I

“SERGEANT DIXON!”

Kurt stiffened. He knew that voice. Dropping the handles of the wooden plow, he gave a quick “rest” to the private and a polite “by your leave, sir” to the lieutenant who were yoked together in double harness. They both sank gratefully to the ground as Kurt advanced to meet the approaching officer.

Marcus Harris, the commander of the 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the Imperial Space Marines, was an imposing figure. The three silver eagle feathers of a full colonel rose proudly from his war bonnet and the bright red of the flaming comet insignia of the Space Marines that was painted on his chest stood out sharply against his sun-blackened, leathery skin. As Kurt snapped to attention before him and saluted, the colonel surveyed the fresh-turned earth with an experienced eye.

“You plow a straight furrow, soldier!” His voice was hard and metallic, but it seemed to Kurt that there was a concealed glimmer of approval in his flinty eyes. Dixon flushed with pleasure and drew back his broad shoulders a little further.

The commander’s eyes flicked down to the battle-ax that rested snugly in its leather holster at Kurt’s side. “You keep a clean side-arm, too.”

Kurt uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving that he had worked over his weapon before reveille that morning until there was a satin gloss to its redwood handle and the sheen of black glass to its obsidian head.

“In fact,” said Colonel Harris, “you’d be officer material if—” His voice trailed off.

“If what?” asked Kurt eagerly.

“If,” said the colonel with a note of paternal fondness in his voice that sent cold chills dancing down Kurt’s spine, “you weren’t the most completely unmanageable, undisciplined, overmuscled and under-brained knucklehead I’ve ever had the misfortune to have in my command. This last little unauthorized jaunt of yours indicates to me that you have as much right to sergeant’s stripes as I have to have kittens. Report to me at ten tomorrow! I personally guarantee that when I’m through with you—if you live that long—you’ll have a bare forehead!”

Colonel Harris spun on one heel and stalked back across the dusty plateau toward the walled garrison that stood at one end. Kurt stared after him for a moment and then turned and let his eyes slip across the wide belt of lush green jungle that surrounded the high plateau. To the north rose a great range of snow-capped mountains and his heart filled with longing as he thought of the strange and beautiful thing he had found behind them. Finally he plodded slowly back to the plow, his shoulders stooped and his head sagging. With an effort he recalled himself to the business at hand.

“Up on your aching feet, soldier!” he barked to the reclining private. “If you please, sir!” he said to the lieutenant. His calloused hands grasped the worn plow handles.

“Giddiup!” The two men strained against their collars and with a creak of harness the wooden plow started to move slowly across the arid plateau.

II

Conrad Krogson, Supreme Commander of War Base Three of Sector Seven of the Galactic Protectorate, stood at quaking attention before the visiscreen of his space communicator. It was an unusual position for the commander. He was accustomed to having people quake while he talked.

“The Lord Protector’s got another hot tip that General Carr is still alive!” said the sector commander. “He’s yelling for blood, and if it’s a choice between yours and mine, you know who will do the donating!”

“But, sir,” quavered Krogson to the figure on the screen, “I can’t do anything more than I am doing. I’ve had double security checks running since the last time there was an alert, and they haven’t turned up a thing. And I’m so shorthanded now that if I pull another random purge, I won’t have enough techs left to work the base.”

“That’s your problem, not mine,” said the sector commander coldly. “All I know is that rumors have got to the Protector that an organized underground is being built up and that Carr is behind it. The Protector wants action now. If he doesn’t get it, heads are going to roll!”

“I’ll do what I can, sir,” promised Krogson.

“I’m sure you will,” said the sector commander viciously, “because I’m giving you exactly ten days to produce something that is big enough to take the heat off me. If you don’t, I’ll break you, Krogson. If I’m sent to the mines, you’ll be sweating right alongside me. That’s a promise!”

Krogson’s face blanched.

“Any questions?” snapped the sector commander.

“Yes,” said Krogson.

“Well, don’t bother me with them. I’ve got troubles of my own!” The screen went dark.

Krogson slumped into his chair and sat staring dully at the blank screen. Finally he roused himself with an effort and let out a bellow that rattled the windows of his dusty office.

“Schninkle! Get in here!”

A gnomelike little figure scuttled in through the door and bobbed obsequiously before him.

“Yes, commander?”

“Switch on your think tank,” said Krogson. “The Lord Protector has the shakes again and the heat’s on!”

“What is it this time?” asked Schninkle.

“General Carr!” said the commander gloomily, “the ex-Number Two.”

“I thought he’d been liquidated.”

“So did I,” said Krogson, “but he must have slipped out some way. The Protector thinks he’s started up an underground.”

“He’d be a fool if he didn’t,” said the little man. “The Lord Protector isn’t as young as he once was and his grip is getting a little shaky.”

“Maybe so, but he’s still strong enough to get us before General Carr gets him. The Sector Commander just passed the buck down to me. We produce or else!”

“We?” said Schninkle unhappily.

“Of course,” snapped Krogson, “we’re in this together. Now let’s get to work! If you were Carr, where would be the logical place for you to hide out?”

“Well,” said Schninkle thoughtfully, “if I were as smart as Carr is supposed to be, I’d find myself a hideout right on Prime Base. Everything’s so fouled up there that they’d never find me.”

“That’s out for us,” said Krogson. “We can’t go rooting around in the Lord Protector’s own back yard. What would Carr’s next best bet be?”

Schninkle thought for a moment. “He might go out to one of the deserted systems,” he said slowly. “There must be half a hundred stars in our own base area that haven’t been visited since the old empire broke up. Our ships don’t get around the way they used to and the chances are mighty slim that anybody would stumble on to him accidentally.”

