“If you’ll look under the papers directed at you,” I said, “you’ll find them. The News Services and its people are impartial. We don’t take sides.”
‘”Right,” said the dark young face opposing me, “takes sides.”
“Yes, Commandant,” I said. “That’s right. Only sometimes it’s a matter of debate where Right is. You and your troops here now are invaders on the world of a planetary system your ancestors never colonized. And opposing you are mercenary troops hired by two worlds that not only belong under the Pro-cyon suns but have a commitment to defend the
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• Gordon R. Dickson
smaller worlds of their system—of which Ste. Marie is one. I’m not sure Right is on your side.”
He shook his head slightly and said, “We expect small understanding from those not Chosen.” He transferred his gaze from me to the papers in his hand.
“Mind if I sit down?” I said. “I’ve got a bad
leg.”
“By all means.” He nodded to a chair beside his desk and as I sat down, seated himself. I looked across the papers on the desk before him and saw, standing to one side, the solidograph of one of the windowless high-peaked churches the Friendlies build. It was a legitimate token for him to own, but there just happened to be three people, an older man and woman and a young girl of about fourteen, in the foreground of the image. All three of them bore a family resemblance to Jamethon, Glancing up from my Credentials he saw me looking at them; and his gaze shifted momentarily to the graph and away again, as if he would protect it.
“I’m required, I see,” he said, drawing my eyes back to him, “to provide you with cooperation and facilities. We’ll find quarters for you here. Do you need a car and driver?”
“Thanks,” I said. “That commercial car outside will do. And I’ll manage my own driving.”
“As you like.” He detached the papers directed to him, passed the rest back to me and leaned toward a grille in his desktop. “Groupman.”
“Sir,” the grille answered promptly.
“Quarters for a single male civilian. Parking assignment for a civilian vehicle, personnel,”
“Sir.”
SOLDIER, ASK NOT •
The voice from the grille clicked off. Jamethon Black looked across his desk at me. I got the idea he was waiting for my departure.
“Commandant,” I said, putting my Credentials back in their case, “two years ago, your Elders of the United Churches on Harmony and Association found the planetary government of Ste. Marie in default of certain disputed balances of credit, so they sent an expedition in here to occupy and enforce payment. Of that expedition, how much in the way of men and equipment do you have left?”
“That, Mr. Olyn,” he said, “is restricted military information.”
“However”—and I closed the case—-“you, with the regular rank of Commandant, are acting Commander of Forces for the remnants of your expedition. That position calls for someone about five ranks higher than you. Do you expect such an officer to arrive and take charge?”
“I’m afraid you’d have to ask that question of Headquarters on Harmony, Mr. Olyn.”
“Do you expect reinforcements of personnel and more supplies?”
“If I did”—his voice was level—“I would have to consider that restricted information, too.”
“You know that it’s been pretty widely mentioned that your General Staff on Harmony has decided that this expedition to Ste. Marie is a lost cause? But that to avoid loss of face they prefer you here to be cut up, instead of withdrawing you and your men.”
“I see,” he said.
“You wouldn’t care to comment?”
His dark, young, expressionless face did not change. “Not in the case of rumors, Mr. Olyn.”
226
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• Gordon R. Dickson
“One last question then. Do you plan to retreat westward, or surrender when the spring offensive of the Exotic mercenary forces begins to move against you?”
“The Chosen in War never retreat,” he said. “Neither do they abandon, or suffer abandonment by, their Brothers in the Lord.” He stood up. “I have work I must get back to, Mr. Olyn.”
I stood up, too. I was taller than he was, older, and heavier-boned. It was only his almost unnatural composure that enabled him to maintain his appearance of being my equal or better.
“I’ll talk to you later, perhaps, when you’ve got more time,” I said.
“Certainly.” I heard the office door open behind me. “Groupman,” he said, speaking past me, “take care of Mr. Olyn.”
The Groupman he had turned me over to found me a small concrete cubicle with a single high window, a camp bed and a uniform cabinet. He left me for a moment and returned with a signed pass.
“Thanks,” I said as I took it. “Where do I find the Headquarters of the Exotic forces?”
“Our latest advice, sir,” he said, “is that they’re ninety kilometers east of here. New San Marcos.” He was my height, but, like most of them, half a dozen years younger than I, with an innocence that contrasted with the strange air of control they all had.
