“It seems, however, that there is a man. A physician named Marko—Marko Dalu. He appears to be the central figure. People come to him from quite considerable distances, not so much for medical care as for something else. He goes out quite a bit, too. We’ve noticed that whenever he does, he gathers quite a crowd. Always makes speeches. Not much to them, but they seem to result in a very unsatisfactory attitude toward the Empire.”
“But,” Nodan suggested, “can’t he be put in constraint on a treason or a heresy charge?”
“Oh, easily.” His superior nodded.
“Of course he can. We can arrest anyone for that, and in this case, we could make it stick.” He paused, a smile creeping over his face. “But we want to do it in such a way as to be profitable.” He paused again. “We must sacrifice troops to an unlawful mob.” He beat softly on the table. “Our overlordship will be challenged.” His voice lowered again, and he faced Nodan squarely. “Then, of course, Kleedra will be reconquered. It will resume its rightful place as a subject village, and all will be well again.”
Nodan’s smile was admiring. “A truly clever plan,” he applauded. “And, of course, our Philar, the bluff old warrior, is just the man to make the plan work?”
“Naturally,” nodded Milbar, “he will swagger in at the head of his reinforced company, full of righteousness and patriotic vim. He’ll seize his prisoner and start out of town. Then, the trap will spring. He has never been in combat on the battlefield, nor have the men we are giving him. A determined mob will make dog meat of them; with some encouragement, of course, and at a price. After that, I’ll send in experienced troops and take over the district.”
Milbar leaned back in his chair, contemplating the future with considerable satisfaction.
It was a warm day. Back In the hills, a faint blue haze obscured details of trees and ground. On one of the hillsides, before a cliff, a large group of people had gathered. They faced a single man expectantly. He held up his hands for silence.
“Peace, my friends,” he said. He spoke in almost a normal tone, yet those most distant heard him clearly.
Back in the crowd, among a small group of his friends, Plono Baltur nodded to himself. Yes, the mental communicator was a remarkable device. In this age, a public address system would be supernatural. It would be a strange device to be regarded with superstitious fear, yet the far more advanced mentacom merely gave a feeling of ease. It operated unobtrusively, without causing any comment, or revealing itself in any way. He looked about the group. Yes, a lot of people were listening.
“Men have spoken words of violence,” Marko was continuing. “This cannot be. Those who resort to violence will perish uselessly. It is only for those who abstain, who pass their days in peace who, with their sons, will inherit the future.”
Amurmur passed through the crowd. This was not exactly what many of them had come to hear. To a great many men in this audience, the stories of Marko Dalu and his strange abilities, coupled with his remarkable deeds, had come as a cry to action. Now, they felt let down.
“The rule of fear, of force and violence, cannot last,” declared Dalu. “It must and will come to an end, since force creates counter force. It is not up to us to dash ourselves senselessly at overwhelming odds, but rather to practice and teach those virtues that have been handed to us from the ancient days, in anticipation of the days to come, when many men will also practice them. Thus will all benefit.” Gradually, as he spoke, most of his hearers nodded in agreement. Not all he said was understood, nor was it meant to be. Only a few men still felt a vague dissatisfaction. As the crowd broke up, scattering to various pursuits, a few of these approached the philosopher.
“You preach against violence,” said one of them. “Then you say in effect that the Empire is bound to be destroyed. Who, then, is going to do this?”
Marko smiled. “That is not a matter for you or for me, my friend,” he said. “The teachers say, I believe, that the Empire is ruled by the Divine Emperor?”
The man nodded. “That is true.”
“Then,” argued Dalu, “cannot the Divine Halfazor take care of the purging of his own Empire?”
The man was obviously not satisfied, but he felt compelled to agree. He cast about for some way to pursue his questioning without venturing into the dangerous grounds of heresy. Back in the shadows, a small instrument was leveled his way. Suddenly, he felt that he was wasting his time. Here was no opportunity to build up a case against this Dalu. He turned and walked away. The instrument scanned the group. Several others decided that further discussion would be profitless. They left, to report another failure to their various superiors. Marko smiled at their retreating backs.