“It’s a possibility,” said the commander thoughtfully, “a bare possibility.” His right fist slapped into his left palm in a gesture of sudden resolution. “But by the Planets! at least it’s something! Alert all section heads for a staff meeting in half an hour. I want every scout out on a quick check of every system in our area!”

“Beg pardon, commander,” said Schninkle, “but half our light ships are red-lined for essential maintenance and the other half should be. Anyway it would take months to check every possible hideout in this area even if we used the whole fleet.”

“I know,” said Krogson, “but we’ll have to do what we can with what we have. At least I’ll be able to report to sector that we’re doing something! Tell Astrogation to set up a series of search patterns. We won’t have to check every planet. A single quick sweep through each system will do the trick. Even Carr can’t run a base without power. Where there’s power, there’s radiation, and radiation can be detected a long way off. Put all electronic techs on double shifts and have all detection gear double-checked.”

“Can’t do that either,” said Schninkle. “There aren’t more than a dozen electronic techs left. Most of them were transferred to Prime Base last week.”

Commander Krogson blew up. “How in the name of the Bloody Blue Pleiades am I supposed to keep a war base going without technicians? You tell me, Schninkle, you always seem to know all the answers.”

Schninkle coughed modestly. “Well, sir,” he said, “as long as you have a situation where technicians are sent to the uranium mines for making mistakes, it’s going to be an unpopular vocation. And, as long as the Lord Protector of the moment is afraid that Number Two, Number Three, and so on have ideas about grabbing his job—which they generally do—he’s going to keep his fleet as strong as possible and their fleets so weak they aren’t dangerous. The best way to do that is to grab techs. If most of the base’s ships are sitting around waiting repair, the commander won’t be able to do much about any ambitions he may happen to have. Add that to the obvious fact that our whole technology has been on a downward spiral for the last three hundred years and you have your answer.”

Krogson nodded gloomy agreement. “Sometimes I feel as if we were all on a dead ship falling into a dying sun,” he said. His voice suddenly altered. “But in the meantime we have our necks to save. Get going, Schninkle!”

Schninkle bobbed and darted out of the office.

III

It was exactly ten o’clock in the morning when Sergeant Dixon of the Imperial Space Marines snapped to attention before his commanding officer.

“Sergeant Dixon reporting as ordered, sir!” His voice cracked a bit in spite of his best efforts to control it.

The colonel looked at him coldly. “Nice of you to drop in, Dixon,” he said. “Shall we go ahead with our little chat?”

Kurt nodded nervously.

“I have here,” said the colonel, shuffling a sheaf of papers, “a report of an unauthorized expedition made by you into Off Limits territory.”

“Which one do you mean, sir?” asked Kurt without thinking.

“Then there has been more than one?” asked the colonel quietly.

Kurt started to stammer.

Colonel Harris silenced him with a gesture of his hand. “I’m talking about the country to the north, the tableland back of the Twin Peaks.”

“It’s a beautiful place!” burst out Kurt enthusiastically. “It’s… it’s like Imperial Headquarters must be. Dozens of little streams full of fish, trees heavy with fruit, small game so slow and stupid that they can be knocked over with a club. Why, the battalion could live there without hardly lifting a finger!”

“I’ve no doubt that they could,” said the colonel.

“Think of it, sir!” continued the sergeant. “No more plowing details, no more hunting details, no more nothing but taking it easy!”

“You might add to your list of ‘no mores,’ no more tech schools,” said Colonel Harris. “I’m quite aware that the place is all you say it is, sergeant. As a result I’m placing all information that pertains to it in a ‘Top Secret’ category. That applies to what is inside your head as well!”

“But, sir!” protested Kurt. “If you could only see the place—”

“I have,” broke in the colonel, “thirty years ago.”

Kurt looked at him in amazement. “Then why are we still on the plateau?”

“Because my commanding officer did just what I’ve just done, classified the information ‘Top Secret.’ Then he gave me thirty days’ extra detail on the plows. After he took my stripes away that is.” Colonel Harris rose slowly to his feet. “Dixon,” he said softly, “it’s not every man who can be a noncommissioned officer in the Space Marines. Sometimes we guess wrong. When we do we do something about it!” There was the hissing crackle of distant summer lightning in his voice and storm clouds seemed to gather about his head. “Wipe those chevrons off!” he roared.

Kurt looked at him in mute protest.

“You heard me!” the colonel thundered.

“Yes-s-s, sir,” stuttered Kurt, reluctantly drawing his forearm across his forehead and wiping off the three triangles of white grease paint that marked him a sergeant in the Imperial Space Marines. Quivering with shame, he took a tight grip on his temper and choked back the angry protests that were trying to force their way past his lips.

“Maybe,” suggested the colonel, “you’d like to make a complaint to the I.G. He’s due in a few days and he might reverse my decision. It has happened before, you know.”

“No, sir,” said Kurt woodenly.

“Why not?” demanded Harris.

“When I was sent out as a scout for the hunting parties I was given direct orders not to range farther than twenty kilometers to the north. I went sixty.” Suddenly his forced composure broke. “I couldn’t help it, sir,” he said. “There was something behind those peaks that kept pulling me and pulling me and”—he threw up his hands—“you know the rest.”

There was a sudden change in the colonel’s face as a warm human smile swept across it, and he broke into a peal of laughter. “It’s a hell of a feeling, isn’t it, son? You know you shouldn’t, but at the same time there’s something inside you that says you’ve got to know what’s behind those peaks or die. When you get a few more years under your belt you’ll find that it isn’t just mountains that make you feel like that. Here, boy, have a seat.” He gestured toward a woven wicker chair that stood by his desk.

