“This is the AAA Ace ship, bound to Vermoine II from Trigale Central Warehouse,” Gregor elaborated. “My papers are in order.” He repeated the routine request for landing privilege and leaned back in his chair.
It had been a struggle, but all his animals were alive, intact, healthy, happy, etcetera, etcetera. AAA Ace had made a nice little profit. But all he wanted now was to get out of this ship and into a hot bath. He wanted to spend the rest of his life as far from Queels, Smags and Firgels as possible. He wanted . . .
“Landing permission refused.”
“What?”
“Sorry, but we’re full up at present. If you want to hold your present orbit, I believe we can accommodate you in about three months.”
“Hold on!” Gregor yelped. “You can’t do this! I’m almost out of food, my main drive is shot and I can’t stand these animals much longer!”
“Sorry.”
“You can’t turn me away,” Gregor said hoarsely. “This is a public warehouse. You have to—”
“Public? I beg your pardon, sir. This warehouse is owned and operated by the Trigale Combine.”
THE radio went dead. Gregor stared at it for several minutes.
Trigale!
Of course they hadn’t bothered him at their Central Warehouse. They had him by simply refusing landing privileges at their Vermoine warehouse.
And the hell of it was, they were probably within their rights.
He couldn’t land on the planet. Bringing the ship down without a main drive would be suicide. And there was no other space warehouse in the Vermoine solar system.
Well, he had brought the animals almost to the warehouse. Certainly Mr. Vens would understand the circumstances and judge his intentions.
He contacted Vens on Vermoine II and explained the situation.
“Not at the warehouse?” Vens asked.
“Well, within fifty miles of the warehouse,” Gregor said.
“That really won’t do. I’ll take the animals, of course. They’re mine. But there are forfeiture clauses in the event of incomplete delivery.”
“You wouldn’t invoke them, would you?” Gregor pleaded. “My intentions—”
“They don’t interest me,” Vens said. “Margin of profit and all that. We colonists need every little bit.” He signed off.
Perspiring in the cold room, Gregor called Arnold and told him the news.
“It’s unethical!” Arnold declared in outrage.
“But legal.”
“I know, damn it. I have to have time to think.”
“You’d better find something good,” Gregor said.
“I’ll call you back.”
Gregor spent the next few hours feeding his animals, picking Queel wool out of his hair and burning more furniture on the deck of the ship. When the radio buzzed, he crossed his fingers before answering it. “Arnold?”
“No, this is Vens.”
“Listen, Mr. Vens,” Gregor said, “if you’d just give us a little more time, we could work out this thing amicably. I’m sure—”
“Oh, you’ve got me over a barrel, all right,” Vens snapped. “It’s perfectly legal, too. I checked. Shrewd operation, sir, very shrewd operation. I’m sending a tug for the animals.”
“But the forfeiture clause—”
“Naturally, I cannot invoke it.” Vens signed off.
GREGOR stared at the radio.
Shrewd operation? What had Arnold done?
He called Arnold’s office.
“This is Mr. Arnold’s secretary,” a young feminine voice answered. “Mr. Arnold has left for the day.”
“Left? Secretary? Is this the Arnold of AAA Ace? I’ve got the wrong Arnold, haven’t I?”
“No, sir, this is Mr. Arnold’s office, of the AAA Ace Planetary Warehouse Service. Did you wish to place an order? We have a first-class warehouse in the Vermoine system, in an orbit near Vermoine II. We handle light, medium and heavy gravity products. Personal supervision by our Mr. Gregor. And I think you’ll find that our rates are quite attractive.”
SO that was what Arnold had done—he had turned their ship into a warehouse! On paper, at least. And their contract did give them the option of supplying their own warehouse. Clever!
But that nuisance Arnold could never leave well enough alone. Now he wanted to go into the warehouse business!
“What did you say, sir?”
“I said this is the warehouse speaking. I want to leave a message for Mr. Arnold.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell Mr. Arnold to cancel all orders,” Gregor said grimly. “His warehouse is coming home as fast as it can hobble.”
THE BATTLE
It was the Last Battle. The cavalry was ready. The air arm was ready. The troops were ready. Metal shining, relays renewed, energy reservoirs charged. Television for the world was ready . . . Was there anything not ready?
SUPREME General Fetterer barked “At ease!” as he hurried into the command room. Obediently, his three generals stood at ease.
“We haven’t much time,” Fetterer said, glancing at his watch. “We’ll go over the plan of battle again.”
He walked to the wall and unrolled a gigantic map of the Sahara Desert.
“According to our best theological information, Satan is going to present his forces at these coordinates.” He indicated the place with a blunt forefinger.
“In the front rank there will be the devils, demons, succubi, incubi, and the rest of the ratings. Bael will command the right flank, Buer the left. His Satanic Majesty will hold the centre.”
“Rather medieval,” General Dell murmured.
General Fetterer’s aide came in, his face shining and happy with the thought of the Coming.
“Sir,” he said, “the priest is outside again.”
“Stand to attention, soldier,” Fetterer said sternly. “There’s still a battle to be fought and won.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said, and stood rigidly, some of the joy fading from his face.
