I was as little concerned about my own life just then as a Friendly. I think I was shot at once or twice, in spite of the ambassadorial flags on the air-car, but I don’t remember exactly. Eventually I found the Command Center and descended.

Enlisted men surrounded me as I stepped out of the air-car. I showed my Credentials and went up to the battle screen, which had been set up in open air at the edge of shadow from some tall variform oaks. Graeme, Padma and his whole staff were grouped around it, watching the movements of their own and the Friendly troops reported on it. A continual low-voiced discussion of the movements went on, and a

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steady stream of information came from the communications center fifteen feet off.

The sun slanted steeply through the trees. It was almost noon and the day was bright and warm. No one looked at me for a long time; and then Janol, turning away from the screen, caught sight of me standing off at one side by the flat-topped shape of a tactics computer. His face went cold. He went on about what he was doing. But I must have been looking pretty bad, because after a while he came by with a canteen cup and set it down on the computer top.

“Drink that,” he said shortly, and went off. I picked it up, found it was Dorsai whisky and swallowed it. I could not taste it, but evidently it did me some good, because in a few minutes the world began to sort itself out around me and I began to think again.

I went up to Janol. “Thanks.”

“All right.” He did not look at me, but went on with the papers on the field desk before him.

“Janol,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“See for yourself,” he said, still bent over his papers.

“I can’t see for myself. You know that. Look— I’m sorry about what I did. But this is my job, too. Can’t you tell me what’s going on now and fight with me afterward?”

“You know I can’t brawl with civilians.” Then his face relaxed. “All right,” he said, straightening up. “Come on.”

He led me over to the battle screen, where Padma and Kensie were standing, and pointed to a sort of small triangle of darkness between two snake!ike

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lines of light. Other spots and shapes of light ringed it about.

“These”—he pointed to the two snakelike lines— “are the Macintok and Sarah Rivers, where they come together, just about ten miles this side of Joseph’s Town. It’s fairly high ground, hills thick with cover, fairly open between them. Good territory for setting up a stubborn defense, bad area to get trapped in.”

“Why?”

He pointed to the two river lines.

“Get backed up in here and you find yourself hung up on high bluffs over the river. There is no easy way across, no cover for retreating troops. It’s nearly all open farmland the rest of the way, from the other sides of the rivers to Joseph’s Town.”

His finger moved back out from the point where the river lines came together, past the small area of darkness and into the surrounding shapes and rings of light.

“On the other hand, the approach to this territory from our position is through open country, too-narrow strips of farmland interspersed with a lot of swamp and marsh. It’s a tight situation for either commander, if we commit to a battle here. The first one who has to backpedal will find himself in trouble in a hurry.”

“Are you going to commit?”

“It depends. Black sent his light armor forward. Now he’s pulling back into the high ground between the rivers. We’re far superior in strength and equipment. There’s no reason for us not to go in after him, as long as he’s trapped himself—” Janol broke off.

“No reason?” I asked.

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“Not from a tactical standpoint,” Janol frowned at the screen. “We couldn’t get into trouble unless we suddenly had to retreat. And we wouldn’t do that unless he suddenly acquired some great tactical advantage that’d make it impossible for us to stay there.”

I looked at his profile.

“Such as losing Graeme?” I said.

He transferred his frown to me. “There’s no danger of that.”

There was a certain change in the movement and the voices of the people around us. We both turned and looked.

Everybody was clustering around a screen. We moved in with the crowd and, looking between the shoulders of two of the officers of Graeme’s staff, I saw on the screen the image of a small grassy meadow enclosed by wooded hills. In the center of the meadow, the Friendly flag floated its thin black cross on white background beside a long table on the grass. There were folding chairs on each side of the table, but only one person—a Friendly officer, standing on the table’s far side as if waiting. There were the lilac bushes along the edge of the wooded hills where they came down in variform oak and ash to the meadow’s edge; and the lavender blossoms were beginning to brown and darken for their season was almost at an end. So much difference had twenty-four hours made. Off to the left of the screen I could see the gray concrete of a highway.

“I know that place—” I started to say, turning to Janol.

“Quiet!” he said, holding up a finger. Around us,

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everybody else had fallen still. Up near the front of our group a single voice was talking.

“—it’s a truce table.”

“Have they called?” said the voice of Kensie.

“No, sir.”

“Well, let’s go see.” There was a stir up front. The group began to break up and I saw Kensie and Padma walking off toward the area where the air-cars were parked. I shoved myself through the thinning crowd like a process server, running after them.