Kurt shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, stunned by the colonel’s sudden change of attitude and embarrassed by his request. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but we aren’t out on work detail, and—”

The colonel laughed. “And enlisted men not on work detail don’t sit in the presence of officers. Doesn’t the way we do things ever strike you as odd, Dixon? On one hand you’d see nothing strange about being yoked to a plow with a major, and on the other, you’d never dream of sitting in his presence off duty.”

Kurt looked puzzled. “Work details are different,” he said. “We all have to work if we’re going to eat. But in the garrison, officers are officers and enlisted men are enlisted men and that’s the way it’s always been.”

Still smiling, the colonel reached into his desk drawer, fished out something, and tossed it to Kurt.

“Stick this in your scalp lock,” he said.

Kurt looked at it, stunned. It was a golden feather crossed with a single black bar, the insignia of rank of a second lieutenant of the Imperial Space Marines. The room swirled before his eyes.

“Now,” said the older officer, “sit down!”

Kurt slowly lowered himself into the chair and looked at the colonel through bemused eyes.

“Stop gawking!” said Colonel Harris. “You’re an officer now! When a man gets too big for his sandals, we give him a new pair—after we let him sweat a while!”

He suddenly grew serious. “Now that you’re one of the family, you have a right to know why I’m hushing up the matter of the tableland to the north. What I have to say won’t make much sense at first. Later I’m hoping it will. Tell me,” he said suddenly, “where did the battalion come from?”

“We’ve always been here, I guess,” said Kurt. “When I was a recruit, Granddad used to tell me stories about us being brought from some place else a long time ago by an iron bird, but it stands to reason that something that heavy can’t fly!”

A faraway look came into the colonel’s eyes. “Six generations,” he mused, “and history becomes legend. Another six and the legends themselves become tales for children. Yes, Kurt,” he said softly, “it stands to reason that something that heavy couldn’t fly so we’ll forget it for a while. We did come from some place else though. Once there was a great empire, so great that all the stars you see at night were only part of it. And then, as things do when age rests too heavily on them, it began to crumble. Commanders fell to fighting among themselves and the Emperor grew weak. The battalion was set down here to operate a forward maintenance station for his ships. We waited but no ships came. For five hundred years no ships have come,” said the colonel somberly. “Perhaps they tried to relieve us and couldn’t, perhaps the Empire fell with such a crash that we were lost in the wreckage. There are a thousand perhapses that a man can tick off in his mind when the nights are long and sleep comes hard! Lost… forgotten… who knows?”

Kurt stared at him with a blank expression on his face. Most of what the colonel had said made no sense at all. Wherever Imperial Headquarters was, it hadn’t forgotten them. The I.G. still made his inspection every year or so.

The colonel continued as if talking to himself. “But our operational orders said that we would stand by to give all necessary maintenance to Imperial warcraft until properly relieved, and stand by we have.”

The old officer’s voice seemed to be coming from a place far distant in time and space.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Kurt, “but I don’t follow you. If all these things did happen, it was so long ago that they mean nothing to us now.”

“But they do!” said Colonel Harris vigorously. “It’s because of them that things like your rediscovery of the tableland to the north have to be suppressed for the good of the battalion! Here on the plateau the living is hard. Our work in the fields and the meat brought in by our hunting parties give us just enough to get by on. But here we have the garrison and the Tech Schools—and vague as it has become— a reason for remaining together as the battalion. Out there where the living is easy we’d lose that. We almost did once. A wise commander stopped it before it went too far. There are still a few signs of that time left—left deliberately as reminders of what can happen if commanding officers forget why we’re here!”

“What things?” asked Kurt curiously.

“Well, son,” said the colonel, picking up his great war bonnet from the desk and gazing at it quizzically, “I don’t think you’re quite ready for that information yet. Now take off and strut your feather. I’ve got work to do!”

IV

At War Base Three nobody was happy. Ships that were supposed to be fight-months away carrying on the carefully planned search for General Carr’s hideout were fluttering down out of the sky like senile penguins, disabled by blown jets, jammed computers, and all the other natural ills that worn out and poorly serviced equipment is heir to. Technical maintenance was quietly going mad. Commander Krogson was being noisy about it.

“Schninkle!” he screamed. “Isn’t anything happening anyplace?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” said the little man.

“Well make something happen!” He hoisted his battered brogans onto the scarred top of the desk and chewed savagely on a frayed cigar. “How are the other sectors doing?”

“No better than we are,” said Schninkle. “Commander Snork of Sector Six tried to pull a fast one but he didn’t get away with it. He sent his STAP into a plantation planet out at the edge of the Belt and had them hypno the whole population. By the time they were through there were about fifteen million greenies running around yelling ‘Up with General Carr!’ ‘Down with the Lord Protector!’ ‘Long Live the People’s Revolution!’ and things like that. Snork even gave them a few medium vortex blasters to make it look more realistic. Then he sent in his whole fleet, tipped off the press at Prime Base, and waited. Guess what the Bureau of Essential Information finally sent him?”

“I’ll bite,” said Commander Krogson.

“One lousy cub reporter. Snork couldn’t back out then so he had to go ahead and blast the planet down to bedrock. This morning he got a three-line notice in Space and a citation as Third Rate Protector of the People’s Space Ways, Eighth Grade.”

“That’s better than the nothing we’ve got so far!” said the commander gloomily.