“The priest, eh?” Supreme General Fetterer rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. Ever since the Coming, since the knowledge of the imminent Last Battle, the religious workers of the world had made a complete nuisance of themselves. They had stopped their bickering, which was commendable. But now they were trying to run military business.
“Send him away,” Fetterer said. “He know we’re planning Armageddon.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said. He saluted sharply, wheeled, and marched out.
“To go on,” Supreme General Fetterer said. “Behind Satan’s first line of defence will be the resurrected sinners, and various elemental forces of evil. The fallen angels will act as his bomber corps. Dell’s robot interceptors will meet them.”
General Dell smiled grimly.
“Upon contact, MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed towards the centre of the line. MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed towards the centre,” Fetterer went on, “supported by General Ongin’s robot infantry. Dell will command the H bombing of the rear, which should be tightly massed. I will thrust with the mechanised cavalry, here and here.”
The aide came back, and stood rigidly at attention. “Sir,” he said, “the priest refuses to go. He says he must speak with you.”
Supreme General Fetterer hesitated before saying no. He remembered that this was the Last Battle, and that the religious workers were connected with it. He decided to give the man five minutes.
“Show him in,” he said.
The priest wore a plain business suit, to show that he represented no particular religion. His face was tired but determined.
“General,” he said, “I am a representative of all the religious workers of the world, the priests, rabbis, ministers, mullahs, and all the rest. We beg of you, General, to let us fight in the Lord’s battle.”
Supreme General Fetterer drummed his fingers nervously against his side. He wanted to stay on friendly terms with these men. Even he, the Supreme Commander, might
need a good word, when all was said and done . . .
“You can understand my position,” Fetterer said unhappily. “I’m a general. I have a battle to fight.”
“But it’s the Last Battle,” the priest said. “It should be the people’s battle.”
“It is,” Fetterer said. “It’s being fought by their representatives, the military.”
The priest didn’t look at all convinced.
Fetterer said, “You wouldn’t want to lose this battle, would you? Have Satan win?”
“Of course not,” the priest murmured.
“Then we can’t take any chances,” Fetterer said. “All the governments agreed on that, didn’t they? Oh, it would be very nice to fight Armageddon with the mass of humanity. Symbolic, you might say. But could we be certain of victory?”
The priest tried to say something, but Fetterer was talking rapidly.
“How do we know the strength of Satan’s forces? We simply must put forth our best foot, militarily speaking. And that means the automatic armies, the robot interceptors and tanks, the H bombs.”
The priest looked very unhappy. “But it isn’t right,” he said. “Certainly you can find some place in your plan for people?”
Fetterer thought about it, but the request was impossible. The plan of battle was fully developed, beautiful, irresistible. Any introduction of a gross human element would only throw it out of order. No living flesh could stand the noise of that mechanical attack, the energy potentials humming in the air, the all-enveloping fire power. A human being who came within a hundred miles of the front would not live to see the enemy.
“I’m afraid not,” Fetterer said.
“There are some,” the priest said sternly, “who feel that it was an error to put this in the hands of the military.”
“Sorry,” Fetterer said cheerfully. “That’s defeatist talk. If you don’t mind–” He gestured at the door. Wearily the priest left.
“These civilians,” Fetterer mused. “Well gentlemen, are your troops ready?”
“We’re ready to fight for Him,” General MacFee said enthusiastically. “I can vouch for every automatic in my command. Their metal is shining, all relays have been renewed, and the energy reservoirs are fully charged. Sir, they’re positively itching for battle!”
General Ongin snapped fully out of his daze. “The ground troops are ready, sir!”
“Air arm ready,” General Dell said.
“Excellent,” General Fetterer said. “All other arrangements have been made. Television facilities are available for the total population of the world. No one, rich or poor, will miss the spectacle of the Last Battle.”
“And after the battle–” General Ongin began, and stopped. He looked at Fetterer.
Fetterer frowned deeply. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen after the Battle. That part of it was, presumably, in the hands of the religious agencies.
“I suppose there’ll be a presentation or something,” he said vaguely.
“You mean we will meet—Him?” General Dell asked.
“Don’t really know,” Fetterer said. “But I should think so. After all—I mean, you know what I mean?”
“But what should we wear?” General MacFee asked, in a sudden panic. “I mean, what does one wear?”
“What do the angels wear?” Fetterer asked Ongin.
“I don’t know,” Ongin said.
“Robes, do you think?” General Dell offered.
“No,” Fetterer said sternly. “We will wear dress uniform, without decorations.”
The generals nodded. It was fitting.
And then it was time.
GORGEOUS in their battle array, the legions of Hell advanced over the desert. Hellish pipes skirled, hollow drums pounded, and the great host moved forward. In a blinding cloud of sand, General MacFee’s automatic tanks hurled themselves against the satanic foe. Immediately, Dell’s automatic bombers screeched overhead, hurling their bombs on the massed horde of the damned. Fetterer thrust valiantly with his automatic cavalry.
Into this mêlée advanced Ongin’s automatic infantry, and metal did what metal could.
