace into an open 
courtyard, and through that to an inner building. 
Here there was plenty of activity. Clerks bustled through the halls, and girls in the 
draped togas fashionable years before on Earth sat at desks in offices. Most seemed to be 
packing desk contents into boxes, and other people scurried through the corridors. Some 
offices were empty, their desks covered with fine dust, and there were plasti-board moving 
boxes stacked outside them. 
There were two anterooms to the President's office. President Budreau was a tall, 
thin man with a red pencil mustache and quick gestures. As they were ushered into the 
overly ornate room the President looked up from a sheaf of papers, but his eyes did not 
focus immediately on his visitors. His face was a mask of worry and concentration. 

"Colonel John Christian Falkenberg, sir," Lieutenant Banners said. "And Sergeant 
Major Calvin." 
Budreau got to his feet. "Pleased to see you, Falkenberg." His expression told them 
differently; he looked at his visitors with faint distaste and motioned Banners out of the 
room. When the door closed he asked, "How many men did you bring with you?" 
"Ten, Mr. President. All we could bring aboard the carrier without arousing 
suspicion. We were lucky to get that many. The Grand Senate had an inspector at the loading 
docks to check for violation of the anti-mercenary codes. If we hadn't bribed a port 
official to distract him we wouldn't be here at all. Calvin and I would be on Tanith as 
involuntary colonists." 
"I see." From his expression he wasn't surprised. John thought Budreau would have 
been more pleased if the inspector had caught them. The President tapped the desk 
nervously. "Perhaps that will be enough. I understand the ship you came with also brought 
the Marines who have volunteered to settle on Hadley. They should provide the nucleus of 
an excellent constabulary. Good troops?" 
"It was a demobilized battalion," Falkenberg replied. "Those are the troops the CD 
didn't want anymore. Could be the scrapings of every guardhouse on twenty planets. We'll 
be lucky if there's a real trooper in the lot." 
Budreau's face relaxed into its former mask of depression. Hope visibly drained 
from him. 
"Surely you have troops of your own," Falkenberg said. 
Budreau picked up a sheaf of papers. "It's all here. I was just looking it over when 
you came in." He handed the report to Falkenberg. "There's little encouragement in it, 
Colonel. I have never thought there was any military solution to Hadley's problems, and this 
confirms that fear. If you have only ten men plus a battalion of forced-labor Marines, the 
military answer isn't even worth considering." 
Budreau returned to his seat. His hands moved restlessly over the sea of papers on 
his desk. "If I were you, Falkenberg, I'd get back on that Navy boat and forget Hadley." 
"Why don't you?" 
"Because Hadley's my home! No rabble is going to drive me off the plantation my 
grandfather built with his own hands. They will not make me run out." Budreau clasped his 
hands together until the knuckles were white with the strain, but when he spoke again his 
voice was calm. "You have no stake here. I do." 
Falkenberg took the report from the desk and leafed through the pages before 
handing it to Calvin. "We've come a long way, Mr. President. You may as well tell me what 
the problem is before I leave." 
Budreau nodded sourly. The red mustache twitched and he ran the back of his hand 

across it. "It's simple enough. The ostensible reason you're here, the reason we gave the 
Colonial Office for letting us recruit a planetary constabulary, is the bandit gangs out in the 
hills. No one knows how many of them there are, but they are strong enough to raid farms. 
They also cut communications between Refuge and the countryside whenever they want to." 
"Yes." Falkenberg stood in front of the desk because he hadn't been invited to sit. If 
that bothered him it did not show. "Guerrilla gangsters have no real chance if they've no 
political base." 
Budreau nodded. "But, as I am sure Vice President Bradford told you, they are not 
the real problem." The President's voice was strong, but there was a querulous note in it, as 
if he was accustomed to having his conclusions argued against and was waiting for 
Falkenberg to begin. "Actually, we could live with the bandits, but they get political support 
from the Freedom Party. My Progressive Party is larger than the Freedom Party, but the 
Progressives are scattered all over the planet. The FP is concentrated right here in Refuge, 
and they have God knows how many voters and about forty thousand loyalists they can 
concentrate whenever they want to stage a riot." "Do you have riots very often?" John 
asked. 'Too often. There's not much to control them with. I have three hundred men in the 
Presidential Guard, but they're CD recruited and trained like young Banners. They're not 
much use at riot control, and they're loyal to the job, not to me anyway. The FP's got men 
inside the guard." 
"So we can scratch the President's Guard when it comes to controlling the Freedom 
Party," John observed. 
"Yes." Budreau smiled without amusement. "Then there's my police force. My police 
were all commanded by CD officers who are pulling out. My administrative staff was 
recruited and trained by BuRelock, and all the competent people have been recalled to 
Earth." "I can see that would create a problem." "Problem? It's impossible," Budreau said. 
"There's nobody left with skill enough to govern, but I've got the job and everybody else 
wants it. I might be able to scrape up a thousand Progressive partisans and another fifteen 
thousand party workers who would fight for us in a pinch, but they have no training. How 
can they face the FP's forty thousand?" 
'You seriously believe the Freedom Party will revolt?" 
"As soon as the CD's out, you can count on it. They've demanded a new 
constitutional convention to assemble just after the CoDominium Governor leaves. If we 
don't give them the convention they'll rebel and carry a lot of undecided with them. After all, 
what's unreasonable about a convention when the colonial governor has gone?" 
"I see." 
"And if we do give them the convention they want, they'll drag things out until there's 
nobody left in it but their people. My Party is composed of working voters. How can they 
stay on day after day? The FP's unemployed will sit it out until they can throw the 
Progressives out of office. Once they get in they'll ruin the planet. Under the circumstances I 
don't see what a military man can do for us, but Vice President Bradford insisted that we 
hire you." 

"Perhaps we can think of something," Falkenberg said smoothly. "I've no experience 
in administration as such, but Hadley is not unique. I take it the Progressive Party is mostly 
old settlers?" 
"Yes and no. The Progressive Party wants to industrialize Hadley, and some of our 
farm families oppose that. But we want to do it slowly. We'll close most of the mines and 
take out only as much thorium as we have to sell to get the basic industrial equipment. I want 
to keep the rest for our own fusion generators, because we'll need it later. 
"We want to develop agriculture and transport, and cut the basic citizen ration so 
that we'll have the fusion power available for our new industries. I want to close out convenience 
and consumer manufacturing and keep it closed until we can afford it." Budreau's 
voice rose and his eyes shone; it was easier to see why he had become popular. He 
believed in his cause. 
"We want to build the tools of a self-sustaining world and get along without the 
CoDominium until we can rejoin the human race as equals!" Budreau caught himself and 
frowned. "Sorry. Didn't mean to make a speech. Have a seat, won't you?" 
"Thank you." Falkenberg sat in a heavy leather chair and looked around the room. 
The furnishings were ornate, and the office decor had cost a fortune to bring from Earth; but 
most of it was tasteless-spectacular rather than elegant. The Colonial Office did that sort of 
thing a lot, and Falkenberg wondered which Grand Senator owned the firm that supplied 
office furnishings. "What does the opposition want?" 
"I suppose you really do need to know all this." Budreau frowned and his mustache 
twitched nervously. He made an effort to relax, and John thought the President had probably 
been an impressive man once. "The Freedom Party's slogan is 'Service to the People.' 
Service to them means consumer goods now. They want strip mining. That's got the miners' 
support, you can bet. The FP will rape this planet to buy goods from other systems, and to 
hell with how they're paid for. Runaway inflation will be only one of the problems they'll 
create." 
"They sound ambitious." 
"Yes. They even want to introduce internal combustion engine economy. God 
knows how, there's no support technology here, but there's oil. We'd have to buy all that 
from off planet, there's no heavy industry here to make engines even if the ecology could 
absorb them, but that doesn't matter to the FP. They promise cars for everyone. Instant 
modernization. More food, robotic factories, entertainment, in short, paradise and right 
now." 
"Do they mean it, or is that just slogans?" 
"I think most of them mean it," Budreau answered. "It's hard to believe, but I think 
they do." 
"Where do they say they'll get the money?" 

"Soaking the rich, as if there were enough wealthy people here to matter. Total 
confiscation of everything everyone owns wouldn't pay for all they promise. Those people 
have no idea of the realities of our situation, and their leaders are ready to blame anything 
that's wrong on the Progressive Party, CoDominium administrators, anything but admit that 
what they promise just isn't possible. Some of the Party leaders may know better, but they 
don't admit it if they do." 
"I take it that program has gathered support." 
"Of course it has," Budreau fumed. "And every Bu-Relock ship brings thousands 
more ready to vote the FP line." 
Budreau got up from his desk and went to a cabinet on the opposite wall. He took 
out a bottle of brandy and three glasses and poured, handing them to Calvin and 
Falkenberg. Then he ignored the sergeant but waited for Falkenberg to lift his glass. 
"Cheers." Budreau drained the glass at one gulp. "Some of the oldest families on 
Hadley have joined the damned Freedom Party. They're worried about the taxes I've 
proposed! The FP won't leave them anything at all, but they still join the opposition in hopes 
of making deals. You don't look surprised." 
"No, sir. It's a story as old as history, and a military man reads history." 
Budreau looked up in surprise. "Really?" 
"A smart soldier wants to know the causes of wars. Also how to end them. After all, 
war is the normal state of affairs, isn't it? Peace is the name of the ideal we deduce from the 
fact that there have been interludes between wars." Before Budreau could answer, 
Falkenberg said, "No matter. I take it you expect armed resistance immediately after the CD 
pulls out." 
"I hoped to prevent it. Bradford thought you might be able to do something, and I'm 
gifted at the art of persuasion." The President sighed. "But it seems hopeless. They don't 
want to compromise. They think they can get a total victory." 
"I wouldn't think they'd have much of a record to run on," Falkenberg said. 
Budreau laughed. "The FP partisans claim credit for driving the CoDominium out, 
Colonel." 
They laughed together. The CoDominium was leaving because the mines were no 
longer worth enough to make it pay to govern Hadley. If the mines were as productive as 
they'd been in the past, no partisans would drive the Marines away. 
Budreau nodded as if reading his thoughts. "Well, they have people believing it 
anyway. There was a campaign of terrorism for years, nothing very serious. It didn't threaten 
the mine shipments, or the Marines would have put a stop to it. But they have demoralized 
the capital police. Out in the bush people administer their own justice, but here in Refuge the 

FP gangs control a lot of the city." 
Budreau pointed to a stack of papers on one corner of the desk. "Those are 
resignations from the force. I don't even know how many police I'll have left when the CD 
pulls out." Budreau's fist tightened as if he wanted to pound on the desk, but he sat rigidly 
still. "Pulls out. For years they ran everything, and now they're leaving us to clean up. I'm 
President by courtesy of the CoDominium. They put me in office, and now they're leaving." 
"At least you're in charge," Falkenberg said. "The BuRelock people wanted 
someone else. Bradford talked them out of it." 
"Sure. And it cost us a lot of money. For what? Maybe it would have been better 
the other way." 
"I thought you said their policies would ruin Hadley." 
"I did say that. I believe it. But the policy issues came after the split, I think." 
Budreau was talking to himself as much as to John. "Now they hate us so much they 
oppose anything we want out of pure spite. And we do the same thing." 
"Sounds like CoDominium politics. Russkis and US in the Grand Senate. Just like 
home." There was no humor in the polite laugh that followed. 
Budreau opened a desk drawer and took out a parchment. "I'll keep the agreement, 
of course. Here's your commission as commander of the constabulary. But I still think you 
might be better off taking the next ship out. Hadley's problems can't be solved by military 
consultants." 
Sergeant Major Calvin snorted. The sound was almost inaudible, but Falkenberg 
knew what he was thinking. Budreau shrank from the bald term "mercenary," as if "military 
consultant" were easier on his conscience. John finished his drink and stood.' 
"Mr. Bradford wants to see you," Budreau said. "Lieutenant Banners will be outside 
to show you to his office." 
"Thank you, sir." Falkenberg strode from the big room. As he closed the door he 
saw Budreau going back to the liquor cabinet. 
Vice President Ernest Bradford was a small man with a smile that never seemed to 
fade. He worked at being liked, but it didn't always work. Still, he had gathered a following 
of dedicated party workers, and he fancied himself an accomplished politician. 
When Banners showed Falkenberg into the office, Bradford smiled even more 
broadly, but he suggested that Banners should take Calvin on a tour of the Palace guardrooms. 
Falkenberg nodded and let them go. 
The Vice President's office was starkly functional. The desks and chairs were made 
of local woods with an indifferent finish, and a solitary rose in a crystal vase provided the 

only color. Bradford was dressed in the same manner, shapeless clothing bought from a 
cheap store. 
"Thank God you're here," Bradford said when the door was closed. "But I'm told 
you only brought ten men. We can't do anything with just ten men! You were supposed to 
bring over a hundred men loyal to us!" He bounced up excitedly from his chair, then sat 
again. "Can you do something?" 
"There were ten men in the Navy ship with me," Falkenberg said. "When you show 
me where I'm to train the regiment I'll find the rest of the mercenaries." 
Bradford gave him a broad wink and beamed. "Then you did bring more! We'll 
show them-all of them. We'll win yet. What did you think of Budreau?" 
"He seems sincere enough. Worried, of course. I think I would be in his place." 
Bradford shook his head. "He can't make up his mind. About anything! He wasn't 
so bad before, but lately he's had to be forced into making every decision. Why did the 
Colonial Office pick him? I thought you were going to arrange for me to be President. We 
gave you enough money." 
"One thing at a time," Falkenberg said. "The Undersecretary couldn't justify you to 
the Minister. We can't get to everyone, you know. It was hard enough for Professor 
Whitlock to get them to approve Budreau, let alone you. We sweated blood just getting 
them to let go of having a Freedom Party President." 
Bradford's head bobbed up and down like a puppet's. "I knew I could trust you," he 
said. His smile was warm, but despite all his efforts to be sincere it did not come through. 
"You have kept your part of the bargain, anyway. And once the CD is gone-" 
"We'll have a free hand, of course." 
Bradford smiled again. "You are a very strange man, Colonel Falkenberg. The talk 
was that you were utterly loyal to the CoDominium. When Dr. Whitlock suggested that you 
might be available I was astounded." 
"I had very little choice," Falkenberg reminded him. 
"Yes." Bradford didn't say that Falkenberg had little more now, but it was obvious 
that he thought it. His smile expanded confidentially. "Well, we have to let Mr. Hamner meet 
you now. He's the Second Vice President. Then we can go to the Warner estate. I've 
arranged for your troops to be quartered there, it's what you wanted for a training ground. 
No one will bother you. You can say your other men are local volunteers." 
Falkenberg nodded. "I'll manage. I'm getting rather good at cover stories lately." 
"Sure," Bradford beamed again.. "By God, we'll win this yet." He touched a button 
on his desk. "Ask Mr. Hamner to come in, please." He winked at Falkenberg and said, 
"Can't spend too long alone. Might give someone the idea that we have a conspiracy." 

"How does Hamner fit in?" Falkenberg asked, 
"Wait until you see him. Budreau trusts him, and he's dangerous. He represents the 
technology people in the Progressive Party. We can't do without him, but his policies are 
ridiculous. He wants to turn loose of everything. If he has his way, there won't be any 
government. And his people take credit for everything-as if technology was all there was to 
government. He doesn't know the first thing about governing. All the people we have to 
keep happy, the meetings, he thinks that's all silly, that you can build a party by working like 
an engineer." 
"In other words, he doesn't understand the political realities," Falkenberg said. 
"Just so. I suppose he has to go, then." 
Bradford nodded, smiling again. "Eventually. But we do need his influence with the 
technicians at the moment. And of course, he knows nothing about any arrangements you 
and I have made." 
"Of course." Falkenberg sat easily and studied maps until the intercom announced 
that Hamner was outside. He wondered idly if the office were safe to talk in. Bradford was 
the most likely man to plant devices in other people's offices, but he couldn't be the only one 
who'd benefit from eavesdropping, and no place could be absolutely safe. 
There isn't much I can do if it is, Falkenberg decided. And it's probably clean. 
George Hamner was a large man, taller than Falkenberg and even heavier than 
Sergeant Major Calvin. He had the relaxed movements of a big man, and much of the easy 
confidence that massive size usually wins. People didn't pick fights with George Hamner. His 
grip was gentle when they shook hands, but he closed his fist relentlessly, testing Falkenberg 
carefully. As he felt answering pressure he looked surprised, and the two men stood in 
silence for a long moment before Hamner relaxed and waved to Bradford. 
"So you're our new colonel of constabulary," Hamner said. "Hope you know what 
you're getting into. I should say I hope you don't know. If you know about our problems 
and take the job anyway, we'll have to wonder if you're sane." 
"I keep hearing about how severe Hadley's problems are," Falkenberg said. "If 
enough of you keep saying it, maybe I'll believe it's hopeless, but right now I don't see it. So 
we're outnumbered by the Freedom Party people. What kind of weapons do they have to 
make trouble with?" 
Hamner laughed. "Direct sort of guy, aren't you? I like that. There's nothing 
spectacular about their weapons, just a lot of them. Enough small problems make a big 
problem, right? But the CD hasn't permitted any big stuff. No tanks or armored cars, hell, 
there aren't enough cars of any kind to make any difference. No fuel or power distribution 
net ever built, so no way cars would be useful. We've got a subway, couple of monorails for 
in-city stuff, and what's left of the railroad . . . you didn't ask for a lecture on transportation, 
did you." 

"No." 
Hamner laughed. "It's my pet worry at the moment. We don't have enough. Let's ran his fingers through thick hair just receding from his large brows. "No military aircraft, 
hardly any aircraft at all except for a few choppers. No artillery, machine guns, heavy 
weapons in general. Mostly light-caliber hunting rifles and shotguns. Some police weapons. 
Military rifles and bayonets, a few, and we have almost all of them. Out in the streets you 
can find anything Colonel, and I mean literally anything. Bows and arrows, knives, swords, 
axes, hammers, you name it." 
"He doesn't need to know about obsolete things like that," Bradford said. His voice 
was heavy with contempt, but he still wore his smile. 
"No weapon is ever really obsolete," Falkenberg said. "Not in the hands of a man 
who'll use it. What about body armor? How good a supply of Nemourlon do you have?" 
Hamner looked thoughtful for a second. "There's some body armor in the streets, 
and the police have some. The President's Guard doesn't use the stuff. I can supply you with 
Nemourlon, but you'll have to make your own armor out of it. Can you do that?" 
Falkenberg nodded. "Yes. I brought an excellent technician and some tools. 
Gentlemen, the situation's about what I expected. I can't see why everyone is so worried. 
We have a battalion of CD Marines, not the best Marines perhaps, but they're trained 
soldiers. With the weapons of a light infantry battalion and the training I can give the recruits 
we'll add to the battalion, I'll undertake to face your forty thousand Freedom Party people. 
The guerrilla problem will be somewhat more severe, but we control all the food distribution 
in the city. With ration cards and identity papers it should not be difficult to set up controls." 
Hamner laughed. It was a bitter laugh. "You want to tell him, Ernie?" 
Bradford looked confused. "Tell him what?" Hamner laughed again. "Not doing your 
homework. It's in the morning report for a couple of days ago. The Colonial Office has 
decided, on the advice of BuRelock, that Hadley does not need any military weapons. The 
CD Marines will be lucky to keep their rifles and bayonets. All the rest of their gear goes out 
with the CD ships." 
"But this is insane," Bradford protested. He turned to Falkenberg. "Why would they 
do that?" 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Perhaps some Freedom Party manager got to a Colonial 
Office official. I assume they are not above bribery?" 
"Of course not," Bradford said. "We've got to do something!" 
"If we can. I suspect it will not be easy." Falkenberg pursed his lips into a tight line. 
"I hadn't counted on this. It means that if we tighten up control through food rationing and 
identity documents, we face armed rebellion. How well organized are these FP partisans, 

anyway?" 
"Well organized and well financed," Hamner said. "And I'm not so sure about ration 
cards being the answer to the guerrilla problem anyway. The CoDominium was able to put 
up with a lot of sabotage because they weren't interested in anything but the mines, but we 
can't live with the level of terror we have right now in this city. Some way or other we have 
to restore order-and justice, for that matter." 
"Justice isn't something soldiers ordinarily deal with," Falkenberg said. "Order's 
another matter. That I think we can supply." 
"With a few hundred men?" Hamner’s voice was incredulous. "But I like your 
attitude. At least you don't sit around and whine for somebody to help you. Or sit and think 
and never make up your mind." 
"We will see what we can do," Falkenberg said. 
"Yeah." Hamner got up and went to the door. "Well, I wanted to meet you, Colonel. 
Now I have. I've got work to do. I'd think Ernie does too, but I don't notice him doing much 
of it." He didn't look at them again, but went out, leaving the door open. 
"You see," Bradford said. He closed the door gently. His smile was knowing. "He is 
useless. We'll find someone to deal with the technicians as soon as you've got everything 
else under control." 
"He seemed to be right on some points," Falkenberg said. "For example, he knows 
it won't be easy to get proper police protection established. I saw an example of what goes 
on in Refuge on the way here, and if it's that bad all over-" 
"You'll find a way," Bradford said. He seemed certain. "You can recruit quite a large 
force, you know. And a lot of the lawlessness is nothing more than teen-age street gangs. 
They're not loyal to anything, Freedom Party, us, the CD, or anything else. They merely 
want to control the block they live on." 
"Sure. But they're hardly the whole problem." 
"No. But you'll find a way. And forget Hamner. His whole group is rotten. They're 
not real Progressives, that's all." His voice was emphatic, and his eyes seemed to shine. 
Bradford lowered his voice and leaned forward. "Hamner used to be in the Freedom Party, 
you know. He claims to have broken with them over technology policies, but you can never 
trust a man like that." 
"I see. Fortunately, I don't have to trust him." 
Bradford beamed. "Precisely. Now let's get you started. You have a lot of work, 
and don't forget now, you've already agreed to train some party troops for me." 
VII 

The estate was large, nearly five kilometers on a side, located in low hills a day's 
march from the city of Refuge. There was a central house and barns, all made of local wood 
that resembled oak. The buildings nestled in a wooded bowl in the center of the estate. 
"You're sure you won't need anything more?" Lieutenant Banners asked. 
"No, thank you," Falkenberg said. "The few men we have with us carry their own 
gear. We'll have to arrange for food and fuel when the others come, but for now we'll make 
do." 
"All right, sir," Banners said. "I'll go back with Mowrer and leave you the car, then. 
And you've the animals...." 
"Yes. Thank you, Lieutenant." 
Banners saluted and got into the car. He started to say something else, but 
Falkenberg had turned away and Banners drove off the estate. 
Calvin watched him leave. "That's a curious one," he said. "Reckon he'd like to 
know more about what we're doing." 
Falkenberg's lips twitched into a thin smile. "I expect he would at that. You will see 
to it that he learns no more than we want him to." 
"Aye aye, sir. Colonel, what was that Mr. Bradford was saying about Party 
troopers? We going to have many of them?" 
"I think so." Falkenberg walked up the wide lawn toward the big ranch house. 
Captain Fast and several or the others were waiting on the porch, and there was a bottle of 
whiskey on the table. 
Falkenberg poured a drink and tossed it off. "I think we'll have quite a few 
Progressive Party loyalists here once we start, Calvin. I'm not looking forward to it, but they 
were inevitable." 
"Sir?" Captain Fast had been listening quietly. 
Falkenberg gave him a half-smile. "Do you really think the governing authorities are 
going to hand over a monopoly of military force to us?" 
"You think they don't trust us." 
"Amos, would you trust us?" 
"No sir," Captain Fast said. "But we could hope." 
"We will not accomplish our mission on hope, Captain. Sergeant Major." 

"Sir."
"I have an errand for you later this evening. For the moment, find someone to take 
me to my quarters and then see about our dinner." 
"Sir." 
Falkenberg woke to a soft rapping on the door of his room. He opened his eyes and 
put his hand on the pistol under his pillow, but made no other movement. 
The rap came again. "Yes," Falkenberg called softly. 
"I'm back, Colonel," Calvin answered. 
"Right. Come in." Falkenberg swung his feet out of his bunk and pulled on his boots. 
He was fully dressed otherwise. 
Sergeant Major Calvin came in. He was dressed in the light leather tunic and 
trousers of the CD Marine battle-dress. The total black of a night combat coverall 
protruded from the war bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a pistol on his belt, and a 
heavy trench knife was slung in a holster on his left breast. 
A short wiry man with a thin brown mustache came in with Calvin. 
"Glad to see you," Falkenberg said. "Have any trouble?" 
"Gang of toughs tried to stir up something as we was coming through the city, 
Colonel," Calvin replied. He grinned wolfishly. "Didn't last long enough to set any records." 
"Anyone hurt?" 
"None that couldn't walk away." 
"Good. Any problem at the relocation barracks?" 
"No, sir," Calvin replied. "They don't guard them places! Anybody wants to get 
away from BuRelock's charity, they let 'em go. Without ration cards, of course. This was jus 
involuntary colonists, not convicts." 
As he took Calvin's report, Falkenberg was inspecting the man who had come in 
with him. Major Jeremy Savage looked tired and much older than his forty-five years. He 
was thinner than John remembered him. 
"Bad as I've heard?" Falkenberg asked him. 
"No picnic," Savage replied in the clipped accents he'd learned when he grew up on 
Churchill. "Didn't expect it to be. We're here, John Christian." 
"Yes, and thank God. Nobody spotted you? The men behave all right?" 

"Yes, sir. We were treated no differently from any other involuntary colonists. The 
men behaved splendidly, and a week or two of hard exercise should get us all back in 
shape. Sergeant Major tells me the battalion arrived intact." 
"Yes. They're still at Marine barracks. That's our weak link, Jeremy. I want them 
out here where we control who they talk to, and as soon as possible." 
"You've got the best ones. I think they'll be all right." 
Falkenberg nodded. "But keep your eyes open, Jerry, and be careful with the men 
until the CD pulls out. I've hired Dr. Whitlock to check things for us. He hasn't reported in 
yet, but I assume he's on Hadley." 
Savage acknowledged Falkenberg's wave and sat in the room's single chair. He 
took a glass of whiskey from Calvin with a nod of thanks. 
My, that's 
good. They don't have anything to drink on those BuRelock ships." 
"When Whitlock reports in we'll have a full staff meeting," Falkenberg said. "Until 
then, stay with the plan. Bradford is supposed to send the battalion out tomorrow, and soon 
after that he'll begin collecting volunteers from his party. We're supposed to train them. Of 
course, they'll all be loyal to Bradford. Not to the Party and certainly not to us." 
Savage nodded and held out the glass to Calvin for a refill. 
"Now tell me a. bit about those toughs you fought on the way here, Sergeant 
Major," Falkenberg said. 
"Street gang, Colonel. Not bad at individual fightin', but no organization. Hardly no 
match for near a hundred of us." 
"Street gang." John pulled his lower lip speculatively, then grinned. "How many of 
our battalion used to be punks just like them, Sergeant Major?" 
"Half anyway, sir. Includin' me." 
Falkenberg nodded. "I think it might be a good thing if the Marines got to meet 
some of those kids, Sergeant Major. Informally, you know." 
"Sir!" Calvin's square face beamed with anticipation. 
"Now," Falkenberg continued. "Recruits will be our real problem. You can bet some 
of them will try to get chummy with the troops. They'll want to pump the men about their 
backgrounds and outfits. And the men will drink, and when they drink they talk. How will 
you handle that, Top Soldier?" 
Calvin looked thoughtful. "Won't be no trick for a while. We'll keep the recruits 

away from the men except drill instructors, and DI's don't talk to recruits. Once they've 
passed basic it'll get a bit stickier, but hell, Colonel, troops like to lie about their campaigns. 
We'll just encourage 'em to fluff it up a bit. The stories'll be so tall nobody'll believe 'em." 
"Right. I don't have to tell both of you we're skating on pretty thin ice for a while." 
"We'll manage, Colonel." Calvin was positive. He'd been with Falkenberg a long 
time, and although any man can make mistakes, it was Calvin's experience that Falkenberg 
would find a way out of any hole they dropped into. 
And if they didn't-well, over every CD orderly room door was a sign. It said, "You 
are Marines in order to die, and the Fleet will send you where you can die." Calvin had 
walked under that sign to enlist, and thousands of times since. 
"That's it, then, Jeremy," Falkenberg said. 
"Yes, sir," Savage said crisply. He stood and saluted. "Damned if it doesn't feel 
good to be doing this again, sir." Years fell away from his face. 
"Good to have you back aboard," Falkenberg replied. He stood to return the salute. 
"And thanks, Jerry. For everything...." 
The Marine battalion arrived the next day. They were marched to the camp by 
regular CD Marine officers, who turned them over to Falkenberg. The captain in charge of 
the detail wanted to stay around and watch, but Falkenberg found an errand for him and 
sent Major Savage along to keep him company. An hour later there was no one in the camp 
but Falkenberg's people. 
Two hours later the troops were at work constructing their own base camp. 
Falkenberg watched from the porch of the ranch house. "Any problems, Sergeant 
Major?" he asked. 
Calvin fingered the stubble on his square jaw. He shaved twice a day on garrison 
duty, and at the moment he was wondering if he needed his second. "Nothing a trooper's 
blast won't cure, Colonel. With your permission I'll draw a few barrels of whiskey tonight 
and let 'em tie one on before the recruits come in." 
"Granted." 
"They won't be fit for much before noon tomorrow, but we're on schedule now. The 
extra work'll be good for 'em." 
"How many will run?" 
Calvin shrugged. "Maybe none, Colonel. We got enough to keep 'em busy, and they 
don't know this place very well. Recruits'll be a different story, and once they get in we may 
have a couple take off." 

"Yes. Well, see what you can do. We're going to need every man. You heard 
President Budreau's assessment of the situation." 
"Yes, sir. That'll make the troops happy. Sounds like a good fight comin' up." 
"I think you can safely promise the men some hard fighting, Sergeant Major. They'd 
also better understand that there's no place to go if we don't win this one. No pickups on 
this tour." 
"No pickups on half the missions we've been on, Colonel. I better see Cap'n Fast 
about the brandy. Join us about midnight, sir? The men would like that." 
"I'll be along, Sergeant Major." 
Calvin's prediction was wrong: the troops were useless throughout the entire next 
day. The recruits arrived the day after. 
The camp was a flurry of activity. The Marines relearned lessons of basic training. 
Each maniple of five men cooked for itself, did its own laundry, made its own shelters from 
woven synthetics and rope, and contributed men for work on the encampment revetments 
and palisades. 
The recruits did the same kind of work under the supervision of Falkenberg's 
mercenary officers and NCO's. as well. Your training is too hard. Those are loyal men, and 
loyalty is important here!" 
Falkenberg smiled softly. "Agreed. But I'd rather have; one battalion of good men I 
can trust than a regiment of troops who might break under fire. After I've a bare minimum 
of first-class troops, I'll consider taking on others , for garrison duties. Right now the need is 
for men who can fight." 
"And you don't have them yet-those Marines seemed well disciplined." 
"In ranks, certainly. But do you really think the CD would let go of reliable troops?" 
"Maybe not," Bradford conceded. "O.K. You're the expert. But where the hell are 
you getting the other recruits? Jailbirds, kids with police records. You keep them while you 
let my Progressives run!" 
"Yes, sir." Falkenberg signaled for another round of drinks. "Mr. Vice President-" 
"Since when have we become that formal?" Bradford asked. His smile was back. 
"Sorry. I thought you were here to read me out." 
"No, of course not. But I've got to answer to President Budreau, you know. And 
Hamner. I've managed to get your activities assigned to my department, but it doesn't mean 
I can tell the Cabinet to blow it." 

"Right," Falkenberg said. "Well, about the recruits,| We take what we can get. It 
takes time to train green men, and if the street warriors stand up better than you party 
toughs, I can't help it. You can tell the Cabinet that when we've a cadre we can trust, we'll 
be easier on volunteers. We can even form some kind of part-time militia. But right now the 
need is for men tough enough to win this fight coming up, and I don't know any better way 
to do it." 
After that Falkenberg found himself summoned report to the Palace every 
week. Usually he met only Bradford and Hamner; President Budreau had made it clear that 
he considered the military force as an evil whose necessity was not established, and only 
Bradford's insistence kept the regiment supplied. 
At one conference Falkenberg met Chief Horgan of Refuge police. 
"The Chief's got a complaint, Colonel," President Budreau said. 
"Yes sir?" Falkenberg asked. 
"It's those damned Marines," Horgan said. He rubbed the point of his chin. "They're 
raising hell in the city at night. We've never hauled any of them in because Mr. Bradford 
wants us to go easy, but it's getting rough." 
"What are they doing?" Falkenberg asked. 
"You name it. They've taken over a couple of taverns and won't let anybody in 
without their permission, for one thing. And they have fights with street gangs every night. 
"We could live with all that, but they go to other parts of town, too. Lots of them. 
They go into taverns and drink all night, then say they can't pay. If the owner gets sticky, 
they wreck the place...." 
"And they're gone before your patrols get there," Falkenberg finished for him. "It's 
an old tradition. They call it System D, and more planning effort goes into that operation than 
I can ever get them to put out in combat. I'll try to put a stop to System D, anyway." 
"It would help. Another thing. Your guys go into the toughest parts of town and start 
fights whenever they can find anyone to mix with." 
"How are they doing?" Falkenberg asked interestedly. 
Horgan grinned, then caught himself after a stern look from Budreau. "Pretty well. I 
understand they've never been beaten. But it raises hell with the citizens, Colonel. And 
another trick of theirs is driving people crazy! They march through the streets fifty strong at 
all hours of the night playing bagpipes! Bagpipes in the wee hours, Colonel, can be a 
frightening thing." 
Falkenberg thought he saw a tiny flutter in Horgan's left eye, and the police chief 
was holding back a wry smile. 

