Terry Stevens looked up at the cliff. He said, “Well, Joe said to hold the right flank. You can’t get any further to the right than this. Not unless you’re a bird.”
The sergeant peered over the top of their improvised entrenchment. All up the slope were sprawled the bodies of Tulans and nomads, of cavalry horses and desertland ponies. There was a blast from below and a shattering against a nearby rock. The sergeant jerked his head down.
“You never hear the one that hits you,” Terry Stevens told him.
“So I am told,” the other growled. “But those muskets are double-barreled. Perhaps there is a second slug on the way.”
Terry was looking out over the valley. “Barry Watson seems to be doing all right. See that tiny bug down there in the rear of the third division. I’ll bet that’s him.”
The sergeant growled. “I wish I was in the rear of the third division.”
Terry Stevens looked over at him worriedly, then took a quick peek over the embankment. He brought his submachine gun up quickly and let loose a short burst.
“Get him?” his companion said, disinterestedly.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. They’re slowly edging up. This time, they’ll wait till they’re close before they rush us.”
The sergeant grunted sourly. “They don’t know how many of us are here and they can’t leave us, with these otherworld weapons in their rear.” He switched subject. “Are you sure that talk-thing on your wrist won’t work?”
Terry Stevens looked down at the shattered two-way radio on his wrist. He pulled it off and threw it aside. “Last word from Joe Chessman was to hold, no matter what. See the fighting down there? If this gang surrounding us was free to erupt around this flank, that’d be the end.”
“It is the end for us, anyway,” the sergeant said. “One more rush does it. There must be a thousand of them.”
Stevens was peering over the embankment. He said, “Do you have any more of Cogswell’s grenades?”
“No.”
“There’s a gang of them collecting in that arroyo down there.”
The sergeant looked over at the body of one of his fallen cavalrymen. He squirmed toward the dead man, keeping head and body low. Their shelter was not overly deep. He ran his hands over the other’s body, came up with a metal ball. He squirmed back to the Earthman, handed the small bomb over.
“Watch it with care,” he growled. “It is one of the earlier models. You will blow your arm off if you do not watch it with care.”
Terry Stevens hefted it, pulled the pin, lobbed it over the top of their shelter and pressed himself to the ground. There was a blast and they both raised their heads. Stevens shuddered.
The sergeant brought his weapon up and let fly another burst.
Stevens said, “Better watch the ammo.”
The sergeant snorted dourly. “This is my last clip, but my arm stiffens. I will not be able to fire much longer.”
Stevens looked at him anxiously. “Want some more of the pain killer?”
“No. It is not necessary. Already it is as though I float. It does not hurt, it is only that the arm stiffens.” He peered over the rim of the crater-like depression. “They fight all the way from here to the valley floor. You can not tell our people from the natives. Do you realize we started with five hundred men? All dead, or will be when they root us out of here.”
Stevens said mildly, “Some of the boys that were with us are still fighting down below.”
The sergeant growled, “Well, it looks as though all five hundred are sprawled around here.”
“How you and I survived is a mystery,” Stevens muttered.
“It will not be for long. I wonder if there is more ammunition on any of those bodies close enough to get to.”
“No. I shook them all down. I’ve got one extra clip here.”
“That will not last long.”
Terry said, “Look. Down there. A new group coming up. Look, there’s Dick Hawkins in that little crate of his. He’s flying air cover for them. It must be Joe Chessman and the rest. They’ll all have automatic...”
A crossbow quarrel whirred above his head, missing him by millimeters. He ducked and shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t even see where that one came from.”
“How far are they?” the sergeant growled. He shifted his gun, trying to get it into a position so that he could rest it on the ground and fire with one arm.
“I don’t know. A mile or two.”
The sergeant grunted.
Terry Stevens fired another burst. “Here they come!” he rasped. He could hear the submachine gun of his companion blasting away beside him.