“Not when the press notice is buried on the next to last page right below the column on ‘Our Feathered Comrades’,” said Schninkle, “and when the citation is posthumous. They even misspelled his name; it came out Snark!”

V

As Kurt turned to go, there was a sharp knock on Colonel Harris’ door.

“Come in!” called the colonel.

Lieutenant Colonel Blick, the battalion executive officer, entered with an arrogant stride and threw his commander a slovenly salute. For a moment he didn’t notice Kurt standing at attention beside the door.

“Listen, Harris!” he snarled. “What’s the idea of pulling that cleanup detail out of my quarters?”

“There are no servants in this battalion, Blick,” the older man said quietly. “When the men come in from work detail at night they’re tired. They’ve earned a rest and as long as I’m CO. they’re going to get it. If you have dirty work that has to be done, do it yourself. You’re better able to do it than some poor devil who’s been dragging a plow all day. I suggest you check pertinent regulations!”

“Regulations!” growled Blick. “What do you expect me to do, scrub my own floors?”

“I do,” said the colonel dryly, “when my wife is too busy to get to it. I haven’t noticed that either my dignity or my efficiency have suffered appreciably. I might add,” he continued mildly, “that staff officers are supposed to set a good example for their juniors. I don’t think either your tone or your manner are those that Lieutenant Dixon should be encouraged to emulate.” He gestured toward Kurt and Blick spun on one heel.

“Lieutenant Dixon!” he roared in an incredulous voice. “By whose authority?”

“Mine,” said the colonel mildly. “In case you’ve forgotten I am still commanding officer of this battalion.”

“I protest!” said Blick. “Commissions have always been awarded by decision of the entire staff.”

“Which you now control,” replied the colonel.

Kurt coughed nervously. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I think I’d better leave.”

Colonel Harris shook his head. “You’re one of our official family now, son, and you might as well get used to our squabbles. This particular one has been going on between Colonel Blick and me for years. He has no patience with some of our old customs.” He turned to Blick. “Have you, Colonel?”

“You’re right, I haven’t!” growled Blick. “And that’s why Tm going to change some of them as soon as I get the chance. The sooner we stop this Tech School nonsense and put the recruits to work in the fields where they belong, the better off we’ll all be. Why should a plowman or a hunter have to know how to read wiring diagrams or set tubes. It’s nonsense, superstitious nonsense. You!” he said, stabbing his finger into the chest of the startled lieutenant. “You! Dixon! You spent fourteen years in the Tech Schools just like I did when I was a recruit. What for?”

“To learn maintenance, of course,” said Kurt.

“What’s maintenance?” demanded Blick.

“Taking stuff apart and putting it back together and polishing jet bores with microplanes and putting plates in alignment and checking the meters when we’re through to see the job was done right. Then there’s class work in Direc calculus and subelectronics and—”

“That’s enough!” interrupted Blick. “And now that you’ve learned all that, what can you do with it?”

Kurt looked at him in surprise.

“Do with it?” he echoed. “You don’t do anything with it. You just learn it because regulations say you should.”

“And this,” said Blick, turning to Colonel Harris, “is one of your prize products. Fourteen of his best years poured down the drain and he doesn’t even know what for!” He paused and then said in an arrogant voice, “I’m here for a showdown, Harris!”

“Yes?” said the colonel mildly.

“I demand that the Tech Schools be closed at once, and the recruits released for work details. If you want to keep your command, you’ll issue that order. The staff is behind me on this!”

Colonel Harris rose slowly to his feet. Kurt waited for the thunder to roll, but strangely enough, it didn’t. It almost seemed to him that there was an expression of concealed amusement playing across the colonel’s face.

“Some day, just for once,” he said, “I wish somebody around here would do something that hasn’t been done before.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Blick.

“Nothing,” said the colonel. “You know,” he continued conversationally, “a long time ago I walked into my C.O.’s office and made the same demands and the same threats that you’re making now. I didn’t get very far, though—just as you aren’t going to—because I overlooked the little matter of the Inspector General’s annual visit. He’s due in from Imperial Headquarters Saturday night, isn’t he, Blick?”

“You know he is!” growled the other.

“Aren’t worried, are you? It occurs to me that the I.G. might take a dim view of your new order.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” said Blick with a nasty grin. “Now will you issue the order to close the Tech Schools or won’t you?”

“Of course not!” said the colonel brusquely.

“That’s final?”

Colonel Harris just nodded.

“All right,” barked Blick, “you asked for it!”

There was an ugly look on his face as he barked, “Kane! Simmons! Arnett! The rest of you! Get in here!”

The door to Harris’ office swung slowly open and revealed a group of officers standing sheepishly in the anteroom.

“Come in, gentlemen,” said Colonel Harris.

They came slowly forward and grouped themselves just inside the door.

“I’m taking over!” roared Blick. “This garrison has needed a house-cleaning for a long time and I’m just the man to do it!”

“How about the rest of you?” asked the colonel.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said one hesitantly, “but we think Colonel Blick’s probably right. I’m afraid we’re going to have to confine you for a few days. Just until after the I.G.’s visit,” he added apologetically.

“And what do you think the I.G. will say to all this?”

“Colonel Blick says we don’t have to worry about that,” said the officer. “He’s going to take care of everything.”

A look of sudden anxiety played across Harris’ face and for the first time he seemed on the verge of losing his composure.

“How?” he demanded, his voice betraying his concern.

“He didn’t say, sir,” the other replied. Harris relaxed visibly.

“All right,” said Blick. “Let’s get moving!” He walked behind the desk and plumped into the colonel’s chair. Hoisting his feet on the desk he gave his first command.

“Take him away!”