The hordes of the damned overflowed the front, ripping apart tanks and robots. Automatic mechanisms died, bravely defending a patch of sand. Dell’s bombers were torn from the skies by the fallen angels, led by Marchocias, his griffin’s wings beating the air into a tornado.
The thin battered line of robots held, against gigantic presences that smashed and scattered them, and struck terror into the hearts of television viewers in homes around the world. Like men, like heroes the robots thought, trying to force back the forces of evil.
Astaroth shrieked a command, and Behemoth lumbered forward. Bael, with a wedge of devils behind him, threw a charge at General Fetterer’s crumbling left flank. Metal screamed, electrons howled in agony at the impact. Supreme General Fetterer sweated and trembled, a thousand miles behind the firing line. But steadily, nervelessly, he guided the pushing of buttons and the throwing of levers.
His superb corps didn’t disappoint him. Mortally damaged robots swayed to their feet and fought. Smashed, trampled, destroyed by the howling fiends, the robots managed to hold their line. Then the veteran Fifth Corps threw in a counter-attack, and the enemy front was pierced.
A thousand miles behind the firing line, the generals guided the mopping up operations.
“The battle is won,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered, turning away from the television screen. “I congratulate you, gentlemen.”
The generals smiled wearily.
They looked at each other, then broke into a spontaneous shout. Armageddon was won, and the forces of Satan had been vanquished.
But something was happening on their screens.
“Is that—is that—” General MacFee began, and then couldn’t speak. For The Presence was upon the battlefield, walking among the piles of twisted, shattered metal.
The generals were silent.
The Presence touched a twisted robot.
Upon the smoking desert, the robots began to move. The twisted, scored, fused metals straightened.
The robots stood on their feet again.
“MacFee,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered. “Try your controls. Make the robots kneel or something.”
The general tried, but his controls were dead.
The bodies of the robots began to rise in the air. Around them were the angels of the Lord, and the robot tanks and soldiers and bombers floated upward, higher and higher.
“He’s saving them!” Ongin cried hysterically. “He’s saving the robots!”
“It’s a mistake!” Fetterer said. “Quick. Send a messenger to—no! We will go in person!”
And quickly a ship was commanded, and quickly they sped to the field of battle. But by then it was too late, for Armageddon was over, and the robots gone, and the Lord and his host departed.
HEX ON HAX
Trickery . . . Indirection . . . Subtlety—these were the watchwords of the Grand BIA. But what human ingenuity can hide, human ingenuity can uncover.
“LET me offer my congratulations,” I Morgan said. “You’ve passed all the tests splendidly.”
Phillips supressed a sigh of relief and shook the bureau chiefs hand.
“Have a seat,” Morgan said. “You’re almost a part of the BIA now. I suppose you’d be interested in some of our little secrets?”
Phillips kept his face sternly indifferent. Naturally he was interested. The secrets of the Bureau of Interplanetary Affairs were enough to maintain Terra’s ascendancy in the Galactic South, and to implement Terran policy without recourse to war.
But Morgan had said that he was almost in. His final acceptance depended upon Morgan. Would this interview be in the nature of a final, oral examination?
Phillips said stiffly, “I wouldn’t presume to—to—”
“It’s quite all right,” Morgan said. “You’re security-cleared. But you mustn’t expect too much. We’re basically simple m
en here at BIA, and our devices are correspondingly simple.”
That was frankly unbelievable. Was it part of a test? Phillips studied Morgan’s square, honest face, trying to discover hidden ironies.
“But somehow,” Morgan mused, “our little devices are rarely discovered until too late. Even though they’re quite obvious.”
“Like the Trojan Horse?” Phillips blurted out.
Morgan smiled. “Heard of that one, have you?”
Phillips nodded.
“But do you know how it works?”
“No.”
“Really quite simple,” Morgan told him.
“We’re using it now on Balthash. Do you know that planet? A dictator entrenched himself there about sixteen years ago. A sizeable underground has been trying to overthrow him and establish a representative government. Terra would like to aid them, for Balthash is strategically located. But we can’t interfere directly.”
“Of course not,” Phillips said, knowing what politics were like in the Galactic South.
“The best we can do is send their dictator a statue to commemorate his birthday. Our code name for the statue is Trojan Horse.”
“And weapons are concealed inside it?” Phillips asked.
Morgan shrugged his shoulders.
“They would have to be,” Phillips mused, wondering if this was a test. “But it can’t be too hard to search one statue.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Morgan said indifferently.
IT WAS an heroic statue of Leader Hax, sculptured in the Terran style. Twice life size it stood, showing a glorified Hax with a sword in his right hand and a loaf of bread in his left. It was of carbon steel and tungsten, built to last a millenium.
Some races might have considered it beautiful.
“Very bad taste,” Security Chief Thallag murmured as he walked around its gigantic base.
Behind him walked his secretary and his chief engineer.
“Bad taste. But that’s to be expected of Terrans.”
His secretary said something about looking gift statues in the teeth, and Thallag raised an eyebrow. As Security Chief, it was his job to look gift statues in the teeth. To look everything in the teeth, as a matter of fact.
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