Sixth Column (24 page)

the name of the Heavenly Emperor, forbidding any more honorable suicides."

"What effect did that have?"

"Too soon to tell-it just came out today. But you don't appreciate what

that means, Chief. You have to live among these people, as I have, to

appreciate it. With the PanAsians, everything is face-everything. They care

more for appearances than an American can possibly understand. To tell a

man who has lost face that he can't balance the books and get square with

his ancestors by committing suicide is to take the heart right out of him. It

jeopardizes his most precious possession.

"You can count on it that the Prince Royal is scared, too, or he would

never have resorted to any such measures. He must have lost an incredible

number of his officers lately ever to have thought of such a thing."

"That is reassuring. Before this night is out, I think we will have damaged

their morale at least as much more as we have already. So you think we've

got them on the run?"

"I didn't say that, Major-don't ever think so. These damned yellow

baboons"-he spoke quite earnestly, evidently forgetting his own exact

physical resemblance to the Asiatics-"are just about four times as deadly and

dangerous as their present frames of mine as they were when they were

cock o' the walk. They are likely to run amuck with just a slight push and start

slaughtering right and left-babies, women-indiscriminately!"

"H-m-m. Any recommendations?"

"Yes, Chief, I have. Hit 'em with everything you've got just as soon as

possible, and before they start in on a general massacre. You've got 'em

softened up now-sock it to 'em! before they have time to think about the

general population. Otherwise you'll have a blood letting that will make the

Collapse look like a tea party.

"That's the other reason I came in," he added. "I didn't want to find

myself ordered out to butcher my own kind."

Downer's report left Ardmore plenty to worry about. He conceded that

Downer was probably right in his judgment of the workings of the Oriental

mind. The thing that Downer warned against-retaliation against the civilian

population-always had been the key to the whole problem-that was why the

religion of Mota had been founded; because they dare not strike directly for

fear of systematic retaliation against the helpless. Now-if Downer was a

judge-in attacking indirectly, Ardmore had rendered an hysterical retaliation

almost as probable.

Should he call off Plan IV and attack today?

No-it simply was not practicable. The priests had to have a few hours at

least in which to organize the men of their flocks into guerrilla warriors. That

being the case, one might as well go ahead with Plan IV and soften up the

war lords still further. Once it was under way, the PanAsians would be much

too busy to plan massacres.

A small, neat scout car dropped from a great height and settled softly

and noiselessly on the roof of the temple in the capital city of the Prince

Royal. Ardmore stepped up to it as the wide door in its side opened and

Wilkie climbed out. He saluted. "Howdy, Chief!"

"H'lo, Bob. Right on time, I see-just midnight. Think you were spotted?"

"I don't think so; at least, no one turned a spot on us. And we cruised

high and fast; this gravitic control is great stuff." As they climbed in, Scheer

gave his C.O. a brief nod accompanied by, "Evening, sir," with his hands still

on the controls. As soon as the safety belts were buckled he shot the car

vertically into the air.

"Orders, sir?"

"Roof of the palace-and be careful."

Without lights, at great speed, with no power source the enemy could

detect, the little car plummeted to the roof designated. Wilkie started to open

the door. Ardmore checked him. "Look around first."

An Asiatic cruiser, on routine patrol over the residance of the vice-royal,

changed course and stabbed out with a searchlight. The radar-guided beam

settled on the scout car.

"Can you hit him at this range?" inquired Ardmore, whispering

unnecessarily.

"Easiest thing in the world, Chief." Cross hairs matched on the target;

Wilkie depressed his thumb. Nothing seemed to happen, but the beam of the

searchlight swept on .past them.

"Are you sure you hit him?" Ardmore inquired doubtfully.

"Certain. That ship'll go ahead on automatic control till her fuel gives out.

But it's a dead hand at the helm."

"O. K. , Scheer, you take Wilkie's place at the projector. Don't let fly

unless you are spotted. If we aren't back in thirty minutes, return to the

Citadel. Come on, Wilkie-now for a little hocus-pocus."

Scheer acknowledged the order, but it was evident from the way his

powerful jaw muscles worked that he did not like it. Ardmore and Wilkie, each

attired in the full regalia of a priest, moved out across the roof in search of a

way down. Ardmore kept his staff set and projecting in the wave band to

which Mongolians were sensitive, but at a power-Level anesthetic rather than

lethal in its effect. The entire palace had been radiated with a cone of these

frequencies before they had landed, using the much more powerful projector

mounted in the scout car. Presumably every Asiatic in the building was

unconscious-Ardmore was not taking unnecessary chances.

They found an access door to the roof, which saved them cutting a hole,

and crept down a steep iron stairway intended only for janitors and repair

men. Once inside, Ardmore had trouble orienting himself and feared that he

would be forced to find a PanAsian, resuscitate him, and wring the location of

the Prince's private chambers out of him by most ungentle methods. But luck

favored them; he happened on the right floor and correctly inferred the portal

of the Prince's apartment by the size and nature of the guard collapsed

outside of it.

The door was not locked; the Prince depended on a military watch being

kept rather than keys and bolts-he had never turned a key in his life. They

found him lying in his bed, a book fallen from his limp fingers. A personal

attendant lay crumpled in each of the four corners of the spacious room.

Wilkie eyed the Prince with interest. "So that's his nibs. What do we do

now, Major?"

"You get on one side of the bed; I'll get on the other. I want him to be

forced to divide his attention two ways. And stand up close so that he will

have to look up at you. I'll talk all the business, but you throw in a remark or

two every now and then to force him to split his attention."

"What sort of a remark?"

"Just priestly mumbo-jumbo. Impressive and no real meaning. Can you

do it?"