There was a sudden roar from the far corner of the room. “No you don’t!” shouted Kurt. His battle-ax leaped into his hand as he jumped in front of Colonel Harris, his muscular body taut and his gray eyes flashing defiance.

Blick jumped to his feet. “Disarm that man!” he commanded. There was a certain amount of scuffling as the officers in the front of the group by the door tried to move to the rear and those behind them resolutely defended their more protected positions.

Blick’s face grew so purple that he seemed on the verge of apoplexy. “Major Kane,” he demanded, “place that man under restraint!”

Kane advanced toward Kurt with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Keeping a cautious eye on the glittering ax head, he said in what he obviously hoped to be a placating voice, “Come now, old man. Can’t have this sort of thing, you know.” He stretched out his hand hesitantly toward Kurt. “Why don’t you give me your ax and we’ll forget that the incident ever occurred.”

Kurt’s ax suddenly leaped toward the major’s head. Kane stood petrified as death whizzed toward him. At the last split second Kurt gave a practiced twist to his wrist and the ax jumped up, cutting the air over the major’s head with a vicious whistle. The top half of his silver staff plume drifted slowly to the floor.

“You want it,” roared Kurt, his ax flicking back and forth like a snake’s tongue, “you come get it. That goes for the rest of you, too!”

The litde knot of officers retreated still farther. Colonel Harris was having the time of his life.

“Give it to ’em, son!” he whooped.

Blick looked contemptuously at the staff and slowly drew his own ax. Colonel Harris suddenly stopped laughing.

“Wait a minute, Blick!” he said. “This has gone far enough.” He turned to Kurt.

“Give them your ax, son.”

Kurt looked at him with an expression of hurt bewilderment in his eyes, hesitated for a moment, and then glumly surrendered his weapon to the relieved major.

“Now,” snarled Blick, “take that insolent puppy out and feed him to the lizards!”

Kurt drew himself up in injured dignity. “That is no way to refer to a brother officer,” he said reproachfully.

The vein in Blick’s forehead started to pulse again. “Get him out of here before I tear him to shreds!” he hissed through clenched teeth. There was silence for a moment as he fought to regain control of himself. Finally he succeeded.

“Lock him up!” he said in an approximation to his normal voice. “Tell the provost sergeant I’ll send down the charges as soon as I can think up enough.”

Kurt was led resentfully from the room.

“The rest of you clear out,” said Blick. “I want to talk with Colonel Harris about the I.G.”

VI

There was a saying in the Protectorate that when the Lord Protector was angry, stars and heads fell. Commander Krogson felt his wobble on his neck. His far-sweeping scouts were sending back nothing but reports of equipment failure, and the sector commander had coldly informed him that morning that his name rested securely at the bottom of the achievement list. It looked as if War Base Three would shortly have a change of command. “Look, Schninkle,” he said desperately, “even if we can’t give them anything, couldn’t we make a promise that would look good enough to take some of the heat off us?”

Schninkle looked dubious.

“Maybe a new five-year plan?” suggested Krogson.

The little man shook his head. “That’s a subject we’d better avoid entirely,” he said. “They’re still asking nasty questions about what happened to the last one. Mainly on the matter of our transport quota. I took the liberty of passing the buck on down to Logistics. Several of them have been… eh… removed as a consequence.”

“Serves them right!” snorted Krogson. “They got me into that mess with their ‘if a freighter and a half flies a light-year and a half in a month and a half, ten freighters can fly ten light-years in ten months!’ I knew there was something fishy about it at the time, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

“It’s always darkest before the storm,” said Schninkle helpfully.

VII

“Take off your war bonnet and make yourself comfortable,” said Colonel Harris hospitably.

Blick grunted assent. “This thing is sort of heavy,” he said. “I think I’ll change uniform regulations while I’m at it.”

“There was something you wanted to tell me?” suggested the colonel.

“Yeah,” said Blick. “I figure that you figure the I.G.’s going to bail you out of this. Right?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I would,” said Blick. “I was up snoopin’ around the armory last week. There was something there that started me doing some heavy thinking. Do you know what it was?”

“I can guess,” said the colonel.

“As I looked at it, it suddenly occurred to me what a happy coincidence it is that the Inspector General always arrives just when you happen to need him.”

“It is odd, come to think of it.”

“Something else occurred to me, too. I got to thinking that if I were CO. and I wanted to keep the troops whipped into line, the easiest way to do it would be to have a visible symbol of Imperial Headquarters appear in person once in a while.”

“That makes sense,” admitted Harris, “especially since the chaplain has started preaching that Imperial Headquarters is where good marines go when they die— If they follow regulations while they’re alive. But how would you manage it?”

“Just the way you did. I’d take one of the old battle suits, wait until it was good and dark, and then slip out the back way and climb up six or seven thousand feet. Then I’d switch on my landing lights and drift slowly down to the parade field to review the troops.” Blick grinned triumphantly.

“It might work,” admitted Colonel Harris, “but I was under the impression that those rigs were so heavy that a man couldn’t even walk in one, let alone fly.”

Blick grinned triumphantly. “Not if the suit was powered. If a man were to go up into the tower of the arsenal and pick the lock of the little door labled ‘Danger! Absolutely No Admittance,’ he might find a whole stack of shiny little cubes that look suspiciously like the illustrations of power packs in the tech manuals.”

“That he might,” agreed the colonel.

Blick shifted back in his chair. “Aren’t worried, are you?”

Colonel Harris shook his head. “I was for a moment when I thought you’d told the rest of the staff, but I’m not now.”