“Do you who remain have any further questions?” he asked.
One man stepped forward. “We do,” he announced. “At least, I do.” He glanced around at the three men with him. “I feel that there must be something to be done other than just passive waiting.”
Marko looked at the four men. “Do all of you have that feeling?”
They all nodded. “I do,” they chorused.
“Then,” Marko added, “are you willing to risk torture and death for your beliefs?”
The men looked uncertain. “I mean it,” Marko assured them. “If you join me, you will never gain riches. You may suffer hunger, thirst, torture, death. Danger will be your constant companion. You will be censured, with no chance of retaliation.”
One man shook his head. “This is a dismal outlook,” he announced.
“Yes, but one which must be faced,” Marko told him.
The man looked at the philosopher for a moment, then turned. Slowly, he walked away. The others stood fast.
“I am a fool,” announced one of them. “My better judgment tells me to leave, but I am still here. What must we do?”
The other two simply nodded.
“Follow me,” ordered Marko. He turned, walking into the shadow of the cliff. He walked up to the cliff, then melted into it. The three men looked at each other, then shrugged. They, too, walked into the cliff.
Inside, they looked around in bewilderment. It was a cave, but the lighting was brilliant. Around the walls were arranged masses of unfamiliar equipment. Several men in strange clothing stood about the room. Marko Dalu was stripping off his robes. Now, he turned toward them, the light gleaming from his insignia.
“Gentlemen,” he greeted them, “allow me to introduce myself. I am a member of a service which will remain unknown to your planet for many centuries. You have been chosen for that same service, provided you can prove yourselves fit during the next few hours. I think you can.” He waved a hand and one of the uniformed men pulled a lever.
Instantly, the lights went out. Images started forming in the minds of the three men. Rapidly, they saw the early days of a planet. They saw the gradual appearance of man, then his development to a civilization comparable to their own. Empires arose—and fell. Once, civilization was wiped out, only to start anew from the very beginnings. Machines were developed—machines which the men somehow understood, though they had never seen their like before. Wars were fought. New weapons were devised. Defenses were developed, then, new weapons. Lands were devastated. Finally, an entire continent was laid bare of life, but its final, despairing effort was decisive. As they watched, the immense forces interacted. Gravitic stresses, far beyond the wildest dreams of the weapon designers, developed. Then came complete catastrophe. At first slowly, then with vicious rapidity, the planet ripped itself to bits. As the images faded, a few rocks started their endless circling of the sun which had once given life to a great planet.
“That,” said Dalu’s voice, “was a drastic case. Now, a different picture.”
Again, the images formed. This planet, too, had its wars, but after the fall of one civilization, international and interracial understanding developed. The wars lessened in severity, then ceased. Scientific devices, once developed as weapons, took their places in a peaceful, planetwide economy. The population
grew, and, as life spans lengthened, the race spread to other planets, then to other suns. The images faded upon a peaceful and prosperous vista.
“The other side of the picture,” remarked Dalu. “Now for the mechanics of the thing.”
Hours passed. Finally, the three men walked out of the cliff again. Coming out into the blackness of the night, they looked toward each other wordlessly. Then, each engaged with his own thoughts, they went their separate ways.
Inside the cave, D’lun spoke to Communications Technician Elkins.
“Well, what do you think of ’em?”
“Looked like a good bunch to me, sergeant.” Elkins turned from his instruments. “When do they come in for their basic training?”
“We’ve got a flight to Base scheduled in two more nights. These three bring it up to twenty.” D’lun stretched. “I’m going to send them back for the full thirty days, of course, then I think that’ll be the last class. We’ve got more than we have to have, really.” He looked at the communicator. “Besides,” he added, “that last message you got doesn’t give us a lot more time anyway. This group may report back after we’ve left.”