"I wanted to ask you about that, Colonel," Second Vice President Hamner said. 
"This is hardly a Scots outfit, why do they have bagpipes anyway?" 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Pipes are standard with many Marine regiments. Since the 
Russki CD outfits started taking up Cossack customs, the Western bloc regiments adopted 
their own. After all, the Marines were formed out of a number of old military units. Foreign 
Legion, Highlanders-a lot of men like the pipes. I'll confess I do myself." 
"Sure, but not in my city in the middle of the night," Horgan said. 
John grinned openly at the chief of police. "I'll try to keep the pipers off the streets at 
night. I can imagine they're not good for civilian morale. But as to keeping the Marines in 
camp, how do I do it? We need every one of them, and they're volunteers. They can get on 
the CD carrier and ship out when the rest go, and there's not one damned thing we can do 
about it." 
'There's less than a month until they haul down that CoDominium flag," Bradford 
added with satisfaction. He glanced at the CD banner on its staff outside. Eagle with red 
shield and black sickle and hammer on its breast; red stars and blue stars around it. 
Bradford nodded in satisfaction. It wouldn't be long. 
That flag meant little to the people of Hadley. On Earth it was enough to cause riots 
in nationalistic cities in both the U.S. and the Soviet Union, while in other countries it was a 
symbol of the alliance that kept any other nation from rising above second-class status. To 
Earth the CoDominium Alliance represented peace at a high price, too high for many. 
For Falkenberg it represented nearly thirty years of service ended by court martial. 
Two weeks to go. Then the CoDominium Governor would leave, and Hadley 
would be officially independent. Vice President Bradley visited the camp to speak to the 
recruits. 
He told them of the value of loyalty to the government, and the rewards they would 
all have as soon as the Progressive Party was officially in power. Better pay, more liberties, 
and the opportunity for promotion in an expanding army; bonuses and soft duty. His speech 
was full of promises, and Bradford was quite proud of it. 
When he had finished, Falkenberg took the Vice President into a private room in the 
Officers' Mess and slammed the door. 
"Damn you, you don't ever make offers to my troops without my permission." John 
Falkenberg's face was cold| with anger. 
"I'll do as I please with my army, Colonel," Bradford replied smugly. The little smile 
on his face was completely without warmth. "Don't get snappy with me, Colonel 
Falkenberg. Without my influence Budreau would dismiss you in an instant." 
Then his mood changed, and Bradford took a flask of brandy from his pocket. 
"Here, Colonel, have a drink." The little smile was replaced with something more genuine. 

"We have to work together, John. There's too much to do, even with both of us working it 
won't all get done. Sorry, I'll ask your advice in future, but don't you think the troops should 
get to know me? I'll be President soon." He looked to Falkenberg for confirmation. 
"Yes, sir." John took the flask and held it up for a toast. "To the new President of 
Hadley. I shouldn't have snapped at you, but don't make offers to troops who haven't 
proved themselves. If you give men reason to think they're good when they're not, you'll 
never have an army worth its pay." 
"But they've done well in training. You said so." 
"Sure, but you don't tell them that. Work them until they've nothing more to give, 
and let them know that's just barely satisfactory. Then one day they'll give you more than 
they knew they had in them. That's the day you can offer rewards, only by then you won't 
need to." Bradford nodded grudging agreement. "If you say so. But I wouldn't have 
thought-" 
"Listen," Falkenberg said. A party of recruits and their drill masters marched past 
outside. They were singing and their words came in the open window. 
"When you've blue'd your last tosser, on the brothel and the booze, and you're out 
in the cold on your ear, you hump your bundle on the rough, and tell the sergeant that you're 
tough, and you'll do him the favor of his life. He will cry and he will scream, and he'll curse 
his rotten luck, and he'll ask why he was ever born. If you're lucky he will take you, and he'll 
do his best to break you, and they'll feed you rotten monkey on a knife." 
"Double time, heaow!" The song broke off as the men ran across the central parade 
ground. 
Bradford turned away from the window. "That sort of thing is all very well for the 
jailbirds, Colonel, but I insist on keeping my loyalists as well. In future you will dismiss no 
Progressive without my approval. Is that understood?" 
Falkenberg nodded. He'd seen this coming for some time. "In that case, sir, it might 
be better to form a separate battalion. I will transfer all of your people into the Fourth 
Battalion and put them under the officers you've appointed. Will that be satisfactory?" 
"If you'll supervise their training, yes." 
"Certainly," Falkenberg said. 
"Good." Bradford's smile broadened, but it wasn't meant for Falkenberg. "I will also 
expect you to consult me about any promotions in that battalion. You agree to that, of 
course." 
"Yes, sir. There may be some problems about finding locals to fill the senior NCO 
slots. You've got potential monitors and corporals, but they've not the experience to be 
sergeants and centurions." 

"You'll find a way, I'm sure," Bradford said carefully. "I have some rather, uh, 
special duties for the Fourth Battalion, Colonel. I'd prefer it to be entirely staffed by Party 
loyalists of my choosing. Your men should only be there to supervise training, not as their 
commanders. Is. this agreed?" 
"Yes, sir." 
Bradford's smile was genuine as he left the camp. 
Day after day the troops sweated in the bright blue-tinted sunlight. Riot control, 
bayonet drill, use of armor in defense and attacks against men with body armor, and more 
complex exercises as well. There were forced marches under the relentless direction of 
Major Savage, the harsh shouts of sergeants and centurions, Captain Amos Fast with his 
tiny swagger stick and biting sarcasm.... 
Yet the number leaving the regiment was smaller now, and there was still a flow of 
recruits from the Marines' nocturnal expeditions. The recruiting officers could even be 
selective, although they seldom were. The Marines, like, the Legion before it, took anyone 
willing to fight; and Falkenberg's officers were all Marine trained. 
Each night groups of Marines sneaked past sentries to drink and carouse with the 
field hands of nearby ranchers. They gambled and shouted in local taverns, and they paid 
little attention to their officers. There were many complaints, and Bradford's protests 
became stronger. 
Falkenberg always gave the same answer. "They always come back, and they don't 
have to stay here. How do you suggest I control them? Flogging?" 
The constabulary army had a definite split personality with recruits treated harsher 
than veterans. Meanwhile the Fourth Battalion grew larger each day. 
VIII 
George hamner tried to get home for dinner every night, no matter what it might cost 
him in night work later. He thought he owed at least that to his family. 
His walled estate was just outside the Palace district. It had been built by his 
grandfather with money borrowed from American Express. The old man had been proud of 
paying back every cent before it was due. It was a big comfortable place which cunningly 
combined local materials and imported luxuries, and George was always glad to return 
there. 
At home he felt he was master of something, that at least one thing was under his 
control. It was the only place in Refuge where he could feel that way. 
In less than a week the CoDominium Governor would leave. Independence was 
near, and it should be a time of hope, but George Hamner felt only dread. Problems of 

public order were not officially his problem. He held the Ministry of Technology, but the 
breakdown in law and order couldn't be ignored. Already half of Refuge was untouched by 
government. 
There were large areas where the police went only in squads or not at all, and 
maintenance crews had to be protected or they couldn't enter. For now the CoDominium 
Marines escorted George's men, but what would it be like when the Marines were gone? 
George sat in the paneled study and watched lengthening shadows in the groves 
outside. They made dancing patterns through the trees and across neatly clipped lawns. The 
outside walls spoiled the view of Raceway Channel below, and Hamner cursed them. 
Why must we have walls? Walls and a dozen armed men to patrol them. I can 
remember when I sat in this room with my father, I was no more than six, and we could 
watch boats in the Channel. And later, we had such big dreams for Hadley. Grandfather 
telling why he had left Earth, and what we could do here. Freedom and plenty. We had a 
paradise, and Lord, Lord, what have we done with it? 
He worked for an hour, but accomplished little. There weren't any solutions, only 
chains of problems that led back into a circle. Solve one and all would fall into place, but 
none were soluble without the others. And yet, if we had a few years, he thought. A few 
years, but we aren't going to get them. 
In a few years the farms will support the urban population if we can move people 
out of the agricultural interior and get them working-but they won't leave Refuge, and we 
can't make them do it. 
If we could, though. If the city's population could be thinned, the power we divert to 
food manufacture can be used to build a transport net. Then we can get more to live in the 
interior, and we can get more food into the city. We could make enough things to keep 
country life pleasant, and people will want to leave Refuge. But there's no way to the first 
step. The people don't want to move and the Freedom Party promises they won't have to. 
George shook his head. Can Falkenberg's army make them leave? If he gets enough 
soldiers can he forcibly evacuate part of the city? Hamner shuddered at the thought. There 
would be resistance, slaughter, civil war. Hadley's independence can't be built on a 
foundation of blood. No. 
His other problems were similar. The government was bandaging Hadley's wounds, 
but that's all. Treating symptoms because there was never enough control over events to 
treat causes. 
He picked up a report on the fusion generators. They needed spare parts, and he 
wondered how long even this crazy standoff would last. He couldn't really expect more than 
a few years even if everything went well. A few years, and then famine because the transport 
net couldn't be built fast enough. And when the generators failed, the city's food supplies 
would be gone, sanitation services crippled . . . famine and plague. Were those horsemen 
better than conquest and war? 

He thought of his interview with the Freedom Party leaders. They didn't care about 
the generators because they were sure that Earth wouldn't allow famines on Hadley. They 
thought Hadley could use her own helplessness as a weapon to extract payments from the 
CoDominium. 
George cursed under his breath. They were wrong. Earth didn't care, and Hadley 
was too far away to interest anyone. But even if they were right they were selling Hadley's 
independence, and for what? Didn't real independence mean anything to them? 
Laura came in with a pack of shouting children. 
"Already time for bed?" he asked. The four-year-old picked up his pocket 
calculator and sat on his lap, punching buttons and watching the numbers and lights flash. 
George kissed them all and sent them out, wondering as he did what kind of future 
they had. 
I should get out of politics, he told himself. I'm not doing any good, and I'll get Laura 
and the kids finished along with me. But what happens if we let go? What future will they 
have then? 
"You look worried." Laura was back after putting the children to bed. "It's only a 
few days-" 
"Yeah." 
"And what really happens then?" she asked. "Not the promises we keep hearing. 
What really happens when the CD leaves? It's going to be bad, isn't it?" 
He pulled her to him, feeling her warmth, and tried to draw comfort from her 
nearness. She huddled against him for a moment, then pulled away. 
"George, shouldn't we take what we can and go east? We wouldn't have much, but 
you'd be alive." 
"It won't be that bad," he told her. He tried to chuckle, as if she'd made a joke, but 
the sound was hollow. She didn't laugh with him. 
"There'll be time for that later," he told her. "If things don't work. But it should be all 
right at first. We've got a planetary constabulary. It should be enough to protect the 
government-but I'm moving all of you into the palace in a couple of days." 
"The army," she said with plenty of contempt. "Some army, George. Bradford's 
volunteers who'd kill you-and don't think he wouldn't like to see you dead, either. And those 
Marines! You said yourself they were the scum of space." 
"I said it. I wonder if I believe it. There's something strange happening here, Laura. 
Something I don't understand." 

She sat on the couch near his desk and curled her legs under herself. He'd always 
liked that pose. She looked up, her eyes wide with interest. She never looked at anyone else 
that way. 
"I went to see Major Karantov today," George said. "Thought I'd presume on an 
old friend to get a little information about this man Falkenberg. Boris wasn't in his office, but 
one of the junior lieutenants, fellow named Kleist-" 
"I've met him," Laura said. "Nice boy. A little young." 
"Yes. Anyway, we got into a conversation about what happens after independence. 
We discussed street fighting, and the mob riots, you know, and I said I wished we had some 
reliable Marines instead of the demobilized outfit they were leaving here. He looked funny 
and asked just what did I want, the Grand Admiral's Guard?" 
"That's strange." 
"Yes, and when Boris came in and I asked what Kleist meant, Boris said the kid 
was new and didn't know what he was talking about." 
"And you think he did?" Laura asked. "Boris wouldn't lie to you. Stop that!" she 
added hastily. "You have an appointment." 
"It can wait." 
"With only a couple of dozen cars on this whole planet and one of them coming for 
you, you will not keep it waiting while you make love to your wife, George Hamner!" Her 
eyes flashed, but not with anger. "Besides, I want to know what Boris told you." She 
danced away from him, and he went back to the desk. 
"It's not just that," George said. "I've been thinking about it. Those troops don't look 
like misfits to me. Off duty they drink, and they've got the field hands locking their wives and 
daughters up, but you know, come morning they're out on that drill field. And Falkenberg 
doesn't strike me as the type who'd put up with undisciplined men." 
"But-" 
He nodded. "But it doesn't make sense. And there's the matter of the officers. He's 
got too many, and they're not from Hadley. That's why I'm going out there tonight, without 
Bradford." 
"Have you asked Ernie about it?" 
"Sure. He says he's got some Party loyalists training as officers. I'm a little slow, 
Laura, but I'm not that stupid. I may not notice everything, but if there were fifty Progressives 
with military experience I'd know. Bradford is lying, and why?" 
Laura looked thoughtful and pulled her lower lip in a gesture that Hamner hardly 
noticed now, although he'd kidded her about it before they were married. "He lies for 

practice," she said. "But his wife has been talking about independence, and she let something 
slip about when Ernie would be President she'd make some changes." 
"Well, Ernie expects to succeed Budreau." 
"No," Laura said. "She acted like it would be soon. Very soon." 
George Hamner shook his massive head. "He hasn't the guts for a coup," he said 
firmly. "And the technicians would walk out in a second. They can't stand him and he knows 
it." 
"Ernest Bradford has never recognized any limitations," Laura said. "He really 
believes he can make anyone like him if he'll just put out the effort. No matter how many 
times he's kicked a man, he thinks a few smiles and apologies will fix it. But what did Boris 
tell you about Falkenberg?" 
"Said he was as good as we can get. A top Marine commander, started as a Navy 
man and went over to Marines because he couldn't get fast enough promotions in the Navy." 
"An ambitious man. How ambitious?" 
"Don't know." 
"Is he married?" 
"I gather he once was, but not for a long time. I got the scoop on the court martial. 
There weren't any slots open for promotion. But when a review board passed Falkenberg 
over for a promotion that the admiral couldn't have given him in the first place, Falkenberg 
made such a fuss about it that he was dismissed for insubordination." 
"Can you trust him, then?" Laura asked. "His men may be the only thing keeping you 
alive-" 
"I know. And you, and Jimmy, and Christie, and Peter. ... I asked Boris that, and he 
said there's no better man available. You can't hire CD men from active duty. Boris 
recommends him highly. Says troops love him, he's a brilliant tactician, has experience in 
troop command and staff work as well-" 
"Sounds like quite a catch." 
"Yes. But Laura, if he's all that valuable, why did they boot him out? My God, it all 
sounds so trivial-" 
The interphone buzzed, and Hamner answered it absently. It was the butler to 
announce that his car and driver were waiting. "I'll be late, sweetheart. Don't wait up for me. 
But you might think about it ... I swear Falkenberg is the key to something, and I wish I 
knew what." 
"Do you like him?" Laura asked. 

"He isn't a man who tries to be liked." 
"I asked if you like him." 
"Yes. And there's no reason to. I like him, but can I trust him?" 
As he went out he thought about that. Could he trust Falkenberg? With Laura's life . 
. . and the kids . . . and for that matter, with a whole planet that seemed headed for hell and 
no way out. 
The troops were camped in an orderly square. Earth ramparts had been thrown up 
around the perimeter, and the tents were pitched in lines that might have been laid with a 
transit. 
The equipment was scrubbed and polished, blanket rolls were tight, each item in the 
same place inside the two-man tents . . . but the men were milling about, shouting, gambling 
openly in front of the campfires. There were plenty of bottles in evidence even from the 
outer gates. 
"Halt! Who's there?" 
Hamner started. The car had stopped at the barricaded gate, but Hamner hadn't 
seen the sentry. This was his first visit to the camp at night, and he was edgy. "Vice President 
Hamner," he answered. 
A strong light played on his face from the opposite side of the car. Two sentries, 
then, and both invisible until he'd come on them. "Good evening, sir," the first sentry said. "I'll 
pass the word you're here." 
He raised a small communicator to his lips. "Corporal of the Guard, Post Number 
Five." Then he shouted the same thing, the call ringing clear in the night. A few heads around 
campfires turned toward the gate, then went back to their other activities. 
Hamner was escorted across the camp to officers' row. The huts and tent stood 
across a wide parade ground from the densely packed company streets of the troops and 
had their own guards. 
Over in the company area the men were singing, and Hamner paused to listen. 
"I've a head like a concertina, and I think I'm ready to die, and I'm here in the clink 
for a thundrin' drink and blacking the Corporal's eye. With another man's cloak underneath 
of my head and a beautiful view of the yard, it's the crapaud for me, and no more System 
D, I was Drunk and Resistin' the Guard! Mad drunk and resistin' the guard!" 
It's the crapaud for me, and no more System D, I was Drunk and Resistin' the 
Guard." 
Falkenberg came out of his hut. "Good evening, sir. What brings you here?" 

I'll just bet you'd like to know, Hamner thought. "I - have a few things to discuss 
with you, Colonel. About the organization of the constabulary." 
"Certainly." Falkenberg was crisp and seemed slightly nervous. Hamner wondered if 
he were drunk. "Shall we go to the Mess?" Falkenberg asked. "More comfortable there, 
and I haven't got my quarters made up for visitors." 
Or you've got something here I shouldn't see, George thought. Something or 
someone. Local girl? What difference does it make? God, I wish I could trust this man. 
Falkenberg led the way to the ranch house in the center of officers row. The troops 
were still shouting and singing, and a group was chasing each other on the parade ground. 
Most were dressed in the blue and yellow garrison uniforms. Falkenberg had designed, but 
others trotted past in synthi-leather battledress. They carried rifles and heavy packs. 
"Punishment detail," Falkenberg explained. "Not as many of those as there used to 
be." 
Sound crashed from the Officers' Mess building: drums and bagpipes, a wild sound 
of war mingled with shouted laughter. Inside, two dozen men sat at a long table as whitecoated 
stewards moved briskly about with whiskey bottles and glasses. 
Kilted bandsmen marched around the table with pipes. Drummers stood in one 
corner. The deafening noise stopped as Falkenberg entered, and everyone got to his feet. 
Some were quite unsteady. 
"Carry on," Falkenberg said, but no one did. They eyed Hamner nervously, and at a 
wave from the mess president at the head of the table the pipers and drummers went 
outside. Several stewards with bottles followed them. The other officers sat and talked in 
low tones. After all the noise the room seemed very quiet. 
"We'll sit over here, shall we?" the colonel asked. He led Hamner to a small table in 
one corner. A steward brought two glasses of whiskey and set them down. 
The room seemed curiously bare to Hamner. A few banners, some paintings; very 
little else. Somehow, he thought, there ought to be more. As if they're waiting. But that's 
ridiculous. 
Most of the officers were strangers, but George recognized half a dozen 
Progressives, the highest rank a first lieutenant. He waved at the ones he knew and received 
brief smiles that seemed almost guilty before the Party volunteers turned back to their 
companions. 
"Yes, sir?" Falkenberg prompted. 
. 
"Just who are these men?" George demanded. "I know they're not native to Hadley. 
Where did they come from?" 

"CoDominium officers on the beach," Falkenberg answered promptly. "Reduction in 
force. Lots of good men got riffed into early retirement. Some of them heard I was coming 
here and chose to give up their reserve ranks. They came out on the colony ship on the 
chance I'd hire them." 
"And you did." 
"Naturally I jumped at the chance to get experienced men at prices we could 
afford." 
"But why all the secrecy? Why haven't I heard about them before?" 
Falkenberg shrugged. "We've violated several of the Grand Senate's regulations on 
mercenaries, you know. It's best not to talk about these things until the CD has definitely 
gone. After that, the men are committed. They'll have to stay loyal to Hadley." Falkenberg 
lifted his whiskey glass. "Vice President Bradford knew all about it." 
"I'll bet he did." Hamner lifted his own glass. "Cheers." 
"Cheers." 
And I wonder what else that little snake knows about, Hamner wondered. Without 
his support Falkenberg would be out of here in a minute . . . and what then? "Colonel, your 
organization charts came to my office yesterday. You've kept all the Marines in one battalion 
with these newly hired officers. Then you've got three battalions of locals, but all the Party 
stalwarts are in the Fourth. The Second and Third are local recruits, but under your own 
men." 
'That's a fair enough description, yes, sir," Falkenberg said. 
And you know my question, George thought. "Why, Colonel? A suspicious man 
would say that you've got your own little army here, with a structure set so that you can take 
complete - control if there's ever a difference of opinion between you and the government." 
"A suspicious man might say that," Falkenberg agreed. He drained his glass and 
waited for George to do the same. A steward came over with freshly filled glasses. 
"But a practical man might say something else," Falkenberg continued. "Do you 
expect me to put green officers in command of those guardhouse troops? Or your goodhearted 
Progressives in command of green recruits?" 
"But you've done just that-" 
"On Mr. Bradford's orders I've kept the Fourth Battalion as free of my mercenaries 
as possible. That isn't helping their training, either. But Mr. Bradford seems to have the same 
complaint as you." 
"I haven't complained." 

"I thought you had," Falkenberg said. "In any event, you have your Party force, if 
you wish to use it to control me. Actually you have all the control you need anyway. You 
hold the purse strings. Without supplies to feed these men and money to pay them, I couldn't 
hold them an hour." 
"Troops have found it easier to rob the paymaster than fight for him before now," 
Hamner observed. "Cheers." He drained the glass, then suppressed a cough. The stuff was 
strong, and he wasn't used to drinking neat whiskey. He wondered what would happen if he 
ordered something else, beer, or a mixed drink. Somehow it didn't seem to go with the 
party. 
"I might have expected that remark from Bradford," Falkenberg said. 
Hamner nodded. Bradford was always suspicious of something. There were times 
when George wondered if the First Vice President were quite sane, but that was silly. Still, 
when the pressure was on, Ernie Bradford did manage to get on people's nerves with his 
suspicions, and he would rather see nothing done than give up control of anything. 
"How am I supposed to organize this coup?" Falkenberg demanded. "I have a 
handful of men loyal to me. The rest are mercenaries, or your locals. You've paid a lot to 
bring me and my staff here. You want us to fight impossible odds with nonexistent 
equipment. If you also insist on your own organization of forces, I cannot accept the 
responsibility." "I didn't say that." 
Falkenberg shrugged. "If President Budreau so orders, and he would on your 
recommendation, I'll turn command over to anyone he names." 
And he'd name Bradford, Hamner thought. I'd rather trust Falkenberg. Whatever 
Falkenberg does will at least be competently done; with Ernie there was no assurance he 
wasn't up to something, and none that he'd be able to accomplish anything if he wasn't. 
But. "What do you want out of this, Colonel Falkenberg?" 
The question seemed to surprise the colonel. "Money, of course," Falkenberg 
answered. "A little glory, perhaps, although that's not a word much used nowadays. A 
position of responsibility commensurate with my abilities. I've always been a soldier, and I 
know nothing else." "And why didn't you stay with the CD?" "It is in the record," Falkenberg 
said coldly. "Surely you know." 
"But I don't." Hamner was calm, but the whiskey was enough to make him bolder 
than he'd intended to be, even in this camp surrounded by Falkenberg's men. "I don't know 
at all. It makes no sense as I've been told it. You had no reason to complain about 
promotion, and the Admiral had no reason to prefer charges. It looks as if you had yourself 
cashiered." 
Falkenberg nodded. "You're nearly correct. Astute of you." The soldier's lips were 
tight and his gray eyes bored into Hamner. "I suppose you are entitled to an answer. Grand 
Senator Bronson has sworn to ruin me for reasons you needn't know. If I hadn't been 
dismissed for a trivial charge of technical insubordination, I'd have faced a series of 

trumped-up charges. At least this way I'm out with a clean record." 
A clean record and a lot of bitterness. "And that's all there is to it?" "That's all." It 
was plausible. So was everything else Falkenberg said. 
Yet Hamner was sure that Falkenberg was lying. Not lying directly, but not telling 
everything either. Hamner felt that if he knew the right questions he could get the answers, 
but there weren't any questions to ask. 
And, Hamner thought, I must either trust this man or get rid of him; and to irritate 
him while keeping him is the stupidest policy of all. 
The pipers came back in, and the mess president looked to Falkenberg. "Something 
more?" Falkenberg asked. "No." 
"Thank you." The colonel nodded to the junior officer. The mess president waved 
approval to the pipe major. Pipe major raised his mace, and the drums crashed. The pipers 
began, standing in place at first, then marching around the table. Officers shouted, and the 
room was filled with martial cries. The party was on again. 
George looked for one of his own appointees and discovered that every Progressive 
officer in the room was one of his own. There wasn't a single man from Bradford's wing of 
the Party. Was that significant? 
He rose and caught the eye of a Progressive lieutenant. "I'll let Farquhar escort me 
out, Colonel," Hamner said. "As you please." 
The noise followed them out of the building and along the regimental street. There 
were more sounds from the parade ground and the camp beyond. Fires burned brightly in 
the night. 
"All right, Jamie, what's going on here?" Hamner demanded. 
"Going on, sir? Nothing that I know of. If you mean the party, we're celebrating the 
men's graduation from basic training. Tomorrow they'll start advanced work." 
"Maybe I meant the party," Hamner said. "You seem pretty friendly with the other 
officers." 
"Yes, sir." Hamner noted the enthusiasm in Jamie Farquhar's voice. The boy was 
young enough to be caught up in the military mystique, and George felt sorry for him. 
"They're good men," Jamie. said. 
"Yes, I suppose so. Where are the others? Mr. Bradford's people?" 
"They had a field problem that kept them out of camp until late," Farquhar said. "Mr. 
Bradford came around about dinner time and asked that they be sent to a meeting 
somewhere. He spends a lot of time with them." 

"I expect he does," Hamner said. "Look, you've been around the Marines Jamie. 
Where are those men from? What CD outfits?" 
"I really don't know, sir. Colonel Falkenberg has forbidden us to ask. He says that 
the men start with a clean record here." 
Hamner noted the tone Farquhar used when he mentioned Falkenberg. More than 
respect. Awe, perhaps. "Have any of them served with the colonel before?" 
"I think so, yes, sir. They don't like him. Curse the colonel quite openly. But they're 
afraid of that big sergeant major of his. Calvin has offered to whip any two men in the camp, 
and they can choose the rules. A few of the newcomers tried it, but none of the Marines 
would. Not one." 
"And you say the colonel's not popular with the men?" 
Farquhar was thoughtful for a moment. "I wouldn't say he was popular, no sir." 
Yet, Hamner thought, Boris had said he was. Whiskey buzzed in George's head. 
"Who is popular?" 
"Major Savage, sir. The men like him. And Captain Fast, the Marines particularly 
respect him. He's the adjutant." 
"All right. Look, can this outfit fight? Have we got a chance after the CD leaves?" 
They stood and watched the scenes around the campfires. Men were drinking heavily, 
shouting and singing and chasing each other through the camp. There was a fist fight in front 
of one tent, and no officer moved to stop it. 
"Do you allow that?" Hamner demanded. 
"We try not to interfere too much," Farquhar said. "The colonel says half an officer's 
training is learning what not to see. Anyway, the sergeants have broken up the fight, see?" 
"But you let the men drink." 
"Sir, there's no regulation against drinking. Only against being unfit for duty. And 
these men are tough. They obey orders and they can fight. I think we'll do rather well." 
Pride. They've put some pride into Jamie Farquhar, and maybe into some of those 
jailbirds out there too. "All right, Jamie. Go back to your party. I'll find my driver." 
As he was driven away, George Hamner felt better about Hadley's future, but he 
was still convinced some-thing was wrong; and he had no idea what it was. 
IX 

The stadium had been built to hold one hundred thousand people. There were at 
least that many jammed inside it now, and an equal number swarmed about the market 
squares and streets adjacent to it. The full CoDominium Marine garrison was on duty to 
keep order, but it wasn't needed. 
The celebration was boisterous, but there wouldn't be any trouble today. The 
Freedom Party was as anxious to avoid an incident as the Marines on this, the greatest day 
for Hadley since Discovery. The CoDominium was turning over power to local authority and 
getting out; and nothing must spoil that. 
Hamner and Falkenberg watched from the upper tiers of the Stadium. Row after 
row of plastisteel seats cascaded like a giant staircase down from their perch to the central 
grassy field below. Every seat was filled, so that the Stadium was a riot of color. 
President Budreau and Governor Flaherty stood in the Presidential box directly 
across from Falkenberg and Hamner. The President's Guard, in blue uniforms, and the Co-
Dominium Marines, in their scarlet and gold, stood at rigid attention around the officials. 
The President's box was shared by Vice President Bradford, the Freedom Party 
opposition leaders, Progressive officials, officers of the retiring CoDominium government, 
and everyone else who could beg an invitation. George knew that some of them were 
wondering where he had got off to. 
Bradford would particularly notice Hamner's absence. He might, George thought, 
even think the Second Vice President was out stirring up opposition or rebellion. Ernie 
Bradford had lately been accusing Hamner of every kind of disloyalty to the Progressive 
Party, and it wouldn't be long before he demanded that Budreau dismiss him. 
To the devil with the little man! George thought. He hated crowds, and the thought 
of standing there and listening to all those speeches, of being polite to party officials whom 
he detested, was just too much. When he'd suggested watching from another vantage point, 
Falkenberg had quickly agreed. The soldier didn't seem to care too much for formal 
ceremonies either. Civilian ceremonies, Hamner corrected himself; Falkenberg seemed to 
like military parades. 
The ritual was almost over. The CD Marine bands had marched through the field, 
the speeches had been made, presents delivered and accepted. A hundred thousand people 
had cheered, and it was an awesome sound. The raw power was frightening. 
Hamner glanced at his watch. As he did the Marine band broke into a roar of 
drums. The massed drummers ceased to beat one by one until there was but a single drum 
roll that went on and on and on, until finally it too stopped. The entire Stadium waited. 
One trumpet, no more. A clear call, plaintive but triumphant, the final salute to the 
CoDominium banner above the Palace. The notes hung in Hadley's air like something 
tangible, and slowly, deliberately, the crimson and blue banner floated down from the 
flagpole as Hadley's blazing gold and green arose. 
Across the city uniformed men saluted these flags, one rising, the other setting. The 

blue uniforms of Hadley saluted with smiles, the red-uniformed Marines with indifference. 
The CoDominium banner rose and fell across two hundred light-years and seventy worlds in 
this year of Grace; what difference would one minor planet make? 
Hamner glanced at John Falkenberg. The colonel had no eyes for the rising banners 
of Hadley. His rigid salute was given to the CD flag, and as the last note of the final trumpet 
salute died away Hamner thought he saw Falkenberg wipe his eyes. 
The gesture was so startling that George looked again, but there was nothing more 
to see, and he decided that he had been mistaken. 
"That's it, then," Falkenberg snapped. His voice was strained. "I suppose we ought 
to join the party. Can't keep His Nibs waiting." 
Hamner nodded. The Presidential box connected directly to the Palace, and the 
officials would arrive at the reception quickly while Falkenberg and Hamner had the entire 
width of the crowded Stadium to traverse. People were already streaming out to join the 
festive crowds on the grass in the center of the bowl. 
"Let's go this way," George said. He led Falkenberg to the top of the Stadium and 
into a small alcove where he used a key to open an inconspicuous door. "Tunnel system 
takes us right into the Palace, across and under the Stadium," he told Falkenberg. "Not 
exactly secret, but we don't want the people to know about it because they'd demand we 
open it to the public. Built for maintenance crews, mostly." He locked the door behind them 
and waved expressively at the wide interior corridor. "Place was pretty well designed, 
actually." 
The grudging tone of admiration wasn't natural to him. If a thing was well done, it 
was well done . . . but lately he found himself talking that way about CoDominium projects. 
He resented the whole CD administration and the men who'd dumped the job of governing 
after creating problems no one could solve. 
They wound down stairways and through more passages, then up to another set of 
locked doors. Through those was the Palace courtyard. The celebrations were already 
under way, and it would be a long night. 
George wondered what would come now. In the morning the last CD boat would 
rise, and the CoDominium would be gone. Tomorrow, Hadley would be alone with her 
problems. 
"Tensh-Hut!" Sergeant Major Calvin's crisp command cut through the babble. 
"Please be seated, gentlemen." Falkenberg took his place at the head of the long 
table in the command room of what had been the central headquarters for the CoDominium 
Marines. 
Except for the uniforms and banners there were few changes from what people 
already called "the old days." The officers were seated in the usual places for a regimental 
staff meeting. Maps hung along one wall, and a computer output screen dominated another. 

Stewards in white coats brought coffee and discreetly retired behind the armed sentries 
outside. 
Falkenberg looked at the familiar scene and knew the constabulary had occupied 
the Marine barracks for two days; the Marines had been there twenty years. 
A civilian lounged in the seat reserved for the regimental intelligence officer. His tunic 
was a riot of colors; he was dressed in current Earth fashions, with a brilliant cravat and 
baggy sleeves. A long sash took the place of a belt and concealed his pocket calculator. 
Hadley's upper classes were only just beginning to wear such finery. 
"You all know why we're here," Falkenberg told the assembled officers. "Those of 
you who've served with me before know I don't hold many staff councils. They are 
customary among mercenary units, however. Sergeant Major Calvin will represent the 
enlisted personnel of the regiment." 
There were faint titters. Calvin had been associated with John Falkenberg for 
eighteen standard years. Presumably they had differences of opinion, but no one ever saw 
them. The idea of the RSM opposing his colonel in the name of the troops was amusing. On 
the other hand, no colonel could afford to ignore the views of his sergeants' mess. 
Falkenberg's frozen features relaxed slightly as if he appreciated his own joke. His 
eyes went from face to face. Everyone in the room was a former Marine, and all but a very 
few had served with him before. The Progressive officers were on duty elsewhere-and it had 
taken careful planning by the adjutant to accomplish that without suspicion. 
Falkenberg turned to the civilian. "Dr. Whitlock, you've been on Hadley for sixtyseven 
days. That's not very long to make a planetary study, but it's about all the time we 
have. Have you reached any conclusions?" 
"Yeah." Whitlock spoke with an exaggerated drawl that most agreed was affected. 
"Not much different from Fleet's evaluation, Colonel. Can't think why you went to the expense 
of bringin' me out here. Your Intelligence people know their jobs about as well as I 
know mine." 
Whitlock sprawled back in his seat and looked very relaxed and casual in the midst 
of the others military formality. There was no contempt in his manner. The military had one 
set of rules and he had another, and he worked well with soldiers. 
"Your conclusions are similar to Fleet's, then," Falkenberg said. "With the limits of 
analysis, yes, sir. Doubt any competent man could reach a different conclusion. This planet's 
headed for barbarism within a generation." 
There was no sound from the other officers but several were startled. Good training 
kept them from showing it. 
Whitlock produced a cigar from a sleeve pocket and inspected it carefully. 
"You want the analysis?" he asked. 