I heard Janol shout behind me, but I paid no attention. Then I was up to Kensie and Padma, who turned.

“I want to go with you,” I said.

“It’s all right, Janol,” Kensie said, looking past me. “You can leave him with us.”

“Yes, sir.” I could hear Janol turn and leave.

“So you want to come with me, Mr. Olyn?” Kensie said.

“I know that spot,” I told him. “I drove by it yesterday. The Friendlies were taking tactical measurements all over that meadow and the hills on both sides. They weren’t setting up truce talks.”

Kensie looked at me for a long moment, as if he were taking some tactical measurements himself.

“Come on, then,” he said. He turned to Padma. “You’ll be staying here?”

‘ ‘It’s a combat zone. I ‘d better not.” Padma turned his unwrinkled face to me. “Good luck, Mr. Olyn,” he said, and walked away. I watched his blue-robed figure glide over the turf for a second, then turned to see Graeme halfway to the nearest military air-car. I hurried after him.

It was a battle car, not luxurious like the Out-

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Bond’s, and Kensie did not cruise at two thousand feet, but snaked it between the trees just a few feet above ground. The seats were cramped. His big frame overfilled his, crowding me where I sat. I felt the butt-plate of his spring-pistol grinding into my side with every movement he made on the controls.

We came at last to the edge of the wooded and hilly triangle occupied by the Friendlies and mounted a slope under the cover of the new-leaved variform oaks.

They were massive enough to have killed off most ground cover. Between their pillar-like trunks the ground was shaded and padded with the brown shapes of dead leaves. Near the crest of the hill, we came upon a unit of Exotic troops resting and waiting the orders to advance. Kensie got out of the car and returned the Force-Leader’s salute.

“You’ve seen these tables the Friendlies set up?” Kensie asked.

“Yes, Commander. That officer theyVe got is still standing there. If you go just up over the crest of the slope here, you can see him—and the furniture.”

“Good,” said Kensie. “Keep your men here, Force-Leader. The Newsman and I’ll go take a look.”

He led the way up among the oak trees. At the top of the hill we looked down through about fifty yards more of trees and out into the meadow. It was two hundred yards across, the table right in the middle, the unmoving black figure of the Friendly officer standing on its far side.

‘ ‘What do you think of it, Mr. Olyn?” asked Kensie, looking down through the trees.

“Why hasn’t somebody shot him?” I asked.

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He glanced sideways at me.

“There’s plenty of time to shoot him,” he said, “before he can get back to cover on the far side. If we have to shoot him at all. That wasn’t what I wanted to know. You’ve seen the Friendly commander recently. Did he give you the impression he was ready to surrender?”

“No!” I said.

“I see,” said Kensie.

“You don’t really think he means to surrender? What makes you think something like that?”

“Truce tables are generally set up for the discussion of terms between opposing forces,” he said.

“But he hasn’t asked you to meet him?”

“No.” Kensie watched the figure of the Friendly officer, motionless in the sunlight. “It might be against his principles to call for a discussion, but not to discuss—if we just happened to find ourselves across a table from one another.”

He turned and signaled with his hand. The Force-Leader, who had been waiting down the slope behind us, came up.

“Sir?” he said to Kensie.

“Any Friendly strength in those trees across the way?”

“Four men, that’s all, sir. Our scopes pick out their body heats clear and sharp. They aren’t attempting to hide.”

“I see.” He paused. “Force-Leader.”

“Sir?”

“Be good enough to go down there in the meadow and ask that Friendly officer what this is all about.”

“Yes, sir.”

We stood and watched as the Force-Leader went

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stiff-legging it down the steep slope between the trees. He crossed the grass—it seemed very slowly— and came up to the Friendly officer.

They stood facing each other. They were talking but there was no way to hear their voices. The flag with its thin black cross whipped in the little breeze that was blowing there. Then the Force-Leader turned and climbed back toward us.

He stopped in front of Kensie and saluted. “Commander,” he said, “the Commander of the Chosen Troops of God will meet with you in the field to discuss a surrender,” He stopped to draw a fresh breath. “If you’ll show yourself at the edge of the opposite woods at the same time; and you can approach the table together.”

“Thank you, Force-Leader,” said Kensie. He looked past his officer at the field and the table. “I think I’ll go down.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” I said.