Up the hill scrambled a hundred or more black garbed nomads, shouting desert battle cries. Most of them carried viciously long, two-edged swords—long, thin lances. A small number were equipped with muskets.
“Get those fanatics out front!” Terry rasped. “Holy Men!” His gun burped, burped again. Fell silent. He slammed his hand against its side, dropping the empty clip. He fumbled at his belt, brought out the sole remaining ammunition he possessed. He jammed it into the gun, blasted again. Three of the ascending enemy toppled over, one to remain motionless, the other two screaming pain and fear.
Terry shot and shot again. “One curd of a place for a pacifist,” he snarled.
It occurred to him that the other’s gun had fallen silent. He darted a look at the sergeant, and then turned his face away quickly.
The charge was slowing as the dismounted enemy plowed up the steepness of the brief hill. Those who had fallen earlier hindered the way. Two got nearly to the summit only to fall over, shattered by a quick double burst from the automatic weapon of the defending Earthman.
And suddenly it was over for the nonce. The charge broke. The warriors turned and fled after the few with muskets had emptied them at the hilltop.
Terry Stevens, alone, tried to avoid looking at his companion. He ejected the clip from his gun, looked at it. He had exactly three rounds left. He reached over and took the sergeant’s gun and checked the clip. It was empty.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, Joe,” he muttered. “It’s up to you now. The ultimate right flank is about to fold.”
There was a roar above and he stared up, startled.
It was Dick Hawkins in his biplane. He waved over the edge of the open cockpit.
Terry Stevens waved back. “I wish the hell I was up there with you, you funker,” he growled in sour humor. He could hear the musketmen blasting away at the aircraft. He waved his fellow Earthman away. “Get out of here, you cloddy! One of them will wing you with one of those blunderbusses,” he yelled meaninglessly.
Hawkins was heading back toward the knot of men that were slowly shooting their way up the hillside, their magnified fire power, compared to that of the foe, clearing the way before.
Down in the valley, Barry Watson’s men were still grinding forward. From Stevens’ position, the whole field of action clearly visible, he could see the enemy forces beginning to pile up in the defile through which they had entered the valley during the week. Many of their horses were already in confusion, attempting retreat, but running into a mess of supply wagons, still attempting to enter by the narrow way.
Stevens grunted to himself. “Barry’s made it. Trouble is, it’s going to take the gang up here a long time to realize it.” He poked his weapon over the side of the depression carefully. The nomads were going to be mustering for another rush soon. They must have noted, during the last one, how abruptly the fire had fallen off. They might even suspect that there was now but one man holding out here.
* * * *
Joe Chessman and Reif, blowing from the ascent, stared down into the crater where Stevens and the sergeant had held out for so long. Both men had been mutilated to the point of being unrecognizable.
Reif said, “He was not a warrior by choice. He fought well for one who was not a warrior.”
Chessman looked at him. He looked back at the naked bodies and g
rowled, “I suspect the campaign was won here. This was the ultimate crucial point.”
Natt Roberts came slogging up, for once no longer the dandy. His uniform was soaked through with perspiration and his face was grimy and tired, blood and mud were on his usually natty boots. He had heard Chessman’s words.
Roberts looked down at the body of his companion and muttered, “Now the question is, was it worth it?”
Chessman looked at him coldly.
CHAPTER VII
NATALIE WIELICZKA was saying, “We’re going to have to have at least one sizeable hospital in each city of over a hundred thousand, and at least a clinic in the smaller towns.”
Michael Dean looked at her wryly. He was seated at a heavy desk, littered with reports, graphs and receipts and was dressed in the colorful silks and furs of the highest class Genoese; he looked nothing so much as the middle years Henry the Eighth.
He grumbled, “Why come to me? I’m not the treasurer of this continent. Approach the governments involved. So you’ve got to the point where you need more hospitals. Fine, let them stick a new tax on the peasantry to finance them.”
Natalie said patiently, though wearily, “You know better than that, Mike. Taxes are leveled on wealth, not poverty.”
