“Then what did they do?” Number One rasped.
Uninvited, the Deputy of Finance sank down onto a couch. He shook his head unbelievingly. “They used some sort of device I didn’t even know could exist. I don’t know how it works. I don’t really know what they did. But all out data banks are scrambled. Scrambled, I tell you. We have nothing. Nothing we can depend on.”
Number One felt a certain relief. He hadn’t known what sort of emergency, what tragedy to the Alphaland cause, had been brought before him. This seemed comparatively picayune.
He went over to the bar and poured a drink, brought it back and handed it to his visitor. “Drink this,” he growled. “You’re upset.” He switched his eyes to his Deputy of Surety. “Just what happened? You two don’t make much sense.”
“The details aren’t in,” Fielder said, his voice returning to its usual suavity. “However, it would seem that a large body of Betastani agents, carrying weapons deliberately designed not to affect our Surety alarms, invaded Coaid Matheison’s offices in the records wing of Finance.”
“Are government offices that vulnerable!”
Fielder made a gesture of helplessness with manicured hands. “One wouldn’t expect an attack to take place at such a point. The romp was unprecedented in any case, but the last locale one would expect would be the innocuous records offices of the Finance Commissariat.”
“Go on!”
“They killed several of the few guards who are posted at Finance, and then set up a device that has wiped every memory tape within blocks.”
“Did you catch any of them?”
Fielder shook his head, his expression empty. “They must have been highly picked men. Dedicated. They”—he hesitated—“they finished off their own wounded.”
A look of distaste went over Pater Riggin’s face.
Number One came back to his finance chief. “All right, what does it mean? What difference does it make? Why’d they bother to go to the trouble?”
Matheison stared at him as though unbelieving. “What difference does it make?” For once his indignation overrode his awe of his leader. “But they were the banks of all our records. There are no others.”
“Bring it down to a layman’s understanding, and cut out all this jetsam!” Number One growled.
Matheison took a deep breath. “Your Leadership, the Alphaland monetary system is based on the gold Alpha. In ancient times when a coinage system was first hit upon on Mother Earth—in Lydia, Asia Minor, to be exact, about 700 B.C.—it was very simple. The coinage, both gold and silver, was literally worth the weight of the precious metal involved. Even when paper money evolved, the bills were backed by gold, or silver. Thus a person holding a piece of paper money could go to the treasury that had issued it and demand the amount of gold.”
“I am not a schoolboy,” Number One rumbled. “Get to the point.”
“Your Leadership, as matters financial became more elaborate what with a burgeoning commerce, international trade, and so forth, we ceased dealing, more and more, with gold or silver itself and most transactions took place on paper. But always with the gold in the background; buried away in vaults, but always ultimately backing banking transactions. Centuries ago, the credit card began to evolve, slowly at first, but with growing speed as business machines, computers and data-processing developed. And now, today, actual coinage is practically unknown. Even an employee is not paid directly now. His salary automatically goes into his account. When he spends money, he simply presents his universal credit card, and the sum is deducted from the proper account.”
The Presidor’s eyes began to widen.
“Everything, but everything, is handled by our computers and their auxiliaries. In actuality, only some fifteen percent of Alphaland’s currency is backed by the gold in our vaults, but that has been deemed enough. If a foreign nation finds itself holding a considerable credit of Alphas, it can demand, and receive, the amount in gold bullion. But don’t you see what has happened? The magnitude of it? There were no records whatsoever except those we kept in our data banks. A common yoke who had savings of no more than five Alphas to his credit now has no record to prove it; the wealthiest banker with credits of a hundred million Alphas is in the same position. Nobody has any record.”
“What it amounts to,” Mark Fielder broke in with, “is that these Betastan criminals have robbed the nation of endless billions of gold Alphas. At the present time, for all practical purposes, every citizen in Alphaland is bankrupt!”
“That’s not exactly the way I’d put it,” Matheison said weakly.
Marshal Croft-Gordon, in full rage, stormed into the room without announcing himself.
“What in the name of Zen is all this! How can you prosecute a war without funds! We’re no longer in an age when the citizenry simply grab up their own swords and spears and dash out to confront the enemy! My forces expend half a billion a week just remaining at peace! What is this?”
Number One didn’t remember to glare at the cavalier intrusion.
It was Pater Riggin who ejaculated, “Holy Ultimate!”
They stood before the charts in Number One’s secret command post.
Number One said grimly, checking his wrist chronom-Croft-Gordon. Deputer Mark Fielder of the Commissariat of Surety. Temple Bishop Stockwater. Academician Philip McGivern of the Department of Socioeconomics. Deputy Jon Matheison of Finance. Ross Westley of the Commissariat of Information. All except the last being the inmost associates of the Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland.
Number One said grimly, checking his wrist chronometer, “Very well, the ultimatum has been issued. I assume, Marshal, that your forces are ready to move.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon cracked his swagger stick against his leg. “And have been for two months. My own opinion is that this ultimatum is a mistake. We should have struck as I suggested in my original plans, based on the first computer results.”