“You should be! When the I.G. arrives this time, I’m going to be inside that suit. There’s going to be a new order around here, and he’s just what I need to put the stamp of approval on it. When the Inspector General talks, nobody questions!”

He looked at Harris expectantly, waiting for a look of consternation to sweep across his face. The colonel just laughed.

“Blick,” he said, “you’re in for a big surprise!”

“What do you mean?” said the other suspiciously.

“Simply that I know you better than you know yourself. You wouldn’t be executive officer if I didn’t. You know, Blick, I’ve got a hunch that the battalion is going to change the man more than the man is going to change the battalion. And now if you’ll excuse me—” He started toward the door. Blick moved to intercept him.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” chuckled the colonel, “I can find my own way to the cell block.” There was a broad grin on his face. “Besides, you’ve got work to do.”

There was a look of bewilderment in Blick’s face as the erect figure went out the door. “I don’t get it,” he said to himself. “I just don’t get it!”

VIII

Flight Officer Ozaki was unhappy. Trouble had started two hours after he lifted his battered scout off War Base Three and showed no signs of letting up. He sat glumly at his controls and enumerated his woes. First there was the matter of the air conditioner which had acquired an odd little hum and discharged into the cabin oxygen redolent with the rich, ripe odor of rotting fish. Secondly, something had happened to the complex insides of his food synthesizer and no matter what buttons he punched, all that emerged from the ejector were quivering slabs of undercooked protein base smeared with a raspberry-flavored goo.

Not last, but worst of all, the ship’s fuel converter was rapidly becoming more erratic. Instead of a slow, steady feeding of the plu-tonite ribbon into the combustion chamber, there were moments when the mechanism would falter and then leap ahead. The resulting sudden injection of several square millimicrons of tape would send a sudden tremendous flare of energy spouting out through the rear jets. The pulse only lasted for a fraction of a second, but the sudden application of several G’s meant a momentary blackout and, unless he was strapped carefully into the pilot seat, several new bruises to add to the old.

What made Ozaki the unhappiest was that there was nothing he could do about it. Pilots who wanted to stay alive just didn’t tinker with the mechanism of their ships.

Glumly he pulled out another red-bordered IMMEDIATE MAINTENANCE card from the rack and began to fill it in.

Description of item requiring maintenance: “ Shower thermostat, M7, Small Standard.”

Nature of malfunction: “ Shower will deliver only boiling water.”

Justification for immediate maintenance: Slowly in large, block letters Ozaki bitterly inked in “Haven’t had a bath since I left base!” and tossed the card into the already overflowing gripe box with a feeling of helpless anger.

“Kitchen mechanics,” he muttered. “Couldn’t do a decent repair job if they wanted to—and most of the time they don’t. I’d like to see one of them three days out on a scout sweep with a toilet that won’t flush!”

IX

It was a roomy cell as cells go but Kurt wasn’t happy there. His continual striding up and down was making Colonel Harris nervous.

“Relax, son,” he said gently, “you’ll just wear yourself out.”

Kurt turned to face the colonel who was stretched out comfortably on his cot. “Sir,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “we’ve got to break out of here.”

“What for?” asked Harris. “This is the first decent rest I’ve had in years.”

“You aren’t going to let Blick get away with this?” demanded Kurt in a shocked voice.

“Why not?” said the colonel. “He’s the exec, isn’t he? If something happened to me, he’d have to take over command anyway. He’s just going through the impatient stage, that’s all. A few days behind my desk will settle him down. In two weeks he’ll be so sick of the job he’ll be down on his knees begging me to take over again.”

Kurt decided to try a new tack. “But, sir, he’s going to shut down the Tech Schools!”

“A little vacation won’t hurt the kids,” said the colonel indulgently.

“After a week or so the wives will get so sick of having them underfoot all day that they’ll turn the heat on him. Blick has six kids himself, and I’ve a hunch his wife won’t be any happier than the rest. She’s a very determined woman, Kurt, a very determined woman!”

Kurt had a feeling he was getting no place rapidly. “Please, sir,” he said earnestly, “I’ve got a plan.”

“Yes?”

“Just before the guard makes his evening check-in, stretch out on the bed and start moaning. I’ll yell that you’re dying and when he comes in to check, I’ll jump him!”

“You’ll do no such thing!” said the colonel sternly. “Sergeant Wetzel is an old friend of mine. Can’t you get it through your thick head that I don’t want to escape. When you’ve held command as long as I have, you’ll welcome a chance for a little peace and quiet. I know Blick inside out, and I’m not worried about him. But, if you’ve got your heart set on escaping, I suppose there’s no particular reason why you shouldn’t. Do it the easy way though. Like this.” He walked to the bars that fronted the cell and bellowed, “Sergeant Wetzel! Sergeant Wetzel!”

“Coming, sir!” called a voice from down the corridor. There was a shuffle of running feet and a gray scalp-locked and extremely portly sergeant puffed into view.

“What will it be, sir?” he asked.

“Colonel Blick or any of the staff around?” questioned the colonel.

“No, sir,” said the sergeant. “They’re all upstairs celebrating.”

“Good!” said Harris. “Unlock the door, will you?”

“Anything you say, colonel,” said the old man agreeably and produced a large key from his pouch and fitted it into the lock. There was a slight creaking and the door swung open.

“Young Dixon here wants to escape,” said the colonel.

“It’s all right by me,” replied the sergeant, “though it’s going to be awkward when Colonel Blick asks what happened to him.”

“The lieutenant has a plan,” confided the colonel. “He’s going to overpower you and escape.”