“San Marcos.” I looked at him. “I suppose you enlisted men know your General Headquarters on Harmony has decided against wasting replacements for you?”
“No, sir,” he said. I might have commented on the rain for all the reaction he showed. Even these
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boys were still strong and unbroken. “Is there somewhat else?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks.”
He went out. And I went out, to get in my car and head ninety kilometers east to New San Marcos. I reached it in about three-quarters of an hour. But I did not go directly to find the Exotic Field Headquarters. I had other fish to fry.
These took me to the Wallace Street Jewelers. There, three shallow steps down from street level, an opaqued door let me into a long, dim-lighted room filled with glass cases. There was a small elderly man at the back of the store behind the final case and I saw him eyeing my correspondent’s cloak and badge as I got closer.
“Sir?” he said as I stopped across the case from him. He raised gray, narrow old eyes in a strangely smooth face to look at me.
“I think you know what I represent,” I said. “All worlds know the News Services. We’re not concerned with local politics.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll find out how I learned your address anyway.” I kept on smiling at him. “So I’ll tell you it was from a spaceport auto-dispatcher named Imera. I promised him protection for telling me. We’d-appreciate it if he remains well and whole.”
“I’m afraid—” He put his hands on the glass top of the case. They were veined with the years. “You wanted to buy something?”
“I’m willing to pay in good will,” I said, “for information.”
His hands slid off the countertop.
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• Gordon R. Dickson
“Sir.” He sighed a little. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong store.”
“I’m sure I am,” I said. “But your store’ll have to do. We’ll pretend it’s the right store and I’m talking to someone who’s a member of the Blue Front.”
He shook his head slowly and stepped back from the case.
“The Blue Front is illegal,” he said. “Good-bye, sir.”
“In a moment. I’ve got a few things to say first.”
“Then I’m sorry.” He retreated toward some drapes covering a doorway. “I can’t listen. No one will come into this room with you, sir, as long as you talk like that.”
He slipped through the drapes and was gone. I looked around the long, empty room.
“Well,” I said a little more loudly, “I guess I’ll have to speak to the walls. I’m sure the walls can hear me.”
I paused. There was no sound.
“All right,” I said. “I’m a correspondent. All I’m interested in is information. Our assessment of the military situation here on Ste. Marie”—and here I told the truth—“shows the Friendly Expeditionary Forces abandoned by their home headquarters and certain to be overrun by the Exotic forces as soon as the ground dries enough for heavy equipment to move.”
There was stili no answer, but the back of my neck knew they were listening and watching me.
“As a result,” I went on—and here I lied, though they would have no way of knowing—“we consider it inevitable that the Friendly Command here will have got in contact with the Blue Front. Assassina-
• 230 v
SOLDIER, ASK NOT •
tion of enemy commanders is expressly in violation of the Mercenaries’ Code and the Articles of Civilized Warfare—but civilians could do what soldiers could not.”
Still there was no sound or movement beyond the drapes.
“A news representative,” I said, “carries Credentials of Impartiality. You know how highly these are held. I only want to ask a few questions. And the answers will be kept confidential.”
For a last time I waited, and there was still no answer. I turned and went up the long room and out. It was not until I was well out on to the street that I let the feeling of triumph within spread out and warm me.
They would take the bait. People of their sort always did. I found my car and drove to Exotic Headquarters.
These were outside the town. There a mercenary Commandant named Janol Marat took me in charge. He conducted me to the bubble structure of their HQ building. There was a feel of purpose, there, a sure and cheerful air of activity. They were well armed, well trained. After the Friendlies it jumped at me. I said so to Janol.
“WeVe got a Dorsai Commander and we outnumber the opposition.” He grinned at me. He had a deeply tanned, long face that went into creases as his lips curved up. “That makes everybody pretty optimistic. Besides, our Commander gets promoted if he wins. Back to the Exotics and staff rank—out of field combat for good. It’s good business for us to win.”
I laughed and he laughed.
“Tell me more, though,” I said. “I want reasons
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• Gordon R. Dickson
I can use in the stories I send back to News Services.”
“Well”—-he answered the snappy salute of a passing Groupman, a Cassidan by the look of him— “I guess you might mention the usual—the feet our Exotic employers don’t permit themselves to use violence and consequently they’re always rather generous than otherwise when it comes to paying for men and equipment. And the OutBond—that’s the Exotic Ambassador to Ste. Marie, you know—“
“I know.”