“Leaves it up to Baltur to break ’em in?”
“Baltur’s a good man,” remarked D’lun. “He soaked up instruction like a sponge. He can break these people in and run the operation nicely. ’Course, he’ll have help and close support from Base and Sector for the next twenty years, anyway. After that, it’ll settle to routine.”
“Yes, Kalidar, we have a certain amount of unrest here. There’s no open rebellion, though.” The district governor frowned. “No question about it, this man Marko is a disturbing influence, but he’s never preached revolt or sedition; on the contrary, he speaks of peace.”
Philar leaned back, folding his arms. “Although my orders, governor, are not too clear, they do make definite mention of rebellious elements. Mention is also made of offenders. Surely some reports must have reached the Imperial Halls.”
The governor nodded. “Of course. We have naturally reported the trend of public thinking. In answer, you are sent. Now, we suppose the Imperial Guard will eliminate the cause of the disturbance. We will take care of other matters as they arise. Immediate action is in your hands, Kalidar.”
“I see. You may be assured we will take action. Now, about quarters. I have a hundred thirty-seven men.” The governor arose. “Oh, that is quite simple. The old camp is still in very good condition. The village guard is using only a small part of it, so you may move your men in whenever you see fit. There is an excellent inn across the square where you may easily find accommodation for yourself.”
As Philar rejoined his troops, he was doing a lot of thinking. One of those little hunches that had visited him so often during his years of service was gnawing feebly. No question about it, something was wrong here. Something more than a simple case of sedition, but what was it? He took possession of the Casern, absorbed the village guard into his own company, then called in his guardmasters. One by one, they filed in. Their commander greeted each by name, then:
“Gentlemen,” he commenced, “we have a little investigation to make here before we can take action. I want your men to mingle with the townspeople much more than is usual.” Five sets of eyebrows raised, but there was a low chorus of acquiescence.
“Of course, any unusual comments heard, or any strange attitudes will be immediately reported.” Philar hesitated. “Now, to my part. I want to interview a man, but I’m not about to just pull him in for questioning.” Dielo, previously the guardmaster-in-charge of the village, stepped forward. “Why not, sir,” he queried. “We have nearly two hundred men now. Any insurrection could be put down easily.”
“Possibly,” agreed his superior. “Quite possibly, but why decimate the village unnecessarily?” He raised his hand as the other was about to speak. “No, I think I’ll do it my way. Are any of our guardsmen feeling ill, or possibly suffering from the strain of our march?”
The master of the third guard smiled. “There’s always Gorlan, sir,” he remarked. “I never knew him to miss a chance to make sick quarters.” The commander’s answering smile was understanding. “Good. Then let him take to his pallet, and call in the physician Marko. Obviously, this is a case for one with knowledge beyond simple camp surgery.” He looked the group over for a moment, then, “You may go now,” he added.
As the guardmasters filed out, Dielo muttered to himself, “Cautious old fool! Someone should make up his mind for him.”
“Halt!” The command was sharp. “Guardmaster Dielo, I heard that.” Philar’s hand fell to his sword. “Were you one of my regular men, I’d merely break you and give you a few days without water, but you have been a Guardmaster-in-Charge.” He paused, a crooked smile growing on his lips. “By the Emperor’s sandals, I wanted a sick man. Now, I’ll get one. Draw your sword.”
Dielo’s sword left its sheath. “Now, here’s quick promotion,” he exulted. “I’m a real swordsman, not a windy old failure.”
The clang of swords echoed down the lanes of the old camp, bringing guardsmen at the run. The two men circled about. Slash, parry; slash, parry, slash. Stroke and counterstroke. Now a retreat, now an advance. No blood drawn yet. It was an exhibition of practiced and formal arms play. No question remained in the minds of the observers. Here were masters at work.