“There’s more to it than just that!” said Kurt. “I’m figuring on swapping uniforms with you. That way I can walk right out through the front gate without anybody being the wiser.”

“That,” said the sergeant, slowly looking down at his sixty-three inch waist, “will take a heap of doing. You’re welcome to try though.”

“Let’s get on with it then,” said Kurt, winding up a roundhouse swing.

“If it’s all the same with you, lieutenant,” said the old sergeant, eyeing Kurt’s rocklike fist nervously, “I’d rather have the colonel do any overpowering that’s got to be done.”

Colonel Harris grinned and walked over to Wetzel.

“Ready?”

“Ready!”

Harris’ fist traveled a bare five inches and tapped Wetzel lightly on the chin.

“Oof!” grunted the sergeant cooperatively and staggered back to a point where he could collapse on the softest of the two cots.

The exchange of clothes was quickly effected. Except for the pants —which persisted in dropping down to Kurt’s ankles—and the war bonnet—which with equal persistence kept sliding down over his ears —he was ready to go. The pants problem was solved easily by stuffing a pillow inside them. This Kurt fondly believed made him look more like the rotund sergeant than ever. The garrison bonnet presented a more difficult problem, but he finally achieved a partial solution. By holding it up with his left hand and keeping the palm tightly pressed against his forehead, it should appear to the casual observer that he was walking engrossed in deep thought.

The first two hundred yards were easy. The corridor was deserted and he plodded confidently along, the great war bonnet wobbling sedately on his head in spite of his best efforts to keep it steady. When he finally reached the exit gate, he knocked on it firmly and called to the duty sergeant.

“Open up! It’s Wetzel.”

Unfortunately, just then he grew careless and let go of his headgear. As the door swung open, the great war bonnet swooped down over his ears and came to rest on his shoulders. The result was that where his head normally was there could be seen only a nest of weaving feathers. The duty sergeant’s jaw suddenly dropped as he got a good look at the strange figure that stood in the darkened corridor. And then with remarkable presence of mind he slammed the door shut in Kurt’s face and clicked the bolt.

“Sergeant of the guard!” he bawled. “Sergeant of the guard! There’s a thing in the corridor!”

“What kind of a thing?” inquired a sleepy voice from the guard room.

“A horrible kind of a thing with wiggling feathers where its head ought to be,” replied the sergeant.

“Get its name, rank, and serial number,” said the sleepy voice.

Kurt didn’t wait to hear any more. Disentangling himself from the head-dress with some difficulty, he hurled it aside and pelted back down the corridor.

Lieutenant Dixon wandered back into the cell with a crestfallen look on his face. Colonel Harris and the old sergeant were so deeply engrossed in a game of “rockets high” that they didn’t even see him at first. Kurt coughed and the colonel looked up.

“Change your mind?”

“No, sir,” said Kurt. “Something slipped.”

“What?” asked the colonel.

“Sergeant Wetzel’s war bonnet. I’d rather not talk about it.” He sank down on his bunk and buried his head in his hands.

“Excuse me,” said the sergeant apologetically, “but if the lieutenant’s through with my pants I’d like to have them back. There’s a draft in here.”

Kurt silently exchanged clothes and then moodily walked over to the grille that barred the window and stood looking out.

“Why not go upstairs to officers’ country and out that way?” suggested the sergeant, who hated the idea of being overpowered for nothing. “If you can get to the front gate without one of the staff spotting you, you can walk right out. The sentry never notices faces, he just checks for insignia.”

Kurt grabbed Sergeant Wetzel’s plump hand and wrung it warmly. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he stammered.

“Then it’s about time you learned,” said the colonel. “The usual practice in civilized battalions is to say ‘thank you.’ ”

“Thank you!” said Kurt.

“Quite all right,” said the sergeant. “Take the first stairway to your left. When you get to the top, turn left again and the corridor will take you straight to the exit.”

Kurt got safely to the top of the stairs and turned right. Three hundred feet later the corridor ended in a blank wall. A small passageway angled off to the left and he set off down it. It also came to a dead end in a small anteroom whose farther wall was occupied by a set of great bronze doors. He turned and started to retrace his steps. He had almost reached the main corridor when he heard angry voices sounding from it. He peeked cautiously around the corridor. His escape route was blocked by two officers engaged in acrimonious argument. Neither was too sober and the captain obviously wasn’t giving the major the respect that a field officer usually commanded.

“I don’t care what she said!” the captain shouted. “I saw her first.”

The major grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back against the wall. “It doesn’t matter who saw her first. You keep away from her or there’s going to be trouble!”

The captain’s face flushed with rage. With a snarl he tore off the major’s breechcloth and struck him in the face with it.

The major’s face grew hard and cold. He stepped back, clicked his calloused heels together, and bowed slightly.

“Axes or fists?”

“Axes,” snapped the captain.

“May I suggest the armory anteroom?” said the major formally. “We won’t be disturbed there.”

“As you wish, sir,” said the captain with equal formality. “Your breechcloth, sir.” The major donned it with dignity and they started down the hall toward Kurt. He turned and fled back down the corridor.

In a second he was back in the anteroom. Unless he did something quickly he was trapped. Two flaming torches were set in brackets on each side of the great bronze door. As flickering pools of shadow chased each other across the worn stone floor, Kurt searched desperately for some other way out. There was none. The only possible exit was through the bronze portals. The voices behind him grew louder. He ran forward, grabbed a projecting handle, and pulled. One door creaked open slightly and with a sigh of relief Kurt slipped inside.