"A summary, please." Falkenberg looked at each face again. Major Savage and 
Captain Fast weren't surprised; they'd known before they came to Hadley. Some of the 
junior officers and company commanders had obviously guessed. 
"Simple enough," Whitlock said. "There's no self-sustaining technology for a 
population half this size. Without imports the standard of livin's bound to fall. Some places 
they could take that, but not here. 
"Here, when they can't get their pretty gadgets, 'stead of workin' the people here in 
Refuge will demand the Government do something about it. Guv'mint's in no position to 
refuse, either. Not strong enough. 
"So they'll have to divert investment capital into consumer goods. There'll be a 
decrease in technological efficiency, and then fewer goods, leadin' to more demands, and 
another cycle just like before. Hard to predict just what comes after that, but it can't be 
good. 
"Afore long, then, they won't have the technological resources to cope even if they 
could get better organized. It's not a new pattern, Colonel. Fleet saw it comin' a while back. 
I'm surprised you didn't take their word for it." 
Falkenberg nodded. "I did, but with something this important I thought I better get 
another opinion. You've met the Freedom Party leaders, Dr. Whitlock. Is there any chance 
they could keep civilization if they governed?" 
Whitlock laughed. It was a long drawn-out laugh, relaxed, totally out of place in a 
military council. “Bout as much chance as for a 'gator to turn loose of a hog, Colonel. Even 
assumin' they know what to do, how can they do it? Suppose they get a vision and try to 
change their policies? Somebody'll start a new party along the lines of the Freedom Party's 
present thinkin'. 
"Colonel, you will never convince all them people there's things the Guv'mint just 
cain't do. They don't want to believe it, and there's always goin' to be slick talkers willin' to 
say it's all a plot. Now, if the Progressive Party, which has the right ideas already, was to set 
up to rule strong, they might be able to keep something goin' a while longer." 
"Do you think they can?" Major Savage asked. 
"Nope. They might have fun tryin'," Whitlock answered. "Problem is that 
independent countryside. There's not enough support for what they'd have to do in city or 
country. Eventually that's all got to change, but the revolution that gives this country a real 
powerful government's going to be one bloody mess, I can tell you. A long drawn-out 
bloody mess at that." 
"Haven't they any hope at all?" The questioner was a junior officer newly promoted 
to company commander. 
Whitlock sighed. "Every place you look, you see problems. City's vulnerable to any 

sabotage that stops the food plants, for instance. And the fusion generators ain't exactly 
eternal, either. They're runnin' 'em hard without enough time off for maintenance. Hadley's 
operating on its capital, not its income, and pretty soon there's not goin' to be any capital to 
operate off of." 
"And that's your conclusion," Falkenberg said. "It doesn't sound precisely like the 
perfect place for us to retire to." 
"Sure doesn't," Whitlock agreed. He stretched elaborately. "Cut it any way you 
want to, this place isn't going to be self-sufficient without a lot of blood spilled." 
"Could they ask for help from American Express?" the junior officer asked. 
"They could ask, but they won't get it," Whitlock said. "Son, this planet was 
neutralized by agreement way back when the CD Governor came aboard. Now the 
Russians aren't going to let a U.S. company like AmEx take it back into the U.S. sphere, 
same as the U.S. won't let the Commies come in and set up shop. Grand Senate would 
order a quarantine on this system just like that." The historian snapped his fingers. "Whole 
purpose of the CoDominium." 
"One thing bothers me," Captain Fast said. "You've been assuming that the CD will 
simply let Hadley revert to barbarism. Won't BuRelock and the Colonial Office come back 
if things get that desperate?" 
"No." 
"You seem rather positive," Major Savage observed. "I'm positive," Dr. Whitlock 
said. "Budgets got cut again this year. They don't have the resources to take on a place like 
Hadley. BuRelock's got its own worries." 
"But-" The lieutenant who'd asked the questions earlier sounded worried. "Colonel, 
what could happen to the Bureau of Relocation?" 
"As Dr. Whitlock says, no budget," Falkenberg answered. "Gentlemen, I shouldn't 
have to tell you about that. You've seen what the Grand Senate did to the Fleet. That's why 
you're demobilized. And Kaslov's people have several new seats on the Presidium next 
year, just as Harmon's gang has won some minor elections in the States. Both those outfits 
want to abolish the CD, and they've had enough influence to get everyone's appropriations 
cut to the bone." 
"But population control has to ship people out, sir," the lieutenant protested. 
"Yes." Falkenberg's face was grim; perhaps he was recalling his own experiences 
with population control's methods. "But they have to employ worlds closer to Earth, 
regardless of the problems that may cause for the colonists. Marginal exploitation ventures 
like Hadley's mines are being shut down. This isn't the only planet the CD's abandoning this 
year." His voice took on a note of thick irony. "Excuse me. Granting independence." 
"So they can't rely on CoDominium help," Captain Fast said. 

"No. If Hadley's going to reach takeoff, it's got to do it on its own." 
"Which Dr. Whitlock says is impossible," Major Savage observed. "John, we've got 
ourselves into a cleft stick, haven't we?" 
"I said it was unlikely, not that it was impossible," Whitlock reminded them. "It'll 
take a government stronger than anything Hadley's liable to get, though. And some smart 
people making the right moves. Or maybe there'll be some luck. Like a good, selective 
plague. Now that'd do it. Plague to kill off the right people-but if it got too many, there 
wouldn't be enough left to take advantage of the technology, so I don't suppose that's the 
answer either." 
Falkenberg nodded grimly. "Thank you, Dr. Whitlock. Now, gentlemen, I want 
battalion commanders and headquarters officers to read Dr. Whitlock's report. Meanwhile, 
we have another item. Major Savage will shortly make a report to the Progressive Party 
Cabinet, and I want you to pay attention. We will have a critique after his presentation. 
Major?" 
Savage stood and went to the readout screen. "Gentlemen." He used the wall 
console to bring an organization chart onto the screen. 
'The regiment consists of approximately two thousand officers and men. Of these, 
five hundred are former Marines, and another five hundred are Progressive partisans 
organized under officers appointed by Mr. Vice President Bradford. 
"The other thousand are general recruits. Some of them are passable mercenaries, 
and some are local youngsters who want to play soldier and would be better off in a national 
guard. All recruits have received basic training comparable to CD Marine ground basic 
without assault, fleet, or jump schooling. Their performance has been somewhat better' than 
we might expect from a comparable number of Marine recruits in CD service. 
"This morning, Mr. Bradford ordered the Colonel to remove the last of our officers 
and non-coms from the Fourth Battalion, and as of this p.m. the Fourth will be totally under 
the control of officers appointed by First Vice President Bradford. He has not informed us 
of the reason for this order." 
Falkenberg nodded. "In your estimate, Major, are the troops ready for combat 
duties?" Falkenberg listened idly as he drank coffee. The briefing was rehearsed, and he 
knew what Savage would answer. The men were trained, but they did not as yet make up a 
combat unit. Falkenberg waited until Savage had finished the presentation. 
"Recommendations?" 
"Recommend that the Second Battalion be integrated with the First, sir. Normal 
practice is to form each maniple with one recruit, three privates, and a monitor in charge. 
With equal numbers of new men and veterans we will have a higher proportion of recruits, 
but this will give us two battalions of .men under our veteran NCO's, with Marine privates 
for leavening. 

"We will thus break up the provisional training organization and set up the regiment 
with a new permanent structure, First and Second Battalions for combat duties, Third 
composed of locals with former Marine officers to be held in reserve. The Fourth will not be 
under our command." 
"Your reasons for this organization?" Falkenberg asked. 
"Morale, sir. The new troops feel discriminated against. 'They're under harsher 
discipline than the former Marines, and they resent it. Putting them in the same maniples with 
the Marines will stop that." "Let's see the new structure." 
Savage manipulated the input console and charts swam across the screen. The 
administrative structure was standard, based in part on the CD Marines and the rest on the 
national armies of Churchill. That wasn't the important part. It wasn't obvious, but the 
structure demanded that all the key posts be held by Falkenberg's mercenaries. 
The best Progressive appointees were either in the Third or Fourth Battalions, and 
there were no locals with the proper experience in command; so went the justification. It 
looked good to Falkenberg, and there was no sound military reason to question it. Bradford 
would be so pleased about his new control of the Fourth that he wouldn't look at the rest; 
not yet, anyway. The others didn't know enough to question it. 
Yes, Falkenberg thought. It ought to work. He waited until Savage was finished and 
thanked him, then addressed the others. "Gentlemen, if you have criticisms, let's hear them 
now. I want a solid front when we get to the Cabinet meeting tomorrow, and I want every 
one of you ready to answer any question. I don't have to tell you how important it is that 
they buy this." They all nodded. 
"And another thing," Falkenberg said. "Sergeant Major." "Sir!" 
"As soon as the Cabinet has bought off on this new organization plan, I want this 
regiment under normal discipline." "Sir!" 
"Break it to 'em hard, Top Soldier. Tell the Forty-second the act's over. From here 
on recruits and old hands get treated alike, and the next man who gives me trouble will wish 
he hadn't been born." 
"Sir!" Calvin smiled happily. The last months had been a strain for everyone. Now 
the colonel was taking over again, thank God. The men had lost some of the edge, but he'd 
soon put it back again. It was time to take off the masks, and Calvin for one was glad of it. 
X 
The sound of fifty thousand people shouting in unison can be terrifying. It raises fears 
at a level below thought; creates a panic older than the fear of nuclear weapons and the 
whole panoply of technology. It is raw, naked power from a cauldron of sound. 

Everyone in the Palace listened to the chanting crowd. The Government people 
were outwardly calm, but they moved quietly through the halls, and spoke in low tones- or 
shouted for no reason. The Palace was filled with a nameless fear. 
The Cabinet meeting started at dawn and continued until late in the morning. It had 
gone on and on without settling anything. Just before noon Vice President Bradford stood at 
his place at the council table with his lips tight in rage. He pointed a trembling finger at 
George Hamner. 
"It's your "fault!" Bradford shouted. "Now the technicians have joined in the demand 
for a new constitution, and you control them. I've always said you were a traitor to the 
Progressive Party!" 
"Gentlemen, please," President Budreau insisted. His voice held infinite weariness. 
"Come now, that sort of language-" 
"Traitor?" Hamner demanded. "If your blasted officials would pay a little attention to 
the technicians, this wouldn't have happened. In three months you've managed to convert the 
techs from the staunchest supporters of this Party into allies of the rebels despite everything I 
could do." 
"We need strong government," Bradford said. His voice was contemptuous, and the 
little half-smile had returned. 
George Hamner made a strong effort to control his anger. "You won't get it this 
way. You've herded my techs around like cattle, worked them overtime for no extra pay, 
and set those damned soldiers of yours onto them when they protested. It's worth a man's 
life to have your constabulary mad at him." 
"Resisting the police," Bradford said. "We can't permit that." 
"You don't know what government is!" Hamner said. His control vanished and he 
stood, towering above Bradford. The little man retreated a step, and his smile froze. "You've 
got the nerve to call me a traitor after all you've done! I ought to break your neck!" 
"Gentlemen!" Budreau stood at his place at the head of the table. "Stop it!" There 
was a roar from the Stadium. The Palace seemed to vibrate to the shouts of the 
constitutional convention. 
The Cabinet room became silent for a moment. Wearily, Budreau continued. "This 
isn't getting us anywhere. I suggest we adjourn for half an hour to allow tempers to cool." 
There was murmured agreement from the others. 
"And I want no more of these accusations and threats when we convene again," 
President Budreau said. "Is that understood?" 
Grudgingly the others agreed. Budreau left alone. Then Bradford, followed by a 

handful of his closest supporters. Other ministers rushed to be seen leaving with him, as if it 
might be dangerous to be thought in opposition to the First Vice President. 
George Hamner found himself alone in the room. He shrugged, and went out. Ernest 
Bradford had been joined by a man in uniform. Hamner recognized Lieutenant Colonel 
Cordova, commander of the Fourth Battalion of constabulary, and a fanatic Bradford 
supporter. Hamner remembered when Bradford had first proposed a commission for 
Cordova, and how unimportant it had seemed then. 
Bradford's group went down the hall. They seemed to be whispering something 
together and making a point of excluding the Second Vice President. Hamner merely 
shrugged. 
"Buy you a coffee?" The voice came from behind and startled George. He turned to 
see Falkenberg. 
"Sure. Not that it's going to do any good. We're in trouble, Colonel." 
"Anything decided?" Falkenberg asked. "It's been a long wait." 
"And a useless one. They ought to invite you into the Cabinet meetings. You might 
have some good advice. There's sure as hell no reason to keep you waiting in an anteroom 
while we yell at each other. I've tried to change that policy, but I'm not too popular right 
now." There was another shout from the Stadium. 
"Whole government's not too popular," Falkenberg said. "And when that convention 
gets through...." 
"Another thing I tried to stop last week," George told him. "But Budreau didn't have 
the guts to stand up to them. So now we've got fifty thousand drifters, with nothing better to 
do, sitting as an assembly of the people. That ought to produce quite a constitution." 
Falkenberg shrugged. He might have been about to say something, George thought, 
but if he were, he changed his mind. They reached the executive dining room and took seats 
near one wall. Bradford's group had a table across the room from them, and all of 
Bradford's people looked at them with suspicion. 
"You'll get tagged as a traitor for sitting with me, Colonel." Hamner laughed, but his 
voice was serious. "I think I meant that, you know. Bradford's blaming me for our problems 
with the techs, and between us he's also insisting that you aren't doing enough to restore 
order in the city." 
Falkenberg ordered coffee. "Do I need to explain to you why we haven't?" 
"No." George Hamner's huge hand engulfed a water glass. "God knows you've been 
given almost no support the last couple of months. Impossible orders, and you've never 
been allowed to do anything decisive. I see you've stopped the raids on rebel headquarters." 
Falkenberg nodded. "We weren't catching anyone. Too many leaks in the Palace. 

And most of the time the Fourth Battalion had already muddied the waters. If they'd let us 
do our job instead of having to ask permission through channels for every operation we 
undertake, maybe the enemy wouldn't know as much about what we're going to do. Now 
I've quit asking." 
"You've done pretty well with the railroad." 
"Yes. That's one success, anyway. Things are pretty quiet out in the country where 
we're on our own. Odd, isn't it, that the closer we are to the expert supervision of the 
government, the less effective my men seem to be?" 
"But can't you control Cordova's men? They're causing more people to desert us for 
the rebels than you can count. I can't believe unrestrained brutality is useful." 
"Nor I. Unless there's a purpose to it, force isn't a very effective instrument of 
government. But surely you know, Mr. Hamner, that I have no control over the Fourth. Mr. 
Bradford has been expanding it since he took control, and it's now almost as large as the 
rest of the regiment-and totally under his control, not mine." 
"Bradford accused me of being a traitor," Hamner said carefully. "With his own 
army, he might have something planned...." 
"You once thought that of me," Falkenberg said. "This is very serious," Hamner said. 
"Ernie Bradford has built an army only he controls, and he's making wild accusations." 
Falkenberg smiled grimly. "I wouldn't worry about it too much." 
"You wouldn't? No. You wouldn't. But I'm scared, Colonel. I've got my family to 
think of, and I'm plenty scared." Well, George thought, now it's out in the open; can I trust 
him not to be Ernie Bradford's man? 
"You believe Bradford is planning an illegal move?" Falkenberg asked. 
"I don't know." Suddenly George was afraid again. He saw no sympathy in the other 
man's eyes. And just who can I trust? Who? Anyone? 
"Would you feel safer if your family were in our regimental barracks?" Falkenberg 
asked. "It could be arranged." 
"It's about time we had something out," George said at last. "Yes, I'd feel safer with 
my wife and children under protection. But I'd feel safer yet if you'd level with me." 
"About what?" Falkenberg's expression didn't change. "Those Marines of yours, to 
begin with," George said. "Those aren't penal battalion men. I've watched them, they're too 
well disciplined. And the battle banners they carry weren't won in any peanut actions, on this 
planet or anywhere else. Just who are those men, Colonel?" 
John Falkenberg smiled thinly. "I've been wondering when you'd ask. Why' haven't 
you brought this up with President Budreau?" 

"I don't know. I think because I trust you more than Bradford, and the President 
would only ask him. . . besides, if the President dismissed you there'd be nobody able to 
oppose Ernie. If you will oppose him that is-but you can stand up to him, anyway." 
"What makes you think I would?" Falkenberg asked. "I obey the lawful orders of 
the civilian government-" 
"Yeah, sure. Hadley's going downhill so fast another conspiracy more or less can't 
make any difference anyway. . . you haven't answered my question." 
"The battle banners are from the Forty-second CD Marine Regiment," Falkenberg 
answered slowly. "It was decommissioned as part of the budget cuts." 
"Forty-second." Hamner thought for a second. He searched through his 
mental files to find the information he'd seen on Falkenberg. "That was your regiment." 
"Certainly." 
"You brought it with you." 
"A battalion of it," John Falkenberg agreed. "Their women are waiting to join them 
when we get settled. When the Forty-second was decommissioned, the men decided to stay 
together if they could." 
"So you brought not only the officers, but the men as well." 
"Yes." There was still no change in Falkenberg's expression, although Hamner 
searched the other man's face closely. 
George felt both fear and relief. If those were Falkenberg's men-"What is your 
game, Colonel? You want more than just pay for your troops. I wonder if I shouldn't be 
more afraid of you than of Bradford." 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Decisions you have to make, Mr. Hamner. I could give you 
my word that we mean you no harm, but what would that be worth? I will pledge to take 
care of your family. If you want us to." 
There was another shout from the Stadium, louder this time. Bradford and 
Lieutenant Colonel Cordova left their table, still talking in low tones. The conversation was 
animated, with violent gestures, as if Cordova were trying to talk Bradford into something. 
As they left, Bradford agreed. 
George watched them leave the room. The mob shouted again, making up his mind 
for him. "I'll send Laura and the kids over to your headquarters this afternoon." "Better make 
it immediately," Falkenberg said calmly. George .frowned. "You mean there's not much 
time? Whatever you've got planned, it'll have to be quick, but this afternoon?" 
John shook his head. "You seem to think I have some kind of master plan, Mr. Vice 
President. No. I suggest you get your wife to our barracks before I'm ordered not to 

undertake her protection, that's all. For the rest, I'm only a soldier in a political situation." 
"With Professor Whitlock to advise you," Hamner said. He looked closely at 
Falkenberg. 
"Surprised you with that one, didn't I?" Hamner demanded. "I've seen Whitlock 
moving around and wondered why he didn't come to the President. He must have fifty 
political agents in the convention right now." "You do seem observant," Falkenberg said. 
"Sure." Hamner was bitter. "What the hell good does it do me? I don't understand anything 
that's going on, and I don't trust anybody. I see pieces of the puzzle, but I can't put them 
together. Sometimes I think I should use what influence I've got left to get you out of the 
picture anyway." 
"As you will." Falkenberg's smile was coldly polite. "Whom do you suggest as 
guards for your family after that? The Chief of Police? Listen." 
The Stadium roared again in an angry sound that swelled in volume. 
"You win." Hamner left the table and walked slowly back to the council room. His 
head swirled. 
Only one thing stood out clearly. John Christian Falkenberg controlled the only 
military force on Hadley that could oppose Bradford's people-and the Freedom Party 
gangsters, who were the original enemies in the first place. Can't forget them just because 
I'm getting scared of Ernie, George thought. 
He turned away from the council room and went downstairs to the apartment he'd 
been assigned. The sooner Laura was in the Marine barracks, the safer he'd feel. 
But am I sending her to my enemies? O God, can I trust anyone at all? Boris said he 
was an honorable man. Keep remembering that, keep remembering that. Honor. Falkenberg 
has honor, and Ernie Bradford has none. 
And me? What have I got for leaving the Freedom Party and bringing my 
technicians over to the Progressives? A meaningless title as Second Vice President, and-The 
crowd screamed again. "POWER TO THE PEOPLE!" 
George heard and walked faster. 
Bradford's grin was back. It was the first thing George noticed as he came into the 
council chamber. The little man stood at the table with an amused smile. It seemed quite 
genuine, and more than a little frightening. 
"Ah, here is our noble Minister of Technology and Second Vice President," 
Bradford grinned. "Just in tune. Mr. President, that gang out there is threatening the city. I 
am sure you will all be pleased to know that I've taken steps to end the situation." 
"What have you done?" George demanded. 

Bradford's smile broadened even more. "At this moment, Colonel Cordova is 
arresting the leaders of the opposition. Including, Mr. President, the leaders of the 
Engineers' and Technicians Association Who have joined them. This rebellion will be over 
within the hour." 
Hamner stared at the man. "You fool! You'll have every technician in the city joining 
the Freedom Party gang! And the techs control the power plants, our last influence over the 
crowd. You bloody damned fool!" 
Bradford spoke with exaggerated politeness. "I thought you would be pleased, 
George, to see the rebellion end so easily. Naturally I've sent men to secure the power 
plants. Ah, listen." 
The crowd outside wasn't chanting anymore. There was a confused babble, then a 
welling of sound that turned ugly. No coherent words reached them, only the ugly, angry 
roars. Then there was a rapid fusillade of shots. 
"My God!" President Budreau stared wildly in confusion. "What's happening? Who 
are they shooting at? Have you started open war?" 
"It takes stern measures, Mr. President," Bradford said. "Perhaps too stern for 
you?" He shook his head slightly. "The time has come for harsh measures, Mr. President. 
Hadley cannot be governed by weak-willed men. Our future belongs to those who have the 
will to grasp it!" 
George Hamner turned toward the door. Before he could reach it, Bradford called 
to him. "Please, George." His voice was filled with concern. "I'm afraid you can't leave just 
yet. It wouldn't be safe for you. I took the liberty of ordering Colonel Cordova's men to, uh, 
guard this room while my troops restore order." 
An uneasy quiet had settled on the Stadium, and they waited for a long time. Then 
there were screams and more shots. 
The sounds moved closer, as if they were outside the Stadium as well as in it. 
Bradford frowned, but no one said anything. They waited for what seemed a lifetime as the 
firing continued. Guns, shouts, screams, sirens, and alarms -those and more, all in confusion. 
The door burst open. Cordova came in. He now wore the insignia of a full colonel. 
He looked around the room until he found Bradford. "Sir, could you come outside a' 
moment, please?" 
"You will make your report to the Cabinet," President Budreau ordered. Cordova 
glanced at Bradford. "Now, sir." 
Cordova still looked to Bradford. The Vice President nodded slightly. 
"Very well, sir," the young officer said. "As directed by the Vice President, elements 
of the Fourth Battalion proceeded to the Stadium and arrested some fifty leaders of the socalled 
constitutional convention. 

"Our plan was to enter quickly and take the men out through the Presidential box 
and into the Palace. However, when we attempted to make the arrests we were opposed 
by armed men, many in the uniforms of household guards. We were told there were no 
weapons in the Stadium, but this was in error. 
"The crowd overpowered my officers and released their prisoners. When we 
attempted to recover them, we were attacked by the mob and forced to fight our way out of 
the Stadium." 
"Good Lord," Budreau sighed. "How many hurt?" "The power plants, Did you 
secure them?" Hamner demanded. 
Cordova looked miserable. "No, sir. My men were not admitted. A council of 
technicians and engineers holds the power plants, and they threaten to destroy them if we 
attempt forcible entry. We have tried to seal them off from outside support, but I don't think 
we can keep order with only my battalion. We will need all the constabulary army to-" 
"Idiot." Hamner clutched at his left fist with his right, and squeezed until it hurt. A 
council of technicians. I'll know most of them. My friends. Or they used to be. Will any of 
them trust me now? At least Bradford didn't control the fusion plants. 
"What is the current status outside?" President Budreau demanded. They could still 
hear firing in the streets. 
"Uh, there's a mob barricaded in the market, and another in the theater across from 
the Palace, sir. My troops are trying to dislodge them." Cordova's voice was apologetic. 
"Trying. I take it they aren't likely to succeed." Budreau rose and went to the 
anteroom door. "Colonel Falkenberg?" he called. 
"Yes, sir?" Falkenberg entered the room as the President beckoned. 
"Colonel, are you familiar with the situation outside?" 
"Yes, Mr. President." 
"Damn it, man, can you do something?" 
"What does the President suggest I do?" Falkenberg looked at the Cabinet 
members. "For three months we have attempted to preserve order in this city. We were not 
able to do so even with the cooperation of the technicians." 
"It wasn't my fault-" Lieutenant Colonel Cordova began. 
"I did not invite you to speak." Falkenberg's lips were set in a grim line. "Gentlemen, 
you now have open rebellion and simultaneously have alienated one of the most powerful 
blocs within your Party. We no longer control either the power plants or the food processing 
centers. I repeat, what does the President suggest I do?" 

Budreau nodded. "A fair enough criticism." 
He was interrupted by Bradford. "Drive that mob off the streets! Use those precious 
troops of yours to fight, that's what you're here for." 
"Certainly," Falkenberg said. "Will the President sign a proclamation of martial law?" 
Budreau nodded reluctantly. "I suppose I have to." 
"Very well," Falkenberg said. 
Hamner looked up suddenly. What had he detected in Falkenberg's voice and 
manner? Something important? 
"It is standard for politicians to get themselves into a situation that only the military 
can get them out of. It is also standard for them to blame the military afterwards," 
Falkenberg said. "I am willing to accept responsibility for enforcing martial law, but I must 
have command of all government forces. I will not attempt to restore order when some of 
the troops are not responsive to my policies." "No!" Bradford leaped to his feet. The chair 
crashed to the floor behind him. "I see what you're doing! You're against me too! That's why 
it was never time to move, never time for me to be President, you want control of this planet 
for yourself! Well, you won't get away with it, you cheap dictator. Cordova, arrest that 
man!" 
Cordova licked his lips and looked at Falkenberg. Both soldiers were armed. 
Cordova decided not to chance it. "Lieutenant Hargreave!" he called. The door to the anteroom 
opened wider. 
No one came in. "Hargreave!" Cordova shouted again. He put his hand on the pistol 
holstered at his belt. "You're under arrest, Colonel Falkenberg." 
"Indeed?" 
"This is absurd," Budreau shouted. "Colonel Cordova, take your hand off that 
weapon! I will not have my Cabinet meeting turned into a farce." 
For a moment nothing happened. The room was very still, and Cordova looked 
from Budreau to Bradford, wondering what to do now. 
Then Bradford faced the President. "You too, old man? Arrest Mr. Budreau as 
well, Colonel Cordova. As for you, Mr. Traitor George Hamner, you'll get what's coming to 
you. I have men all through this Palace. I knew I might have to do this." 
"You knew-what is this, Ernest?" President Budreau seemed bewildered, and his 
voice was plaintive. 'What are you doing?" 
"Oh, shut up, old man," Bradford snarled. "I suppose you'll have to be shot as well." 

"I think we have heard enough," Falkenberg said distinctly. His voice rang through 
the room although he hadn't shouted. "And I refuse to be arrested." 
"Kill him!" Bradford shouted. He reached under his tunic. 
Cordova drew his pistol. It had not cleared the holster when there were shots from 
the doorway. Their sharp barks filled the room, and Hamner's ears rang from the muzzle 
blast. 
Bradford spun toward the door with a surprised look. Then his eyes glazed and he 
slid to the floor, the half-smile still on his lips. There were more shots and the crash of 
automatic weapons, and Cordova was flung against the wall of the council chamber. He 
was held there by the smashing bullets. Bright red blotches spurted across his uniform. 
Sergeant Major Calvin came into the room with three Marines in battle dress, 
leather over bulging body armor. Their helmets were dull in the bright blue-tinted sunlight 
streaming through the chamber's windows. 
Falkenberg nodded and holstered his pistol. "All secure, Sergeant Major?" "Sir!" 
Falkenberg nodded again. "To quote Mr. Bradford, I took the liberty of securing the 
corridors, Mr. President. Now, sir, if you will issue that proclamation, I'll see to the situation 
in the streets outside. Sergeant Major." "Sir!" 
"Do you have the proclamation of martial law that Captain Fast drew up?" 
"Sir." Calvin removed a rolled document from a pocket of his leather tunic. 
Falkenberg took it and laid it on the table in front of President Budreau. 
"But-" Budreau's tone was hopeless. "All right. Not that there's much chance." He 
looked at Bradford's body and shuddered. "He was ready to kill me," Budreau muttered. 
The President seemed confused. Too much had happened, and there was too much to do. 
The battle sounds outside were louder, and the council room was filled with the 
sharp copper odor of fresh blood. Budreau drew the parchment toward himself and glanced 
at it, then took out a pen from his pocket. He scrawled his signature across it and handed it 
to Hamner to witness. 
"You'd better speak to the President's Guard," Falkenberg said. "They won't know 
what to do." 
"Aren't you going to use them in the street fight?" Hamner asked. 
Falkenberg shook his head. "I doubt if they'd fight. They have too many friends 
among the rebels. They'll protect the Palace, but they won't be reliable for anything else." . 
"Have we got a chance?" Hamner asked. Budreau looked up from his reverie at the 
head of the table. "Yes. Have we?" 

"Possibly," Falkenberg said. "Depends on how good the people we're fighting are. If 
their commander is half as good as I think he is, we won't win this battle." 
XI 
"God damn it, we won't do it!" Lieutenant Martin Latham stared in horror at Captain 
Fast. "That market's a death trap. These men didn't join to attack across open streets 
against rioters in safe positions-" 
"No. You joined to be glorified police," Captain Fast said calmly. "Now you've let 
things get out of hand. Who better to put them right again?" 
"The Fourth Battalion takes orders from Colonel Cordova, not you." Latham looked 
around for support. Several squads of the Fourth were within hearing, and he felt reassured. 
They stood in a deep indentation of the Palace wall. Just outside and around the 
corner of the indentation they could hear sporadic firing as the other units of the regiment 
kept the rebels occupied. Latham felt safe here, but out there-
"No," he repeated. "It's suicide." 
"So is refusal to obey orders," Amos Fast said quietly. "Don't look around and don't 
raise your voice. Now, glance behind me at the Palace walls." 
Latham saw them. A flash from a gun barrel; blurs as leather-clad figures settled in 
on the walls and in the windows overlooking the niche. 
"If you don't make the attack, you will be disarmed and tried for cowardice in the 
face of the enemy," Fast said quietly. "There can be only one outcome of that trial. And only 
one penalty. You're better off making the assault. We'll support you in that." 
"Why are you doing this?" Martin Latham demanded. 
"You caused the problem," Fast said. "Now get ready. 
“When you've entered the market square the rest of the outfit will move up in 
support." 
The assault was successful, but it cost the Fourth heavily. After that came another 
series of fierce attacks. When they were finished the rioters had been driven from the 
immediate area of the Palace, but Falkenberg's regiment paid for every meter gained. 
Whenever they took a building, the enemy left it blazing. When the regiment trapped 
one large group of rebels, Falkenberg was forced to abandon the assault to aid in evacuating 
a hospital that the enemy put to the torch. Within three hours, fires were raging all around the 
Palace. 

There was no one in the council chamber with Budreau and Hamner. The bodies 
had been removed, and the floor mopped, but it seemed to George Hamner that the room 
would always smell of death; and he could not keep his eyes from straying from time to time, 
from staring at the neat line of holes stitched at chest height along the rich wood paneling. 
Falkenberg came in. "Your family is safe, Mr. Hamner." He turned to the President. 
"Ready to report, sir." 
Budreau looked up with haunted eyes. The sound of gunfire was faint, but still 
audible. 
"They have good leaders," Falkenberg reported. "When they left the Stadium they 
went immediately to the police barracks. They took the weapons and distributed them to 
their allies, after butchering the police." 
"They murdered-" 
"Certainly," Falkenberg said. "They wanted the police building as a fortress. And we 
are not fighting a mere mob out there, Mr. President. We have repeatedly run against wellarmed 
men with training. Household forces. I will attempt another assault in the morning, but 
for now, Mr. President, we don't hold much more than a kilometer around the Palace." 
The fires burned all night, but there was little fighting. The regiment held the Palace, 
with bivouac in the courtyard; and if anyone questioned why the Fourth was encamped in 
the center of the courtyard with other troops all around them, they did so silently. 
Lieutenant Martin Latham might have had an answer for any such questioner, but he 
lay under Hadley's flag in the honor hall outside the hospital. 
In the morning the assaults began again. The regiment moved out in thin streams, 
infiltrating weak spots, bypassing strong, until it had cleared a large area outside the Palace 
again. Then it came against another well-fortified position. 
An hour later the regiment was heavily engaged against roof-top snipers, barricaded 
streets, and everywhere burning buildings. Maniples and squads attempted to get through 
and into the buildings beyond but were turned back. 
The Fourth was decimated in repeated assaults against the barricades. 
George Hamner had come with Falkenberg and stood in the field headquarters. He 
watched another platoon assault of the Fourth beaten back. "They're pretty good men," he 
mused. 
"They'll do. Now." Falkenberg said. 
"But you've used them up pretty fast." 
"Not entirely by choice," Falkenberg said. "The President has ordered me to break 
the enemy resistance. That squanders soldiers. I'd as soon use the Fourth as blunt the 

fighting edge of the rest of the regiment." 
"But we're not getting anywhere." 
"No. The opposition's too good, and there are too many of them. We can't get them 
concentrated for a set battle, and when we do catch them they set fire to part of the city and 
retreat under cover of the flames." 
A communications corporal beckoned urgently, and Falkenberg went to the low 
table with its array of electronics. He took the offered earphone and listened, then raised a 
mike. 
"Fall back to the Palace," Falkenberg ordered. 
"You're retreating?" Hamner demanded. 
Falkenberg shrugged. "I have no choice. I can't hold this thin a perimeter, and I have 
only two battalions. Plus what's left of the Fourth." 
"Where's the Third? The Progressive partisans? My people?" 
"Out at the power plants and food centers," Falkenberg answered. "We can't break 
in without giving the techs time to wreck the place, but we can keep any more rebels from 
getting in. The Third isn't as well trained as the rest of the regiment-and besides, the techs 
may trust them." 
They walked back through burned-out streets. The sounds of fighting followed 
them as the regiment retreated. Civilian workers fought the fires and cared for the wounded 
and dead. 
Hopeless, George Hamner thought. Hopeless. I don't know why I thought 
Falkenberg would pull some kind of rabbit out of the hat once Bradford was gone. 
What could he do? What can anyone do? 
Worried-looking Presidential Guards let them into the Palace and swung the heavy 
doors shut behind them. The guards held the Palace, but would not go outside. 
President Budreau was in his ornate office with Lieutenant Banners. "I was going to 
send for you," Budreau said. "We can't win this, can we?" 
"Not the way it's going," Falkenberg answered. Hamner nodded agreement. 
Budreau nodded rapidly, as if to himself. His face was a mask of lost hopes. "That's 
what I thought. Pull your men back to barracks, Colonel. I'm going to surrender." 
"But you can't," George protested. "Everything we've dreamed of ... You'll doom 
Hadley. The Freedom Party can't govern." 

