Computer War

with every means we had on hand, they would have marched on the government buildings.”

He wound up, saying, “As it was, it was necessary for me to call upon Marshal Croft-Gordon to send three regiments of Air Marines to help police the area.”

Number One was ominous again. “This is the first I have heard of that step, Coaid. I am not sure that I like the idea of Marshal Croft-Gordon’s men under arms in my capital city.”

A benign looking civilian, seemingly in his late middle years, issued forth from a personal pneumatic car at one of the entry points facing Independence Square in downtown Alphacity. He looked up and down the moderately crowded street before turning to dismiss the vehicle.

As though casually, he dropped a small packet onto the seat of the car he had just left and threw the control to dismiss it.

Even as he straightened, two inconspicuously garbed men grasped him by either arm.

“All right, fella,” one snarled. “What was that you left in the pneumatic, a grenade?”

“I—I beg your pardon?”

One of them flashed a Surety badge. “Come along with us, Pop. You’ve had it. You got any proof you’re a Alphaland citizen and loyal to His Leadership, the Pres—”

“Help! Help,” their prisoner screamed suddenly, attempting to wrench away.

Five or six youngsters, dressed in the current foofaraw affected by juvenile delinquents and adolescents in general, came jostling forward.

They surrounded the two Surety men and their captive, yelling, pushing close, complaining vociferously.

“Let ’im go, you two crooks!”

“Hey, stop hitting my father, you big funker!

“They’re robbin this old man! Pickpockets!”

“Let ’em go, you yokes!”

A crowd began to gather, jostling, shoving, trying to see. It was a busy corner; the crowd grew geometrically.

Unseen, one of the youths slid his hand under his jacket to emerge with a short bladed, icepick- like weapon. He jabbed it, underhanded, into the spine of the heavy-set Surety agent before him. The man groaned softly and collapsed.

Far beneath them, in the city’s pneumatic transport system, the innocent packet blew lustily, wrecking a central shuttle area.

For once the dignity of age had escaped from Academician Philip McGivern. His face was a confusion of conflicting expressions, his hands were trembling.

Number One considered the aged economist dourly. The elderly, he decided, forgetting his own years, collapsed quickly under unwonted pressures.

He made no attempt to encourage the Old Hand companion of the days of his revolutionary seizure of power.

“Your report,” he said curtly.

“Jim,” the other blurted. “The whole economy’s tottering. It was bad enough, the mess made of the financial system. John Matheison’s been doing yeoman’s work, toiling arduously day and night, to make some sort of order out of the chaos.”

“But…” Number One led him on.

“But, Jim…”

“We’re in formal audience, Coaid. Don’t call me by personal name.”

“Uh… Yes, Your Leadership. My pardons. Your Leadership, we’ve found out what happened to the Betastani fleet.”

This was not news to the Presidor, but he held his peace for the moment. Undoubtedly, there were new angles.

“Your Leadership, they didn’t exactly go into hiding. They submerged and dispersed, the whole navy. They’ve become commerce raiders. If there’s any manner in which they can keep from standing and fighting, they do.”

“Funkers,” his superior rumbled angrily.

“No, no, it’s not that.” The old man was shaking his head miserably. “Jim, it’s obviously long planned. I’ve been looking into this submarine raider business, checking way back through history. There were two major wars back on early Earth where such means of warfare almost won a conflict that otherwise couldn’t have possibly succeeded. It is estimated that had Hitler been able to have kept only fifty submarines operative throughout his war, he would have brought his opponents to their knees.”

“What’s this got to do with here and now?”

The palsied socioeconomist took it up. “The Betastani ships are all submergible, of course. They have given up acting as a fleet and all of their craft have taken up raiding our commerce. Your Leadership, our glorious navy can’t begin to defend our more than five thousand merchantmen. The Betastani act as though each of their units were expendable. They dash in to the attack no matter what the odds and would rather sink a merchant ship than a battle cruiser. In fact, several of our Coaid admirals contend that they’re a mistake; they just bunch up our ships and make them more vulnerable and easier to find.”

“Sum up the situation, Coaid! What does it mean in terms of the war effort?”

“Ordinarily. Your Leadership, Alphaland is all but self-sufficient. But not in time of war. The expenditure of raw materials in our munitions factories are enormous. We need copper, chrome, lead, zinc. Eventually we will need…”

Number One held up a hand. “All right. The situation isn’t expected to last long enough for this to be an issue. The conflict will be over before it becomes disastrous. Almost all Betastan has been overrun, their armies have collapsed or are dissolving. As soon as we can locate and arrest their underground government, we can force them to sign a peace. Our recovery will be immediate. We’ll seize their treasury to buttress our own. And the neutral nations, seeing our strength of position, will rally to our support.”

Pater Riggin said mildly, “The neutral nations, Jim? I understand that Gambania, Morrisland and New Zambia severed relations with us this morning, and that their mobilization is almost complete.”

McGivern was saying in agony, in refutation of his leader’s words, “Originally, the computers said the war would last less than two and a half months. Later they said less than a month. But now the war’s going into its fifth month, and we’re in a worse situation than when it began. We can’t keep this up, Jim, we can’t keep it up!”

“Don’t call me Jim, you damned funker!” Number One roared.

The Old Hand stared at him, shocked.

The skipper of the M.S. Freedomland came up behind his third officer and the two deckmen who were leaning over the starboard rail. He rapped, “What in the name of the Holy damned Ultimate are you doing ?”

They turned, grinning.

“Look, those kids down there.”

The captain looked over the side. Below were four or five kids on a makeshift raft and two others working out of a battered rowboat; all of them were attired in raggedy bathing trunks and were yelling and shouting up to the crew members.

“What’n the hell do they want?” the captain growled. “We’re almost loaded. You men get to your damned posts.”

The third said, “They’re diving for centavos, Skipper. The local coinage. Here, watch.” He tossed two or three coins into the water.

Immediately, it was a matter of bottoms up, and the kids dove into the darkish waters.

“They gettum, every one,” one of the crewmen said, laughing. “You’d think that water was too dirty.”

“I’ll be damned,” the skipper said. “Like nardy dolphins, aren’t they?” He stuck his hand into a trouser pocket to check his change.