There were no torches here. The great hall stood in half darkness, its only illumination the pale moonlight that streamed down through the arching skylight that formed the central ceiling. He stood for a moment in awe, impressed in spite of himself by the strange unfamiliar shapes that loomed before him in the half-darkness. He was suddenly brought back to reality by the sound of voices in the anteroom.

“Hey! The armory door’s open!”

“So what? That place is off limits to everybody but the CO.”

“Blick won’t care. Let’s fight in there. There should be more room.”

Kurt quickly scanned the hall for a safe hiding place. At the far end stood what looked like a great bronze statue, its burnished surface gleaming dimly in the moonlight. As the door swung open behind him, he slipped cautiously through the shadows until he reached it. It looked like a coffin with feet, but to one side of it there was a dark pool of shadow. He slipped into it and pressed himself close against the cold metal. As he did so his hipbone pressed against a slight protrusion and with a slight clicking sound, a hinged middle section of the metallic figure swung open, exposing a dark cavity. The thing was hollow!

Kurt had a sudden idea. “Even if they do come down here,” he thought, “they’d never think of looking inside this thing!” With some difficulty he wiggled inside and pulled the hatch shut after him. There were legs to the thing—his own fit snugly into them—but no arms.

The two officers strode out of the shadows at the other end of the hall. They stopped in the center of the armory and faced each other like fighting cocks. Kurt gave a sigh of relief. It looked as if he were safe for the moment.

There was a sudden wicked glitter of moonlight on ax-heads as their weapons leaped into their hands. They stood frozen for a moment in a murderous tableau and then the captain’s ax hummed toward his opponent’s head in a vicious slash. There was a shower of sparks as the major parried and then with a quick wrist twist sent his own weapon looping down toward the captain’s midriff. The other pulled his ax down to ward the blow, but he was only partially successful. The keen obsidian edge raked his ribs and blood dripped darkly in the moonlight.

As Kurt watched intently, he began to feel the first faint stirrings of claustrophobia. The Imperial designers had planned their battle armor for efficiency rather than comfort and Kurt felt as if he were locked away in a cramped dark closet. His malaise wasn’t helped by a sudden realization that when the men left they might very well lock the door behind them. His decision to change his hiding place was hastened when a bank of dark clouds swept across the face of the moon. The flood of light poured down through the skylight suddenly dimmed until Kurt could barely make out the pirouetting forms of the two officers who were fighting in the center of the hall.

This was his chance. If he could slip down the darkened side of the hall before the moon lighted up the hall again, he might be able to slip out of the hall unobserved. He pushed against the closed hatch through which he entered. It refused to open. A feeling of trapped panic started to roll over him, but he fought it back. “There must be some way to open this from the inside,” he thought.

As his fingers wandered over the dark interior of the suit looking for a release lever, they encountered a bank of keys set just below his midriff. He pressed one experimentally. A quiet hum filled the armor and suddenly a feeling of weightlessness came over him. He stiffened in fright. As he did so one of his steel shod feet pushed lightly backwards against the floor. That was enough. Slowly, like a child’s balloon caught in a light draft, he drifted toward the center of the hall. He struggled violently, but since he was now several inches above the floor and rising slowly it did him no good.

The fight was progressing splendidly. Both men were master ax-men, and in spite of being slightly drunk, were putting on a brilliant exhibition. Each was bleeding from a dozen minor slashes, but neither had been seriously axed as yet. Their flashing strokes and counters were masterful, so masterful that Kurt slowly forgot his increasingly awkward situation as he became more and more absorbed in the fight before him. The blond captain was slightly the better axman, but the major compensated for it by occasionally whistling in cuts that to Kurt’s experienced eye seemed perilously close to fouls. He grew steadily more partisan in his feelings until one particularly unscrupulous attempt broke down his restraint altogether.

“Pull down your guard!” he screamed to the captain. “He’s trying to cut you below the belt!” His voice reverberated within the battle suit and boomed out with strange metallic overtones.

Both men whirled in the direction of the sound. They could see nothing for a moment and then the major caught sight of the strange menacing figure looming above him in the murky darkness.

Dropping his ax he dashed frantically toward the exit shrieking: “It’s the Inspector General!”

The captain’s reflexes were a second slower. Before he could take off, Kurt poked his head out of the open faceport and shouted down, “It’s only me, Dixon! Get me out of here, will you?”

The captain stared up at him goggle-eyed. “What kind of a contraption is that?” he demanded. “And what are you doing in it?”

Kurt by now was floating a good ten feet off the floor. He had visions of spending the night on the ceiling and he wasn’t happy about it. “Get me down now,” he pleaded. “We can talk after I get out of this thing.”

The captain gave a leap upwards and tried to grab Kurt’s ankles. His jump was short and his outstretched fingers gave the weightless armor a slight shove that sent it bobbing up another three feet.

He cocked his head back and called up to Kurt. “Can’t reach you now. We’ll have to try something else. How did you get into that thing in the first place?”

“The middle section is hinged,” said Kurt. “When I pulled it shut, it clicked.”

“Well, unclick it!”

“I tried that. That’s why I’m up here now.”

“Try again,” said the man on the floor. “If you can open the hatch, you can drop down and I’ll catch you.”

“Here I come!” said Kurt, his fingers selecting a stud at random. He pushed. There was a terrible blast of flame from the shoulder jets and he screamed skywards on a pillar of fire. A microsecond later, he reached the skylight. Something had to give. It did!

At fifteen thousand feet the air pressure dropped to the point where the automatics took over and the face plate clicked shut. Kurt didn’t notice that. He was out like a light. At thirty thousand feet the heaters cut in. Forty seconds later he was in free space. Things could have been worse though; he still had air for two hours.