"Precisely. And you see it too, don't you, George? How much governing are we 
doing? Before it came to ah open break, perhaps we had a chance. Not now. Bring your 
men back to the Palace, Colonel Falkenberg. Or are you going to refuse?" 
"No, sir. The men are retreating already. They'll be here in half an hour." 
Budreau sighed loudly. "I told you the military answer wouldn't work here, 
Falkenberg." 
"We might have accomplished something in the past months if we'd been given the 
chance." 
"You might." The President was too tired to argue. "But putting the blame on poor 
Ernie won't help. He must have been insane. 
"But this isn't three months ago, Colonel. It's not even yesterday. I might have 
reached a compromise before the fighting started, but I didn't, and you've lost. You're not 
doing much besides burning down the city. . . at least I can spare Hadley that. Banners, go 
tell the Freedom Party leaders I can't take anymore." 
The Guard officer saluted and left, his face an unreadable mask. Budreau watched 
him leave the office. His eyes focused far beyond the walls with their Earth decorations. 
"So you're resigning," Falkenberg said slowly. 
Budreau nodded. 
"Have you resigned, sir?" Falkenberg demanded. 
"Yes, blast you. Banners has my resignation." 
"And what will you do now?" George Hamner asked. His voice held both contempt 
and amazement. He had always admired and respected Budreau. And now what had 
Hadley's great leader left them? 
"Banners has promised to get me out of here," Budreau said. "He has a boat in the 
harbor. We'll sail up the coast and land, then go inland to the mines. There'll be a star-ship 
there next week, and I can get out on that with my family. You'd better come with me, 
George." The President put both hands over his face, then looked up. "There's a lot of relief 
in giving in, did you know? What will you do, Colonel Falkenberg?" 
"We'll manage. There are plenty of boats in the harbor if we need one. But it is very 
likely that the new government will need trained soldiers." 
"The perfect mercenary," Budreau said with contempt. He sighed, then sent his eyes 
searching around the office, lingering on familiar objects. "It's a relief. I don't have to decide 
things anymore." He stood and his shoulders were no longer stooped. "I'll get the family. 
You'd better be moving too, George." 

"I'll be along, sir. Don't wait for us. As the Colonel says, there are plenty of boats." 
He waited until Budreau had left the office, then turned to Falkenberg. "All right, what now?" 
"Now we do what we came here to do," Falkenberg said. He went to the 
President's desk and examined the phones, but rejected them for a pocket communicator. 
He lifted it and spoke at length. 
"Just what are you doing?" Hamner demanded. 
"You're not President yet," Falkenberg said. "You won't be until you're sworn in, 
and that won't happen until I've finished. And there's nobody to accept your resignation, 
either." 
"What the hell?" Hamner looked closely at Falkenberg, but he could not read the 
officer's expression. "You do have an idea. Let's hear it." 
"You're not President yet," Falkenberg said. "Under Budreau's proclamation of 
martial law, I am to take whatever actions I think are required to restore order in Refuge. 
That order is valid until a new President removes it. And at the moment there's no 
President." 
"But Budreau's surrendered! The Freedom Party will elect a President." 
"Under Hadley's constitution only the Senate and Assembly in joint session' can alter 
the order of succession. They're scattered across the city and their meeting chambers have 
been burned." 
Sergeant Major Calvin and several of Falkenberg's aides came to the door. They 
stood, waiting. 
"I'm playing guardhouse lawyer," Falkenberg said. "But President Budreau doesn't 
have the authority to appoint a new President. With Bradford dead, you're in charge here, 
but not until you appear before a magistrate "and take the oath of office." 
"This doesn't make sense," Hamner protested. "How long do you think you can stay 
in control here, anyway?" 
"As long as I have to." Falkenberg turned to an aide. "Corporal, I want Mr. Hamner 
to stay with me and you with him. You will treat him with respect, but he goes nowhere andsees 
no one without my permission. Understood?" 
"Sir!" 
"And now what?" Hamner asked. 
"And now we wait," John Falkenberg said softly. "But not too long..." 
George Hamner sat in the council chambers with his back to the stained and 
punctured wall. He tried to forget those stains, but he couldn't. 

Falkenberg was across from him, and his aides sat at the far end of the table. 
Communications gear had been spread across one side table, but there was no situation 
map; Falkenberg had not moved his command post here. 
From time to time officers brought him battle reports, but Falkenberg hardly listened 
to them. However, when one of the aides reported that Dr. Whitlock was calling, 
Falkenberg took the earphones immediately. 
George couldn't hear what Whitlock was saying and Falkenberg's end of the 
conversation consisted of monosyllables. The only thing George was sure of was that 
Falkenberg was very interested in what his political agent was doing. 
The regiment had fought its way back to the Palace and was now in the courtyard. 
The Palace entrances were held by the Presidential Guard, and the fighting had stopped. 
The rebels left the guardsmen alone, and an uneasy truce settled across the city of Refuge. 
"They're going into the Stadium, sir," Captain Fast reported. "That cheer you heard 
was when Banners gave ‘em the President's resignation." 
"I see. Thank you, Captain." Falkenberg motioned for more coffee. He offered a 
cup to George, but the Vice President didn't want any. 
"How long does this go on?" George demanded. 
"Not much longer. Hear them cheering?" 
They sat for another hour, Falkenberg with outward calm, Hamner with growing 
tension. Then Dr. Whitlock came to the council room. 
The tall civilian looked at Falkenberg and Hamner, then sat easily in the President's 
chair. "Don't reckon I'll have another chance to sit in the seat of the mighty," he grinned. 
"But what is happening?" Hamner demanded. 
Whitlock shrugged. "It's 'bout like Colonel Falkenberg figured. Mob's moved right 
into the Stadium. Nobody wants to be left out now they think they've won. They've rounded 
up what senators they could find and now they're fixin' to elect themselves a new President." 
"But that election won't be valid," Hamner said. 
"No, suh, but that don't seem to slow 'em down a bit. They figure they won the right, 
I guess. And the Guard has already said they're goin' to honor the people's choice." 
Whitlock smiled ironically. 
"How many of my technicians are out there in that mob?" Hamner asked. "They'd 
listen to me, I know they Would." 
"They might at that," Whitlock said. "But there's not so many as there used to be. 

Most of 'em couldn't stomach the burnin' and looting. Still, there's a fair number." 
"Can you get them out?" Falkenberg asked. 
"Doin" that right now," Whitlock grinned. "One reason I come up here was to get 
Mr. Hamner to help with that. I got my people goin' round tellin' the technicians they already 
got Mr. Hamner as President, so why they want somebody else? It's workin' too, but a few 
words from their leader here might help." 
"Right," Falkenberg said. "Well, sir?" 
"I don't know what to say," George protested. 
Falkenberg went to the wall control panel. "Mr. Vice President, I can't give you 
orders, but I'd suggest you simply make a few promises. Tell them you will shortly assume 
command, and that things will be different. Then order them to go home or face charges as 
rebels. Or ask them to go home as a favor to you. Whatever you think will work." 
It wasn't much of a speech, and from the roar outside the crowd did not hear much 
of it anyway. George promised amnesty for anyone who left the Stadium and tried to appeal 
to the Progressives who were caught up in the rebellion. When he put down the 
microphone, Falkenberg seemed pleased. 
"Half an hour, Dr. Whitlock?" Falkenberg asked. 
"About that," the historian agreed. "All that's leavin' will be gone by then." 
"Let's go, Mr. President." Falkenberg was insistent. 
"Where?" Hamner asked. 
"To see the end of this. Do you want to watch, or would you rather join your family? 
You can go anywhere you like except to a magistrate-or to someone who might accept your 
resignation." 
"Colonel, this is ridiculous! You can't force me to be President, and I don't 
understand what's going on." 
Falkenberg's smile was grim. "Nor do I want you to understand. Yet. You'll have 
enough trouble living with yourself as it is. Let's go." 
George Hamner followed. His throat was dry, and his guts felt as if they'd knotted 
themselves into a tight ball. 
The First and Second Battalions were assembled in the Palace courtyard. The men 
stood in ranks. There syrithi-leather battledress was stained with dirt and smoke from the 
street fighting. Armor bulged under their uniforms. 
The men were silent, and Hamner thought they might have been carved from stone. 

"Follow me," Falkenberg ordered. He led the way to the Stadium entrance. 
Lieutenant Banners stood in the doorway.
"Halt," Banners commanded.
"Really, Lieutenant? Would you fight my troops?" Falkenberg indicated the grim 
lines behind him. 
Lieutenant Banners gulped. Hamner thought the Guard officer looked very young. 
"No, sir," Banners protested. "But we have barred the doors. The emergency meeting of the 
Assembly and Senate is electing a new President out there, and we will not permit your 
mercenaries to interfere." 
"They have not elected anyone," Falkenberg said. 
"No, sir, but when they do, the Guard will be under his command." 
"I have orders from Vice President Hamner to arrest the leaders of the rebellion, 
and a valid proclamation of martial law," Falkenberg insisted. 
"I'm sorry, sir." Banners seemed to mean it. "Our council of officers has decided that 
President Budreau's surrender is valid. We intend to honor it." 
"I see." Falkenberg withdrew. He motioned to his aides, and Hamner joined the 
group. No one objected. 
"Hadn't expected this," Falkenberg said. "It would take a week to fight through 
those guardrooms." He thought for a moment. "Give me your keys," he snapped at Hamner. 
Bewildered, George took them out. Falkenberg grinned widely. "There's another 
way into there, you know. Major Savage! Take G and H Companies of Second Battalion to 
secure the Stadium exits. Dig yourselves in and set up all weapons. Arrest anyone who 
comes out." 
"Sir." 
"Dig in pretty good, Jeremy. They may be coming out fighting. But I don't expect 
them to be well organized." 
"Do we fire on armed men?" 
"Without warning, Major. Without warning. Sergeant Major, bring the rest of the 
troops with me. Major, you'll have twenty minutes." 
Falkenberg led his troops across the courtyard to the tunnel entrance and used 
Hamner's keys to unlock the doors. 

Falkenberg ignored him. He led the troops down the stairway and across, under the 
field. 
George Hamner stayed close to Falkenberg. He could hear the long column of 
armed men tramp behind him. They moved up stairways on the other side, marching briskly 
until George was panting. The men didn't seem to notice. Gravity difference, Hamner 
thought. And training. 
They reached the top and deployed along the passageways. Falkenberg stationed 
men at each exit and came back to the center doors. Then he waited. The tension grew. 
"But-" 
Falkenberg shook his head. His look demanded silence. He stood, waiting, while 
the seconds ticked past. 
"MOVE OUT!" Falkenberg commanded. 
The doors burst open. The armed troopers moved quickly across the top of the 
Stadium. Most of the mob was below, and a few unarmed men were struck down when 
they tried to oppose the regiment. Rifle butts swung, then there was a moment of calm. 
Falkenberg took a speaker from his corporal attendant. 
"ATTENTION. ATTENTION. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST BY THE 
AUTHORITY OF THE MARTIAL LAW PROCLAMATION OF PRESIDENT 
BUDREAU. LAY DOWN ALL WEAPONS AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. IF 
YOU RESIST, YOU WILL BE KILLED." 
There was a moment of silence, then shouts as the mob realized what Falkenberg 
had said. Some laughed. Then shots came from the field and the lower seats of the Stadium. 
Hamner heard the flat snap of a bullet as it rushed past his ear. Then he heard the crack of 
the rifle. 
One of the leaders on the field below had a speaker. He shouted to the others. 
"ATTACK THEM! THERE AREN'T MORE THAN A THOUSAND OF 
THEM, WE'RE THIRTY THOUSAND STRONG. ATTACK, KILL THEM!" 
There were more shots. Some of Falkenberg's men fell. The others stood immobile, 
waiting for orders. 
Falkenberg raised the speaker again. "PREPARE FOR VOLLEY FIRE. MAKE 
READY. TAKE AIM. IN VOLLEY, FIRE!" 
Seven hundred rifles crashed as one. 
"FIRE!" Someone screamed, a long drawn-out cry, a plea without words. 
"FIRE!" 

The line of men clambering up the seats toward them wavered and broke. Men 
screamed, some pushed back, dove under seats, tried to hide behind their friends, tried to 
get anywhere but under the unwavering muzzles of the rifles. 
"FIRE!" 
It was like one shot, very loud, lasting far longer than a rifle shot ought to, but it was 
impossible to hear individual weapons. "FIRE!" 
There were more screams from below. "In the name of God-" 
"THE FORTY-SECOND WILL ADVANCE. FIX BAYONETS. FORWARD, 
MOVE. FIRE. FIRE AT WILL." 
Now there was a continuous crackle of weapons. The leather-clad lines moved 
forward and down, over the stadium seats, flowing down inexorably toward the press below 
on the field. 
"Sergeant Major!" 
"SIR!" 
"Marksmen and experts will fall out and take station. They will fire on all armed 
men." 
"Sir!" 
Calvin spoke into his communicator. Men dropped out of each section and took 
position behind seats. They began to fire, carefully but rapidly. Anyone below who raised a 
weapon died. The regiment advanced onward. 
Hamner was sick. The screams of wounded could be heard everywhere. God, 
make it stop, make it stop, he prayed. 
"GRENADIERS WILL PREPARE TO THROW." Falkenberg's voice boomed 
from the speaker. "THROW!" 
A hundred grenades arched out from the advancing line. They fell into the milling 
crowds below. The muffled explosions were masked by screams of terror. 
"IN VOLLEY, FIRE!" 
The regiment advanced until it made contact with the mob. There was a brief 
struggle. Rifles fired, and bayonets flashed red. The line halted but momentarily. Then it 
moved on, leaving behind a ghastly trail. 
Men and women jammed in the Stadium exits. Others frantically tried to get out, 
clambering over the fallen, tearing women out of their way to push past, trampling each other 

in their scramble to escape. There was a rattle of gunfire from outside. Those in the gates 
recoiled, to be crushed beneath others trying to get out. 
"You won't even let them out!" Hamner screamed at Falkenberg. 
"Not armed. And not to escape." The Colonel's face was hard and cold, the eyes 
narrowed to slits. He watched the slaughter impassively, looking at the entire scene without 
expression. 
"Are you going to kill them all?" 
"All who resist." 
"But they don't deserve this!" George Hamner felt his voice breaking. "They don't!" 
"No one does, George. SERGEANT MAJOR!" 
"SIR!" 
"HALT, the marksmen may concentrate on the leaders now." 
"SIR!" Calvin spoke quietly into his command set. The snipers concentrated their 
fire on the Presidential box across from them. Centurions ran up and down the line of hidden 
troops, pointing out targets. The marksmen kept up a steady fire. 
The leather lines of armored men advanced inexorably. They had almost reached the 
lower tier of seats. There was less firing now, but the scarlet-painted bayonets flashed in the 
afternoon sun. 
Another section fell out of line and moved to guard a tiny number of prisoners at the 
end of the Stadium. The rest of the line moved on, advancing over seats made slick with 
blood. 
When the regiment reached ground level their progress was slower. There was little 
opposition, but the sheer mass of people in front of them held up the troopers. There were a 
few pockets of active resistance, and flying squads rushed there to reinforce the line. More 
grenades were thrown. Falkenberg watched the battle calmly, and seldom spoke into his 
communicator. Below, more men died. 
A company of troopers formed and rushed up a stairway on the opposite side of the 
Stadium. They fanned out across the top. Then their rifles leveled, and crashed in another 
terrible series of volleys. 
Suddenly it was over. There was no opposition. There were only screaming crowds. 
Men threw away weapons to run with their hands in the air. Others fell to their knees to beg 
for their lives. There was one final volley, then a deathly stillness fell over the Stadium., 
But it wasn't quiet, Hamner discovered. The guns were silent, men no longer 
shouted orders, but there was sound. There were screams from the wounded. There were 

pleas for help, whimpers, a racking cough that went on and on as someone tried to clear 
punctured lungs. 
Falkenberg nodded grimly. "Now we can find a magistrate, Mr. President. Now." 
"I-O my God!" Hamner stood at the top of the Stadium. He clutched a column 
to steady his weakened legs. The scene below seemed unreal. There was too much blood, 
rivers of blood, blood cascading down the steps, blood pouring down stairwells to soak the 
grassy field below. 
"It's over," Falkenberg said gently. "For all of us. The regiment will be leaving as 
soon as you're properly in command. You shouldn't have any trouble with your power 
plants. Your technicians will trust you now that Bradford's gone. And without their leaders, 
the city people won't resist. 
"You can ship as many as you have to out to the interior. Disperse them among the 
loyalists where they won't do you any harm. That amnesty of yours-it's only a suggestion, 
but I'd renew it." 
Hamner turned dazed eyes toward Falkenberg. "Yes. There's been too much 
slaughter today. Who are you, Falkenberg?" 
"A mercenary soldier, Mr. President. Nothing more." 
"But-then who are you working for?" 
"That's the question nobody asked before. Grand Admiral Lermontov." 
"Lermontov? But you were drummed out of the Co-Dominium! You mean that you 
were hired-by the admiral? As a mercenary?" 
"More or less." Falkenberg nodded coldly. "The Fleet's a little sick of being used to 
mess up people's lives without having a chance to-to leave things in working order." 
"And now you're leaving?" 
"Yes. We couldn't stay here, George. Nobody is going to forget today. You 
couldn't keep us on and build a government that works. I'll take First and Second Battalions, 
and what's left of the Fourth. There's more work for us." 
"And the others?" 
"Third will stay on to help you," Falkenberg said. "We put all the married locals, the 
solid people, in Third, and sent it off to the power plants. They weren't involved in the 
fighting." He looked across the stadium, then back to Hamner. "Blame it all on us, George. 
You weren't in command. You can say Bradford ordered this slaughter and killed himself in 
remorse. People will want to believe that. They'll want to think somebody was punished for-
for this." He waved toward the field below. A child was sobbing out there somewhere. 

"It had to be done," Falkenberg insisted. "Didn't it? There was no way out, nothing Dr. Whitlock estimated a third of the population woulddie when things collapsed. Fleet Intelligence put it higher than that. Now you have a chance." 
Falkenberg was speaking rapidly, and George wondered whom he was trying to 
convince. 
"Move them out," Falkenberg said. "Move them out while they're still dazed. You 
won't need much help for that. They won't resist now. And we got the railroads running for 
you. Use the railroads and ship people out to the farms. It'll be rough with no preparation, 
but it's a long time until winter-" 
"I know what to do," Hamner interrupted. He leaned against the column, and 
seemed to gather new strength from the thought. Yes. I do know what to do. Now. "I've 
known all along what had to be done. Now we can get to it. We won't thank you for it, but-
you've saved a whole world, John." 
Falkenberg looked at him grimly, then pointed to the bodies below. "Damn you, 
don't say that!" he shouted. His voice was almost shrill. "I haven't saved anything. All a 
soldier can do is buy time. I haven't saved Hadley. You have to do that. God help you if you 
don't." 
XII 
Crofton's Encyclopedia of Contemporary History and Social Issues (2nd Edition) 
Mercenary forces 
Perhaps the most disturbing development arising from CoDominium withdrawal 
from most distant colony worlds (see Independence Movements) has been the rapid 
growth of purely mercenary military units. The trend was predictable and perhaps 
inevitable, although the extent has exceeded expectations. 
Many of the former colony worlds do not have planetary governments. 
Consequently, these new nations do not possess sufficient population or industrial 
resources to maintain large and effective national military forces. The disbanding of 
numerous CoDominium Marine units left a surplus of' trained soldiers without 
employment, and it was inevitable that some of them would band together into 
mercenary units. 
The colony governments are thus faced with a cruel and impossible dilemma. Faced 
with mercenary troops specializing in violence, they have had little choice but to 
reply in kind. A few colonies have broken this cycle by creating their own national 
armies, but have then been unable to pay for them. 
Thus, in addition to the purely private mercenary organizations such as Falkenberg's 
Mercenary Legion, there are now national forces hired out to reduce expenses to 

their parent governments. A few former colonies have found this practice so 
lucrative that the export of mercenaries has become their principal source of income, 
and the recruiting and training of soldiers their major Industry. 
The CoDominium Grand Senate has attempted to maintain its presence in the former 
colonial areas through promulgation of the so-called Laws of War (q.v.), which 
purport to regulate the weapons and tactics mercenary units may employ. 
Enforcement of these regulations is sporadic. When the Senate orders Fleet 
intervention to enforce the Laws of War the suspicion inevitably arises that other 
CoDominium interests are at stake, or that one or more Senators have undisclosed 
reasons for their interest. 
Mercenary units generally draw their recruits from the same sources as the 
CoDominium Marines, and training stresses loyalty to comrades and commanders 
rather than to any government. The extent to which mercenary commanders have 
successfully separated their troops from all normal social intercourse is both 
surprising and alarming. 
The best-known mercenary forces are described in separate articles. See: 
Covenant; Friedland; Xanadu; Falkenberg's Mercenary Legion; Nouveau Legion 
Etrangere; Katanga Gendarmerie; Moolman's Commandos ... 
Falkenberg’s mercenary legion 
Purely private military organization formed from the former Forty-second 
CoDominium Line Marines under Colonel John Christian Falkenberg III. 
Falkenberg was cashiered from the CoDominium Fleet under questionable 
circumstances, and his regiment disbanded shortly thereafter. A large proportion of 
former Forty-second officers and men chose to remain with Falkenberg. 
Falkenberg's Legion appears to have been first employed by the government of the 
then newly independent former colony of Hadley (q.v.) for suppression of civil 
disturbances. There have been numerous complaints that excessive violence was 
used by both sides in the unsuccessful rebellion following CoDominium withdrawal, 
but the government of Hadley has expressed satisfaction with Falkenberg's efforts 
there. 
Following its employment on Hadley Falkenberg's Legion took part in numerous 
small wars of defense - and conquest on at least five planets, and in the process 
gained a reputation as one of the best-trained and most effective small military units 
in existence. It was then engaged by the CoDominium Governor on the CD prison 
planet of Tanith. 
This latter employment caused great controversy in the Grand Senate, as Tanith 
remains under CD control. However, Grand Admiral Lermontov pointed out that his 
budget did not permit his stationing regular Marine forces on Tanith owing to other 
commitments mandated by the Grand Senate; after lengthy debate the employment 
was approved as an alternative to raising a new regiment of CD Marines. 

At last report Falkenberg's Legion remains on Tanith. Its contract with the Governor 
there is said to have expired. 
Tanith's bright image had replaced Earth's on Grand Admiral Lermontov's view 
screen. The planet might have been Earth: it had bright clouds obscuring the outlines of land 
and sea, and they swirled in typical cyclonic patterns. 
A closer look showed differences. The sun was yellow: Tanith's star was not as hot 
as Sol, but Tanith was closer to it. There were fewer mountains, and more swamplands 
steaming in the yellow-orange glare. 
Despite its miserable climate, Tanith was an important world. It was first and 
foremost a convenient dumping ground for Earth's disinherited. There was no better way to 
deal with criminals than to send them off to hard- and useful-labor on another planet. Tanith 
received them all: the rebels, the criminals, the malcontents, victims of administrative hatred; 
all the refuse of a civilization that could no longer afford misfits. 
Tanith was also the main source of borloi, which the World Pharmaceutical Society 
called "the perfect intoxicating drug." Given large supplies of borloi the lid could be kept on 
the Citizens in the Welfare Islands. The happiness the drug induced was artificial, but it was 
none the less real. 
"And so I am trading in drugs," Lermontov told his visitor. "It is hardly what I 
expected when I became Grand Admiral." 
"I'm sorry, Sergei." Grand Senator Martin Grant had aged; in ten years he had come 
to look forty years older. "The fact is, though, you're better off with Fleet ownership of some 
of the borloi plantations than you are relying on what I can get for you out of the Senate." 
Lermontov nodded in disgust. "It must end, Martin. Somehow, somewhere, it must 
end. I cannot keep a fighting service together on the proceeds of drug sales-drugs grown by 
slaves! Soldiers do not make good slave masters." 
Grant merely shrugged. 
"Yes, it is easy to think, is it not?" The admiral shook his head in disgust. "But there 
are vices natural to the soldier and the sailor. We have those, in plenty, but they are not 
vices that corrupt his ability as a fighting man. Slaving is a vice that corrupts everything it 
touches." 
"If you feel that way, what can I say?" Martin Grant asked. "I can't give you an 
alternative." 
"And I cannot let go," Lermontov said. He punched viciously at the console controls 
and Tanith faded from the screen. Earth, bluer and to Lermontov far more lovely, swam out 
of the momentary blackness. "They are fools down there," Sergei Lermontov muttered. 
"And we are no better. Martin, I ask myself again and again, why can we not controlanything? 
Why are we caught like chips in a rushing stream? Men can guide their destinies. I 
know that. So why are we so helpless?" 

"You don't ask yourself more often than I do," Senator Grant said. His voice was 
low and weary. "At least we still try. Hell, you've got more power than I have. You've got 
the Fleet, and you've got the secret funds you get from Tanith-Christ, Sergei, if you can't do 
something with that-" 
"I can urinate on fires," Lermontov said. "And little else." He shrugged. "So, if that is 
all I can do, then I will continue to make water. Will you have a drink?" 
"Thanks." 
Lermontov went to the sideboard and took out bottles. His conversations with 
Grand Senator Grant were never heard by anyone else, not even his orderlies who had been 
with him for years. 
"Prosit." 
"Prosit!" 
They drank. Grant took out a cigar. "By the way, Sergei, what are you going to do 
with Falkenberg now that the trouble on Tanith is finished?" 
Lermontov smiled coldly. "I was hoping that you would have a solution to that. I 
have no more funds-" 
"The Tanith money-" 
"Needed elsewhere, just to keep the Fleet together," Lermontov said positively. 
"Then Falkenberg'll just have to find his own way. Shouldn't be any problem, with 
his reputation," Grant said. "And even if it is, he's got no more troubles than we have." 
XIII 
2093 a.d. 
Heat beat down on sodden fields. Two hours before the noon of Tanith's fifteen plus 
hours of sunshine the day was already hot; but all of Tanith's days are hot. Even in midwinter 
the jungle steams in late afternoon. 
The skies above the regiment's camp were yellow-gray. The ground sloped off to 
the west into inevitable swamp, where Weem's Beasts snorted as they burrowed deeper 
into protective mud. In the camp itself the air hung hot and wet, heavy, with a thick smell of 
yeast and decay. 
The regiment's camp was an island of geometrical precision in the random tumble of 
jungles and hilltops. Each yellow rammed-earth barrack was set in an exact relationship with 

every other, each company set in line from its centurion's hut at one end to the senior 
platoon sergeant's at the other. 
A wide street separated Centurion's Row from the Company Officers Line, and 
beyond that was the shorter Field Officers Line, the pyramid narrowing inevitably until at its 
apex stood a single building where the colonel lived. Other officers lived with their ladies, 
and married enlisted men's quarters formed one side of the compound; but the colonel lived 
alone. 
The visitor stood with the colonel to watch a mustering ceremony evolved in the 
days of Queen Anne's England when regimental commanders were paid according to the 
strength of their regiments, and the Queen's muster masters had to determine that each man 
drawing pay could indeed pass muster-or even existed. 
The visitor was an amateur historian and viewed the parade with wry humor. War 
had changed and men no longer marched in rigid lines to deliver volleys at word of 
command-but colonels were again paid according to the forces they could bring into battle. 
"Report!" The adjutant's command carried easily across the open parade field to the 
rigidly immobile blue and gold squares. 
"First Battalion, B Company on patrol. Battalion present or accounted for, sir!" 
"Second Battalion present or accounted for, sir." 
"Third Battalion present or accounted for, sir!" 
"Fourth Battalion, four men absent without leave, sir." 
"How embarrassing," the visitor said sotto voce. The colonel tried to smile but made 
a bad job of it. 
"Artillery present or accounted for, sir!" 
"Scout Troop all present, sir!" "Sappers all present, sir!" 
"Weapons Battalion, Aviation Troop on patrol. Battalion present or accounted for, 
sir!" 
"Headquarters Company present or on guard, sir!" 
The adjutant returned each salute, then wheeled crisply to salute the colonel. 
"Regiment has four men absent without leave, sir." 
Colonel Falkenberg returned the salute. "Take your post." 
Captain Fast pivoted and marched to his place. "Pass in review!" 

"Sound off!" 
The band played a military march that must have been old in the twentieth century as 
the regiment formed column to march around the field. As each company reached the 
reviewing stand and men snapped their heads in unison, guidons and banners lowered in 
salute, and officers and centurions whirled sabers with flourishes. 
The visitor nodded to himself. No longer very appropriate. In the eighteenth century, 
demonstrations of the men's ability to march in ranks, and of the non-coms and officers to 
use a sword with skill, were relevant to battle capabilities. Not now. Still, it made an 
impressive ceremony. 
"Attention to orders!" The sergeant major read from his clipboard. Promotions, duty 
schedules, the daily activities of the regiment, while the visitor sweated. 
"Very impressive, Colonel," he said. "Our Washingtonians couldn't look that sharp 
on their best day." 
John Christian Falkenberg nodded coldly. "Implying that they mightn't be as good in 
the field, Mr. Secretary? Would you like another kind of demonstration?" 
Howard Bannister shrugged. "What would it prove, Colonel? You need 
employment before your regiment goes to hell. I can't imagine chasing escapees on the 
CoDominium prison planet has much attraction for good soldiers." 
"It doesn't. When we first came things weren't that simple." 
"I know that too. The Forty-second was one of the best outfits of the CD Marine-
I've never understood why it was disbanded instead of one of the others. I'm speaking of 
your present situation with your troops stuck here without transport-surely you're not 
intending to make Tanith your lifetime headquarters?" 
Sergeant Major Calvin finished the orders of the day and waited patiently for 
instructions. Colonel Falkenberg , studied his bright-uniformed men as they stood rigidly in 
the blazing noon of Tanith. A faint smile might have played across his face for a moment. 
There were few of the four thousand whose names and histories he didn't know. 
Lieutenant Farquhar was a party hack forced on him when the Forty-second was 
hired to police Hadley. He became a good officer and elected to ship out after the action. 
Private Alcazar was a brooding giant with a raging thirst, the slowest man in K Company, 
but he could lift five times his own mass and hide in any terrain. Dozens, thousands of men, 
each with his own strengths and weaknesses, adding up to a regiment of mercenary soldiers 
with no chance of going home, and an unpleasant future if they didn't get off Tanith. 
"Sergeant Major." 
"Sir!" 
"You will stay with me and time the men. Trumpeter, sound Boots and Saddles, On 

Full Kits, and Ready to Board Ship." 
"Sir!" The trumpeter was a grizzled veteran with corporal's stripes. He lifted the 
gleaming instrument with its blue and gold tassels, and martial notes poured across the 
parade ground. Before they died away the orderly lines dissolved into masses of running 
men. 
There was less confusion than Howard Bannister had expected. It seemed an 
incredibly short time before the first men fell back in. They came from their barracks in small 
groups, some in each company, then more, a rush, and finally knots of stragglers. Now in 
place of bright colors there was the dull drab of synthetic leather bulging over Nemourlon 
body armor. The bright polish was gone from the weapons. Dress caps were replaced by 
bulging combat helmets, shining boots by softer leathers. As the regiment formed Bannister 
turned to the colonel. 
"Why trumpets? I'd think that's rather out of date." 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Would you prefer shouted orders? You must remember, Mr. 
Secretary, mercenaries live in garrison as well as in combat. Trumpets remind them that 
they're soldiers." 
"I suppose." 
"Time, Sergeant Major," the adjutant demanded. 
"Eleven minutes, eighteen seconds, sir." 
"Are you trying to tell me the men are ready to ship out now?" Bannister asked. His 
expression showed polite disbelief. 
"It would take longer to get the weapons and artillery battalion equipment together, 
but the infantry could board ship right now." 
"I find that hard to believe-of course the men know this is only a drill." 
"How would they know that?" 
Bannister laughed. He was a stout man, dressed hi expensive business clothes with 
cigar ashes down the front. Some of the ash floated free when he laughed. "Well, you and 
the sergeant major are still in parade uniform." 
"Look behind you," Falkenberg said. 
Bannister turned. Falkenberg's guards and trumpeter were .still in their places, their 
blue and gold dress contrasting wildly with the grim synthi-leathers of the others who had 
formed up with them. "The headquarters squad has our gear," Falkenberg explained. 
"Sergeant Major." 
"Sir!" 