“He replaced the former OutBond here three years ago. Anyway, he’s something special, even for someone from Mara or Kultis. He’s an expert in ontoge-netic calculations. If that means much to you. It’s all over my head.” Janol pointed. “Here’s the Field Commander’s office. He’s Kensie Graeme.”
“Graeme?” I said, frowning. I could have admitted to knowing about Kensie Graeme, but I wanted Janol’s reactions to him. “Sounds familiar.” We approached the office building. “Graeme . . .”
“You’re probably thinking of another member of the same family.” Janol took the bait. “Donal Graeme. A nephew. Kensie is Donal’s uncle. Not as spectacular as the young Graeme, but I’ll bet you’ll like him better than you would the nephew. Kensie’s got two men’s likableness.” He looked at me, grinning slightly again.
“That supposed to mean something special?” I said.
“That’s right,” said Janol. “His own likableness and his twin brother’s, too. Meet lan Graeme sometime when you’re in Blauvain. That’s where the Exotic embassy is, east of here. lan’s a dark man.”
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SOLDIER, ASK NOT •
We walked into the office.
“I can’t get used,” I said, “to how so many Dor-sai seem related.”
“Neither can I. Actually, I guess it’s because there really aren’t so many of them. The Dorsai’s a small world, and those that live more than a few years—” Janol stopped by a Commandant sitting at a desk. “Can we see the Old Man, Hari? This is a Newsman from the Interstellar News Services.”
“Why, I guess so.” The other looked at his desk signal board. “The OutBond’s with him, but he’s just leaving now. Go on in.”
Janol led me between the desks. A door at the back of the room opened before we reached it and a calm-faced man of middle age wearing an Exotic’s blue robe, and close-cropped white hair, came out. His odd, hazel-colored eyes met mine.
It was Padma.
“Sir,” said Janol to Padma, “this is—“
“Tarn Olyn. I know,” said Padma softly. He smiled up at me, and those eyes of his seemed to catch light for a moment and blind me. “I was sorry to learn about your brother-in-law, Tarn.”
I went quite cool all over. I had been ready to walk on, but now I stood stock still and looked at him.
“My brother-in-law?” I said.
“The young man who died near Dhores on New Earth.”
“Oh, yes,” I said between stiff lips. “I’m surprised that you’d know.”
“I know because of you, Tarn.” Once more the hazel eyes of Padma seemed to catch light. “Have you forgotten? I told you once that we have a science called ontogenetics, by which we calculate the prob-
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• Gordon R. Dickson
abilities of human actions in present and future situations. YouVe been an important factor in those calculations for some time.” He smiled. “That’s why I was expecting to meet you here, and now. WeVe calculated you into our present situation here on Ste. Marie, Tarn.”
“Have you?” I said. “Have you? That’s interesting.”
“I thought it would be,” said Padma softly. “To you, especially. Someone like a Newsman, like yourself, would find it interesting.”
“It is,” I said. “It sounds like you know more than I do about what I’m going to be doing here.”
“We’ve got calculations,” said Padma in his soft voice, “to that effect. Come see me in Blauvain, Tarn, and I’ll show you.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“You’ll be very welcome.” Padma inclined his head. His blue robe whispered on the floor as he turned and went out of the room.
“This way,” said Janol, touching my elbow. I started as if I had just wakened from a deep sleep. “The Commander’s in here.”
I followed him automatically into an inner office. Kensie Graeme stood up as we came through the door. For the first time I stood face to face with this great, lean man in field uniform, with a heavy-boned, but open, smiling face under black, slightly curly hair. That peculiar golden warmth of personality—a strange thing in a Dorsai—seemed to flow out from him as he rose to meet me and his long-fingered, powerful hand swallowed mine in a handshake.
“Come on in,” he said. “Let me fix you up with a drink. Janol,” he added to my mercenary Com-
• 234 *>
SOLDIER, ASK NOT •
mandant from New Earth, “no need for you to stick around. Go on to chow. And tell the rest of them in the outer office to knock off.”
Janol saluted and went. I sat down as Graeme turned to a small bar cabinet behind his desk. And for the first time in three years, under the magic of the unusual fighting man opposite me, a tittle peace came into my soul. With someone like this on my side, I could not lose.
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