Tilly shook her head. “Impossible,” she said, her voice tart.
Somebody else frowned. “There’s no alternative. He’s seen the place. There’s no way of shutting him up otherwise. And there’s no way we can keep him under wraps here indefinitely.”
Tilly still shook her head. “Even if the rest of it were okay, you’re not thinking it out. That Surety man up above saw him come in. He’s going to begin wondering, and fairly soon, why he doesn’t come out again. So… he’s got to come out.”
“But he’ll put the blast on us the moment he’s free!”
Tilly shook her head, her mouth pursed in a rueful smile. “No, he won’t. You see, I think I’m going to marry the big cloddy when all this is over.”
That silenced them, especially Combs.
Ross said urgently, “Listen, Till, come with me. The war’s all but over, anyway. There isn’t anything more you can do. And as things are you’re running one devil of a risk. Your people are committing criminal acts all over the countryside. Mark Fielder’s going to get tough. His men are bad, Till. Call it quits now. I keep telling you the war’s over.”
Combs said grimly, “To the contrary, fella. It hasn’t hardly started.”
Ross swirled on him. “Hasn’t started! Your largest cities have capitulated. Your navy refuses to show its face. Your army is retreating so fast we can’t catch up with it. Our computers, reprogrammed to handle the new factors, say the complete collapse of your government will take place within the week.” He snorted. “What do your computers say?”
Combs said, “We haven’t consulted them, fella.”
“No more time,” Tilly said, “Altshuler, take him up above—one moment. Rossie, look at me.”
He looked into her face, distressed.
She put her hands on his shoulders, then stood quickly on tiptoe and kissed him quickly on the mouth.
She said, “It won’t be over as fast and neat as you think, but it’ll be over. Don’t worry about me. Nothing happens to guerrillas. They work on the principle that it’s a mistake to get hurt in a war.”
She pushed him toward the closet cum elevator.
When he was gone, she turned back to her score of Betastani irregulars.
Combs said, “Was that good tactics? He’s a full deputy in Number One’s government. We had him. We could have finished him, and then have gone up and disposed of the Surety man in some manner that would have been believable.”
She looked at him perkily. Tu, tu, tu, Centurion, you continually forget who makes the decisions here. That man we just let get away is going to be one of the levers which overthrows the government of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland. That’s a revolutionist in embryo that we’ve got to nourish.”
Chapter VIII
Number One, for once showing his years, sat in almost continual audience consulting with his inmost associates, his deputies of commissariats, and closest advisers. To his side, and slightly behind, was Pater Riggin, largely silent but ever alert. It was more or less unprecedented; the Temple Monk was seldom seen in company with the Presidor, certainly not during official business.
On this occasion, Marshal Croft-Gordon was reporting. His tone of voice was barely short of accusation, as though it were the fault of the Presidor that so much of the unexpected had developed.
“Largely,” he rapped, “they retreat. However, in some localities they turn and fight like madmen.”
“What localities?”
“Largely, where natural conditions are such that it is most difficult for us to bring to bear our superior equipment. The Tatra Mountains, for instance, possibly the most rugged on the planet. They evidently have special mountain troops, long trained. The terrain is impossible for tanks, even the light hover models. Aircraft are all but useless, even hoppers. Bombings, although we continue to utilize them, are largely farce and more for the morale of our own troops than for the damage they inflict. Even so, among the peaks, cliffs, gorges, valleys, we’ve taken a good many aircraft losses when our fliers go in low enough to drop their bombs with any accuracy at all.”
Number One scowled at him. “Can’t our own men go in on foot?”
“Yes, Your Leadership…”
Pater Riggin looked at the military head inquiringly. He hadn’t missed the way the other pronounced the title. Evidently, Number One, in his agitation, had failed to notice.
“… however, mountains in Alphaland are comparatively gentle and our mountaineers few. The Betastani get about on skis and on devices called snowshoes. They have little motorized equipment, but this is especially adapted to snow and mountains. It is as though their commanding officers always expected to fight a defensive action in this terrain. Their men are armed largely with rifles with telescopic sights. Individuals, or small squads, sit in caves or on mountain tops and pick off our men at great distances, one by one. By the time we’ve secured one area, they manage to infiltrate around it and attack our supply and communications lines from the rear. It is all we can do to program our portable military computers quickly enough to handle each new situation that develops.”
Number One thought about it for a time. “Where else do they hold out?”
“In the swampy areas of their southernmost provinces.
It’s not quite as bad as the mountains. Some of our equipment is usable, especially along the roads. However…” He hesitated. The anger had been growing in his voice as he reported.
“However, what?”
“They blow the bridges, tear down communication lines, destroy surprisingly long stretches of roads going through the worst of the swamp areas.” He said, with considerable disgust, “You’d think they didn’t give a damn what their countryside will look like when the war is over.”
“Scorched earth policy,” Pater Riggin muttered.
Number One turned on him. “What?”
The Temple Monk shrugged and patted his rounded tummy. “Back in the early days on Earth, it was occasionally utilized. The Russians, when invaded by Napoleon in command of the most powerful army the world had ever seen, simply continued to fade back before him as he advanced. They destroyed everything in his path, cities, towns, granaries, crops, orchards, all livestock they couldn’t drive away. They destroyed, totally, their own country which he was due to overrun. By the time he reached Moscow, supposedly the goal which would mean his victory, his troops were already on short rations. It was before the day of canned food, and his general staff had planned largely to live off the countryside. It is estimated that not one man out of twenty of the Grand Army got back to Europe proper.”
Number One felt a twinge go through him. He turned back to Marshal Croft-Gordon. “Go on, Coaid. What else?”
“Largely, we progress elsewhere, with the funkers fleeing before us, unwilling to stand and fight.”
“Surely you must be able to corner or surround some elements.”
“Of course! You think my army’s composed of cloddies?” The Marshal’s tone was unnaturally belligerent before his superior. “But when we do, large numbers simply melt away. They dissolve into smaller units and take to the woods, hills, swamps, wherever motorized military units find it most difficult to operate. They become guerrillas, never standing and fighting, but sniping, burning, assassinating. It’s the most idiotic, infuriating type of warfare imaginable. Why, there are no back areas. The territory we overrun is never secure. Soldiers on leave, expecting to have a cold glass of guzzle in some local inn, never know when a grenade will be tossed through the window. Soldiers strolling the streets in a conquered village never know when a sniper will pick one off.”
Number One fell into thought.
Not even Marshal Croft-Gordon felt rebellious enough to interrupt.
Finally the Presidor shook himself and said, “Would it be of benefit to ignore public opinion and resort to nuclear weapons?”
Both the Marshal and Pater Riggin stared at him in shock.
“
The Marshal shook his head in bitter regret. “There are no particular targets we could use. We can’t flatten
