Manuel Gonzales put the coffee down and said, “It’s doubtful if there’s a station left in Betastan capable of planet-wide broadcasting. The Alphaland troops have overrun them all.” But he moved toward a corner of electronic equipment at the far end of the bunker.
Tilly said, “We don’t need a station of our own. Just so we can beam the information to a neutral—if there are any neutrals left.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Ross scowled up at her. He began to feel foolish, remaining in his bunk after admitting that nothing was wrong with him. Especially since the others seemed so completely exhausted, Tilly included. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat erect, preparatory to coming to his feet.
“About the neutrals? They’re lining up, Rossie.” Her mouth twisted wry humor. “And I’m afraid that, in choosing sides, yours hasn’t come up with many pals.”
She had slumped down on a bench at the mess table nearest him, and he changed his mind about standing.
He shook his head at her. “I don’t see how you’ve done what you have. Admittedly, you’ve shot your bolt by now; your government is in hiding, your army has deteriorated into small units, except in a few places like the Tatra Mountains. Your navy is scattered or sunk and your air fleet either shot down or in hiding at minor fields. But what amazes me is that you were able to hold out as long as you have. The computers…”
Combs chuckled sourly, as he drew some more coffee. “You’ve been listening to your own propaganda, fella. We’re still going strong. It’s you Alphaland yokes who’re disintegrating. Sure, our army has split up into small units. That was the plan. Sure, maybe half our navy has been sunk. It’s expendable. But where’s your merchant fleet, eh? It’s not doing so well. And what’s the effect on your economy? Fella, this war is just getting under way.”
Ross looked at Tilly rather than at the speaker, and he was frowning.
Tilly said, reasonably, “Rossie, never underestimate the enemy. Never expect him to do what you want him to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your Marshal Croft-Gordon and his general staff, with all their computers. Figuring out exactly what we would do, were we logical and consistent. Figuring out just where we would logically make our stand. How we would defend our cities against your bombers and missiles. How our fleet would sail forth to do what it could against your stronger, more numerous vessels. Don’t you see the only answer, Rossie?”
He continued to scowl his lack of understanding.
“Rossie, we simply couldn’t be logical and consistent, your computers were exactly right. They were quite infallible…”
“Ha!” he snorted.
“… if we had been logical and consistent, or, worse still, if we had resorted to our own few computers to give us our answers to military problems.”
She shook her head. “Rossie, what is the best defense against a mechanized army, complete with every latest device of the military, including computer-brains and data banks containing every bit of military information accumulated on any of the United Planets?”
He looked at her blankly.
She continued. “What is the defense against a man in an ultra-tank, with enough firepower at his control to equal a division of the time of the historic World Wars of old Mother Earth? What is such a soldier’s potential enemy?”
He was still blank.
She told him. “A man with a pair of pliers and perhaps a knife, a shotgun. Of course, a small amount of dynamite or even more efficient explosive helps also.”
She could see he was still foundering after her.
“Rossie, have you ever heard of the Yugoslavian, Tito?”
“Vaguely.”
“Very well. Along about the middle of the Second War, when the Nazi star was at its ascendancy, the Germans decided that Yugoslavia was needed in their camp. In a matter of days, they had sent an ultimatum, bombed Belgrade, the capital, into ruins, dispatched their panzers down the roads of the little country, capturing every town that counted. The king fled, the army capitulated. The whole world realized that little Yugoslavia had been defeated, as so many of the smaller European nations had been defeated by the Nazi hosts.”
She looked at him mockingly. “Everybody realized the defeat but the Yugoslavians. They took to the mountains. Small groups at first, slowly to be united. They fought, initially as individuals or in small squads. Slowly they grew to company, brigade, regiment and then division size. Large areas were under their domination, though the cities and roads remained in German hands. By the time of Stalingrad, the Germans had two full Army Corps tied up in Yugoslavia fighting Tito and his partisans. You’re a historian. Do you remember the significance of Stalingrad, Rossie? It was the turning point of the war. Adolph the Aryan could have used those two army corps at the time of crisis.”
He nodded, slowly. “So you decided to follow the example of Tito.”
“Oh, more than that. We improved considerably. You see, in the past, Rossie, guerrillas were found in their own country after it had been overrun by the enemy. But we extrapolated in the field of partisan warfare and decided to carry it into the aggressor land. In the past, saboteurs were single individuals who stealthily crept about planting an occasional bomb here, blowing up a bridge there, gimmicking up some valuable machinery the other place. We decided on parlaying that up to a grander scale. When we could see the chips were all soon to be down, we planted thousands of saboteurs-to-be here in your—” she made her typical pouting face—“Free Democratic Commonwealth.
“But that obviously wasn’t going to be enough. We also acted illogically in not utilizing our fleet to protect our coasts against your own ships. We let our coastal cities capitulate, undefended, and our ships struck at your Achilles heel, your economy. Nor did our army stand bravely and attempt to defend our frontiers, as your computers expected. Instead, they cut for the rear, giving up space in return for finding a better field of battle. Or, indeed, splitting up and becoming guerrillas on our own soil.”
Tilly came to an end with a pert snort. “Combs is right, Rossie. We haven’t
Ross stood and walked over to the coffee urn, his face in puzzlement.
As he drew his cup of coffee, his back to her, he said slowly, “All right, but let’s take the long view. You’re possibly familiar with the reasons Number One felt the war had to be precipitated. It was either that or economic collapse on the part of Alphaland, the strongest power on this planet. What follows such a collapse, Till? How many of the neutral economies are tied in with that of Alphaland, how many currencies backed by the gold Alpha?”
He turned and faced her when his cup was full. “Take the long view. Suppose you attain your goal. Alphaland’s economy collapses. What will we have left, a vacuum for the Karlists to fill?”
A voice from the door said, “What’s wrong with the Karlists?”
Ross turned his head. It was a roly-poly man in the robes of a Temple Monk,
“Pater Riggin,” Tilly exclaimed in welcome.
Chapter XI
“Is that coffee?” the Temple Monk asked, making his way to the um.
Combs stood there, cup in hand, scowling at the newcomer. He made no motion to get out of the way.
Most of the others in the room, those of the guerrillas who were not confined to their bunks, made their way toward the Temple Monk, the larger number grinning.
The newcomer looked at Centurion Combs slyly. “I suspect, my son, that you have little respect for my cloth.”
Combs said ungraciously, “Very little.”
The Temple Monk looked about the mess table, noted that there were no clean cups and took up a dirty one. He began to fill it, saying, “Then that makes two of us, eh?”
“What was that?”