Number One looked at him expressionlessly. “Nobody asked for your own opinion, Marshal. Please bear in mind that the ultimate command of the Alphaland military is in the hands of the Presidor. This seems increasingly to escape you, Marshal.”
“Yes, Your Leadership,” the Marshal said stiffly.
Number One said as an afterthought, “Coaid Fielder, I assume you have taken the precaution of rounding up all nationals of Betastan.”
For the moment, the Surety Deputy said nothing and all eyes went to him.
“Well?” his leader growled.
“Your Leadership, it has been obvious for some time that the war was inevitable. For that reason, undoubtedly, a large number of enemy aliens have long since departed. When my men took the obvious steps of arresting those remaining, they found only a handful of elderly people and a few score of infants.”
The United Temple representative to the Central Comita said in complete surprise, “But, my son, there are thousands of Betastani resident in this city alone.”
Mark Fielder looked at the Temple Bishop. “There were, but no longer.”
The aged Philip McGivern rubbed his graying goatee and muttered impatiently, “Without doubt, the majority have fled to the countryside in anticipation of Betastan bombing.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon said, “There’ll be no enemy bombing of Alphacity. They’ll never get through our border defenses, not to speak of those of the city.”
Fielder said easily, “At any rate, those of the enemy nationals still in Alphaland will be seized soon enough. They can’t hide for any appreciable time. Among other things, the patriotism of our own civilians will prevent them from keeping under cover.”
“I hope you’re right,” Ross said.
Number One looked at him bleakly. “Clarify that, Coaid!”
Ross said doggedly, “I warned you that a month was insufficient time to prepare our people for a war of aggression.”
“War of aggression?” Temple Bishop Stockwater protested. “My son, your term is most distressing. This Crusade against
the ungodly is to repel aggression and come to the aid of those who would throw off the bonds of the evil Amish-Karlist regime that now subverts the freedom of the Betastani people.”
Ross said, “We’ve dropped that Amish bit, Your Blessedness. Or, at least, we’re phasing it out as rapidly as we can.”
“But these Amish are nonbelievers,” the Temple Bishop said in indignation.
Number One rumbled, “Let’s stop all this jetsam!” He looked at his chronometer. “Ten minutes to go.” He turned to his military chief. “You are confident of complete destruction of the primary targets?”
Marshal Croft-Gordon blew out his cheeks. “The computers indicate a three time overkill. The ten most populous cities, including the capital, New Betatown. The ten largest industrial complexes. The forty largest airports, both military and civilian. All military bases with a personnel of more than one thousand.”
“I am aware of the targets,” Number One rumbled. “But are you positive of complete destruction?”
“A three time overkill, Your Leadership.”
The aged Academician McGivern said musingly, “It will provide an excellent basis for their economy of the future. A pastoral economy. We should never, Your Leadership, allow them to recover from this destruction of both their cities and industrial complexes. Our own population centers, so our good Marshal assures us, will remain untouched by what remaining aircraft and missiles they might possess. In the future, we will supply what manufactured products the Betastani need.”
There was a humming of the door and an aide went to check it.
He returned with a confused looking colonel who snapped to attention upon confronting the Marshal of the Armies. “Sir, a report.”
Number One growled, “You will render your report directly to me, Captain.”
The newcomer looked at him, startled. “Uh, it’s Colonel, Your Leadership.”
“Your mistake. From now on, it’s Captain. In the future, I suggest that in my presence you address me first, not one of my Coaids, Captain.”
“Yes, Your Leadership.”
“Now, what’s your damned message? It had better be important.”
“Your Leadership, there has been a response to your ultimatum. In fact, the response is being broadcast by every means from the Betastani to the whole planet.”
“A response? So soon? Impossible!”
Number One darted a glare at his Marshal “Are the missiles and bombers on their way?”
“No, Your Leadership. We had another five or six minutes to go.” The Marshal looked blank. He shot a look at the military charts on the walls. The points marked in red were to have been struck. He banged his uniform leg with his swagger stick in irritation.
Number One turned his glare back to the ex-colonel, now captain.
“What kind of response, confound it?”
The captain brought up a military report. “Your Leadership, they have declared their ten largest population centers open cities. Each of these cities has surrendered to you.”
“Surrendered!” the Marshal barked. “We haven’t even landed a single man!”
“Silence!” Number One said curtly. He turned his rage on the captain. “What else? I can see there is something else!”
“Your Leadership, a whole series of industrial complexes—industries, mills, mines—have also surrendered. Declared themselves open areas, the equivalent of open cities.”
“You mean the Betastan government has surrendered?” Number One demanded unbelievingly!
“Praise to the Holy Ultimate,” The Temple Bishop intoned reverently.
“Shut up, confound it!”
The captain swallowed. “No, sir. That doesn’t seem to be it. It’s just these individual cities and industrial complexes have declared themselves open and have surrendered. They’re awaiting your occupation forces, Your Leadership. All military units have been withdrawn into the countryside.”
Number One, for once, was uncomprehending. For a moment it looked as though he were about to lapse into one of his characteristic moods of contemplation, but then he tossed his heavy head abruptly. He turned to Marshal Croft-Gordon and Deputy Fielder.