Mike Dean snorted. He was fond of Natalie Wieliczka, as everybody from the Pedagogue was fond of her, but of late she had been getting under his skin with her everlasting nagging for funds. He snorted. “Tell that to the peasants and the slums in town.”
“That the poor don’t pay taxes?” She raised her eyebrows. “They go through the motions, perhaps, but it’s an optical illusion. The powers that be—such as yourself—would like the poor to think that taxes were a big issue they had to be concerned about. Get them all steamed up worrying about taxes, so that their real troubles will be ignored.”
“You sound like a rabble rouser,” Mike Dean chuckled.
But she went on, doggedly. “Suppose it’s possible for a peasant or unskilled laborer, to get by on fifty crowns a day. Fine, you pay him one hundred crowns, and then tax him fifty. He thinks he’s paying taxes and gets all in a dither about their magnitude, but in actuality if taxes went up another ten crowns a day, you boys in the saddle would have to raise his pay. If his cost of living fell off, the governments you keep in power would undoubtedly raise his taxes to that extent. On an average, he gets a living wage, just enough to get by on, no more, no less, so taxes don’t really interest him.”
Mike Dean said dryly, “Save me your economics, Natalie. The fact of the matter is, Lou and I are in no position to finance a project as big as you’re talking about. We over-expanded, especially in textiles. Introducing the cotton gin was fine but things got steam rolling and before we knew it, we started producing cloth twice as fast as we can sell it. Everybody on this continent, who can afford a wardrobe, has a closet full of clothes.”
Natalie said impatiently, “Introduce fashion.”
“What?” He scowled at her.
She said, “I was joking, I suppose. But I’m surprised you haven’t already. Between you and Amschel Mayer, you’ve introduced just about every other gimmick that...”
“Wait a minute,” Dean said. “How do you mean, introduce fashion?”
“Fashion, fashion. Styles. So every woman on this continent has already got a closet full of clothes your textile products? Fine. Switch styles on them, drop the hemline five inches. Play it up in your publications. Have some of the big name theatrical people wear them. Introduce some fashion magazines. Make them feel as though they’re underprivileged if they can’t get a complete new wardrobe of the new styles.”
Dean was staring at her. “Zen! I think you’re right!”
Natalie muttered, “Forgive me, for I know not what I do.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said, coming to her feet. She looked down at him and far in the back of her eyes there was an element of contempt. “Mike, we came here to develop this world, not just to exploit it.”
He looked up at her, defensively. “Sometimes it’s hard to figure out where one starts and the other ends.”
“In this particular case, it isn’t. My medical universities are at last beginning to turn out competent practitioners. I need those hospitals, Mike.”
“All right, all right, I’ll talk it over with Louis. Listen, Natalie, how about you taking a week or so off and getting this fashion thing going for us? Neither Louis nor I know...”
She snorted in fine disgust. “Some chance, you miserable cloddy. I can just see myself. Already I feel like a traitor to my sex.”
Mike Dean chuckled sourly. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”
A secretary entered. “The Honorable Rosetti.”
Dean said, “Oh good. Show him in, Lange.”
“At once, Honorable Dean.” Lange left.
Natalie looked after the underling. “What’s he cringing about?”
Dean shrugged. “It’s an attitude you develop when you’ve got possibly three hundred crowns to your name.”
She frowned at him. “I hope you don’t encourage it. Wasn’t the theory that on Genoa we were going to advance by utilizing man’s freedoms? Plekhanov and Chessman are the advocates of the iron fist.”
He shrugged again, uncomfortably. “You don’t have to encourage it. It comes automatically.” He stood as Louis Rosetti entered the room.
Rosetti, one of the older of the Pedagogue’s complement, smiled at Natalie. “Nice to see you, Doc. We don’t get together often enough.”
“Hello, Louis,” she said wanly. “Not much time for social life.”
