“What in the world are those things?” Carl said, sitting up and staring after them.
“They’re called ‘tanks,’” Chester told him.
The three tanks moved from single file to three abreast, facing the town, then stopped. Their engines were turned off, and all was deathly silent.
Suddenly a puff of smoke issued from the first, followed by a loud boom; then from the second, and the third. Three projectiles arced through the air and fell into the small town in the distance. There were curious belching explosions where they hit. Then the tanks fired again, and again.
Then there was a pause to evaluate the effects of their shelling. Thick smoke was coming up from the village, and tongues of red flame could be seen jutting up from the houses. Screams could be heard over the roar of the fires.
Each tank fired two more rounds. Then they backed up precisely, turned around, and methodically headed back up the trail they had come down.
“What was all that about?” Carl asked, staring down at the distant carnage.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Chester said. “But do try to keep your head down until they pass.”
Carl, Chester, and O’Malley stayed head down in the grass as the rumbling noise approached them and passed by.
When the tanks reached the spot in the trail closest to the woods, two men darted out of the woods and headed for the lead tank. The tank’s machine guns started chattering, but the men were there by then and the guns didn’t bear down on them. The men tossed something under the treads of the tank and dived out of the way.
There was a crumpling sound, and the lead tank clanked to a halt. The two behind it backed up a bit and paused, as if trying to decide what to do.
Two more men broke from cover and practiced broken-field running toward the last tank. This time the machine guns hit one of the men, and he jerked backward as though pulled by an unseen giant hand, and crumpled to the ground.
The second man dived under the tank. There was a loud crumpling sound, and the rear tank was still, and the man did not come out.
The middle tank churned its treads to turn sideways and drove out from between its two fallen brothers. When it was about fifteen feet off the road there was a violent explosion that seemed to come from all around it and envelop it, and then a series of sharp crackling sounds came from inside it as its ammunition exploded. The turret actually popped the track and canted to one side. A thin stream of very black smoke rose to the sky.
The two men got up out of the grass, and six more joined them from the woods. They cautiously approached the two tanks that were still but not burning. Two of them climbed up to the turret of each tank, opened the hatch, and pointed their hand weapons inside. A head appeared in the hatch of the rear tank, then a pair of hands, then a thin young man in a black uniform pulled himself up and sat on the lip of the turret. The man up there barked an order at him, and he slowly climbed down the side of the tank to the ground. Two of the men there roughly searched him, then threw him on the ground and tied his hands behind his back with a short piece of wire.
No one came out of the other tank, and no one else came out of the first one, so the men on the turrets cautiously went in, headfirst. After a while they came back out and threw supplies and weapons down to the men below before climbing down themselves.
The eight men gathered around their prisoner, and a long argument began. Carl sat up to watch, and was able to make out some of the words; just enough to get the drift of the discussion. “They want to shoot him!” he reported in amazement.
“Some of them do,” Chester said, “and some of them don’t.”
“But you don’t shoot prisoners,” Carl insisted.
“You don’t shoot prisoners,” Chester amended.
“What kind of a war is this?” Carl asked. “First those mechanical things steam up and shell a civilian town, and then a bunch of civilians blow them up and argue about shooting one of the men inside.”
“Not all sectors are as civilized as your own,” Chester told him.
Apparently the men decided not to shoot the tanker, or perhaps they were just saving him for later, for they stood him on his feet and started him walking in front of them toward the smoking town.
Chester and Carl quickly dropped back to the ground that O’Malley hadn’t left, as the men were now headed right toward them. Carl hugged the ground and closed his eyes and tried to remember the words of prayer of his youth.
“Well, hello there, what’s this!” A voice above them demanded. Carl rolled over and stared up at the muzzle of a gun and the smiling face behind it. “Good afternoon,” he said, sitting up.
“We don’t want to interrupt you gentlemen,” Chester said. “Don’t mind us, just go on your way.”
By this time they were surrounded by all eight men, who stared down at them over the barrels of their guns.
“Get up!” a small, stocky, balding man instructed.
Chester rose as though he had intended to all along. “To whom have I the honor of speaking?” he asked.
“Who are you?” the man demanded. “What are those uniforms?”
“Sir,” Chester said, “I am an officer in the Army of the Confederate States of America, and this is my sergeant. Colonel Chester A. Arthur at your service, and my orderly, Sergeant Allan. This gentleman is a good friend of mine—”
“O’Malley’s the name,” O’Malley interrupted. “Different O’Malley. And who are ye, if I may ask?”
“I am Pierre,” the stocky man said, “and these”—he swept an arm around to indicate the group—“are Charles, Jacques, Dominic, Bernard, Jules, Michael, and Ambrose. And one Boche driver.”
“We can’t stay here,” Ambrose said. “Shoot them and let’s go.”
“You can’t shoot us, we are neutrals,” Chester said firmly.
“The concept eludes me,” Pierre told him. “Where did you come from? You say you are from America; I have heard of America. How did you get here?”
“We’re from the next sector over,” Chester said. “Through the woods that way. Things are different there.”
“You crossed the barrier?” Pierre asked. “You expect us to believe that? What sort of trick is this?”