"Mr. Bannister and I will inspect the troops." 
"Sir!" As Falkenberg and his visitor left the reviewing stand Calvin fell hi with the 
duty squad behind him. 
"Pick a couple at random," Falkenberg advised. "It's hot out here. Forty degrees 
anyway." 
Bannister was thinking the same thing. "Yes. No point in being too hard on the men. 
It must be unbearable in there armor." 
"I wasn't thinking of the men," Falkenberg said. 
The Secretary for War chose L Company of Third Battalion for review. The men all 
looked alike, except for size. He looked for something to stand out-a strap not buckled, 
something to indicate an individual difference- but he found none. Bannister approached a 
scarred private who looked forty years old. With regeneration therapy he might have been 
half that again. "This one." 
"Fall out, Wiszorik!" Calvin ordered. "Lay out your kit." 
"Sir!" Private Wiszorik might have smiled thinly, but if he did Bannister missed it. He 
swung the pack frame easily off his shoulders and stood it on the ground. The headquarters 
squad helped him lay out his nylon shelter cloth, and Wiszorik emptied the pack, placing 
each item just so. 
Rifle: a New Aberdeen seven-mm semi-automatic, with ten-shot clip and fifty-round 
box magazine, both full and spotlessly clean like the rifle. A bandolier of cartridges. Five 
grenades. Nylon belt with bayonets, canteen, spoon, and stainless cup that served as a 
private's entire mess kit. Great-cloak and poncho, string net underwear, layers of clothing-
"You'll note he's equipped for any climate," Falkenberg commented. "He'd expect to 
be issued special gear for a non-Terran environment, but he can live on any inhabitable 
world with what he's got." 
"Yes." Bannister watched interestedly. The pack hadn't seemed heavy, but Wiszorik 
kept withdrawing gear from it. First aid kit, chemical warfare protection drugs and 
equipment, concentrated field rations, soup and beverage powders, a tiny gasoline-burning 
field stove-"What's that?" Bannister asked. "Do all the men carry them?" 
"One to each maniple, sir," Wiszorik answered. 
"His share of five men's community equipment," Falkenberg explained. "A monitor, 
three privates, and a recruit make up the basic combat unit of this outfit, and we try to keep 
the maniples self-sufficient." 
More gear came from the pack. Much of it was light alloys or plastic, but Bannister 
wondered about the total weight. Trowel, tent pegs, nylon cordage, a miniature cutting 

torch, more group equipment for field repairs to both machinery and the woven Nemourlon 
armor, night sights for the rifle, a small plastic tube half a meter long and eight centimeters in 
diameter-"And that?" Bannister asked. 
"Anti-aircraft rocket," Falkenberg told, him. "Not effective against fast jets, but it'll 
knock out a chopper ninety-five percent of the time. Has some capability against tanks, too. 
We don't like the men too dependent on heavy weapons units." 
"I see. Your men seem well equipped, Colonel," Bannister commented. "It must 
weight them down badly." 
"Twenty-one kilograms in standard g field," Falkenberg answered. "More here, less 
by a lot on Washington. Every man carries a week's rations, ammunition for a short engagement, 
and enough equipment to live in the field." 
"What's the little pouch on his belt?" Bannister asked interestedly. 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Personal possessions. Probably everything he owns. 
You'll have to ask Wiszorik's permission if you want to examine that." 
"Never mind. Thank you, Private Wiszorik." Howard Bannister produced a brightly 
colored bandanna from an inner pocket and mopped his brow. "All right, Colonel. You're 
convincing-or your men are. Let's go to your office and talk about money." 
As they left, Wiszorik and Sergeant Major Calvin exchanged knowing winks, while 
Monitor Hartzinger breathed a sigh of relief. Just suppose that visiting panjandrum had 
picked Recruit Latterby! Hell, the kid couldn't find his arse with both hands. 
XIV 
Falkenberg’s office was hot. It was a large room, and a ceiling fan tried without 
success to stir up a breeze. Everything was damp from Tanith's wet jungle air. Howard 
Bannister thought he saw fungus growing in the narrow space between a file cabinet and the 
wall. " In contrast to the room itself, the furniture was elaborate. It had been handcarved and 
was the product of hundreds of hours' labor by soldiers who had little else but time to give 
their commanding officer. They'd taken Sergeant Major Calvin into a conspiracy, getting him 
to talk Falkenberg into going on an inspection tour while they scrapped his functional old 
field gear and replaced it with equipment as light and useful, but handcarved with battle 
scenes. 
The desk was large and entirely bare. To one side a table, in easy reach, was 
covered with papers. On the other side a two-meter star cube portrayed the known stars 
with inhabited planets. Communication equipment was built into a spindly legged sideboard 
that also held whiskey. Falkenberg offered his visitor a drink. 
"Could we have something with ice?" 

"Certainly." Falkenberg turned toward his sideboard and raised his voice, speaking 
with a distinct change in tone. "Orderly, two gin and tonics, with much ice, if you please. Will 
that be satisfactory, Mr. Secretary?" 
"Yes, thank you." Bannister wasn't accustomed to electronics being so common. 
"Look, we needn't spar about. I need soldiers and you need to get off this planet. It's as 
simple as that." 
"Hardly," Falkenberg replied. "You've yet to mention money." 
Howard shrugged. "I don't have much. Washington has damned few exports. 
Frankln's dried those up with the blockade. Your transport and salaries will use up most of 
what we've got. But you already know this, I suppose- I'm told you have access to Fleet 
Intelligence sources." 
Falkenberg shrugged. "I have my ways. You're prepared to put our return fare on 
deposit with Dayan, of course." 
"Yes." Bannister was startled. "Dayan? You do have sources. I thought our 
negotiations with New Jerusalem were secret. All right-we have arrangements with Dayan to 
furnish transportation. It took all our cash, so everything else is contingency money. We can 
offer you something you need, though. Land, good land, and a permanent base that's a lot 
more pleasant than Tanith. We can also offer-well, the chance to be part of a free and 
independent nation, though I'm not expecting that to mean much to you." 
Falkenberg nodded. "That's why you-excuse me." He paused as the orderly brought 
in a tray with tinkling glasses. The trooper wore battledress, and his rifle was slung across his 
shoulder. 
"Will you be wanting the men to perform again?" Falkenberg asked. 
Bannister hesitated. "I think not." 
"Orderly, ask Sergeant Major to sound recall. Dismissed." He looked back to 
Bannister. "Now. You chose us because you've nothing to offer. The New Democrats on 
Friedland are happy enough with their base, as are the Scots on Covenant. Xanadu wants 
hard cash before they throw troops into action. You could find some scrapings on Earth, but 
we're the only first-class outfit down on its luck at the moment-what makes you think we're 
that hard up, Mr. Secretary? Your cause on Washington is lost, isn't it?" 
"Not for us." Howard Bannister sighed. Despite his bulk he seemed deflated. "All 
right. Franklin's mercenaries have defeated the last organized field army we had. The 
resistance is all guerrilla operations, and we both know that won't win. We need an 
organized force to rally around, and we haven't got one." Dear God, we haven't got one. 
Bannister remembered rugged hills and forests, weathered mountains with snow on their 
tops, and in the valleys were ranches with the air crisp and cool. He remembered plains 
golden with mutated wheat and the swaying tassels of Washington's native corn plant 
rippling in the wind. The Patriot army marched again to the final battle. 

They'd marched with songs in their hearts. The cause was just and they faced only 
mercenaries after defeating Franklin's regular army. Free men against hirelings in one last 
campaign. 
The Patriots entered the plains outside the capital city, confident that the mercenaries 
could never stand against them-and the enemy didn't run. The humorless Covenant Scots 
regiments chewed through their infantry, while Friedland armor squadrons cut across the 
flank and far into the rear, destroying their supply lines and capturing the headquarters. 
Washington's army had not so much been defeated as dissolved, turned into isolated groups 
of men whose enthusiasm was no match for the iron discipline of the mercenaries. In three 
weeks they'd lost everything gained in two years of war. 
But yet-the planet was still only thinly settled. The Franklin Confederacy had few 
soldiers and couldn't afford to keep large groups of mercenaries on occupation duty. Out in 
the mountains and across the plains the settlements were seething, and ready to revolt again. 
It would only take a tiny spark to arouse them. 
"We've a chance, Colonel. I wouldn't waste our money and risk my people's lives if 
I didn't think so. Let me show you. I've a map in my gear." 
"Show me on this one." Falkenberg opened a desk drawer to reveal a small input 
panel. He touched keys and the translucent gray of his desk top dissolved into colors. A 
polar projection of Washington formed. 
There was only one continent, an irregular mass squatting at the top of the planet. 
From 25° North to the South Pole there was nothing but water. The land above that was cut 
by huge bays and nearly land-locked seas. Towns showed as a network of red dots across 
a narrow band of land jutting down to the 30° to 50° level. 
"You sure don't have much land to live on," Falkenberg observed. "A strip a 
thousand kilometers wide by four thousand long-why Washington, anyway?" 
"Original settlers had ancestors in Washington state. The climate's similar too. 
Franklin's the companion planet. It's got more industry than we do, but even less agricultural 
land. Settled mostly by Southern U.S. people-they call themselves the Confederacy. 
Washington's a secondary colony from Franklin." 
In a few years the Confederates will have their fleet and be as strong as Xanadu or 
Danube, strong enough to give the CD a real fight." 
"You're too damn isolated," Falkenberg replied. "The Grand Senate won't even 
keep the Fleet up to enough strength to protect what the CD's already got-let alone find the 
money to interfere in your sector. The shortsighted bastards run around putting out fires, and 
the few Senators who look ten years ahead don't have any influence." He shook his head 
suddenly. "But that's not our problem. Okay, what about landing security? I don't have any 
assault boats, and I doubt you've the money to lure those from Dayan." 
"It's tough," Bannister admitted. "But blockade runners can get through. Tides on 

New Washington are enormous, but we know our coasts. The Dayan captain can put you 
down at night here, or along there . . ." The rebel war secretary indicated a number of deep 
bays and fiords on the jagged coast, bright blue spatters on the desk map. "You'll have 
about two hours of slack water. That's all the time you'd have anyway before the 
Confederate spy satellites detect the ship." 
XV 
Roger hastings drew his pretty brunette wife close to him and leaned against the 
barbecue pit. It made a nice pose and the photographers took several shots. They begged 
for more, but Hastings shook his head. "Enough, boys, enough! I've only been sworn in as 
mayor of Allansport-you'd think I was Governor General of the whole planet!" 
"But give us a statement," the reporters begged. "Will you support the 
Confederacy's rearmament plans? I understand the smelter is tooling up to produce naval 
armament alloys-" 
"I said enough," Roger commanded. "Go have a drink." The reporters reluctantly 
scattered. "Eager chaps," Hastings told his wife. "Pity there's only the one little paper." 
Juanita laughed. "You'd make the capital city Times if there was a way to get the 
pictures there. But it was a fair question, Roger. What are you going to do about Franklin's 
war policies? What will happen to Harley when they start expanding the Confederacy?" The 
amusement died from her face as she thought of their son in the army. 
"There isn't much I can do. The mayor of Allansport isn't consulted on matters of 
high policy. Damn it, sweetheart, don't you start in on me too. It's too nice a day." 
Hastings' quarried stone house stood high on a hill above Nanaimo Bay. The city of 
Allansport sprawled across the hills below them, stretching almost to the high water mark 
running irregularly along the sandy beaches washed by endless surf. At night they could hear 
the waves crashing. 
They held hands and watched the sea beyond the island that formed Allansport 
Harbor. "Here it comes!" Roger said. He pointed to a wall of rushing water two meters high. 
The tide bore swept around the end of Waada Island, then curled back toward the city. 
"Pity the poor sailors," Juanita said. 
Roger shrugged. "The packet ship's anchored well enough." 
They watched the hundred-and-fifty-meter cargo vessel tossed about by the tidal 
force. The tide bore caught her nearly abeam and she rolled dangerously before swinging on 
her chains to head into the flowing tide water. It seemed nothing could hold her, but those 
chains had been made in Roger's foundries, and he knew their strength. 
"It has been a nice day." Juanita sighed. Their house was on one of the large 

greensward commons running up the hill from Allansport, and the celebrations had spilled 
out of their yard, across the greens, and into their neighbors' yards as well. Portable bars 
manned by Roger's campaign workers dispensed an endless supply of local wines and 
brandies. 
To the west New Washington's twin companion, Franklin, hung in its eternal place. 
When sunset brought New Washington's twenty hours of daylight to an end it passed from a 
glowing ball in the bright day sky to a gibbous sliver in the darkness, then rapidly widened. 
Reddish shadows danced on Franklin's cloudy face. 
Roger and Juanita stood in silent appreciation of the stars, the planet, the sunset. 
Allansport was a frontier town on an unimportant planet, but it was home and they loved it. 
The inauguration party had been exhaustingly successful. Roger gratefully went to 
the drawing room while Juanita climbed the stairs to put their sleepy children to bed. As 
manager of the smelter and foundry, Roger had a home that was one of the finest on all the 
Ranier Peninsula. It stood tall and proud-a big stone Georgian mansion with wide entry hall 
and paneled rooms. Now, he was joined by Marline Ardway in his favorite, the small 
conversation-sized drawing room. 
"Congratulations again, Roger," Colonel Ardway boomed. "We'll all be behind 
you." The words were more than the usual inauguration day patter. Although Ardway's son 
Johann was married to Roger's daughter, the Colonel had opposed Hastings election, and 
Ardway had a large following among the hard-line Loyalists in Allansport. He was also 
commander of the local militia. Johann held a captain's commission. Roger's own boy Harley 
was only a lieutenant, but in the Regulars. 
"Have you told Harley about your winning?" Ardway asked. 
"Can't. The communications to Vancouver are out. As a matter of fact, all our 
communications are out right now." 
Ardway nodded phlegmatically. Allansport was the only town on a peninsula well 
over a thousand kilometers from the nearest settlements. New Washington was so close to 
its red dwarf sun that loss of communications was standard through much of the planet's 
fifty-two standard-day year. 
An undersea cable to Preston Bay had been planned when the rebellion broke out, 
and now that it was over work could start again. 
"I mean it about being with you," Ardway repeated. "I still think you're wrong, but 
there can't be more than one policy about this. I just hope it works." 
"Look, Martine, we can't go on treating the rebels like traitors. We need 'em too 
much. There aren't many rebels here, but if I enforce the confiscation laws it'll cause resentment 
in the East. We've had enough bloody war." Roger stretched and yawned. "Excuse 
me. It's been a hard day and it's a while since I was a rock miner. There was once a time 
when I could dig all day and drink all night." 

Ardway shrugged. Like Hastings, he had once been a miner, but unlike the mayor 
he hadn't kept in shape. He wasn't fat, but he had become a large, balding, round man with 
a paunch that spilled over his wide garrison belt. It spoiled his looks when he wore military 
uniform, which he did whenever possible. "You're in charge, Roger. I won't get in your way. 
Maybe you can even get the old rebel families on your side against this stupid imperialistic 
venture Franklin's pushing. God knows we've enough problems at home without looking for 
more. I think. What in hell's going on out there?" 
Someone was yelling in the town below. "Good God, were those shots?" Roger 
asked. "We better find out." Reluctantly "he pushed himself up from the leather easy chair. 
"Hello-hello-what's this? The phone is out, Martine. Dead." 
"Those were shots," Colonel Ardway said. "I don't like this-rebels? The packet 
came in this afternoon, but you don't suppose there were rebels on board her? We better 
godown and see to this. You sure the phone's dead?" 
"Very dead," Hastings said quietly. "Lord, I hope it's not a new rebellion. Get your 
troops called out, though." 
"Right." Ardway took a pocket communicator from his belt pouch. He spoke into it 
with increasing agitation. "Roger, there is something wrong! I'm getting nothing but static. 
Somebody's jamming the whole communications band." 
"Nonsense. We're near periastron. The sunspots are causing it." Hastings sounded 
confident, but he was praying silently. Not more war. It wouldn't be a threat to Allansport 
and the Peninsula-there weren't more than a handful of rebels out here, but they'd be called 
for troops to go east and fight in rebel areas like Ford Heights and the Columbia Valley. It 
was so damn rotten! He remembered burning ranches and plantations during the last flareup. 
"God damn it, don't those people know they lose more in the wars than Franklin's 
merchants are costing them?" But he was already speaking to an empty room. Colonel 
Ardway had dashed outside and was calling to the neighbors to fall out with military 
equipment. 
Roger followed him outside. To the west Franklin flooded the night with ten 
thousand times Luna's best efforts on Earth. There were soldiers coming up the broad street 
from the main section of town. 
"Who in hell-those aren't rebels," Hastings shouted. They were men in synthi-leather 
battledress, and they moved too deliberately. Those were Regulars. 
There was a roar of motors. A wave of helicopters passed overhead. Roger heard 
ground effects cars on the greensward, and at least two hundred soldiers were running 
purposefully up the street toward his house. At each house below a knot of five men fell out 
of the open formation. 
"Turn out! Militia turn out! Rebels!" Colonel Ardway was shouting. He had a dozen 
men, none in armor, and their best weapons were rifles. 

"Take cover! Fire at will!" Ardway screamed. His voice carried determination but it 
had an edge of fear. "Roger, get the hell inside, you damn fool!" 
"But-" The advancing troops were no more than a hundred meters away. One of 
Ardway's militia fired an automatic rifle from the house next door. The leather-clad troops 
scattered and someone shouted orders. 
Fire lashed out to rake the house. Roger stood in his front yard, dazed, unbelieving, 
as under Franklin's bright reddish light the nightmare went on. The troops advanced steadily 
again and there was no more resistance from the militia. 
It all happened so quickly. Even as Roger had that thought, the leather lines of men 
reached him. An officer raised a megaphone. 
"I CALL ON YOU TO SURRENDER IN THE NAME OF THE FREE STATES 
OF WASHINGTON. STAY IN YOUR HOMES AND DO NOT TRY TO RESIST. 
ARMED MEN WILL BE SHOT WITHOUT WARNING." 
A five-man detachment ran past Roger Hastings and through the front door of his 
home. It brought him from his daze. "Juanita!" He screamed and ran toward his house. 
"HALT! HALT OR WE FIRE! YOU MAN, HALT!" 
Roger ran on heedlessly. 
"SQUAD FIRE." 
"BELAY THAT ORDER!" 
As Roger reached the door he was grabbed by one of the soldiers and flung against 
the wall. "Hold it right there," the trooper said grimly. "Monitor, I have a prisoner." 
Another soldier came into the broad entryway. He held a clipboard and looked up 
at the address of the house, checking it against his papers. "Mr. Roger Hastings?" he asked. 
Roger nodded dazedly. Then he thought better of it. "No. I'm-" 
"Won't do," the soldier said. "I've your picture, Mr. Mayor." Roger nodded again. 
Who was this man? There had been many accents, and the officer with the clipboard had 
yet another. "Who are you?" he demanded. 
"Lieutenant Jamie Farquhar of Falkenberg's Mercenary Legion, acting under 
authority of the Free States of Washington. You're under military detention, Mr. Mayor." 
There was more firing outside. Roger's house hadn't been touched. Everything 
looked so absolutely ordinary. Somehow that added to the horror. 
A voice called from upstairs. "His wife and kids are up here, Lieutenant." 

"Thank you, Monitor. Ask the lady to come down, please. Mr. Mayor, please don't 
be concerned for your family. We do not make war on civilians." There were more shots 
from the street. 
A thousand questions boiled in Roger's mind. He stood dazedly trying to sort them 
into some order. "Have you shot Colonel Ardway? Who's fighting out there?" 
"If you mean the fat man in uniform, he's safe enough. We've got him in custody. 
Unfortunately, some of your militia have ignored the order to surrender, and it's going to be 
hard on them." 
As if in emphasis there was the muffled blast of a grenade, then a burst from a 
machine pistol answered by the slow deliberate fire of an automatic rifle. The battle noises 
swept away across the brow of the hill, but sounds of firing and shouted orders carried over 
the pounding surf. 
Farquhar studied his clipboard. "Mayor Hastings and Colonel Ardway. Yes, thank 
you for identifying him. I've orders to take you both to the command post. Monitor!" 
"Sir!" 
"Your maniple will remain here on guard. You will allow no one to enter this house. 
Be polite to Mrs. Hastings, but keep her and the children here. If there is any attempt at 
looting you will prevent it. This street is under the protection of the Regiment. Understood?" 
"Sir!" 
The slim officer nodded in satisfaction. "If you'll come with me, Mr. Mayor, there's a 
car on the greensward." As Roger followed numbly he saw the hall clock. He had " been 
sworn in as mayor less than eleven hours ago. 
The Regimental Command Post was in the city council meeting chambers, with 
Falkenberg's office in a small connecting room. The council room itself was filled with electronic 
gear and bustled with runners, while Major Savage and Captain Fast controlled the 
military conquest of Allansport. Falkenberg watched the situation develop in the maps 
displayed on his desk top. 
"It was so fast!" Howard Bannister said. The pudgy secretary of war shook his head 
in disbelief. "I never thought you could do it." 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Light infantry can move, Mr. Secretary. But it cost us. We 
had to leave the artillery train in orbit with most of our vehicles. I can equip with captured 
stuff, but we're a bit short on transport." He watched lights flash confusedly for a second on 
the display before the steady march of red lights blinking to green resumed. 
"But now you're without artillery," Bannister said. "And the Patriot army's got none." 
"Can't have it both ways. We had less than an hour to offload and get the Dayan 

boats off planet before the spy satellites came over. Now we've got the town and nobody 
knows we've landed. If this goes right the first the Confederates'll know about us is when 
their spy snooper stops working." 
"We had some luck," Bannister said. "Boat in harbor, communications out to the 
mainland-" 
"Don't confuse luck with decision factors," Falkenberg answered. "Why would I 
take an isolated hole full of Loyalists if there weren't some advantages?" Privately he knew 
better. The telephone exchange taken by infiltrating scouts, the power plant almost 
unguarded and falling to three minutes' brief combat-it was all luck you could count on with 
good men, but it was luck. "Excuse me." He touched a stud in response to a low humming 
note. "Yes?" 
"Train coming in from the mines, John Christian," Major Savage reported. "We have 
the station secured, shall we let it go past the block outside town?" 
"Sure, stick with the plan, Jerry. Thanks." The miners coming home after a week's 
work on the sides of Ranier Crater were due for a surprise. 
They waited until all the lights changed to green. Every objective was taken. Power 
plants, communications, homes of leading citizens, public buildings, railway station and 
airport, police station . . . Allansport and its eleven thousand citizens were under control. A 
timer display ticked off the minutes until the spy satellite would be overhead. 
Falkenberg spoke to the intercom. "Sergeant Major, we have twenty-nine minutes 
to get this place looking normal for this time of night. See to it." 
"Sir!" Calvin's unemotional voice was reassuring. 
"I don't think the Confederates spend much time examining pictures of the 
boondocks anyway," Falkenberg told Bannister. "But it's best not to take any chances." 
Motors roared as ground cars and choppers were put under cover. Another helicopter flew 
overhead looking for telltales. 
"As soon as that thing's past get the troops on the packet ship," Falkenberg ordered. 
"And send in Captain Svoboda, Mayor Hastings, and the local militia colonel- Ardway, 
wasn't it?" 
"Yes, sir," Calvin answered. "Colonel Marline Ardway. I'll see if he's up to it, 
Colonel." 
"Up to it, Sergeant Major? Was he hurt?" 
"He had a pistol, Colonel. Twelve millimeter thing, big slug, slow bullet, couldn't 
penetrate armor but he bruised hell out of two troopers. Monitor Badnikov laid him out with 
a rifle butt. Surgeon says he'll be all right." 
"Good enough. If he's able to come I want him here." 

"Sir." 
Falkenberg turned back to the desk and used the computer to produce a planetary 
map. "Where would the supply ship go from here, Mr. Bannister?" 
The secretary traced a course. "It would-and will-stay inside this island chain. 
Nobody but a suicide takes ships into open water on this planet. With no land to interrupt 
them the seas go sixty meters in storms." He indicated a route from Allansport to Cape 
Titan, then through an island chain in the Sea of Mariners. "Most ships stop at Preston Bay 
to deliver metalshop goods for the ranches up on Ford Heights Plateau. The whole area's 
Patriot territory and you could liberate it with one stroke." 
Falkenberg studied the map, then said, "No. So most ships stop there-do some go 
directly to Astoria?" He pointed to a city eighteen hundred kilometers east of Preston Bay. 
"Yes, sometimes-but the Confederates keep a big garrison in Astoria, Colonel. 
Much larger than the one in Preston Bay. Why go twenty-five hundred kilometers to fight a 
larger enemy force when there's good Patriot country at half the distance?" 
"For the same reason the Confederates don't put much strength at Preston Bay. It's 
isolated. The Ford Heights ranches are scattered-look, Mr. Secretary, if we take Astoria 
we have the key to the whole Columbia River Valley. The Confederates won't know if 
we're going north to Doak's Ferry, east to Grand Forks and on into the capital plains, or 
west to Ford Heights. If I take Preston Bay first they'll know what I intend because there's 
only one thing a sane man could do from there." 
"But the Columbia Valley people aren't reliable! You won't get good recruits-" 
They were interrupted by a knock. Sergeant Major Calvin ushered in Roger 
Hastings and Marline Ardway. The militiaman had a lump over his left eye, and his cheek" 
was bandaged. 
Falkenberg stood to be introduced and offered his hand, which Roger Hastings 
ignored. Ardway stood rigid for a second, then extended his own. "I won't say I'm pleased 
to meet you, Colonel Falkenberg, but my compliments on an operation well conducted." 
"Thank you, Colonel. Gentlemen, please be seated. You have met Captain 
Svoboda, my Provost?" Falkenberg indicated a lanky officer in battledress who'd come in 
with them. "Captain Svoboda will be in command of this town when the Forty-second 
moves out." 
Ardway's eyes narrowed with interest. Falkenberg smiled. "You'll see it soon 
enough, Colonel. Now, the rules of occupation are simple. As mercenaries, gentlemen, we 
are subject to the CoDominium's Laws of War. Public property is seized in the name of the 
Free States. Private holdings are secure, and any property requisitioned will be paid for. 
Any property used to aid resistance, whether directly or as a place to make conspiracy, will 
be instantly confiscated." 

Ardway and Hastings shrugged. They'd heard all this before. At one time the CD 
tried to suppress mercenaries. When that failed the Fleet rigidly enforced the Grand Senate's 
Laws of War, but now the Fleet was weakened by budget cuts and a new outbreak of 
U.S.-Soviet hatred. New Washington was isolated and it might be years before CD 
Marines appeared to enforce rules the Grand Senate no longer cared about. 
"I have a problem, gentlemen," Falkenberg said. "This city is Loyalist, and I must 
withdraw my regiment. There aren't any Patriot soldiers yet. I'm leaving enough force to 
complete the conquest of this peninsula, but Captain Svoboda will have few troops in 
Allansport itself. Since we cannot occupy the city, it can legitimately be destroyed to prevent 
it from becoming a base against me." 
"You can't!" Hastings protested, jumping to his feet, shattering a glass ashtray. "I 
was sure all that talk about preserving private property was a lot of crap!" He turned to 
Bannister. "Howard, I told you last time all you'd succeed in doing was burning down the 
whole goddamn planet! Now you import soldiers to do it for you! What in God's name can 
you get from this war?" 
"Freedom," Bannister said proudly. "Allansport is a nest of traitors anyway." 
"Hold it," Falkenberg said gently. 
"Traitors!" Bannister repeated. "You'll get what you deserve, you-" 
"TENSH-HUT!" Sergeant Major Calvin's command startled them. "The Colonel 
said you was to hold it." 
"Thank you," Falkenberg said quietly. The silence was louder than the shouts had 
been. "I said I could burn the city, not that I intended to. However, since I won't I must have 
hostages." He handed Roger Hastings a computer typescript. "Troops are quartered in 
homes of these persons. You will note that you and Colonel Ardway are at the top of my 
list. All will be detained, and anyone who escapes will be replaced by members of his family. 
Your property and ultimately your lives are dependent on your cooperation with Captain 
Svoboda until I send a regular garrison here. Is this understood?" 
Colonel Ardway nodded grimly. "Yes, sir. I agree to it." Thank you," Falkenberg 
said. "And you, Mr. Mayor?" "I understand." "And?" Falkenberg prompted. 
"And what? You want me to like it? What kind of sadist are you?" 
"I don't care if you like it, Mr. Mayor. I am waiting for you to agree." 
"He doesn't understand, Colonel," Martine Ardway said. "Roger, he's asking if you 
agree to serve as a hostage for the city. The others will be asked as well. If he doesn't get 
enough to agree he'll burn the city to the ground." 
"Oh." Roger felt a cold knife of fear. What a hell of a choice. 
"The question is," Falkenberg said, "will you accept the responsibilities of the office 

you hold and keep your damn people from making trouble?" 
Roger swallowed hard. I wanted to be mayor so I could erase the hatreds of the 
rebellion. "Yes. I agree." "Excellent. Captain Svoboda." "Sir." 
"Take the mayor and Colonel Ardway to your office and interview the others. 
Notify me when you have enough hostages to ensure security." 
"Yes, sir. Gentlemen?" It was hard to read his expression as he showed them to the 
door. The visor of his helmet was up, but Svoboda's angular face remained in shadow. As 
he escorted them from the room the intercom buzzed. 
"The satellite's overhead," Major Savage reported. "All correct, John Christian. And 
we've secured the passengers off that train." 
The office door closed. Roger Hastings moved like a robot across the bustling city 
council chamber room, only dimly aware of the bustle of headquarters activities around him. 
The damn war, the fools, the bloody damned fools- couldn't they ever leave things alone? 
XVI 
A dozen men in camouflage battledress led a slim pretty girl across hard-packed 
sands to the water's edge. They were glad to get away from the softer sands above the highwater 
mark nearly a kilometer from the pounding surf. Walking in that had been hell, with 
shifting powder sands infested with small burrowing carnivores too stupid not to attack a 
booted man. 
The squad climbed wordlessly into the waiting boat while their leader tried to assist 
the girl. She needed no help. Glenda Ruth wore tan nylon coveralls and an equipment belt, 
and she knew this planet and its dangers better than the soldiers. Glenda Ruth Horton had 
been taking care of herself for twenty-four of her twenty-six years. 
White sandy beaches dotted with marine life exposed by the low tide stretched in 
both directions as far as they could see. Only the boat and its crew showed that the planet 
had human life. When the coxswain started the boat's water jet the whirr sent clouds of tiny 
sea birds into frantic activity. 
The fast packet Maribell lay twelve kilometers offshore, well beyond the horizon. 
When the boat arrived deck cranes dipped to seize her and haul the flat-bottomed craft to 
her davits. Captain Ian Frazer escorted Glenda Ruth to the chart room. 
Falkenberg's battle staff waited there impatiently, some sipping whiskey, others 
staring at charts whose information they had long since absorbed. Many showed signs of 
seasickness: the eighty-hour voyage from Allansport had been rough, and it hadn't helped 
that the ship pushed along at thirty-three kilometers an hour, plowing into big swells among 
the islands. 
Ian saluted, then took a glass from the steward and offered it to Glenda Ruth. 

"Colonel Falkenberg, Miss Horton. Glenda Ruth is the Patriot leader in the Columbia 
Valley. Glenda Ruth, you'll know Secretary Bannister." 
She nodded coldly as if she did not care for the rebel minister, but she put out her 
hand to Falkenberg and shook his in a thoroughly masculine way. She had other masculine 
gestures, but even with her brown hair tucked neatly under a visored cap no one would 
mistake her for a man. She had a heart-shaped face and large green eyes, and her 
weathered tan might have been envied by the great ladies of the CoDominium. 
"My pleasure, Miss Horton," Falkenberg said perfunctorily. "Were you seen?" 
Ian Frazer looked pained. "No, sir. We met the rebel group and it seemed safe 
enough, so Centurion Michaels and I borrowed some clothing from the ranchers and let 
Glenda Ruth take us to town for our own look." Ian moved to the chart table. 
"The fort's up here on the heights." Frazer pointed to the coastal chart. "Typical wall 
and trench system. Mostly they depend on the Friedlander artillery to control the city and 
river mouth." 
"What's in there, Ian?" Major Savage asked. 
"Worst thing is artillery," the Scout Troop commander answered. "Two batteries of 
105's and a battery of 155's, all self-propelled. As near as we can figure it's a standard 
Friedland detached battalion." 
"About six hundred Friedlanders, then," Captain Rottermill said thoughtfully. "And 
we're told there's a regiment of Earth mercenaries. Anything else?" 
Ian glanced at Glenda Ruth. "They moved in a squadron of Confederate Regular 
Cavalry last week," she said. "Light armored cars. We think they're due to move on, 
because there's nothing for them to do here, but nobody knows where they're going." 
"That is odd," Rottermill said. "There's not a proper petrol supply for them herewhere 
would they go?" 
Glenda Ruth regarded him thoughtfully. She had little use for mercenaries. Freedom 
was something to be won, not bought and paid for. But they needed these men, and at least 
this one had done his homework. "Probably to the Snake Valley. They've got wells and 
refineries there." She indicated the flatlands where the Snake and Columbia merged at 
Doak's Ferry six hundred kilometers to the north. "That's Patriot country and cavalry could 
be useful to supplement the big fortress at the Ferry." 
"Damn bad luck all the same, Colonel," Rottermill said. "Nearly three thousand men 
in that damned fortress and we've not a lot more. How's the security, Ian?" 
Frazer shrugged. "Not tight. The Earth goons patrol the city, doing MP duty, 
checking papers. No trouble avoiding them." 
"The Earthies make up most of the guard details too," Glenda Ruth added. "They've 

got a whole rifle regiment of them." 
"We'll not take that place by storm, John Christian," Major Savage said carefully. 
"Not without losing half the regiment." 
"And just what are your soldiers for?" Glenda Ruth demanded. "Do they fight 
sometimes?" 
"Sometimes." Falkenberg studied the sketch his scout commander was making. "Do 
they have sentries posted, Captain?" 
"Yes, sir. Pairs in towers and walking guards. There are radar dishes every hundred 
meters, and I expect there are body capacitance wires strung outside as well." 
"I told you," Secretary Bannister said smugly. There was triumph in his voice, in 
contrast to the grim concern of Falkenberg and his officers. "You'll have to raise an army to 
take that place. Ford Heights is our only chance, Colonel. Astoria's too strong for you." 
"No!" Glenda Ruth's strong, low-pitched voice commanded attention. "We've risked 
everything to gather the Columbia Valley Patriots. If you don't take Astoria now, they'll go 
back to their ranches. I was opposed to starting a new revolution, Howard Bannister. I 
don't think we can stand another long war like the last one. But I've organized my father's 
friends, and in two days I'll command a fighting force. If we scatter now I'll never get them 
to fight again." 
"Where is your army-and how large is it?" Falkenberg asked. 
"The assembly area is two hundred kilometers north of here. I have six hundred 
riflemen now and another five thousand coming. A force that size can't hide!" She regarded 
Falkenberg without enthusiasm. They needed a strong organized nucleus to win, but she was 
trusting 'her friends' lives to a man she'd never met. "Colonel, my ranchers can't face 
Confederate Regulars or Friedland, armor without support, but if you take Astoria we'll 
have a base we can hold." 
"Yes." Falkenberg studied the maps as he thought about the girl. She had a more 
realistic appreciation of irregular forces than Bannister-but how reliable was she? "Mr. 
Bannister, we can't take Astoria without artillery even with your Ford Heights ranchers. I 
need Astoria's guns, and the city's the key to the whole campaign anyway. With it in hand 
there's a chance to win this war quickly." "But it can't be done!" Bannister insisted. "Yet it 
must be done," Falkenberg reminded him. "And we do have surprise. No Confederate 
knows we're on this planet and won't for-" he glanced at his pocket computer-"twenty-
seven hours, when Weapons Detachment knocks down the snooper. Miss Horton, have 
you made trouble for Astoria lately?" 
"Not for months," she said. Was this mercenary, this man Falkenberg, different? "I 
only came this far south to meet you." 
Captain Frazer's sketch of the fort lay on the table like a death warrant. Falkenberg 
watched in silence as the scout drew in machine-gun emplacements along the walls. 