Dean said, “It’s not as nice as all that to see her. She’s trying to shake us down for enough to pay off this city-state’s national debt.”
Rosetti looked at her. “Why don’t you get after Mayer and Kennedy for a change? Didn’t Mike tell you we were hurting?”
“It wouldn’t be a change, Louis. I’m doing the same on their continent as I am here. If anything, my program is somewhat ahead over there.”
Dean said, “What’s up, Louis? I thought you were working on that series of distilleries.”
“Distilleries!” Natalie said.
Mike Dean looked at her impatiently. “What’s wrong with distilleries? It’s not as though we’re introducing alcohol. They’ve always had wine here.”
She shook her head. “I suppose it’s none of my affair. It seems to me, though, that we could first devote a few factories to medicinal products before getting around to stronger guzzle.”
Louis Rosetti, who was dressed in much the same manner as his colleague, made a motion toward the next room with his head. “Presbyter Doul is out there.”
“Who?”
“Doul, the Temple monk. He’s taking a dim view of our production of rum and vodka.”
“Is there a back way out of here?” Natalie said. “I’m having enough trouble with the Temple without tangling with any of them ranking as high as Presbyter.”
Mike Dean led her to a rear door, then said to Rosetti with a sigh, “Show him in, Louis. We’re going to have to play this carefully. Anybody as high in the hierarchy as this is not flat.”
Louis Rosetti went back to the anteroom to return with a thin-faced, fox-like individual dressed in the dark robes of a Temple monk, but beneath them the rich garb of an upper-class Genoese of the highest income bracket.
Mike Dean went through the motions involved in a visit of such a dignitary, winding up with Presbyter Doul in the room’s most comfortable chair.
The newcomer eyed him thoughtfully, as Dean returned to his desk, and Louis Rosetti found a seat of his own. The two Earthmen were wary.
Doul said, “You adapt quickly and well to our ways, my son.”
Dean said carefully, “But your ways are our ways, Your Holiness.”
The Temple hierarch said, “I wonder. It was first widely thought that you came from Bari, on the eastern continent, but upon inquiry to our associate Temple there, it see
ms as though on their part they were of the opinion that you and your equal numbers on the eastern continent had come from here.”
“Our equal numbers?” Rosetti said cautiously.
The presbyter looked at him. “Yes, such as Honorable Mayer and his associates.”
“Our connections with Amschel Mayer are on a business level,” Dean said.
“So I understand. Very profitably so, but perhaps on other levels as well. Levels not quite clear to myself and my holy brothers of the Temple.”
Dean shook his head, as though lacking understanding. He was on delicate ground now.
The other shrugged thin shoulders. “However, your origins are not of present concern.” He paused. “Perhaps you are aware of the fact that my position involves the holy product of the vine, that I administer the holy production and distribution of this gift of the Supreme.”
Louis Rosetti nodded. “We have been so informed, Your Holiness. In fact, if I understand correctly, your family has had this, ah, monopoly for at least a century. Your position is hereditary.”
The Temple hierarch’s eyes had narrowed again. “Do you see fit to criticize the method by which the Temple administers the holy gift of wine?”
Rosetti held up his hands, as though in horror. “Certainly not, Your Holiness.”
“Very well. Then let this be understood. These new products you have introduced”—he made a face of disgust—“what are their names? Rum, vodka, gin, whiskey. All of them vile imitations of the holy product of the vine, gift of the Supreme to be used in sacred ceremony and only during selected holy days.”
Mike Dean said, “But Your Holiness, these distilled products are not imitations of wine, they are new, ah, discoveries. Wine is, admittedly, the monopoly of the Temple. We would not dream of, ah, attempting to intrude on your, ah, income in this field. But our distilled products, which, as you know, have been received with enthusiasm...”
The presbyter cut him off by banging his fist against the arm of his chair. “Enthusiasm indeed! These vile brews are consumed night and day, every day, by all who can afford them! My secretaries estimate that literally millions are flowing into your coffers.”
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