“No trick,” Chester told him. “We are innocent bystanders.”
“We are taking this Boche into the town to be executed by the townspeople,” Pierre said. “You’d best come with us, and we will decide what to do with you there.”
They stood up and allowed themselves to be roughly searched for weapons, and then marched toward the town, surrounded by the group of Frenchmen.
“Are you at war with these other people?” Carl asked Jules, a lanky man almost as tall as Chester, who was walking beside him.
“They are at war with us,” Jules said. “They are at war with everybody. You do not know about the Boche?”
“We don’t have them in our sector,” Carl said.
“What a wonderful place that must be,” Jules replied.
“Why don’t you wear uniforms?” Carl asked. “I thought you had to wear uniforms; it was like one of the rules.”
“The Boche have taught us that there are no rules,” Jules said. “We are the Maquis, and we fight the Boche. Whatever we wear, wherever we go, whatever we do, we fight the Boche. That is our life.”
The people in the town, when they entered it, were calmly going about their business of putting out the fires and taking care of the wounded. The dead were lined up in the main street, under blankets.
The young tank driver was turned over to the mayor of the town, and Carl, Chester, and O’Malley were taken to a stone cellar in a bombed warehouse to be interrogated.
The questioning went around and around for a while. The French attitude was that it was a trick, and they just wanted to find out what sort of trick it was before they took them out and shot them. It was not an attitude that allowed Carl to feel at all relaxed in his confinement.
Chester finally came up with the only
thing he could think of that would establish their story: he offered to show the Maquis leader the trick of going through the barrier.
“I should have done that anyway,” he told Carl. “It’s the best possible way to undermine the whole system. I should have started giving lessons months ago.”
“You teach two men how to penetrate the barrier,” Pierre decided, “and we’ll send them out tonight to try. If they don’t come back, or if only one comes back and he says the other died at the barrier, then we shoot you tomorrow morning. Is this agreeable?”
“What if they do come back?” Chester asked.
“Then we talk further,” Pierre said.
“Bring on your men,” Chester said, shrugging.
“I go ask for volunteers,” Pierre told him.
They were given the freedom of the cellar, such as it was, for the night while the two young men who had volunteered went off to test Chester’s method. They had been dubious, but willing. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Carl was sound asleep on the thin blanket that separated him from the stone floor when the sounds of gunfire and shouting from above woke him. First the gunfire, then the shouting. About a minute later, which gave him just enough time to get his shoes back on, a group of men broke through the cellar door and raced down, waving lanterns and sweeping the dingy room with their beams. One of them prodded O’Malley, who was still sleeping, sharply with his boot, and they herded them upstairs. About five of the Maquis members had also been captured, and were grouped together with their hands up, staring sullenly into the lights.
Their captors had black uniforms with silver piping, silver stripes, and shiny silver insignia. They looked very efficient.
The group of them, Maquis and Confederates, were herded out into the street, where a large truck waited. The Maquis members were forced to climb up onto the back of the truck. Just as Chester was about to join them, a voice from the dark interrupted:
“Just a second,” it said, “I want those three.” A black-clad Inspector walked into the light. “I’ve been looking for you for some time,” he told Chester.
Chapter Fifteen
They were handcuffed together and loaded aboard a large flitterboat by three Inspectors holding slender silver rods that somehow looked more menacing than any of the hand weapons Carl had seen in the past weeks.
“You’ve given us quite a run,” the chief Inspector said. “But we’ve got you now. The question is, what are we to do with you?”
“How’d you find us?” Chester asked.
“Oh, you left a back trail that was easy enough to follow, if you have the proper instruments,” the chief Inspector said. “The only thing is, it’s quite time-consuming. We almost lost you when you went through the barrier. The boys didn’t know you could do that, so they spent quite a bit of time snuffling around on the near side trying to pick up your trail. Should have guessed, though, you’ve done it before. We always assumed you hopped over, or stole a flitter. After all, you did once steal a flitter.”
“Hopped over?” Carl asked.
The chief Inspector turned to stare at him. “Yes, that’s what we call it. The only thing is, it takes a couple of days, usually, to prepare for it. If you don’t know how to do it, I’d best not tell you.”
“What are ye going to do with us?” O’Malley asked.
“Yes, that is the problem. We didn’t think anyone could escape from Devil’s Island, after all. The Governor General wants to see the three of you. But after he’s through with you . . . Well, we’ll have to think of something, won’t we?” He smiled and went back up to the control compartment.
“Wait a minute,” Chester called.
The chief Inspector came back to the doorway. “What?” he asked.
“The Governor General wants to see us?”
“That’s right.”
“The Governor General of what?” Carl asked.
“Of Earth,” the chief Inspector said. “His château is right near here. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Earth?” Chester said.
“That’s right.”
“Then you don’t know either.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you know why the Governor General wants to see me?” Chester asked.
“No,” the chief Inspector said.
“Because I know a secret that frightens him,” Chester said. “He doesn’t want anyone on this planet to know it, and I do.”
“That’s interesting,” the chief Inspector said, unconvinced.
“Do you want to know what it is?” Chester asked, smiling up at him.