Philar was becoming annoyed. This man’s boast had been partially correct. Surely, here was no beginner. In fact, this man was very nearly as good as that old fieldmaster who had taught recruits so many years before. Echoes of long gone lessons ran through Philar’s mind.
“You, there, keep that point up. He’ll drink your blood.”
An idea came into his head. He had often wondered about it, he remembered now. Most unconventional, but it should work. What’s to lose, besides a head? On guard again, he disobeyed that first of all maxims. Casually, he allowed his point to lower below the permissible area. Instantly, Dielo seized his advantage. With a quick lunge, he beat down at the lowered sword, prepared to make the devastating swing to the head on the rebound. It was an easy stroke, and one which always worked, but this time, something went wrong. The lowered sword moved aside. As Dielo’s blade continued its downward path, he felt something sharp slide under his kilt. A quick slash, and his leg became useless. He dropped to the ground with a grunt of surprise. Somehow, that blade which had come from nowhere swung over again, striking his sword hand. He lay weaponless.
The victor stepped back. “So,” he thought, “the old, tried swordplay does have its weaknesses.” He looked down at the victim of his strategy. The initial shock had passed. Pain was now coursing through the man.
“Please, sir,” gasped Dielo. “Please, no sword art.” He groaned. “Please make an end.”
“No,” denied Philar gently, “you are one of my men, and it is my duty to take care of you. You are badly hurt.” He looked up. “Quick, Zerjo,” he called to a guardmaster, “get the physician Marko. This is a case for his skill alone.” He pointed to a couple of guardsmen. “Staunch me this man’s wounds quickly, then carry him to a pallet. We will await the physician there.”
Marko Dalu sat relaxed. Wine cup in hand, he was engaged in talking to a group of friends. Out in the hills, others were listening on their small communicators.
“Gentlemen,” he was saying, “we have completed the first phase. It has become increasingly apparent that the only method of encysting the principles of government, art and science already attained is within a cloak of mysticism. You, therefore, will probably have to become the founders of a new religion. We will arrange a spectacular martyrdom of Marko Dalu, which may be used as you gentlemen see fit.
“Naturally, you and your successors will be visited periodically by members of the Corps, who will give you assistance and advice, but to a large extent, you will be on your own. Again, I have to tell you, gentlemen, that this service you have chosen is a dangerous one. You are powerfully armed and protected, but there are restricti
ons as to your use of your arms. Some of you may suffer torture. Some
may die. I don’t believe, however, that I have to point out to you the importance of your work, or the fact that your comrades will do all they can to get you out of any danger.
“I may add one thing. If any of you wish to withdraw, the way is still open.” He sipped from his cup, waiting. The communicator was silent. None in the group before him spoke. Finally, one man stood up.
“I don’t believe anyone wants to quit,” he remarked, “so I would like to ask one question.” He paused, looking about the room. “We have been given equipment and knowledge that is far in advance of this world of ours. Are we to retain this and yet keep it secret?”
Marko nodded. “You have the knowledge of your world on the one hand, and the knowledge of other worlds on the other. These must be kept separate for many centuries. Advanced knowledge may be hinted at under certain circumstances, but the hints must be very vague, and the source must never be given. The equipment must be safeguarded at all costs. You all have demolition instructions which must be carried out at any hint of danger or compromise of your equipment. Does that answer the question?”
The man nodded. “Perfectly,” he said. “I was sure of the answer, but I wanted it clearly stated.” As he sat down, Marko’s apprentice ran in, closely followed by a guardmaster of the Empire, in full uniform. The boy was nervous.
“Sir,” he started, “A guardsman—”
Zerjo thrust the boy aside. “No need for anxiety,” he announced. “It is urgent, though. One of my comrades is seriously hurt. We would have you attend him.”
Marko arose, smiling. “You know, of course,” he remarked, “I am not regarded with too great favor by the governor.”
“No matter.” Zerjo was impatient. “Men say you are the best healer in Kleedra. Tonight, we have need of such.”
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