"I forbid you to risk the revolution on some mad scheme!" Bannister shouted. 
"Astoria's far too strong. You said so yourself." 
Glenda Ruth's rising hopes died again. Bannister was giving the mercenaries a 
perfect out. 
Falkenberg straightened and took a brimming glass from the steward. "Who's junior 
man here?" He looked around the steel-riveted chart room until he saw an officer near the 
bulkhead. "Excellent. Lieutenant Fuller was a prisoner on Tanith, Mr. Bannister. Until we 
caught him-Mark, give us a toast." "A toast, Colonel?" 
"Montrose's toast, Mister. Montrose's toast." Fear clutched Bannister's guts into a 
hard ball. Montrose! And Glenda Ruth stared uncomprehendingly, but there was reborn 
hope in her eyes .. . 
"Aye aye, Colonel." Fuller raised his glass. "He either fears his fate too much, or his 
desserts are small, who dares not put it to the touch, to win or lose it all." 
Bannister's hands shook as the officers drank. Falkenberg's wry smile, Glenda 
Ruth's answering look of comprehension and admiration-they were all crazy!. The lives of all 
the Patriots were at stake, and the man and the girl, both of them, they were insane!. 
Maribell swung to her anchors three kilometers offshore from Astoria. The fastmoving 
waters of the Columbia swept around her toward the ocean some nine kilometers 
downstream, where waves crashed in a line of breakers five meters high. Getting across the 
harbor bar was a tricky business, and even in the harbor itself the tides were too fierce for 
the ship to dock. 
Maribell's cranes hummed as they swung cargo lighters off her decks. The aircushion 
vehicles moved gracelessly across the water and over the sandy beaches to the corrugated 
aluminum warehouses, where they left cargo containers and picked up empties. 
In the fortress above Astoria the officer of the guard , dutifully logged the ship's 
arrival into his journal. It was the most exciting event in two weeks. Since the rebellion had 
ended there was little for his men to do. 
He turned from the tower to look around the encampment. Blasted waste of good 
armor, he thought. No point in having self-propelled guns as harbor guards. The armor 
wasn't used, since the guns were in concrete revetments. The lieutenant had been trained in 
mobile war, and though he could appreciate the need for control over the mouth of New 
Washington's largest river, he didn't like this duty. There was no glory in manning an 
impregnable fortress. 
Retreat sounded and all over the fort men stopped to face the flags. The Franklin 
Confederacy colors fluttered down the staff to the salutes of the garrison. Although as guard 
officer he wasn't supposed to, the lieutenant saluted as the trumpets sang. 
Over by the guns men stood at attention, but they didn't salute. Friedland 

mercenaries, they owed the Confederacy no loyalty that hadn't been bought and paid for. 
The lieutenant admired them as soldiers, but they were not likable. It was worth knowing 
them, though, since nobody else could handle armor like them. He had managed to make 
friends with a few. Someday, when the Confederacy was stronger, they would dispense 
with mercenaries, and until then he wanted to learn all he could. There were rich planets in 
this sector of space, planets that Franklin could add to the Confederacy now that the 
rebellion was over. With the CD Fleet weaker every year, opportunities at the edges of 
inhabited space grew, but only for those ready for them. 
When retreat ended he turned back to the harbor. An ugly cargo lighter was coming 
up the broad roadway to the fort. He frowned, puzzled, and climbed down from the tower. 
When he reached the gate the lighter had halted there. Its engine roared, and it was 
very difficult to understand the driver, a broad-shouldered seaman-stevedore who was insisting 
on something. 
"I got no orders," the Earth mercenary guardsman was protesting. He turned to the 
lieutenant in relief. "Sir, they say they have a shipment for us on that thing." 
"What is it?" the lieutenant shouted. He had to say it again to be heard over the roar 
of the motors. "What is the cargo?" 
"Damned if I know," the driver said Cheerfully. "Says on the manifest 'Astoria 
Fortress, attention supply officer.' Look, Lieutenant, we got to be moving. If the captain 
don't catch the tide he can't cross the harbor bar tonight and he'll skin me for squawk bait! 
Where's the supply officer?" 
The lieutenant looked at his watch. After retreat the men dispersed rapidly and 
supply officers kept short hours. "There's nobody to offload," he shouted. 
"Got a crane and crew here," the driver said. "Look, just show me where to put this 
stuff. We got to sail at slack water." 
"Put it out here," the lieutenant said. 
"Right. You'll have a hell of a job moving it though." He turned to his companion in 
the cab. "O.K., Charlie, dump it!" 
The lieutenant thought of what the supply officer would say when he found he'd have 
to move the ten-by-five-meter containers. He climbed into the bed of the cargo lighter. In 
the manifest pocket of each container was a ticket reading "COMMISSARY SUPPLIES." 
"Wait," he ordered. "Private, open the gates. Driver, take this over there." He 
indicated a warehouse near the center of the camp. "Offload at the big doors." 
"Right. Hold it, Charlie," Sergeant Major Calvin said cheerfully. "The lieutenant 
wants the stuff inside." He gave his full attention to driving the ungainly GEM. 
The lighter crew worked the crane efficiently, stacking the cargo containers by the 

warehouse doors. "Sign here," the driver said. 
"I-perhaps I better get someone to inventory the cargo-" 
"Aw, for Christ's sake," the driver protested. "Look, you can see the seals ain't 
broke-here, I'll write it in. 'Seals intact, but cargo not inspected by recip-' How you spell 
'recipient,' Lieutenant?" 
"Here, I'll write it for you." He did, and signed with his name and rank. "Have a 
good voyage?" 
"Naw. Rough out there, and getting worse. We got to scoot, more cargo to 
offload." 
"Not for us!" 
"Naw, for the town. Thanks, Lieutenant." The GEM pivoted and roared away as the 
guard lieutenant shook his head. What a mess. He climbed into the tower to write the 
incident up in the day book. As he wrote he sighed. One hour to dark, and three until he 
was off duty. It had been a long, dull day. 
Three hours before dawn the cargo containers silently opened, and Captain Ian 
Frazer led his scouts onto the darkened parade ground. Wordlessly they moved toward the 
revetted guns. One squad formed ranks and marched toward the gates, rifles at slope arms. 
The sentries turned. "What the hell?" one said. "It's not time for our relief, who's 
there?" 
"Can it," the corporal of the squad said. "We got orders to go out on some goddam 
perimeter patrol. Didn't you get the word?" 
"Nobody tells me anythin'-uh." The sentry grunted as the corporal struck him with a 
leather bag of shot. His companion turned quickly, but too late. The squad had already 
reached him. 
Two men stood erect in the starlight at the posts abandoned by the sentries. Astoria 
was far over the horizon from Franklin, and only a faint red glow to the west indicated the 
companion planet. 
The rest of the squad entered the guardhouse. They moved efficiently among the 
sleeping relief men, and when they finished the corporal took a communicator from his belt. 
"Laertes." 
On the other side of the parade ground, Captain Frazer led a group of picked men 
to the radar control center. There was a silent flurry of bayonets and rifle butts. When the 
brief struggle ended Ian spoke into his communicator. "Hamlet." 
There was no answer, but he hadn't expected one. 

Down in the city other cargo containers opened in darkened warehouses. Armed 
men formed into platoons and marched through the dockside streets. The few civilians who 
saw them scurried for cover; no one had much use for the Earthling mercenaries the 
Confederates employed. 
A full company marched up the hill to the fort. On the other side, away from the city, 
the rest of the regiment crawled across plowed fields, heedless of radar alarms but careful of 
the sentries on the walls above. They passed the first line of capacitance wires and Major 
Savage held his breath. Ten seconds, twenty. He sighed in relief and motioned the troops to 
advance. 
The marching company reached the gate. Sentries challenged them while others in 
guard towers watched in curiosity. When the gates swung open the tower guards relaxed. 
The officer of the watch must have had special orders... 
The company moved into the armored car park. Across the parade ground a sentry 
peered into the night. Something out there? "Halt! Who's there?" There was only silence. 
"See something, Jack?" his companion asked. 
"Dunno--look out there. By the bushes. Somethin'- My God, Harry! The field's full 
of men! CORPORAL OF THE GUARD! Turn out the Guard!" He hesitated before taking 
the final step, but he was sure enough to risk his sergeant's scathing displeasure. A stabbing 
finger hit the red alarm button, and lights blazed around the camp perimeter. The sirens 
hooted, and he had time to see a thousand men in the field near the camp; then a burst of fire 
caught him, and he fell. 
The camp erupted into confusion. The Friedland gunners woke first. They wasted 
less than a minute before their officers realized the alarm was real. Then the gunners boiled 
out of the barracks to save their precious armor, but from each revetment, bursts of 
machine-gun fire cut into them. Gunners fell in heaps as the rest scurried for cover. Many 
had not brought personal weapons in their haste to serve the guns, and they lost time going 
back for them. 
Major Savage's men reached the walls and clambered over. Alternate sections kept 
the walls under a ripple of fire, and despite their heavy battle armor the men climbed easily in 
Washington's lower gravity. Officers sent them to the parade ground where they added their 
fire to that of the men in the revetments. Hastily set machine guns isolated the artillery 
emplacements with a curtain of fire. 
That artillery was the fort's main defense. Once he was certain it was secure, Major 
Savage sent his invaders by waves into the camp barracks. They burst in with grenades and 
rifles ready, taking whole companies before their officers could arrive with the keys to their 
weapons racks. Savage took the Confederate Regulars that way, and only the Freidlanders 
had come out fighting; but then: efforts were directed toward their guns, and there they had 
no chance. 
Meanwhile the Earth mercenaries, never very steady troops at best, called for 
quarter; many had not fired a shot. The camp defenders fought as disorganized groups 

against a disciplined force whose communications worked perfectly. 
At the fortress headquarters building the alarms woke Commandant Albert Morris. 
He listened in disbelief to the sounds of battle, and although he rushed out half-dressed, he 
was too late. His command was engulfed by nearly four thousand screaming men. Morris 
stood a moment in indecision, torn by the desire to run to the nearest barracks and rally 
what forces he could, but he decided his duty was in the communications room. The Capital 
must be told. Desperately he ran to the radio shack. 
Everything seemed normal inside, and he shouted orders to the duty sergeant before 
he realized he had never seen the man before. He turned to face a squad of leveled rifles. A 
bright light stabbed from a darker corner of the room. 
"Good morning, sir," an even voice said. 
Commandant Morris blinked, then carefully raised his hands in surrender. "I've no 
sidearms. Who the hell are you, anyway?" 
"Colonel John Christian Falkenberg, at your service. Will you surrender this base 
and save your men?" 
Morris nodded grimly. He'd seen enough outside to know the battle was hopeless. 
His career was finished too, no matter what he did, and there was no point in letting the 
Friedlanders be slaughtered. "Surrender to whom?" 
The light flicked off and Morris saw Falkenberg. There was a grim smile on the 
Colonel's lips. "Why, to the Great Jehovah and the Free States of Washington, Commandant. 
. .." 
Albert Morris, who was no historian, did not understand the reference. He took the 
public address mike the grim troopers handed him. Fortress Astoria had fallen. 
Twenty-three hundred kilometers to the west at Allansport, Sergeant Sherman 
White slapped the keys to launch three small solid rockets. They weren't very powerful 
birds, but they could be set up quickly, and they had the ability to loft a hundred kilos of tiny 
steel cubes to one hundred forty kilometers. White had very good information on the 
Confederate satellite's ephemeris; he'd observed it for its past twenty orbits. 
The target was invisible over the horizon when Sergeant White launched his 
interceptors. As it came overhead the small rockets had climbed to meet it. Their radar fuses 
sought the precise moment, then they exploded in a cloud of shot that rose as it spread. It 
continued to climb, halted, and began to fall back toward the ground. The satellite detected 
the attack and beeped alarms to its masters. Then it passed through the cloud at fourteen 
hundred meters per second relative to the shot. Four of the steel cubes were in its path. 
XVII 

Falkenberg studied the manuals on the equipment in the Confederate command car 
as it raced northward along the Columbia Valley road toward Doak's Ferry. Captain 
Frazer's scouts were somewhere ahead with the captured cavalry equipment and behind 
Falkenberg the regiment was strung out piecemeal. There were men on motorcycles, in 
private trucks, horse-drawn wagons, and on foot. 
There'd be more walking soon. The captured cavalry gear was a lucky break, but 
the Columbia Valley wasn't technologically developed. Most local transport was by animal 
power, and the farmers relied on the river to ship produce to the deepwater port at Astoria. 
The river boats and motor fuel were the key to the operation. There wasn't enough of either. 
Glenda Ruth Horton had surprised Falkenberg by not arguing about the need for 
haste, and her ranchers were converging on all the river ports, taking heavy casualties in 
order to seize boats and fuel before the scattered Confederate occupation forces could 
destroy them. Meanwhile Falkenberg had recklessly flung the regiment northward. 
"Fire fight ahead," his driver said. "Another of them one battery posts." 
"Right." Falkenberg fiddled with the unfamiliar controls until the map came into 
sharper focus, then activated the comm circuit. 
"Sir," Captain Frazer answered. "They've got a battery of 105's and an MG 
Company in there. More than I can handle." 
"Right. Pass it by. Let Miss Horton's ranchers keep it under siege. Found any more 
fuel?" 
Frazer laughed unpleasantly. "Colonel, you can adjust the carburetors in these things 
to handle a lot, but Christ, they bloody well won't run on paraffin. There's not even farm 
machinery out here! We're running on fumes now, and damned low-grade fumes at that." 
"Yeah." The Confederates were getting smarter. For the first hundred kilometers 
they took fueling stations intact, but now, unless the Patriots were already in control, the fuel 
was torched before Frazer's fast-moving scouts arrived. "Keep going as best you can, 
Captain." 
"Sir. Out." 
"We got some reserve fuel with the guns," Sergeant Major Calvin reminded him. 
The big RSM sat in the turret of the command caravan and at frequent intervals fondled the 
thirty-mm cannon there. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it had been a long time since the 
RSM was gunner in an armored vehicle. He was hoping to get in some fighting. 
"No. Those guns have to move east to the passes. They're sure to send a reaction 
force from the capital, Top Soldier." 
But would they? Falkenberg wondered. Instead of moving northwest from the 
capital to reinforce the fortress at Doak's Ferry, they might send troops by sea to retake 
Astoria. It would be a stupid move, and Falkenberg counted on the Confederates acting 

intelligently. As far as anyone knew, the Astoria Fortress guns dominated the river mouth. 
A detachment of Weapons Battalion remained there with antiaircraft rockets to 
keep reconnaissance at a distance, but otherwise Astoria was held only by a hastily raised 
Patriot force stiffened with a handful of mercenaries. The Friedlander guns had been taken 
out at night. 
If Falkenberg's plan worked, by the time the Confederates knew what they faced, 
Astoria would be strongly held by Valley Patriot armies, and other Patriot forces would 
have crossed the water to hold Allansport. It was a risky battle plan, but it had one merit: it 
was the only one that could succeed. 
Leading elements of the regiment covered half the six hundred kilometers north to 
Doak's Ferry in ten hours. Behind Falkenberg's racing lead groups the main body of the 
regiment moved more ponderously, pausing to blast out pockets of resistance where that 
could be quickly done, otherwise bypassing them for the Patriot irregulars to starve into 
submission. The whole Valley was rising, and the further north Falkenberg went the greater 
the number of Patriots he encountered. When they reached the four-hundred-kilometer 
point, he sent Glenda Ruth Horton eastward toward the passes to join Major Savage and 
the Friedland artillery. Like the regiment, the ranchers moved by a variety of means: 
helicopters, GEM's, trucks, mules, and on foot. 
"Real boot straps," Hiram Black said. Black was a short, wind-browned rancher 
commissioned colonel by the Free States Council and sent with Falkenberg to aid in controlling 
rebel forces. Falkenberg liked the man's dry humor and hard realism. "General 
Falkenberg, we got the damnedest collection in the history of warfare." 
"Yes." There was nothing more to say. In addition to the confused transport 
situation, there was no standardization of weapons: they had hunting pieces, weapons taken 
from the enemy, the regiment's own equipment, and stockpiles of arms smuggled in by the 
Free States before Falkenberg's arrival. "That's what computers are for," Falkenberg said. 
"Crossroad coming up," the driver warned. "Hang on." The crossing was probably 
registered by the guns of an untaken post eight kilometers ahead. Frazer's cavalry had 
blinded its hilltop observation radars before passing it by, but the battery would have had 
brief sights of the command car. 
The driver suddenly halted. There was a sharp whistle, and an explosion rocked the 
caravan. Shrapnel rattled off the armored sides. The car bounded into life and accelerated. 
"Ten credits you owe me, Sergeant Major," the driver said. "Told you they'd expect 
me to speed up." -
'Think I wanted to win the bet, Carpenter?" Calvin asked. 
They drove through rolling hills covered with the golden tassels of corn plants. 
Genetic engineering had made New Washington's native grain one of the most valuable food 
crops in space. Superficially similar to Earth maize, this corn had a growing cycle of two 
local years. Toward the end of the cycle hydrostatic pressures built up until it exploded, but 

if harvested in the dry period New Washington corn was high-protein dehydrated food 
energy, palatable when cooked in water, and good fodder for animals as well. 
"Ought to be getting past the opposition now," Hiram Black said. "Expect the 
Feddies'll be pulling back to the fort at Doak's Ferry from here on." 
His estimate was confirmed a half hour later when Falkenberg's comm set 
squawked into action. "We're in a little town called Madselin, Colonel," Frazer said. "Used 
to be a garrison here, but they're running up the road. There's a citizen's committee to 
welcome us." 
"To hell with the citizen's committee," Falkenberg snapped. "Pursue the enemy!" 
"Colonel, I'd be very pleased to do so, but I've no petrol at all." 
Falkenberg nodded grimly. "Captain Frazer, I want the scouts as far north as they 
can get. Isn't there any transport?" 
There was a long silence. "Well, sir, there are bicycles ..." 
"Then use bicycles, by God! Use whatever you have to, Captain, but until you are 
stopped by the enemy you will continue the advance, bypassing concentrations. Snap at 
their heels. Ian, they're scared. They don't know what's chasing them, and if you keep the 
pressure on they won't stop to find out. Keep going, laddie. I'll bail you out if you get in 
trouble." 
"Aye, aye, Colonel. See you in Doak's Ferry." 
"Correct. Out." 
"Can you keep that promise, General?" Hiram Black asked. 
Falkenberg's pale blue eyes stared through the rancher. "That depends on how 
reliable your Glenda Ruth Horton is, Colonel Black. Your ranchers are supposed to be 
gathering along the Valley. With that threat to their flanks the Confederates will not dare 
form a defense line south of Doak's Ferry. If your Patriots don't show up then it's another 
story entirely." He shrugged. Behind him the Regiment was strung out along three hundred 
kilometers of roads, its only flank protection its speed and the enemy's uncertainties. "It's up 
to her in more ways than one," Falkenberg continued. "She said the main body of Friedland 
armor was in the capital area." 
Hiram Black sucked his teeth in a very unmilitary way. "General, if Glenda Ruth's 
sure of something, you can damn well count on it." 
Sergeant Major Calvin grunted. The noise spoke his thoughts better than words. It 
was a hell of a thing when the life of the Forty-second had to depend on a young colonial 
girl. 
"How did she come to command the Valley ranchers, anyway?" Falkenberg asked. 

"Inherited it," Black answered. "Her father was one hell of a man, General. Got 
himself killed in the last battle of the first revolution. She'd been his chief of staff. Old Josh 
trusted her more'n he did most of his officers. So would I, if I was you, General." 
"I already do." To Falkenberg the regiment was more than a mercenary force. Like 
any work of art, it was an instrument perfectly forged-its existence and perfection its own 
reason for existence. 
But unlike any work of art, because the regiment was a military unit, it had to fight 
battles and take casualties. The men who died in battle were mourned. They weren't the 
regiment, though, and it would exist when every man now in it was dead. The Forty-second 
had faced defeat before and might find it again-but this time the regiment itself was at hazard. 
Falkenberg was gambling not merely their lives, but the Forty-second itself. 
He studied the battle maps as they raced northward. By keeping the enemy off 
balance, one regiment could do the work of five. Eventually, though, the Confederates 
would no longer retreat. They were falling back on their fortress at Doak's Ferry, gathering 
strength and concentrating for a battle that Falkenberg could never win. Therefore that battle 
must not be fought until the ranchers had concentrated. Meanwhile, the regiment must 
bypass Doak's Ferry and turn east to the mountain passes, closing them before the 
Friedland armor and Covenant Highlanders could debauch onto the western plains. 
"Think you'll make it?" Hiram Black asked. He watched as Falkenberg manipulated 
controls to move symbols across the map tank in the command car. "Seems to me the 
Friedlanders will reach the pass before you can." 
"They will," Falkenberg said. "And if they get through, we're lost." He twirled a 
knob, sending a bright blip representing Major Savage with the artillery racing diagonally 
from Astoria to Hillyer Gap, while the main force of the regiment continued up the 
Columbia, then turned east to the mountains, covering two legs of a triangle. "Jerry Savage 
could be there first, but he won't have enough force to stop them." Another set of symbols 
crawled across the map. Instead of a distinctly formed body, this was a series of rivulets 
coming together at the pass. "Miss Horton has also promised to be there with 
reinforcements and supplies-enough to hold in the first battle, anyway. If they delay the 
Friedlanders long enough for the rest of us to get there, we'll own the entire agricultural area 
of New Washington. The revolution will be better than half over." 
"And what if she can't get there-or they can't hold the Friedlanders and Covenant 
boys?" Hiram Black asked. 
Sergeant Major Calvin grunted again. 
XVI 
Hillyer gap was a six-kilometer-wide hilly notch in the high mountain chain. The 
Aldine Mountains ran roughly northwest to southeast, and were joined at their midpoint by 
the southward stretching Temblors. Just at the join was the Gap that connected the capital 

city plain to the east with the Columbia Valley to the west. 
Major Jeremy Savage regarded his position with satisfaction. He not only had the 
twenty-six guns taken from the Friedlanders at Astoria, but another dozen captured in 
scattered outposts along the lower Columbia, and all were securely dug in behind hills 
overlooking the Gap. Forward of the guns were six companies of infantry, Second Battalion 
and half of Third, with a thousand ranchers behind in reserve. 
"We won't be outflanked, anyway," Centurion Bryant observed. "Ought to hold just 
fine, sir." 
"We've a chance," Major Savage agreed. "Thanks to Miss Horton. You must have 
driven your men right along." 
Glenda Ruth shrugged. Her irregulars had run low on fuel one hundred eighty 
kilometers west of the Gap, and she'd brought them on foot in one forced march of thirty 
hours, after sending her ammunition supplies ahead with the last drops of gasoline. "I just 
came on myself, Major. Wasn't a question of driving them, the men followed right enough." 
Jeremy Savage looked at her quickly. The slender girl was not very pretty at the 
moment, with her coveralls streaked with mud and grease, her hair falling in strings from 
under her cap, but he'd rather have seen her just then than the current Miss Universe. With 
her troops and ammunition supplies he had a chance to hold this position. 
"I suppose they did at that." Centurion Bryant turned away quickly with something 
caught in his throat. 
"Can we hold until Colonel Falkenberg gets here?" Glenda Ruth asked. "I expect 
them to send everything they've got." 
"We sincerely hope they do," Jeremy Savage answered. "It's our only chance, you 
know. If that armor gets onto open ground ..." 
"There's no other way onto the plains, Major," she replied "The Temblors go right 
on down to the Matson swamplands, and nobody's fool enough to risk armor there. Great 
Bend's Patriot country. Between the swamps and the Patriot irregulars it'd take a week to 
cross the Matson. If they're comin' by land, they're comin' through here." 
"And they'll be coming," Savage finished for her. "They'll want to relieve the Doak's 
Ferry fortress before we can get it under close siege. At least that was John Christian's plan, 
and he's usually right." 
Glenda Ruth used her binoculars to examine the road. There was nothing out thereyet. 
"This colonel of yours. What's in this for him? Nobody gets rich on what we can pay." 
"I should think you'd be glad enough we're here," Jeremy said. 
"Oh, I'm glad all right. In two hundred forty hours Falkenberg's isolated every 
Confederate garrison west of the Temblors. The capital city forces are the only army left to 

fight-you've almost liberated the planet in one campaign." 
"Luck," Jeremy Savage murmured. "Lots of it, all good." "Heh." Glenda Ruth was 
contemptuous. "I don't believe in that, no more do you. Sure, with the Confederates 
scattered out on occupation duty anybody who could get troops to move fast enough could 
cut the Feddies up before they got into big enough formations to resist. The fact is, Major, 
nobody believed that could be done except on maps. Not with real troops-and he did it. 
That's not luck, that's genius." 
Savage shrugged. "I wouldn't dispute that." "No more would I. Now answer thisjust 
what is a real military genius doing commanding mercenaries on a jerkwater agricultural 
planet? A man like that should be Lieutenant General of the CoDominium." 
'The CD isn't interested in military genius, Miss Horton. The Grand Senate wants 
obedience, not brilliance." 
"Maybe. I hadn't heard Lermontov was a fool, and they made him Grand Admiral. 
O.K., the CoDominium had no use for Falkenberg. But why Washington, Major? With that 
regiment you could take anyplace but Sparta and give the Brotherhoods a run for it there." 
She swept the horizon with the binoculars, and Savage could not see her eyes. 
This girl disturbed him. No other Free State official questioned the good fortune of 
hiring Falkenberg. "The regimental council voted to come here because we were sick of 
Tanith, Miss Horton." 
"Sure." She continued to scan the bleak foothills hi front of them. "Look, I'd better 
get some rest if we've got a fight coming-and we do. Look just at the horizon on the left side 
of the road." As she turned away Centurion Bryanfs communicator buzzed. The outposts 
had spotted the scout elements of an armored task force. 
As Glenda Ruth walked back to her bunker, her head felt as if it would begin 
spinning. She had been born on New Washington and was used to the planet's forty-hour 
rotation period, but lack of sleep made her almost intoxicated even so. 
Walking on pillows, she told herself. That had been Harley Hastings' description of 
how they felt when they didn't come in until dawn. 
Is Harley out there with the armor? she wondered. She hoped not. It would never 
have worked, but he's such a good boy. Too much of a boy though, trying to act like a man. 
While it's nice to be treated like a lady sometimes, he could never believe I could do 
anything for myself at all.... 
Two ranchers stood guard with one of Falkenberg's corporals at her bunker. The 
corporal came to a rigid present; the ranchers called a greeting. Glenda Ruth made a 
gesture, halfway between a wave and a return of the corporal's salute and went inside. The 
contrast couldn't have been greater, she thought. Her ranchers weren't about to make 
themselves look silly, with present arms, and salutes, and the rest of it. 
She stumbled inside and wrapped herself in a thin blanket without undressing. 

Somehow the incident outside bothered her. Falkenberg's men were military professionals. 
All of them. What were they doing on New Washington? 
Howard Bannister asked them here. He even offered them land for a permanent 
settlement and he had no right to do that. There's no way to control a military force like that 
without keeping a big standing army, and the cure is worse than the disease. 
But without Falkenberg the revolution's doomed. 
And what happens if we win it? What will Falkenberg do after it's over? Leave? I'm 
afraid of him because he's not the type to just leave. 
And, she thought, to be honest Falkenberg's a very attractive man. I liked just the 
way he toasted. Howard gave him the perfect out, but he didn't take it. 
She could still remember him with his glass lifted, an enigmatic smile on his lips-and 
then he went into the packing crates himself, along with Ian and his men. 
But courage isn't anything special. What we need here is loyalty, and that he's never 
promised at all... 
There was no one to advise her. Her father was the only man she'd ever really 
respected. Before he was killed, he'd tried to tell her that winning the war was only a small 
part of the problem. There were countries on Earth that had gone through fifty bloody 
revolutions before they were lucky enough to have a tyrant gain control and stop them. 
Revolution's the easy part, as her father used to say. Ruling afterwards-that's something else 
entirely. 
As she fell asleep she saw Falkenberg in a dream. What if Falkenberg wouldn't let 
them keep their revolution? His hard features softened in a swirling mist. He was wearing 
military uniform and sat at a desk, Sergeant Major Calvin at his side. 
"These can live. Kill those. Send these to the mines," Falkenberg ordered. 
The big sergeant moved tiny figures that looked like model soldiers, but they weren't 
all troops. One was her father. Another was a group of her ranchers. And they weren't 
models at all. They were real people reduced to miniatures whose screams could barely be 
heard as the stern voice continued to pronounce their dooms ... 
Brigadier Wilfred von Mellenthin looked up the hill toward the rebel troop 
emplacements, then climbed back down into his command caravan to wait for his scouts to 
report. He had insisted that the Confederacy send his armor west immediately after the news 
arrived that Astoria had fallen, but the General Staff wouldn't let him go. 
Fools, he thought. The staff said it was too big a risk. Von Mellenthin's Friedlander 
armored task force was the Confederacy's best military unit, and it couldn't be risked in a 
trap. 
Now the General Staff was convinced that they faced only one regiment of 

mercenaries. One regiment, and that must have taken heavy casualties in storming Astoria. 
So the staff said. Von Mellentbin studied the map table and shrugged. 
Someone was holding the Gap, and he had plenty of respect for the New 
Washington ranchers. Given rugged terrain like that in front of him, they could put up a good 
fight. A good enough fight to blunt his force. But, he decided, it was worth it. Beyond the 
Gap was open terrain, and the ranchers would have no chance there. 
The map changed and flowed as he watched. Scouts reported, and Von 
Mellenthin's staff officers checked the reports, correlated the data, and fed it onto his 
displays. The map showed well-dug-in infantry, far more of it than von Mellenthin had 
expected. That damned Falkenberg. The man had an uncanny ability to move troops. 
Von Mellenthin turned to the Chief of Staff. "Horst, do you think he has heavy guns 
here already?" 
Oberst Carnap shrugged. "Weiss nicht, Brigadier. Every hour gives Falkenberg 
time to dig in at the Gap, and we have lost many hours." 
"Not Falkenberg," von Mellenthin corrected. "He is now investing the fortress at 
Doak's Ferry. We have reports from the commandant there. Most of Falkenberg's force 
must be far to the west." 
He turned back to his maps. They were as complete as they could be without closer 
observation. 
As if reading his mind, Carnap asked, "Shall I send scouting forces, Brigadier?" 
Von Mellenthin stared at the map as if it might tell him one more detail, but it would 
not. "No. We got through with everything," he said in sudden decision. "Kick their arses, 
don't pee on them." 
"Jawohl." Carnap spoke quietly into the command circuit. Then he looked up 
again. "It is my duty to point out the risk, Brigadier. We will take heavy losses if they have 
brought up artillery." 
"I know. But if we fail to get through now, we may never relieve the fortress in time. 
Half the war is lost when Doak's Ferry is taken. Better heavy casualties 
immediately than a long war. I will lead the attack myself. You will remain with the command 
caravan." "Jawohl, Brigadier." 
Von. Mellenthin climbed out of the heavy caravan and into a medium tank. He took 
his place in the turret, then spoke quietly to the driver. "Forward." 
The armor brushed the infantry screens aside as if they had not been there. Von 
Mellenthin's tanks and their supporting infantry cooperated perfectly to pin down and root 
out the opposition. The column moved swiftly forward to cut the enemy into disorganized 
fragments for the following Covenanter infantry to mop up. 

Von Mellenthin was chewing up the blocking force piecemeal as his brigade rushed 
deeper into the Gap. It was all too easy, and he thought he knew why. 
The sweating tankers approached the irregular ridge at the very top of the pass. 
Suddenly a fury of small arms and mortar fire swept across them. The tanks moved on, but 
the infantry scrambled for cover. Armor and infantry were separated for a moment, and at 
that instant his lead tanks reached the minefields. 
Brigadier von Mellenthin began to worry. Logic told him the minefields couldn't be 
wide or dense, and if he punched through he would reach the soft headquarters areas of his 
enemies. Once there his tanks would make short work of the headquarters and depots, the 
Covenanter infantry would secure the pass, and his brigade could charge across the open 
fields beyond. 
But-if the defenders had better transport than the General Staff believed, and thus 
had thousands of mines, he was dooming his armor. 
"Evaluation," he demanded. The repeater screen in his command tank swam, then 
showed the updated maps. His force was bunched up, and his supporting infantry was 
pinned and taking casualties. "Recommendation?" "Send scouting forces," Oberst Carnap's 
voice urged. Von Mellenthin considered it for a moment. Compromises in war are often 
worse than either course of action. A small force could be lost without gaining anything. 
Divided forces can be defeated in detail. He had only moments to reach a decision. "Boot, 
don't spatter," he said. "We go forward." 
They reached the narrowest part of the Gap. His force now bunched together even 
more, and his drivers, up to now automatically avoiding terrain features that might be 
registered by artillery, had to approach conspicuous landmarks. Brigadier von Mellenthin 
gritted his teeth. 
The artillery salvo was perfectly delivered. The brigade had less than a quarterminute 
warning as the radars picked up the incoming projectiles. Then the shells exploded all 
at once, dropping among his tanks to brush away the last of the covering infantry. 
As the barrage lifted, hundreds of men appeared from the ground itself. A near 
perfect volley of infantry-carried anti-tank rockets slammed into his tanks. Then the radars 
showed more incoming mail-and swam in confusion. 
"Ja, that too," von Mellenthin muttered. His counter-battery screens showed a 
shower of gunk. 
The defenders were firing chaff, hundreds of thousands of tiny metal chips which 
slowly drifted to the ground. Neither side could use radar to aim indirect fire, but von 
Mellenthin's armor was under visual observation, while the enemy guns had never been 
precisely located. 
Another time-on-target salvo landed. "Damned good shooting," von Mellenthin 
muttered to his driver. There weren't more than five seconds between the first and the last 
shell's arrival. 