“No, I guess not,” the chief Inspector said, and hastily backed out and slammed the door between the compartments.
Chester began to laugh. In a minute he was rolling around on the floor, holding his sides, unable to stop. O’Malley, who was handcuffed to him, was getting pulled around, so he sat on his large friend until he calmed down.
They landed on the lawn of the estate, with the great manor house in the background. It was all lighted up, and through the large French doors they could see people dancing. It was a costume party with all the ages of Earth represented. There were pharaohs and Eskimos, Roman senators and Southern governors, veiled dancing girls and tutued ballerinas.
And, Carl saw as he was led past the windows, there was Alyssaunde. Dressed like a peasant girl in silk and satin, dancing with a lordling in a high stiff collar, there was Alyssaunde! And she saw him. She turned away as she was spun around by her partner, but she turned back while he was still in sight. And she winked. Slowly, and clearly, she winked her right eye.
Then they were past the windows.
They were taken to a side door that led directly down a flight of stone stairs to a cellar with a row of stone, barred holding cells. They were thrust into one of the cells, still handcuffed together, and the door was slammed and bolted. “We’ll tell the Governor General you’re here,” the chief Inspector said. “Good night, and thank you for a most pleasant chase.” He raised his hat to them, and he and his men left the cellar.
“I don’t think I like this cellar as much as the last cellar,” O’Malley said.
“I don’t like the idea that I’m becoming a connoisseur of cellars,” Chester said.
“Alyssaunde’s here,” Carl said; “she’s upstairs. I saw her.”
“How nice for you,” Chester said.
“She winked at me,” Carl said.
Chester shook his head. “She had a dust mote in her eye,” he said. “Or worse, she did wink at you. Think nothing of it. Don’t let it bother you.”
“Get some sleep, lad,” O’Malley said, “Ye’re going to need it.”
“She’ll help,” Carl said.
Chester looked at him strangely. “Don’t you know who she is?” he asked. “I remembered while we were in her boat, but there was no point in bringing it up.”
“What do you mean?” Carl said.
“Her name is Flortnoy-Bobsmite. Alyssaunde Flort-noy-Bobsmite.”
“So?” Carl asked.
“Her father, Sir Andrew Flortnoy-Bobsmite, is the Governor General of Earth. The gentleman who wants to see us.”
“Oh,” Carl said.
Alyssaunde appeared in the doorway. “Here,” she said, thrusting a bundle of clothing through the bars, “put these on. I’ll have to take you upstairs through the party to get you out of here.”
“What are ye doing here?” O’Malley asked. “What sort of trick is this?”
“No trick,” Alyssaunde said. “I heard my father talking to some of his advisers. He plans to interrogate you and then either thrust you away in a dungeon below Government House, or have you killed.” She turned to Chester. “And I found out that what you told me was true. They locked you up just because you know something. And I found out what it was.
“I tried to get in touch with you on Devil’s Island, but I’m not very good at that sort of thing. The Inspectors turned my flitterboat away.”
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“That was you, then?” Carl said.
“Yes,” she said. “Are you all right? All of you?”
“Can you really get us out of here?” Chester asked.
“With a little luck,” she said. “Who can tell who’s wearing these costumes? I’ll get you up to my flitter on the roof, and we’ll leave.”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
“I don’t plan to come back either,” Alyssaunde said. “Everyone’s been lying to me all my life, and I’d like to find out the truth.”
“You’ve convinced me,” Chester said, grabbing the bundle on the floor. “What about these handcuffs?”
“Oh,” Alyssaunde said. “I didn’t know. You’re all handcuffed together. There’s no way to sneak through this building with you all handcuffed together. Not in the middle of the Anniversary Party.”
“The anniversary of what?” Chester asked.
“I don’t know, they’ve never told me,” Alyssaunde said. “Wait here, I’ll see if I can get a key. Get those costumes on.” And she disappeared from the door.
“Wait here, she says,” O’Malley grumbled. “Very funny.”
“Where’s she going to get a key from?” Carl wondered, unwrapping his costume.
Chester shrugged. “Maybe she used to play with handcuffs as a little girl,” he suggested. “Maybe she does escape tricks. Maybe she has a boyfriend who’s an Inspector.”
“Oh,” Carl said.
The costumes were not merely sets of clothes from various sectors, they were identified with different historical characters. At least Carl assumed they were historical characters, although neither he nor his friends had ever heard of them. The names of the characters were sewn into the neckbands of the costumes. Carl’s was a suit something like the one O’Malley had been wearing, but somehow more angular, and the name sewn into it was John Dillinger.
Different O’Malley fit into his clothes as if he had been born to wear them. They were very much like what he wore at home, he said, but better made. The name sewn into them was Robin Hood.
Chester A. Arthur had more of a problem. The costume was complex, and it was not readily apparent how some of the items were to be worn. But when he was finished, with the skintight pants, the boots, the cape, and the magnificent plumed hat, he looked like a heroic, larger-than-life figure, subject of some great epic. Of course his six-and-a-half-foot height helped. The name sewn into the back of his cape was Cyrano de Bergerac.
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