“Force-Leader,” said Kensie. “Form your men ready, just under the crown of the slope on the back side, here. If he surrenders, I’m going to insist he come back with me to this side immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All this business without a regular call for parley may be because he wants to surrender first and break the news of it to his troops afterward. So get your men ready. If Black intends to present his officers with an accomplished fact, we don’t want to let him down.”

“He’s not going to surrender,” I said.

“Mr. Olyn,” said Kensie, turning to me. “I suggest you go back behind the crest of the hill. The Force-Leader will see you’re taken care of.”

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“No,” I said. “I’m going down. If it’s a truce parley to discuss surrender terms, there’s no combat situation involved and I’ve got a perfect right to be there. If it isn’t, what’re you doing going down yourself?”

Kensie looked at me strangely for a moment.

“All right,” he said. “Come with me.”

Kensie and I turned and went down the sharply pitched slope between the trees. Our boor soles slipped until our heels dug in with every step downward. Coming through the lilacs I smelled the faint, sweet scent—almost gone now—of the decaying blossoms.

Across the meadow, directly in line with the table, four figures in black came forward as we came forward. One of them was Jamethon Black.

Kensie and Jamethon saluted each other.

“Commandant Black,” said Kensie.

“Yes, Commander Graeme. I am indebted to you for meeting me here,” said Jamethon.

“My duty and a pleasure, Commandant.”

“I wished to discuss the terms of a surrender.”

“I can offer you,” said Kensie, “the customary terms extended to troops in your position under the Mercenaries’ Code.”

“You misunderstand me, sir,” said Jamethon. “It was your surrender I came here to discuss.”

The flag snapped.

Suddenly I saw the men in black measuring the field here, as I had seen them the day before. They had been right where we were now.

“I’m afraid the misunderstanding is mutual, Commandant,” said Kensie. “I am in a superior tactical

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position and your defeat is normally certain. I have no need to surrender.”

“You will not surrender?”

“No,” said Kensie strongly.

All,at once I saw the five stakes, in the position the Friendly noncoms, officers and Jamethon were now, and the stake up in front of them fallen down.

“Look out!” I shouted at Kensie—but I was far too late.

Things had already begun to happen. The Force-Leader had jerked back in front of Jamethon and all five of them were drawing their sidearms. I heard the flag snap again, and the sound of its rolling seemed to go on for a long tune.

For the first time then I saw a man of the Dorsai in action. So swift was Kensie’s reaction that it was eerily as if he had read Jamethon’s mind in the instant before the Friendlies began to reach for their weapons. As their hands touched their sidearms, he was already in movement forward over the table and his spring-pistol was in his hand. He seemed to fly directly into the Force-Leader and the two of them went down together, but Kensie kept traveling. He rolled on off the Force-Leader, who now lay still in the grass. He came to his knees, fired, and dived forward, rolling again.

The Groupman on Jamethon’s right went down. Jamethon and the remaining two were turned nearly full about now, trying to keep Kensie before them. The two that were left shoved themselves in front of Jamethon, their weapons not yet aimed. Kensie stopped moving as if he had run into a stone wall, came to his feet in a crouch, and fired twice more. The two Friendlies fell apart, one to each side.

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Jamethon was facing Kensie now, and Jaraethon’s pistol was in his hand and aimed. Jamethon fired, and a light blue streak leaped through the air, but Kensie had dropped again. Lying on his side on the grass, propped on one elbow, he pressed the firing button on his spring-pistol twice.

Jamethon’s sidearm sagged in his hand. He was backed up against the table now, and he put out his free hand to steady himself against the tabletop. He made another effort to lift his sidearm but he could not. It dropped from his hand. He bore more of his weight on the table, half-turning around, and his face came about to look in my direction. His face was as controlled as it had ever been, but there was something different about his eyes as he looked into mine and recognized me—something oddly like the look a man gives a competitor whom he has just beaten and who was no real threat to begin with. A little smile touched the corners of his thin lips. Like the smile of inner triumph.

“Mr. Olyn,” he whispered. And then the life went out of his fece and he fell beside the table.

Nearby explosions shook the ground under my feet. From the crest of the hill behind us the Force-Leader whom Kensie had left there was firing smoke bombs between us and the Friendly side of the meadow. A gray wall of smoke was rising between us and the far hillside, to screen us from the enemy. It towered up the blue sky like some impassable barrier, and under the looming height of it, only Kensie and I were standing.

On Jamethon’s dead face there was a faint smile.

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