The brigade was being torn apart on this killing ground. The lead elements ran into 
more minefields. Defending infantry crouched in holes and ditches, tiny little groups that his 
covering infantry could sweep aside in a moment if it could get forward, but the infantry was 
cut off by the barrages falling behind and around the tanks. 
There was no room to maneuver and no infantry support, the classic nightmare of an 
armor commander. The already rough ground was strewn with pits and ditches. High 
explosive anti-tank shells fell all around his force. There were not many hits yet, but any 
disabled tanks could be pounded to pieces, and there was nothing to shoot back at. The 
lead tanks were under steady fire, and the assault slowed. 
The enemy expended shells at a prodigal rate. Could they keep it up? If they ran out 
of shells it was all over. Von Mellenthin hesitated. Every moment kept his armor in hell. 
Doubts undermined his determination. Only the Confederate General Staff told him 
he faced no more than 
Falkenberg's Legion, and the staff had been wrong before. Whatever was out there 
had taken Astoria before the commandant could send a single message. At almost the same 
moment the observation satellite was killed over Allansport. Every fortress along the 
Columbia was invested within hours. Surely not even Falkenberg could do that with no more 
than one regiment! 
What was he fighting? If he faced a well-supplied force with transport enough to 
continue this bombardment for hours, not minutes, the brigade was lost. His brigade, the 
finest armor in the worlds, lost to the faulty intelligence of these damned colonials! 
"Recall the force. Consolidate at Station Hildebrand." The orders flashed out, and 
the tanks fell back, rescuing the pinned infantry and covering their withdrawal. When the 
brigade assembled east of the Gap von Mellenthin had lost an eighth of his tanks, and he 
doubted if he would recover any of them. 
XIX 
the honor guard presented arms as the command caravan unbuttoned. Falkenberg 
acknowledged their salutes and strode briskly into the staff bunker. "Tensh-Hut!" Sergeant 
Major Calvin commanded. 
"Carry on, gentlemen. Major Savage, you'll be pleased to know I've brought the 
regimental artillery. We landed it yesterday. Getting a bit thin, wasn't it?" 
"That it was, John Christian," Jeremy Savage answered grimly. "If the battle had 
lasted another hour we'd have been out of everything. Miss Horton, you can relax now- the 
colonel said carry on." 
"I wasn't sure," Glenda Ruth huffed. She glanced outside where the honor guard was 

dispersing and scowled in disapproval. "I'd hate to be shot for not bowing properly." 
Officers and troopers in the CP tensed, but nothing happened. Falkenberg turned to 
Major Savage. "What were the casualties, Major?" 
"Heavy, sir. We have 283 effectives remaining in Second Battalion." 
Falkenberg's face was impassive. "And how many walking wounded?" 
"Sir, that includes the walking wounded." 
"I see." Sixty-five percent casualties, not including the walking Wounded. "And 
Third?" 
"I couldn't put together a corporal's guard from the two companies. The survivors 
are assigned to headquarters duties." 
"What's holding the line out there, Jerry?" Falkenberg demanded. 
"Irregulars and what's left of Second Battalion, Colonel. We are rather glad to see 
you, don't you know?" 
Glenda Ruth Horton had a momentary struggle with herself. Whatever she might 
think about all the senseless militaristic rituals Falkenberg was addicted to, honesty 
demanded that she say something. "Colonel, I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I implied that 
your men wouldn't fight at Astoria." 
"The question is, Miss Horton, will yours? I have two batteries of the Forty-
second's artillery, but I can add nothing to the line itself. My troops are investing Doak's 
Ferry, my cavalry and First Battalion are on Ford Heights, and the regiment will be scattered 
for three more days. Are you saying your ranchers can't do as well as my mercenaries?" 
She nodded unhappily. "Colonel, we could never have stood up to that attack. The 
Second's senior Centurion told me many of his mortars were served by only one man before 
the battle ended. We'll never have men that steady." 
Falkenberg looked relieved. "Centurion Bryant survived, then." 
"Why-yes." 
"Then the Second still lives." Falkenberg nodded to himself in satisfaction. 
"But we can't stop another attack by that armor!" Glenda Ruth protested. 
"But maybe we won't have to," Falkenberg said. "Miss Horton, I'm betting that von 
Mellenthin won't risk his armor until the infantry has cleared a hole. From his view he's tried 
and run into something he can't handle. He doesn't know how close it was. 
"Meanwhile, thanks to your efforts in locating transport, we have the artillery partly 

resupplied. Let's see what we can do with what we've got." 
Three hours later they looked up from the maps. "That's it, then," Falkenberg said. 
"Yes." Glenda Ruth looked over the troop dispositions. "Those forward patrols are 
the key to it all," she said carefully. 
"Of course." He reached into his kit bag. "Have a drink?" 
"Now?" But why not? "Thank you, I will." He poured two mess cups partly full of 
whiskey and handed her one. "I can't stay long, though," she said. 
He shrugged and raised the glass. "A willing foe. But not too willing," he said. 
She hesitated a moment, then drank. "It's a game to you, isn't it?" 
"Perhaps. And to you?" 
"I hate it. I hate all of it. I didn't want to start the rebellion again." She shuddered. 
"I've had enough of killing and crippled men and burned farms-" 
"Then why are you here?" he asked. There was no mockery in his voice-and no 
contempt. The question was genuine. 
"My friends asked me to lead them, and I couldn't let them down." 
"A good reason," Falkenberg said. 
"Thank you." She drained the cup. "I've got to go now. I have to get into my battle 
armor." 
"That seems reasonable, although the bunkers are well built." 
"I won't be in a bunker, Colonel. I'm going on patrol with my ranchers." 
Falkenberg regarded her critically. "I wouldn't think that wise, Miss Horton. 
Personal courage in a commanding officer is an admirable trait, but-" 
"I know." She smiled softly. "But it needn't be demonstrated because it is assumed, 
right? Not with us. I can't order the ranchers, and I don't have years of tradition to keep 
them-that's the reason for all the ceremonials, isn't it?" she asked in surprise. 
Falkenberg ignored the question. "The point is, the men follow you. I doubt they'd 
fight as hard for me if you're killed." 
"Irrelevant, Colonel. Believe me, I don't want to take this patrol out, but if I don't 
take the first one, there may never be another. We're not used to holding lines, and it's 
taking some doing to keep my troops steady." 

"And so you have to shame them into going out." 
She shrugged. "If I go, they will." 
"I'll lend you a Centurion and some headquarters guards." 
"No. Send the same troops with me that you'll send with any other Patriot force." 
She swayed for a moment. Lack of sleep and the whiskey and the knot of fear in her guts 
combined for a moment. She held the edge of the desk for a second while Falkenberg 
looked at her. 
"Oh damn," she said. Then she smiled slightly. "John Christian Falkenberg, don't you 
see why it has to be this way?" 
He nodded. "I don't have to like it. All right, get your final briefing from the sergeant 
major in thirty-five minutes. Good luck, Miss Horton." 
"Thank you." She hesitated, but there was nothing more to say. 
The patrol moved silently through low scrub brash. Something fluttered past her 
face; a flying squirrel, she thought. There were a lot of gliding creatures on New 
Washington. 
The low hill smelled of toluenes from the shells and mortars that had fallen there in 
the last battle. The night was pitch dark, with only Franklin's dull red loom at the far western 
horizon, so faint that it was sensed, not seen. Another flying fox chittered past, darting after 
insects and screeching into the night. 
A dozen ranchers followed in single file. Behind them came a communications 
maniple from the Forty-second's band. Glenda wondered what they did with their instruments 
when they went onto combat duty, and wished she'd asked. The last man on the trail 
was a Sergeant Hruska, who'd been sent along by Sergeant Major Calvin at the last minute. 
Glenda Ruth had been glad to see him, allthough she felt guilty about having him along. 
And that's silly, she told herself. Men think that way. I don't have to. I'm not trying 
to prove anything. 
The ranchers carried rifles. Three of Falkenberg's men did also. The other two had 
communications gear, and Sergeant Hruska had a submachine gun. It seemed a pitifully 
small force to contest ground with Covenant Highlanders. 
They passed through the final outposts of her nervous ranchers and moved into the 
valleys between the hills. Glenda Ruth felt completely alone in the silence of the night. She 
wondered if the others felt it too. Certainly the ranchers did. They were all afraid. What of 
the mercenaries? she wondered. They weren't alone, anyway. They were with comrades 
who shared their meals and their bunkers. 
As long as one of Falkenberg's men was alive, there would be someone to care 
about those lost. And they do care, she told herself. Sergeant Major Calvin, with his gruff 

dismissal of casualty reports. "Bah. Another trooper," he'd said when they told him an old 
messmate had bought it in the fight with the armor. Men. 
She tried to imagine the thoughts of a mercenary soldier, but it was impossible. They 
were too alien. 
Was Falkenberg tike the rest of them? 
They were nearly a kilometer beyond the lines when she found a narrow gulley two 
meters deep. It meandered down the hillsides along the approaches to the outposts behind 
her, and any attacking force assaulting her sector would have to pass it. She motioned the 
men into the ditch. 
Waiting was hardest of all. The ranchers continually moved about, and she had to 
crawl along the gulley to whisper them into silence. Hours went by, each an agony of 
waiting. She glanced at her watch to see that no time had elapsed since the last time she'd 
looked, and resolved not to look again for a full fifteen minutes. 
After what seemed fifteen minutes, she waited for what was surely another ten, then 
looked to see that only eleven minutes had passed altogether. She turned in disgust to stare 
into the night, blinking against the shapes that formed; shapes that couldn't be real. 
Why do I keep thinking about Falkenberg? And why did I call him by his first 
name? 
The vision of him in her dream still haunted her as well. In the starlit gloom she could 
almost see the miniature figures again. Falkenberg's impassive orders rang in her ears. "Kill 
this one. Send this one to the mines." He could do that, she thought. He could-
The miniatures were joined by larger figures in battle armor. With a sudden start she 
knew they were real. Two men stood motionless in the draw below her. 
She touched Sergeant Hruska and pointed. The trooper looked carefully and 
nodded. As they watched, more figures joined the pair of scouts, until soon there were 
nearly fifty of them in the fold of the hill two hundred meters away. They were too far for her 
squad's weapons to have much effect, and a whispered command sent Hruska crawling 
along the gulley to order the men to stay down and be silent. 
The group continued to grow. She couldn't see them all, and since she could count 
nearly a hundred she must be observing the assembly area of a full company. Were these the 
dreaded Highlanders? Memories of her father's defeat came unwanted, and she brushed 
them away. They were only hired men-but they fought for glory, and somehow that was 
enough to make them terrible. 
After a long time the enemy began moving toward her. They formed a V-shape with 
the point aimed almost directly at her position, and she searched for the ends of the 
formation. What she saw made her gasp. 
Four hundred meters to her left was another company of soldiers in double file. 

They moved silently and swiftly up the hill, and the lead elements were already far beyond 
her position. Frantically she looked to the right, focusing the big electronic light-amplifying 
glasses-and saw another company of men half a kilometer away. A full Highlander Battalion 
was moving right up her hill in an inverted M, and the group in front of her was the connecting 
sweep to link the assault columns. In minutes they would be among the ranchers in 
the defense line. 
Still she waited, until the dozen Highlanders of the point were ten meters from her. 
She shouted commands. "Up and at them! Fire!" From both ends of her ditch the 
mercenaries' automatic weapons chattered, then their fire was joined by her riflemen. The 
point was cut down to a man, and Sergeant Hruska directed fire on the main body, while 
Glenda Ruth shouted into her communicator. "Fire Mission. Flash Uncle Four!" 
There was a moment's delay which seemed like years. "Flash Uncle Four." Another 
long pause. "On the way," an unemotional voice answered. She thought it sounded like 
Falkenberg, but she was too busy to care. 
"Reporting," she said. "At least one battalion of light infantry in assault columns is 
moving up Hill 905 along ridges Uncle and Zebra." 
"They're shifting left." She looked up to see Hruska. The non-com pointed to the 
company in front of her position. Small knots of men curled leftward. They hugged the 
ground and were visible only for seconds. 
"Move some men to that end of the gulley," she ordered. It was too late to shift 
artillery fire. Anyway, if the Highlanders ever got to the top of the ridge, the ranchers 
wouldn't hold them. She held her breath and waited. 
There was the scream of incoming artillery, then the night was lit by bright flashes. 
VT shells fell among the distant enemy on the left flank. "Pour it on!" she shouted into the 
communicator. "On target!" "Right. On the way." She was sure it was Falkenberg himself at 
the other end. Catlike she grinned in the dark. What was a colonel doing as a telephone 
orderly? Was he worried about her? She almost laughed at the thought. Certainly he was, 
the ranchers would be hard to handle without her. 
The ridge above erupted in fire. Mortars and grenades joined the artillery pounding 
the leftward assault column. Glenda Ruth paused to examine the critical situation to the right. 
The assault force five hundred meters away was untouched and continued to advance 
toward the top of the ridge. It was going to be close. 
She let the artillery hold its target another five minutes while her riflemen engaged the 
company in front of her, then took up the radio again. The right-hand column had nearly 
reached the ridges, and she wondered if she had waited too long. 
"Fire mission. Flash Zebra Nine." 
"Zebra Nine," the emotionless voice replied. There was a short delay, then, "On the 
way." The fire lifted from the left flank almost immediately, and two minutes later began to 
fall five hundred meters to the right. 

"They're flanking us, Miss," Sergeant Hruska reported. She'd been so busy directing 
artillery at the assaults against the ridge line that she'd actually forgotten her twenty men were 
engaged in a fire fight with over a hundred enemies. "Shall we pull back?" Hruska asked. 
She tried to think, but it was impossible in the noise and confusion. The assault 
columns were still moving ahead, and she had the only group that could observe the entire 
attack. Every precious shell had to count. "No. We'll hold on here." 
"Right, Miss." The sergeant seemed to be enjoying himself. He moved away to 
direct the automatic weapons and rifle fire. ..How long can we hold? Glenda Ruth 
wondered. 
She let the artillery continue to pound the right-hand assault force "for twenty 
minutes. By then the Highlanders had nearly surrounded her and were ready to assault from 
the rear. Prayerfully she lifted the radio again. 
"Fire Mission. Give me everything you can on Jack Five-and for God's sake don't 
go over. We're at Jack Six." 
"Flash Jack Five," the voice acknowledged immediately. There was a pause. "On 
the way." They were the most beautiful words she'd ever heard. 
Now they waited. The Highlanders rose to charge. A wild sound filled the night. 
MY GOD, PIPES! she thought. But even as the infantry moved the pipes were drowned by 
the whistle of artillery. Glenda Ruth dove to the bottom of the gulley and saw that the rest of 
her command had done the same. 
The world erupted in sound. Millions of tiny fragments at enormous velocity filled the 
night with death. Cautiously she lifted a small periscope to look behind her. 
The Highlander company had dissolved. Shells were falling among dead men, lifting 
them to be torn apart again and again as the radar-fused shells fell among them. Glenda Ruth 
swallowed hard and swept the glass around. The left assault company had reformed and 
were turning back to attack the ridge. "Fire Flash Uncle Four," she said softly. 
"Interrogative." 
"FLASH UNCLE FOUR!" 
"Uncle Four. On the way." 
As soon as the fire lifted from behind them her men returned to the lip of the gulley 
and resumed firing, but the sounds began to die away. 
"We're down to the ammo in the guns now, Miss," Hruska reported. "May I have 
your spare magazines?" 
She realized with a sudden start that she had yet to fire a single shot. 

The night wore on. Whenever the enemy formed up to assault her position he was 
cut apart by the merciless artillery. Once she asked for a box barrage all around her gulleyby 
that time the men were down to three shots in each rifle, and the automatic weapons had 
no ammo at all. The toneless voice simply answered, "On the way." 
An hour before dawn nothing moved on the hill. 
XX 
The thin notes of a military trumpet sounded across the barren hills of the Gap. The 
ridges east of Falkenberg's battle line lay dead, their foliage cut to shreds by shell fragments, 
the very earth thrown into crazy quilt craters partly burying the dead. A cool wind blew 
through the Gap, but it couldn't dispel the smells of nitro and death. 
The trumpet sounded again. Falkenberg's glasses showed three unarmed Highlander 
officers carrying a white flag. An ensign was dispatched to meet them, and the young officer 
returned with a blindfolded Highlander major. 
"Major MacRae, Fourth Covenant Infantry," the officer introduced himself after the 
blindfold was removed. He blinked at the bright lights of the bunker. "You'll be Colonel 
Falkenberg." 
"Yes. What can we do for you, Major?" "I've orders to offer a truce for burying the 
dead. Twenty hours, Colonel, if that's agreeable." 
"No. Four days and nights-one hundred sixty hours, Major," Falkenberg said. 
"A hundred sixty hours, Colonel?" The burly Highlander regarded Falkenberg 
suspiciously. "You'll want that time to complete your defenses." 
"Perhaps. But twenty hours is not enough time to transfer the wounded men. I'll 
return all of yours-under parole, of course. It's no secret I'm short of medical supplies, and 
they'll receive better care from their own surgeons." 
The Highlander's face showed nothing, but he paused. "You wouldn't tell me how 
many there be?" He was silent for a moment, then speaking very fast, he said, "The time you 
set is within my discretion, Colonel." He held out a bulky dispatch case. "My credentials and 
instructions. 
“It was a bloody battle, Colonel. How many of my laddies have ye killed?" 
Falkenberg and Glenda Ruth glanced at each other. There is a bond between those 
who have been in combat together, and it can include those of the other side. The Covenant 
officer stood impassively, unwilling to say more, but his eyes pleaded with them. 
"We counted four hundred and nine bodies, Major," Glenda Ruth told him gently. 

"And-" she looked at Falkenberg, who nodded. "We brought in another three hundred 
seventy wounded." The usual combat ratio is four men wounded to each killed; nearly 
sixteen hundred Covenanters must have been taken out of action in the assault. Toward the 
end the Highlanders were losing men in their efforts to recover their dead and wounded. 
"Less than four hundred," the major said sadly. He stood to rigid attention. "Have 
your men search the ground well, Colonel. There's aye more o' my lads out there." He 
saluted and waited for the blindfold to be fixed again. "I thank you, Colonel." 
As the mercenary officer was led away Falkenberg turned to Glenda Ruth with a 
wistful smile. "Try to bribe him with money and he'd challenge me, but when I offer him his 
men back-" He shook his head sadly. 
"Have they really given up?" Glenda Ruth asked. 
"Yes. The truce finishes it. Their only chance was to break through before we 
brought up more ammunition and reserves, and they know it." 
"But why? In the last revolution they were so terrible, and now-why?" 
"It's the weakness of mercenaries," Falkenberg explained crisply. "The fruits of 
victory belong to our employers, not us. Friedland can't lose her armor and Covenant can't 
lose her men, or they've nothing more to sell." 
"But they fought before!" 
"Sure, in a fluid battle of maneuver. A frontal assault is always the most costly kind 
of battle. They tried to force the passage, and we beat them fairly. Honor is satisfied. Now 
the Confederacy will have to bring up its own Regulars if they want to force a way through 
the Gap. I don't think they'll squander men like that, and anyway it takes time. Meanwhile 
we've got to go to Allansport and deal with a crisis." 
"What's wrong there?" she asked. 
"This came in regimental code this morning." He handed her a message flimsy. 
FALKENBERG FROM SVOBODA BREAK PATRIOT ARMY LOOTING 
ALLANSPORT STOP REQUEST COURT OF INQUIRY INVESTIGATE 
POSSIBLE VIOLATIONS OF LAWS OF WAR STOP EXTREMELY 
INADVISABLE FOR ME TO COMPLY WITH YOUR ORDERS TO JOIN 
REGIMENT STOP PATRIOT ARMY ACTIONS PROVOKING SABOTAGE 
AND REVOLT AMONG TOWNSPEOPLE AND MINERS STOP MY SECU-
RITY FORCES MAY BE REQUIRED TO HOLD THE CITY STOP AWAIT 
YOUR ORDERS STOP RESPECTFULLY ANTON SVOBODA BREAK 
BREAK MESSAGE ENDSXXX 
She read it twice. "My God, Colonel-what's going on there?" 
"I don't know," he said grimly. "I intend to find out. Will you come with me as a 

representative of the Patriot Council?" 
"Of course-but shouldn't we send for Howard Bannister? The Council elected him 
President." 
"If we need him we'll get him. Sergeant Major." 
"Sir!" 
"Put Miss Horton's things on the troop carrier with mine. I'll take the Headquarters 
Guard platoon to Allansport." 
"Sir. Colonel, you'll want me along." 
"Will I? I suppose so, Sergeant Major. Get your gear aboard." 
"Sir." 
"It's probably already there, of course. Let's move out." 
The personnel carrier took them to a small airfield where a jet waited. It was one of 
forty on the planet, and it would carry a hundred men; but it burned fuel needed for 
ammunition transport. Until the oil fields around Doak's Ferry could be secured it was fuel 
they could hardly afford. 
The plane flew across Patriot-held areas, staying well away from the isolated 
Confederate strong points remaining west of the Gap. Aircraft had little chance of surviving 
in a combat environment when any infantryman could carry target-seeking rockets, while 
trucks could carry equipment to defeat airborne countermeasures. They crossed the 
Columbia Valley and turned southwest over the broad forests of Ford Heights Plateau, then 
west again to avoid Preston Bay where pockets of Confederates remained after the fall of 
the main fortress. 
"You do the same thing, don't you?" Glenda Ruth said suddenly. "When we 
assaulted Preston Bay you let my people take the casualties." 
Falkenberg nodded. "For two reasons. I'm as reluctant to lose troops as the 
Highlanders-and without the regiment you'd not hold the Patriot areas a thousand hours. 
You need us as an intact force, not a pile of corpses." 
"Yes." It was true enough, but those were her friends who'd died in the assault. 
Would the outcome be worth it? Would Falkenberg let it be worth it? 
Captain Svoboda met them at the Allansport field. "Glad to see you, sir. It's pretty 
bad in town." 
"Just what happened, Captain?" Svoboda looked critically at Glenda Ruth, but 
Falkenberg said, "Report." 

"Yes, sir. When the provisional governor arrived I turned over administration of the 
city as ordered. At that time the peninsula was pacified, largely due to the efforts of Mayor 
Hastings, who wants to avoid damage to the city. Hastings believes Franklin will send a 
large army from the home planet and says he sees no point in getting Loyalists killed and the 
city burned in resistance that won't change the final outcome anyway." 
"Poor Roger-he always tries to be reasonable, and it never works," Glenda Ruth 
said. "But Franklin will send troops." 
"Possibly," Falkenberg said. "But it takes time for them to mobilize and organize 
transport. Continue, Captain Svoboda." 
"Sir. The Governor posted a list of proscribed persons whose property was forfeit. 
If that wasn't enough, he told his troops that if they found any Confederate government 
property, they could keep half its value. You'll see the results when we get to town, Colonel. 
There was looting and fire that my security forces and the local fire people only barely 
managed to control." 
"Oh, Lord," Glenda Ruth murmured. "Why?" Svoboda curled his lip, "Looters often 
do that, Miss Horton. You can't let troops sack a city and not expect damage. The 
outcome was predictable, Colonel. Many townspeople took to the hills, particularly the 
miners. They've taken several of the mining towns back." 
Captain Svoboda shrugged helplessly. "The railway is cut. The city itself is secure, 
but I can't say how long. You only left me one hundred fifty troops to control eleven 
thousand people, which I did with hostages. The Governor brought another nine hundred 
men and that's not enough to rule their way. He's asked Preston Bay for more soldiers." 
"Is that where the first group came from?" Glenda Ruth asked. 
"Yes, Miss. A number of them, anyway." 
"Then its understandable if not excusable, Colonel," she said. "Many ranches on 
Ford Heights were burned out by Loyalists in the first revolution. I suppose they think 
they're paying the Loyalists back." 
Falkenberg nodded. "Sergeant Major!" 
"Sir!" 
"Put the Guard in battle armor and combat weapons. Captain, we are going to pay a 
call on your provisional governor. Alert your men." 
"Colonel!" Glenda Ruth protested. "You-what are you going to do?" 
"Miss Horton, I left an undamaged town, which is now a nest of opposition. I'd like 
to know why. Let's go, Svoboda." 

City Hall stood undamaged among burned-out streets. The town smelled of 
scorched wood and death, as if there'd been a major battle fought in the downtown area. 
Falkenberg sat impassive as Glenda Ruth stared unbelievingly at what had been the richest 
city outside the capital area. 
"I tried, Colonel," Svoboda muttered. He blamed himself anyway. "I'd have had to 
fire on the Patriots and arrest the governor. You were out of communication, and I didn't 
want to take that responsibility without orders. Should I have, sir?" 
Falkenberg didn't answer. Possible violations of mercenary contracts were always 
delicate situations. Finally he said, "I can hardly blame you for not wanting to involve the 
regiment in war with our sponsors." 
The Patriot irregular guards at City Hall protested as Falkenberg strode briskly 
toward the Governor's office. They tried to bar the way, but when they saw his forty 
guardsmen in battle armor they moved aside. 
The governor was a broad-shouldered former rancher who'd done well in 
commodities speculation. He was a skilled salesman, master of the friendly grip on the 
elbow and pat on the shoulder, the casual words in the right places, but he had no 
experience in military command. He glanced nervously at Sergeant Major Calvin and the 
grimfaced guards outside his office as Glenda introduced Falkenberg. 
"Governor Jack Silana," she said. "The governor was active in the first revolution, 
and without his financial help we'd never have been able to pay your passage here, Colonel." 
"I see." Falkenberg ignored the governor's offered hand. "Did you authorize more 
looting, Governor?" he asked. "I see some's still going on." 
"Your mercenaries have all the tax money," Silana protested. He tried to grin. "My 
troops are being ruined to pay you. Why shouldn't the Fedsymps contribute to the war? 
Anyway, the real trouble began when a town girl insulted one of my soldiers. He struck her. 
Some townspeople interfered, and his comrades came to help. A riot started and someone 
called out the garrison to stop it-" "And you lost control," Falkenberg said. "The traitors got 
no more than they deserve anyway! Don't think they didn't loot cities when they won, 
Colonel. These men have seen ranches burned out, and they know Allansport's a nest of 
Fedsymp traitors." 
"I see." Falkenberg turned to his Provost. "Captain, had you formally relinquished 
control to Governor Silana before this happened?" "Yes, sir. As ordered." 
"Then it's none of the regiment's concern. Were any of our troops involved?" 
Svoboda nodded unhappily. "I have seven troopers and Sergeant Magee in arrest, 
sir. I've held summary court on six others myself." 
"What charges are you preferring against Magee?" Falkenberg had personally 
promoted Magee once. The man had a mean streak, but he was a good soldier. 

"Looting. Drunk on duty. Theft. And conduct prejudicial."
"And the others?"
"Three rapes, four grand theft, and one murder, sir. They're being held for a court. I 
also request an inquiry into my conduct as commander." 
"Granted. Sergeant Major." 
"Sir!" 
"Take custody of the prisoners and convene a General Court. What officers have 
we for an investigation?" 
"Captain Greenwood's posted for light duty only by the surgeon, sir." 
"Excellent. Have him conduct a formal inquiry into Captain Svoboda's administration 
of the city." 
"Sir." 
"What will happen to those men?" Glenda Ruth asked. 
"The rapists and murderer will be hanged if convicted. Hard duty for the rest." 
"You'd hang your own men?" she asked. She didn't believe it, and her voice showed 
it. 
"I cannot allow rot in my regiment," Falkenberg snapped. "In any event the 
Confederacy will protest this violation of the Laws of War to the CD." 
Governor Silana laughed. "We protested often enough in the last revolution, and 
nothing came of it. I think we can chance it." 
"Perhaps. I take it you will do nothing about this?" 
"I'll issue orders for the looting to stop." 
"Haven't you done so already?" 
"Well, yes, Colonel-but the men, well, they're about over their mad now, I think." 
"If previous orders haven't stopped it, more won't. You'll have to be prepared to 
punish violators. Are you?" 
"I'll be damned if I'll hang my own soldiers to protect traitors!" 
"I see. Governor, how do you propose to pacify this area?" 

"I've sent for reinforcements-" 
"Yes. Thank you. If you'll excuse us, Governor, Miss Horton and I have an errand." 
He hustled Glenda Ruth out of the office. "Sergeant Major, bring Mayor Hastings and 
Colonel Ardway to Captain Svoboda's office." 
"They shot Colonel Ardway," Svoboda said. "The mayor's in the city jail." 
"Jail?" Falkenberg muttered. 
"Yes, sir. I had the hostages in the hotel, but Governor Silana-" 
"I see. Carry on, Sergeant Major." 
"Sir!" 
"What do you want now, you bloody bastard?" Hastings demanded ten minutes 
later. The mayor was haggard, with several days' growth of stubble, and his face and hands 
showed the grime of confinement without proper hygiene facilities. 
"One thing at a time, Mr. Mayor. Any trouble, Sergeant Major?" 
Calvin grinned. "Not much, sir. The officer didn't want no problems with the Guard-
Colonel, they got all them hostages crammed into cells." 
"What have you done with my wife and children?" Roger Hastings demanded 
frantically. "I haven't heard anything for days." 
Falkenberg looked inquiringly at Svoboda but got only a headshake. "See to the 
mayor's family Sergeant Major. Bring them here. Mr. Hastings, do I understand that you 
believe this is my doing?" 
"If you hadn't taken this city ..." 
"That was a legitimate military operation. Have you charges to bring against my 
troops?" 
"How would I know?" Hastings felt weak. He hadn't been fed properly for days, 
and he was sick with worry about his family. As he leaned against the desk he saw Glenda 
Ruth for the first time. "You too, eh?" 
"It was none of my doing, Roger." He had almost become her father-in-law. She 
wondered where young Lieutenant Harley Hastings was. Although she'd broken their 
engagement long ago, their disagreements had mostly been political, and they were still 
friends. "I'm sorry." 
"It was your doing, you and the damned rebels. Oh, sure, you don't like burning 
cities and killing civilians, but it happens all the same-and you started the war. You can't 
shed the responsibility." 

Falkenberg interrupted him. "Mr. Mayor, we have mutual interests still. This 
peninsula raises little food, and your people cannot survive without supplies. I'm told over a 
thousand of your people were killed in the riots, and nearly that many are in the hills. Can 
you get the automated factories and smelters operating with what's left?" 
"After all this you expect me to-I won't do one damn thing for you, Falkenberg!" 
"I didn't ask if you would, only if it could be done." "What difference does it make?" 
"I doubt you want to see the rest of your people starving, Mr. Mayor. Captain, take 
the mayor to your quarters and get him cleaned up. By the time you've done that, Sergeant 
Major Calvin will know what happened to his family." Falkenberg nodded dismissal and 
turned to Glenda Ruth. "Well, Miss Horton? Have you seen enough?" 
"I don't understand." 
"I .am requesting you to relieve Silana of his post and return administration of this 
city to the regiment. Will you do it?" 
Good Lord! she thought. "I haven't the authority." 
"You've got more influence in the Patriot army than anyone else. The Council may 
not like it, but they'll take it from you. Meanwhile, I'm sending for the Sappers to rebuild this 
city and get the foundries going." 
Everything moves so fast. Not even Joshua Horton had made things happen like 
this man. "Colonel, what is your interest in Allansport?" 
"It's the only industrial area we control. There will be no more military supplies from 
off planet. We hold everything west of the Temblors. The Matson Valley is rising in support 
of the revolution, and we'll have it soon. We can follow the Matson to Vancouver and take 
that- and then what?" 
"Why-then we take the capital city! The revolution's over!" 
"No. That was the mistake you made last time. Do you really think your farmers, 
even with the Forty-second, can move onto level, roaded ground and fight set-piece battles? 
We've no chance under those conditions." 
"But-" He was right. She'd always known it. When they defeated the Friedlanders at 
the Gap she'd dared hope, but the capital plains were not Hillyer Gap. "So it's back to 
attrition." 
Falkenberg nodded. "We do hold all the agricultural areas. The Confederates will 
begin to feel the pinch soon enough. Meanwhile we chew around the edges. Franklin will 
have to let go-there's no profit in keeping colonies that cost money. They may try landing 
armies from the home world, but they'll not take us by surprise and they don't have that big 
an army. Eventually we'll wear them down." 