“Your opinions, Coaids?”
Croft-Gordon bit out, “Send the bombers! This is a trick. Level them!”
Ross Westley, with formerly unknown vigor snapped, “No! Didn’t you hear this man? The Betastani have broadcast their surrender to the whole planet. Not a person of good will, not only in the neutral countries but in Alphaland itself, would stand for an attack upon those cities now!”
“All the largest cities have surrendered?” McGivern said in shocked tones. “Why, the computers said the war would be over in less than three months, but at this rate, they won’t last three weeks.”
“At this rate, they won’t last three days,” Mark Fielder amended. “There’s something awfully wrong, here. I don’t like it.”
PART TWO
Chapter VII
Number One, surrounded by his inmost staff, had fallen into deep thought. Not a breath could have been heard. Even the colonel who had brought the announcement of the surrender of Betastan’s largest centers, although he had never been in the presence of his ultimate superior before, knew the story of the Presidor’s lapses into contemplation and the fate of any who interrupted such a reverie.
But Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon could stand it no longer.
“We’ve got to act!” he barked.
Number One’s eyes came away from far distances. He regarded his military chief desolately. “Very well, Coaid, order the advance. Our armies are to counter the provocations of the Betastani border aggressions. They are to return force with force, in the defense of the Motherland and the Holy United Temple.”
“The cities?” the Marshal demanded. “Shall we strike the cities?”
“No. All air fleets and missiles are to be reassigned targets of secondary importance. The secondary targets they would have hit upon leveling these that have declared themselves open.”
“But it’s a trick! Our whole campaign is based upon the destruction of those primary targets.”
Number One nodded grimly. “I suspect you are correct. This then shall be our procedure: air marines shall land in light force in New Betatown and all the other so-called open cities and industrial areas.”
“In light force?” Mark Fielder protested. “They wouldn’t last the day out.”
The Presidor nodded again. “That is my suspicion, Coaid. And this is my declaration: in any city, or other locale, which has declared itself open, if a single Alpha-land trooper is killed, then the city’s classification is voided and our missiles will immediately retaliate.”
Ross Westley said, shock in his voice, “You mean that each detachment of our own air marines is to be considered expendable? That if any action takes place in any of these cities, the place would be leveled, which would automatically eliminate our occupying force there as well?”
Number one didn’t bother to answer.
Temple Bishop Stockwater intoned, “Such sons of the Motherland and of the United Temple will proudly offer their lives to the Crusade.”
Ross shot an indignant look at him.
The Marshal said, “I’ll issue immediate orders to occupy the points in question.” He moved over to a visio-phone.
After a few moments, he touched a stud to amplify. Over the communication device could be heard, although over a great distance, the sounds of artillery and bombs.
“The counterattack is launched!” the Marshal proclaimed.
Number One looked at his assistants, one by one, his face expressionless. “Very well, Coaids, the die is cast. It is now in the hands of the Holy Ultimate.”
The Temple Bishop bowed his head. “Amen.”
Ross Westley, his face glum, wove his way through the chaos of his outer offices. The Commissariat of Information was in full swing, in full voice. Clerks ran rather than walked; every office machine in the series of rooms seemed
in full clatter. All was monstrous confusion.
He snorted.
Ross sometimes wondered what was transpiring in this, his own department, and realized that he, as supposed head of it all, had only a glimmering of understanding. The Commissariat of Information. Under one department or the other, it either originated, or censured, every book, every article, every fictional piece, every show—legitimate, Tri-Di, or tape. Not even nightspot comedians were free of the ever-present scrutiny of his minions, and woe to him whose sly innuendo touched upon matters political or religious or dwelt, even in far passing, upon the prerogatives of the Presidor or of the United Temple.
But Ross himself? He suspected that if he should secretly drop dead months would go by before anyone in his million-tentacled organization would realize it; that not a computer, not a collator, not a sorter or keypunch would slow even momentarily.
He snorted.
Sometimes he suspected that the same applied to every bureaucrat on every level. He himself dealt with his immediate assistant, Job Bauserman, and such department heads as Martha Taylor and Pater Ian, and seldom with anyone below that level. He hardly even knew the names of any of the lower assistants.
But take Number One. He also dealt with his immediate Coaids, his deputies. And he probably didn’t know the names of any under that level. And suppose the Presidor suddenly decided to withdraw into his own apartments for a week, a month, a year. Would the workings of the bureaucracy stop? Hardly.
He grunted contempt. The historian in him wondered. Would the Macedonian armies have continued on and conquered Persia had Alexander been killed at Issus? He suspected they would have. The Greek star was in the ascendancy, the Persian on the decline. Had Napoleon died in Egypt, would the exploding, idealistic people’s armies of the French have conquered Europe? Why not? It was in the cards that feudalistic Austria and the German and Italian states couldn’t stand against the new socioeconomic forces. Would the fate of Europe been greatly different had Hitler died in the streets of Munich during his first putsch? Probably not. Germany was fated to make her bid for control of Europe, and with the British Commonwealth, the Soviet goliath and industrially overwhelming America against her, fated to lose.
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