"I think so-I used to sell magazine subscriptions."

"O. K. This guy is a tough nut really tough. I am going to try to get at him

with the two basic congenital fears common to everybody; fear of constriction

and fear of falling. I could handle it with my staff but it will be simpler if you do

it with yours. Do you think you can follow my motions and catch what I want

done?"

"Can you make it a little clearer than that?"

Ardmore explained in detail, then added, "All right let's get busy. Take

your place." He turned on the four colored lights of his staff. Wilkie did

likewise. Ardmore ste pped across the room and switched out the lights of the

room.

When the PanAsian Prince Royal, Grandson of the Heavenly One and

ruler in his name of the Imperial Western Realm, came to his senses, he saw

standing. over him in the darkness two impressive fig ures. The taller was

garbed in robes of shimmering, milky luminescence. His turban, too, glowed

with a soft white fire--a halo.

The staff in his left hand streamed light from all four faces of its cubical

capital--ruby, golden, emerald, and sapphire.

The second figure was like the first, save that his robes glowed ruddy like

iron on an anvil. The face of each was partially illuminated by the rays from

their wands.

The figure in shining white raised his right hand in a gesture not benign,

but imperious. "We meet again, O unhappy Prince!"

The Prince had been trained truly and well; fear was not natural to him.

He started to sit up, but an impalpable force shoved against his chest and

thrust him back against the bed. He started to speak.

The air was sucked from his throat. "Be silent, child of iniquity! The Lord

Mota speaks through me. You will listen in peace."

Wilkie judged it to be about time to divert the Asiatic's attention. He

intoned, "Great is the Lord Mota!"

Ardmore continued, "Your hands are wet with the blood of innocence.

There must be an end to it!"

"Just is the Lord Mota!"

"You have oppressed his people. You have left the land of your fathers,

bringing with you fire and sword. You must return!"

"Patient is the Lord Mota!"

"But you have tried his patience," agreed Ardmore. "Now he is angry with

you. I bring you warning; see that you heed it!"

"Merciful is the Lord Mota!"

"Go back to the place whence you came-go back at once, taking with

you all your people-and return not again!" Ardmore thrust out a hand and

closed it slowly. "Heed not this warning-the breath will be crushed from your

body!" The pressure across the chest of the Oriental increased intolerably,

his eyes bulged out, he gasped for air.

"Heed not this warning-you will be cast down from your high place!" The

Prince felt himself suddenly become light; he was cast into the air, pressed

hard against the high ceiling. Just . as suddenly his support left him; he fell

heavily back to the bed.

"So speaks my Lord Mota!"

"Wise is the man who heeds him!" Wilkie was running short of choruses.

Ardmore was ready to conclude. His eye swept around the room and

noted something he had seen before -the Prince's ubiquitous chess table. It

was set up by the head of the bed, as if the Prince amused himself with it on

sleepless nights. Apparently the man set much store by the game. Ardmore

added a postscript. "My Lord Mota is done-but heed the advice of an old

man: men and women are not pieces in a game!" An invisible hand swept the

costly, beautiful chessmen to the floor. In spite of his rough handling, the

Prince had sufficient spirit left in him to glare.

"And now my Lord Shaam bids you sleep." The green light flared up to

greater brilliance; the Prince went limp.

"Whew!" sighed Ardmore. "I'm glad that's over. Nice cooperation, Wilkie-I

was never cut out to be an actor." He hoisted up one side of his robes and

dug a package of cigarettes out of his pants-pocket. "Better have one," he

offered. "We've got a really dirty job ahead of us."

"Thanks," said Wilkie, accepting the offer. "Look, Chief-is it really

necessary to kill everybody here? I don't relish it."

"Don't get chicken, son," admonished Ardmore with an edge in his voice.

"This is war-and war is no joke. There is no such thing as humane war. This

is a military fortress we are in; it is necessary to our plans that it be reduced

completely. We couldn't do it from the air because the plan requires keeping

the Prince alive."

"Why wouldn't it do just as well to leave them unconscious?"

"You argue too much. Part of the disorganization plan is to leave the

Prince still alive and in command, but cut off from all his usual assistants.

That will create a turmoil of inefficiency much greater than if we had simply

killed him and let their command devolve to their number-two man. You know

that. Get on with your job."

With the lethal ray from their staffs turned to maximum power, they swept

the walls and floor and ceiling, varying death to Asiatics for hundreds of feetthrough rock and metal, plaster and wood. Wilkie did his job with whiteTipped efficiency.

Five minutes later they were carving the stratosphere for home-the

Citadel.

Eleven other scout cars were hurrying through the night. In Cincinnati, in

Chicago, in Dallas, in major cities across the breadth of the continent they

dove out of the darkness, silencing opposition where they found it, and

landed little squads of intent and resolute men. In they went, past sleeping

guards, and dragged out local senior officials of the PanAsians provincial

governors, military commanders, the men on horseback. They dumped each

unconscious kidnapped Oriental on the roof of the local temple of Mota, there

to be received and dragged down below by the arms of a robed and bearded

priest.

Then to the next city to repeat it again, as long as the night lasted.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Calhoun buttonholed Ardmore almost as soon as he was back in the

Citadel. "Major Ardmore," he announced, clearing his throat, "I have waited

up to discuss a matter of import with you."

This man, Ardmore thought, can pick the damnedest times for a

conference. "Yes?"

"I believe you expect a rapid culmination of events?"

"Things are coming to a head, yes."

"I presume the issue will be decided very presently. I have not been able

to get the details I want from your man Thomas-he is not very cooperative; I

fail to see why you have thrust him up to the position of speaking for you in