She nodded sadly. It would be a long war after all, and she'd have to be in it, always 
raising fresh troops as the ranchers began to go home again-it would be tough enough 
holding what they had when people realized what they were in for. "But how do we pay 
your troops in a long war?" 
"Perhaps you'll have to do without us." "You know we can't. And you've always 
known it. What do you want?" 
"Right now I want you to relieve Silana. Immediately." "What's the hurry? As you 
say, it's going to be a. long war." 
"It'll be longer if more of the city is burned." He almost told her more, and cursed 
himself for the weakness of temptation. She was only a girl, and he'd known thousands of 
them since Grace left him all those years ago. The bond of combat wouldn't explain it, he'd 
known other girls who were competent officers, many of them-so why was he tempted at 
all? "I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "I must insist. As you say, you can't do without us." 
Glenda Ruth had grown up among politicians and for four years had been a 
revolutionary leader herself. She knew Falkenberg's momentary hesitation was important, 
and that she'd never find out what it meant. 
What was under that mask? Was there a man in there making all those whirlwind 
decisions? Falkenberg dominated every situation he fell into, and a man like that wanted 
more than money. The vision of Falkenberg seated at a desk pronouncing dooms on her 
people haunted her still. 
And yet. There was more. A warrior leader of warriors who had won the adoration 
of uneducated privates-and men like Jeremy Savage as well. She'd never met anyone like 
him. 
"I'll do it." She smiled and walked across the room to stand next to him. "I don't 
know why, but I'll do it. Have you got any friends, John Christian Falkenberg?" 
The question startled him. Automatically he answered. "Command can have no 
friends, Miss Horton." 
She smiled again. "You have one now. There's a condition to my offer. From now 
on, you call me Glenda Ruth. Please?" 
A curious smile formed on the soldier's face. He regarded her with amusement, but 
there was something more as well. "It doesn't work, you know." 
"What doesn't work?" 
"Whatever you're trying. Like me, you've command responsibilities. It's lonely, and 
you don't like that. The reason command has no friends, Glenda Ruth, is not merely to spare 
the commander the pain of sending friends to their death. If you haven't learned the rest of it, 
learn it now, because some day you'll have to betray either your friends or your command, 

and that's a choice worth avoiding." 
What am I doing? Am I trying to protect the revolution by getting to know him 
better-or is he right, I've no friends either, and he's the only man I ever met who could be-
She let the thought fade out, and laid her hand on his for a brief second; "Let's go tell 
Governor Silana, John Christian. And let the little girl worry about her own emotions, will 
you? She knows what she's doing." 
He stood next to her. They were very close and for a moment she thought he 
intended to kiss her. "No, you don't." 
She wanted to answer, but he was already leaving the room and she had to hurry to 
catch him. 
XXI 
"I say we only gave the Fedsymp traitors what they deserved!" Jack Silana shouted. 
There was a mutter of approval from the delegates, and open cheers in the bleachers 
overlooking the gymnasium floor. "I have great respect for Glenda Ruth, but she is not old 
Joshua," Silana continued. "Her action in removing me from a post given by President 
Bannister was without authority. I demand that the Council repudiate it." There was more 
applause as Silana took his seat. 
Glenda Ruth remained at her seat for a moment. She looked carefully at each of the 
thirty men and women at the horseshoe table, trying to estimate just how many votes she 
had. Not a majority, certainly, but perhaps a dozen. She wouldn't have to persuade more 
than three or four to abandon the Bannister-Silana faction, but what then? The bloc she led 
was no more solid than Bannister's coalition. Just who would govern the Free States? 
More men were seated on the gymnasium floor beyond the council table. They were 
witnesses, but their placement at the focus of the Council's attention made it look as if 
Falkenberg and his impassive officers might be in the dock. Mayor Hastings sat with 
Falkenberg, and the illusion was heightened by the signs of harsh treatment he'd received. 
Some of his friends looked even worse. 
Beyond the witnesses the spectators chattered among themselves as if this were a 
basketball game rather than a solemn meeting of the supreme authority for three-quarters of 
New Washington. A gymnasium didn't seem a very dignified place to meet anyway, but 
there was no larger hall in Astoria Fortress. 
Finally she stood. "No, I am not my father," she began. 
"Give it to 'em, Glenda Ruth!" someone shouted from the balcony. 
Howard Bannister looked up in surprise. "We will have order here!" 
"Hump it, you Preston Bay bastard!" the voice replied. The elderly rancher was 

joined by someone below. "Damn right, Ford Heights don't control the Valley!" There were 
cheers at that. 
"Order! Order!" Bannister's commands drowned the shouting as the technicians 
turned up the amplifiers to full volume. "Miss Horton, you have the floor." 
"Thank you. What I was trying to say is that we did not start this revolution to 
destroy New Washington! We must live with the Loyalists once it is over, and-" 
"Fedsymp! She was engaged to a Feddie soldier!" "Shut up and let her talk!" 
"Order! ORDER!" 
Falkenberg sat motionless as the hall returned to silence, and Glenda Ruth tried to 
speak again. "Bloody noisy lot," Jeremy Savage murmured. 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Victory does that to politicians." 
Glenda Ruth described the conditions she'd seen in Allansport. She told of the 
burned-out city, hostages herded into jail cells-
"Serves the Fedsymps right!" someone interrupted, but she managed to continue 
before her supporters could answer. 
"Certainly they are Loyalists. Over a third of the people in the territory we control 
are. Loyalists are a majority in the capital city. Will it help if we persecute their friends here?" 
"We won't ever take the capital the way we're fighting!" "Damn right! Time we 
moved on the Feddies." "Send the mercenaries in there, let 'em earn the taxes we pay!" 
This time Bannister made little effort to control the crowd. They were saying what he 
had proposed to the Council, and one reason he supported Silana was because he needed 
the governor's merchant bloc with him on the war issue. After the crowd had shouted 
enough about renewing the war, Bannister used the microphone to restore order and let 
Glenda Ruth speak. 
The Council adjourned for the day without deciding anything. Falkenberg waited for 
Glenda Ruth and walked out with her. "I'm glad we didn't get a vote today," she told him. "I 
don't think we'd have won." 
"Noisy beggars," Major Savage observed again. 
"Democracy at work," Falkenberg said coldly. "What do you need to convince the 
Council that Silana is unfit as a governor?" 
"That's not the real issue, John," she answered. "It's really the war. No one is 
satisfied with what's being done." "I should have thought we were doing splendidly," 
Savage retorted. "The last Confederate thrust into the Matson ran into your ambush as 
planned." "Yes, that was brilliant," Glenda Ruth said. "Hardly. It was the only possible attack 
route," Falkenberg answered. "You're very quiet, Mayor Hastings." They had left the 

gymnasium and were crossing the parade ground to the barracks where the Friedlanders 
had been quartered. Falkenberg's troops had it now, and they kept the Allansport officials 
with them. 
"I'm afraid of that vote," Hastings said. "If they send Silana back, we'll lose 
everything." 
"Then support me!" Falkenberg snapped, "My engineers already have the 
automated factories and mills in reasonable shape. With some help from you they'd be 
running again. Then I'd have real arguments against Silana's policies." 
"But that's treason," Hastings protested. "You need the Allansport industry for your 
war effort. Colonel, it's a hell of a way to thank you for rescuing my family from that butcher, 
but I can't do it." 
"I suppose you're expecting" a miracle to save you?" Falkenberg asked. 
"No. But what happens if you win? How long will you stay on the Ranier Peninsula? 
Bannister's people will be there one of these days-Colonel, my only chance is for the 
Confederacy to bring in Franklin troops and crush the lot of you!" 
"And you'll be ruled from Franklin," Glenda Ruth said. "They won't give you as 
much home rule as you had last time." 
"I know," Roger said miserably. "But what can I do? This revolt ruined our best 
chance. Franklin might have been reasonable in time-I was going to give good government 
to everyone. But you finished that." 
"All of Franklin's satraps weren't like you, Roger," Glenda Ruth said. "And don't 
forget their war policies! They'd have got us sucked into their schemes and eventually we'd 
have been fighting the CoDominium itself. Colonel Falkenberg can tell you what it's like to 
be victim of a CD punitive expedition!" 
"Christ, I don't know what to do," Roger said unhappily. 
Falkenberg muttered something which the others didn't catch, then said, "Glenda 
Ruth, if you will excuse me, Major Savage and I have administrative matters to discuss. I 
would be pleased if you'd join me for dinner in the Officers' Mess at nineteen hundred 
hours." 
"Why-thank you, John. I'd like to, but I must see the other delegates tonight. We 
may be able to win that vote tomorrow." 
Falkenberg shrugged. "I doubt it. If you can't win it, can you delay it?" 
"For a few days, perhaps-why?" 
"It might help, that's all. If you can't make dinner, the regiment's officers are 
entertaining guests in the mess until quite late. Will you join us when you're done with 

politics?" 
"Thank you. Yes, I will." As she crossed the parade ground to her own quarters, 
she wished she knew what Falkenberg and Savage were discussing. It wouldn't be 
administration-did it matter what the Council decided? 
She looked forward to seeing John later, and the anticipation made her feel guilt. 
What is there about the man that does this to me? He's handsome enough, broad shoulders 
and thoroughly military-nonsense. I am damned if I'll believe in some atavistic compulsion to 
fall in love with warriors, I don't care what the anthropologists say. So why do I want to be 
with him? She pushed the thought away. There was something more important to think 
about. What would Falkenberg do if the Council voted against him? And beyond that, what 
would she do when he did it? 
Falkenberg led Roger Hastings into his office. "Please be seated, Mr. Mayor." 
Roger sat uncomfortably. "Look, Colonel, I'd like to help, but-" 
"Mayor Hastings, would the owners of the Allansport industries rather have half of a 
going concern, or all of nothing?" 
"What's that supposed to mean?" 
"I will guarantee protection of the foundries and smelters in return for a half interest 
in them." When Hastings looked up in astonishment, Falkenberg continued. "Why not? 
Silana will seize them anyway. If my regiment is part owner, I may be able to stop him." 
"It wouldn't mean anything if I granted it," Hastings protested. "The owners are on 
Franklin." 
"You are the ranking Confederate official for the entire Ranier Peninsula," 
Falkenberg said carefully. "Legal or not, I want your signature on this grant." He handed 
Roger a sheaf of papers. 
Hastings read them carefully. "Colonel, this also confirms a land grant given by the 
rebel government! I can't do that!" 
"Why not? It's all public land-and that is in your power. The document states that in 
exchange for protection of lives and property of the citizens of Allansport you are awarding 
certain lands to my regiment. It notes that you don't consider a previous grant by the Patriot 
Government to be valid. There's no question, of treason-you do want Allansport protected 
against Silana, don't you?" 
"Are you offering to double-cross the Patriots?" 
"No. My contract with Bannister specifically states that I cannot be made party to 
violations of the Laws of War. This document hires me to enforce them in an area already 
pacified. It doesn't state who might violate them." 

"You're skating on damned thin ice, Colonel. If the Council ever saw this paper 
they'd hang you for treason!" Roger read it again. "I see no harm in signing, but I tell you in 
advance the Confederacy won't honor it. If Franklin wins this they'll throw you off this 
planet-if they don't have you shot." 
"Let me worry about the future, Mr. Mayor. Right now your problem is protecting 
your people. You can help with that by signing." 
"I doubt it," Hastings said. He reached for a pen. "So long as you know there isn't a 
shadow of validity to this because I'll be countermanded from the home world-" he scrawled 
his name and title across the papers and handed them back to Falkenberg. 
Glenda Ruth could hear the regimental party across the wide parade ground. As she 
approached with Hiram Black they seemed to be breasting their way upstream through 
waves, of sound, the crash of drums, throbbing, wailing bagpipes, mixed with off-key songs 
from intoxicated male baritones. 
It was worse inside. As they entered a flashing saber swept within inches of her 
face. A junior captain saluted and apologized in a stream of words. "I was showing 
Oberleutnant Marcks a new parry I learned on Sparta, Miss. Please forgive me?" When she 
nodded the captain drew Ms companion to one side and the saber whirled again. 
"That's a Friedland officer-all the Friedlanders are here," Glenda Ruth said. Hiram 
Black nodded grimly. The captured mercenaries wore dress uniform, green and gold 
contrasting with the blue and gold of Falkenberg's men. Medals flashed in the bright 
overhead lights. She looked across the glittering room and saw the colonel at a table on the 
far side. 
Falkenberg and his companion stood when she reached the table after a perilous 
journey across the crowded floor. Pipers marched past pouring out more sound. 
Falkenberg's face was flushed, and she wondered if he were drunk. "Miss Horton, 
may I present Major Oscar von Thoma," he said formally. "Major von Thoma commands 
the Friedland artillery battalion." 
"I-" She didn't know what to say. The Friedlanders were enemies, and Falkenberg 
was introducing her to the officer as his guest. "My pleasure," she stammered. "And this is 
Colonel Hiram Black." 
Von Thoma clicked his heels The men stood stiffly until she was seated next to 
Falkenberg. That kind of chivalry had almost vanished, but somehow it seemed appropriate 
here. As the stewards brought glasses von Thoma turned to Falkenberg. "You ask too 
much," he said. "Besides, you may have fired the lands from the barrels by then." 
"If we have we'll reduce the price," Falkenberg said cheerfully. He noted Glenda 
Ruth's puzzled expression. "Major von Thoma has asked if he can buy his guns back when 
the campaign is ended. He doesn't care for my terms." Hiram Black observed dryly, "Seems 
to me the Council's goin' to want a say in fixin' that price, General Falkenberg." 

Falkenberg snorted contemptuously. "No." 
He is drunk, Glenda Ruth thought. It doesn't show much, but-do I know him that 
well already? 
"Those guns were taken by the Forty-second without Council help. I will see to it 
that they aren't used against Patriots, and the Council has no further interest in the matter." 
Falkenberg turned to Glenda Ruth. "Will you win the vote tomorrow?" 
"There won't be a vote tomorrow." 
"So you can't win," Falkenberg muttered. "Expected that. What about the war 
policy vote?" 
"They'll be debating for the next two days-" she looked nervously at Major von 
Thoma. "I don't want to be impolite, but should we discuss that with him at the table?" 
"I understand." Von Thoma got unsteadily to his feet. "We will speak of this again, 
Colonel. It has been my pleasure, Miss Horton. Colonel Black." He bowed stiffly to each 
and went to the big center table where a number of Friedland officers were drinking with 
Falkenberg's. 
"John, is this wise?" she asked. "Some of the Councilors are already accusing you of 
not wanting to fight-" 
"Hell, they're callin' him a traitor," Black interrupted. "Soft on Fedsymps, 
consortin’" with the enemy-they don't even like you recruitin' new men to replace your 
losses." Black hoisted a glass of whiskey and drained it at one gulp. "I wish some of 'em had 
been ridin' up the Valley with us! Glenda Ruth, that was some ride. And when Captain 
Frazer runs out of fuel, Falkenberg tells him, cool as you please, to use bicycles!" Black 
chuckled hi remembrance. 
"I'm serious!" Glenda Ruth protested. "John, Bannister hates you. I think he always 
has." The stewards brought whiskey for Falkenberg. "Wine or whiskey, Miss?" one asked. 
"Wine-John, please, they're going to order you to attack the capital!" 
"Interesting." His features tightened suddenly, and his eyes became alert. Then he 
relaxed and let the whiskey take effect. "If we obey those orders I'll need Major von 
Thoma's good offices to get my equipment back. Doesn't Bannister know what will happen 
if we let them catch us on those open plains?" 
"Howie Bannister knows his way 'round a conspiracy better'n he does a battlefield, 
General," Black observed. "We give him the secretary of war title 'cause we thought he'd 
drive a hard bargain with you, but he's not much on battles." 
"I've noticed," Falkenberg said. He laid his hand on Glenda Ruth's arm and gently 
stroked it. It was the first time he'd ever touched her, and she sat very still. "This is supposed 
to be a party," Falkenberg laughed. He looked up and caught the mess president's eye. 

"Lieutenant, have Pipe Major give us a song!" 
The room was instantly still. Glenda Ruth felt the warmth of Falkenberg's hand. The 
soft caress promised much more, and she was suddenly glad, but there was a stab of fear as 
well. He'd spoken so softly, yet all those people had stopped their drinking, the drums 
ceased, the pipes, everything, at his one careless nod. Power like that was frightening. 
The burly Pipe Major selected a young tenor. One pipe and a snare drum played as 
he began to sing. "Oh Hae ye nae heard o' the false Sakeld, Hae ye nae heard o' the keen 
Lord Scroop? For he ha' ta'en the Kinmont Willie, to Haribee for to hang him up .. ." 
"John, please listen," she pleaded. 
"They hae ta'en the news to the Bold Bacleugh, in Branksome Ha where he did lay, 
that Lord Scroop has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, between the hours of night and day. 
He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, he has made the red wine spring on hie. Now 
Christ's curse be on my head, he said, but avenged of Lord Scroop I will be." 
"John, really." 
"Perhaps you should listen," he said gently. He raised his glass as the young voice 
rose and the tempo gathered. 
"O is my basnet a widow's curch?. 
Or my lance the wand o' the willow tree? 
And is my hand a lady's lilly hand, 
That this English lord should lightly me?" 
The song ended. Falkenberg signaled to the steward. "We'll have more to drink," he 
said. "And no more talk of politics." 
They spent the rest of the evening enjoying the party. Both the Friedlanders and 
Falkenberg's mercenary officers were educated men, and it was a very pleasant evening for 
Glenda Ruth to have a room full of warriors competing to please her. They taught her the 
dances and wild songs of a dozen cultures, and she drank far too much. Finally he stood. 
"I'll see you back to your quarters," Falkenberg told her. 
"All right." She took his arm, and they went through the thinning crowd. "Do you 
often have parties like this?" she asked. 
"When we can." They reached the door. A white-coated private appeared from 
nowhere to open it for them. He had a jagged scar across his face that ran down his neck 
until it disappeared into his collar, and she thought she would be afraid to meet him 
anywhere else. 

"Good night, Miss," the private said. His voice had a strange quality, almost husky, 
as if he were very concerned about her. 
They crossed the parade ground. The night was clear, and the sky was full of stars. 
The sounds of the river rushing by came faintly up to the old fortress. "I didn't want it ever to 
end," she said. "Why?" 
"Because-you've built an artificial world in there. A wall of glory to shut out the 
realities of what we do. And when it ends we go back to the war." And back to whatever 
you meant when you had that boy sing that sinister old border ballad. 
"That's well put. A wall of glory. Perhaps that's what we do." 
They reached the block of suites assigned to the senior officers. Her door was next 
to his. She stood in front of it, reluctant to go inside. The room would be empty, and 
tomorrow there was the Council, and-she turned to him and said bitterly, "Does it have to 
end? I was happy for a few minutes. Now-" 
"It doesn't have to end, but do you know what you're doing?" 
"No." She turned away from her own door and opened his. He followed, but didn't 
go inside. She stood in the doorway for a moment, then laughed. "I was going to say 
something silly. Something like, 'Let's have a last drink.' But I wouldn't have meant that, and 
you'd have known it, so what's the point of games?" 
"There is no point to games. Not between us. Games are for soldiers' girls and 
lovers." 
"John-my God, John, are you as lonely as I am?" "Yes. Of course." 
'Then we can't let the party end. Not while there's a single moment it can go on." 
She went inside his room. After a few moments he followed and closed the door. 
During the night she was able to forget the conflict between them, but when she left 
his quarters in the morning the ballad returned to haunt her. 
She knew she must do something, but she couldn't warn Bannister. The Council, the 
revolution, independence, none of them had lost their importance; but though she would 
serve those causes she felt apart from them. 
"I'm a perfect fool," she told herself. But fool or not, she could not warn Bannister. 
Finally she persuaded the President to meet John away from the shouting masses of the 
Council Chamber. 
Bannister came directly to the point. "Colonel, we can't keep a large army in the 
field indefinitely. Miss Horton's Valley ranchers may be willing to pay these taxes, but most 
of our people can't." 
"Just what did you expect when you began this?" Falkenberg asked. 

"A long war," Bannister admitted. "But your initial successes raised hopes, and we 
got a lot of supporters we hadn't expected. They demand an end." 
"Fair-weather soldiers." Falkenberg snorted. "Common enough, but why did you let 
them gain so much influence in your Council?" 
"Because there were a lot of them." 
And they all support you for President, Glenda Ruth thought. While my friends and I 
were out at the front, you were back here organizing the newcomers, grabbing for power . . 
. you're not worth the life of one of those soldiers. John's or mine. 
"After all, this is a democratic government." Bannister said. 
"And thus quite unable to accomplish anything that takes sustained effort. Can you 
afford this egalitarian democracy of yours?" 
"You were not hired to restructure our government!" Bannister shouted. 
Falkenberg activated his desktop map. "Look. We have the plains ringed with 
troops. The irregulars can hold the passes and swamps practically forever. Any real threat of 
a breakthrough can be held by my regiment in mobile reserve. The Confederates can't get at 
us-but we can't risk a battle in the open with them." 
"So what can we do?" Bannister demanded. "Franklin is sure to send 
reinforcements. If we wait, we lose." 
"I doubt that. They've no assault boats either. They can't land in any real force on 
our side of the line, and what good does it do them to add to their force in the capital? 
Eventually we starve them out. Franklin itself must be hurt by the loss of the corn shipments. 
They won't be able to feed their army forever." 
"A mercenary paradise," Bannister muttered. "A long war and no fighting. Damn it, 
you've got to attack while we've still got troops! I tell you, our support is melting away." 
"If we put our troops out where von Mellenthin's armor can get at them with room 
to maneuver, they won't melt, they'll burn." 
"You tell him, Glenda Ruth," Bannister said. "He won't listen to me." 
She looked at Falkenberg's impassive face and wanted to cry. "John, he may be 
right. I know my people, they can't hold on forever. Even if they could, the Council is going 
to insist. .." 
His look didn't change. There's nothing I can say, she thought, nothing I know that 
he doesn't, because he's right but he's wrong too. These are only civilians in arms. They're 
not iron men. All the time my people are guarding those passes their ranches are going to 
ruin. 

Is Howard right? Is this a mercenary paradise, and you're not even trying? But she 
didn't want to believe that. 
Unwanted, the vision she'd had that lonely night at the pass returned. She fought it 
with the memory of the party, and afterwards. 
"Just what the hell are you waiting on, Colonel Falkenberg?" Bannister demanded. 
Falkenberg said nothing, and Glenda Ruth wanted to cry; but she did not. 
XXII 
the council had not voted six days later. Glenda Ruth used every parliamentary trick 
her father had taught her during the meetings, and after they adjourned each day she hustled 
from delegate to delegate. She made promises she couldn't keep, exploited old friends and 
made new ones, and every morning she was sure only that she could delay a little longer. 
She wasn't sure herself why she did it. The war vote was linked to the 
reappointment of Silana as governor in Allansport, and she did know that the man was 
incompetent; but mostly, after the debates and political meetings, Falkenberg would come 
for her, or send a junior officer to escort her to his quarters-and she was glad to go. They 
seldom spoke of politics, or even talked much at all. It was enough to be with him-but when 
she left in the mornings, she was afraid again. He'd never promised her anything. 
On the sixth night she joined him for a late supper. When the orderlies had taken the 
dinner cart she sat moodily at the table. "This is what you meant, isn't it?" she asked. 
"About what?" 
'That I'd have to betray either my friends or my command-but I don't even know if 
you're my friend. John, what am I going to do?" 
Very gently he laid his hand against her cheek. "You're going to talk sense-and keep 
them from appointing Silana in Allansport." 
"But what are we waiting for?" 
He shrugged. "Would you rather it came to an open break? There'll be no stopping 
them if we lose this vote. The mob's demanding your arrest right now-for the past three days 
Calvin has had the Headquarters Guard on full alert in case they're fool enough to try it." 
She shuddered, but before she could say more he lifted her gently to her feet and 
pressed her close to him. Once again her doubts vanished but she knew they'd be back. 
Who was she betraying? And for what? 
The crowd shouted before she could speak. "Mercenary's whore!" someone called. 

Her friends answered with more epithets, and it was five minutes before Bannister could 
restore order. 
How long can I keep it up? At least another day or so, I suppose. Am I his whore? 
If I'm not, I don't know what I am. He's never told me. She carefully took papers from her 
briefcase, but there was another interruption. A messenger strode quickly, almost running, 
across the floor to hand a flimsy message to Howard Bannister. The pudgy President 
glanced at it, then began to read more carefully. 
The hall fell silent as everyone watched Bannister's face. The President showed a 
gamut of emotions: surprise, bewilderment, then carefully controlled rage. He read the 
message again and whispered to the messenger, who nodded. Bannister lifted the 
microphone. 
"Councilors, I have-I suppose it would be simpler to read this to you. 
'PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT FREE STATES OF WASHINGTON 
FROM CDSN CRUISER INTREPID BREAK BREAK WE ARE IN RECEIPT 
OF DOCUMENTED COMPLAINT FROM CONFEDERATE 
GOVERNMENT THAT FREE STATES ARE IN VIOLATION OF LAWS OF 
WAR STOP THIS VESSEL ORDERED TO INVESTIGATE STOP LANDING 
BOAT ARRIVES ASTORIA SIXTEEN HUNDRED HOURS THIS DAY STOP 
PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT MUST BE PREPARED TO DISPATCH 
ARMISTICE COMMISSION TO MEET WITH DELEGATES FROM 
CONFEDERACY AND CODOMINIUM INVESTIGATING OFFICERS IM-
MEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL OF LANDING BOAT STOP 
COMMANDING OFFICERS ALL MERCENARY FORCES ORDERED TO 
BE PRESENT TO GIVE EVIDENCE STOP BREAK BREAK JOHN GRANT 
CAPTAIN CODOMINIUM SPACE NAVY BREAK MESSAGE ENDS' " 
There was a moment of hushed silence, then the gymnasium erupted in sound. 
"Investigate us?" "Goddamn CD is-" "Armistice hell!" 
Falkenberg caught Glenda Ruth's eye. He gestured toward the outside and left the 
hall. She joined him minutes later. "I really ought to stay, John. We've got to decide what to 
do." 
"What you decide has just become unimportant," Falkenberg said. "Your Council 
doesn't hold as many cards as it used to." 
"John, what will they do?" 
He shrugged. "Try to stop the war now that they're here. I suppose it never 
occurred to Silana that a complaint from Franklin industrialists is more likely to get CD 
attention than a similar squawk from a bunch of farmers..." 
"You expected this! Was this what you were waiting for?" 
"Something like this." 

"You know more than you're saying! John, why won't you tell me? I know you don't 
love me, but haven't I a right to know?" 
He stood at stiff attention in the bright reddish-tinted sunlight for a long time. Finally 
he said, "Glenda Ruth, nothing's certain in politics and war. I once promised something to a 
girl, and I couldn't deliver it." 
"But-" 
"We've each command responsibilities-and each other. Will you believe me when I 
say I've tried to keep you from having to choose-and keep myself from the same choice? 
You'd better get ready. A CD Court of Inquiry isn't in the habit of waiting for people, and 
they're due in little more than an hour." 
The Court was to be held aboard Intrepid. The four-hundred-meter bottle-shaped 
warship in orbit around New Washington was the only neutral territory available. When the 
Patriot delegates were piped aboard, the Marines in the landing dock gave Bannister the 
exact honors they'd given the Confederate Governor General, then hustled the delegation 
through gray steel corridors to a petty officer's lounge reserved for them. 
"Governor General Forrest of the Confederacy is already aboard, sir," the Marine 
sergeant escort told them. "Captain would like to see Colonel Falkenberg in his cabin hi ten 
minutes." 
Bannister looked around the small lounge. "I suppose it's bugged," he said. 
"Colonel, what happens now?" 
Falkenberg noted the artificially friendly tone Bannister had adopted. "The Captain 
and his advisors will hear each of us privately. If you want witnesses summoned, he'll take 
care of that. When the Court thinks the time proper, he'll bring both parties together. The 
CD usually tries to get everyone to agree rather than impose some kind of settlement." 
"And if we can't agree?" 
Falkenberg shrugged. "They might let you fight it out. They might order mercenaries 
off planet and impose a blockade. They could even draw up their own settlement and order 
you to accept it." 
"What happens if we just tell them to go away? What can they do?" Bannister 
demanded. 
Falkenberg smiled tightly. "They can't conquer the planet because they haven't 
enough Marines to occupy it-but there's not a lot else they can't do, Mr. President. There's 
enough power aboard this cruiser to make New Washington uninhabitable. 
"You don't have either planetary defenses or a fleet. I'd think a long time before I 
made Captain Grant angry-and on that score, I've been summoned to his cabin." Falkenberg 

saluted. There was no trace of mockery in the gesture, but Bannister grimaced as the soldier 
left the lounge. 
Falkenberg was conducted past Marine sentries to the captain's cabin. The orderly 
opened the door and let him in, then withdrew. 
John Grant was a tall, thin officer with premature graying hair that made him look 
older than he was. As Falkenberg entered, Grant stood and greeted him with genuine 
warmth. "Good to see you, John Christian." He extended his hand and looked over his 
visitor with pleasure. "You're keeping fit enough." 
"So are you, Johnny." Falkenberg's smile was equally genuine. "And the family's 
well?" 
"Inez and the kids are fine. My father's dead." 
"Sorry to hear that." 
Captain Grant brought his chair from behind his desk and placed it facing 
Falkenberg's. Unconsciously he dogged it into place. "It was a release for him, I think. 
Single-passenger flier accident." 
Falkenberg frowned, and Grant nodded. "Coroner said accident," the Captain said. 
"But it could have been suicide. He was pretty broken up about Sharon. But you don't 
know that story, do you? No matter. My kid sister's fine. They've got a good place on 
Sparta." 
Grant reached to his desk to touch a button. A steward brought brandy and glasses. 
The Marine set up a collapsible table between them, then left. 
"The Grand Admiral all right?" Falkenberg asked. 
"He's hanging on." Grant drew in a deep breath and let it out quickly. "Just barely, 
though. Despite everything Uncle Martin could do the budget's lower again this year. I can't 
stay here long, John. Another patrol, and it's getting harder to cover these unauthorized 
missions in the log. Have you accomplished your job?" 
"Yeah. Went quicker than I thought. I've spent the last hundred hours wishing we'd 
arranged to have you arrive sooner." He went to the screen controls on the cabin bulkhead. 
"Got that complaint signaled by a merchantman as we came in," Grant said. 
"Surprised hell out of me. Here, let me get that, they've improved the damned thing and it's 
tricky." He played with the controls until New Washington's inhabited areas showed on the 
screen. "O.K.?" 
"Right." Falkenberg spun dials to show the current military situation on the planet 
below. "Stalemate," he said. "As it stands. But once you order all mercenaries off planet, we 
won't have much trouble taking the capital area." 

"Christ, John, I can't do anything as raw as that! If the Friedlanders go, you have to 
go as well. Hell, you've accomplished the mission. The rebels may have a hell of a time 
taking the capital without you, but it doesn't really matter who wins. Neither one of 'em's 
going to build a fleet for a while after this war's over. Good work." 
Falkenberg nodded. "That was Sergei Lermontov's plan. Neutralize this planet with 
minimum CD investment and without destroying the industries. Something came up, though, 
Johnny, and I've decided to change it a bit. The regiment's staying." 
"But I-" 
"Just hold on," Falkenberg said. He grinned broadly. "I'm not a mercenary within the 
meaning of the act. We've got a land grant, Johnny. You can leave us as settlers, not 
mercenaries." 
"Oh, come off it." Grant's voice showed irritation. "A land grant by a rebel 
government not in control? Look, nobody's going to look too close at what I do, but Franklin 
can buy one Grand Senator anyway. I can't risk it, John. Wish I could." 
"What if the grant's confirmed by the local Loyalist government?" Falkenberg asked 
impishly. 
"Well, then it'd be O.K.-how in hell did you manage that?" Grant was grinning 
again. "Have a drink and tell me about it." He poured for both of them. "And where do you 
fit in?" 
Falkenberg looked up at Grant and his expression changed to something like 
astonishment. "You won't believe this, Johnny." 
"From the look on your face you don't either." "Not sure I do. Johnny, I've got a 
girl. A soldier's girl, and I'm going to marry her. She's leader of most of the rebel army. 
There are a lot of politicians around who think they count for something, but-" He made a 
sharp gesture with his right hand. 
"Marry the queen and become king, uh?" "She's more like a princess. Anyway, 
the Loyalists aren't going to surrender to the rebels without a fight. That complaint they sent 
was quite genuine. There's no rebel the Loyalists will trust, not even Glenda Ruth." 
Grant nodded comprehension. "Enter the soldier who enforced the Laws of War. 
He's married to the princess and commands the only army around. What's your real stake 
here, John Christian?" 
Falkenberg shrugged. "Maybe the princess won't leave the kingdom. Anyway. 
Lermontov's trying to keep the balance of power. God knows, somebody's got to. Fine. 
The Grand Admiral looks ten years ahead-but I'm not sure the CoDominium's going to last 
ten years, Johnny." 
Grant slowly nodded agreement. His voice fell and took on a note of awe. "Neither 
am I. It's worse just in the last few weeks. The Old Man's going out of his mind. One thing, 

though. There are some Grand Senators trying to hold it together. Some of them have given 
up the Russki-American fights to stand together against their own governments." 
"Enough? Can they do it?" 
"I wish I knew." Grant shook his head in bewilderment. "I always thought the 
CoDominium was the one stable thing on old Earth," he said wonderingly. "Now it's all we 
can do to hold it together. The nationalists keep winning, John, and nobody knows how to 
stop them." He drained his glass. "The Old Man's going to hate losing you." 
"Yeah. We've worked together a long time." Falkenberg looked wistfully around the 
cabin. Once he'd thought this would be the high point of his life, to be captain of a CD 
warship. Now he might never see one again. 
Then he shrugged. "There's worse places to be, Johnny," Falkenberg said. "Do me a 
favor, will you? When you get back to Luna Base, ask the admiral to see that all copies of 
that New Washington mineral survey are destroyed. I'd hate for somebody to learn there 
really is something here worth grabbing." 
"O.K. You're a long way from anything, John." "I know. But if things break up 
around Earth, this may be the best place to be. Look, Johnny, if you need a safe base some 
day, we'll be here. Tell the Old Man that." 
"Sure." Grant gave Falkenberg a twisted grin. "Can't get over it. Going to marry the 
girl, are you? I'm glad for both of you." "Thanks." 
"King John I. What kind of government will you set up, anyway?" 
"Hadn't thought. Myths change. Maybe people are ready for monarchy again at that. 
We'll think of something, Glenda Ruth and I." 
"I just bet you will. She must be one hell of a girl." "She is that." 
"A toast to the bride, then." They drank, and Grant refilled their glasses. Then he 
stood. "One last, eh? To the CoDominium." 
Falkenberg stood and raised his glass. They drank the toast while below them New 
Washington turned, and a. hundred parsecs away Earth armed for her last battle.