The Rival Rigelians

“Ah ha,” Mayer said thoughtfully. “That bears some further looking into. We must investigate the possibilities of a Reformation. But that can come later. Now I wish to expand upon my reasons for gathering you.

“Honorables, Genoa is to change rapidly. To survive, you will have to move fast. I have not introduced these revolutionary changes without self interest. Each of you is free to use them to his profit, however, I expect a thirty percent interest.”

There was a universal drawing in of breath.

Olderman said, “Honorable Mayer, you have already demonstrated your devices. What is there to prevent us from playing you false?”

Mayer laughed. “My dear Olderman, I have other inventions to reveal as rapidly as you develop the technicians, the workers capable of building and operating them. If you cheat me now, you will be passed by next time.”

Russ muttered. “Thirty percent! Your wealth will be unbelievable.”

“As fast as it accumulates, Honorables, it shall be invested. For instance, I have great interest in expanding our inadequate universities. The advance I expect will only be possible if we educate the people. Field serfs are not capable of running even that simple steam engine Jerry demonstrated.”

Baron Leonar said, “What you contemplate is mind shaking. Do I understand that you wish a confederation of all our cities? A joining together to combat the strength of the present lords and of the Temple?”

Mayer was shaking his head. “No, no. As the barons lose power, each of your cities will strengthen and possibly expand to become nations. Perhaps some will unite. But largely you will compete against each other and against the nations of the other continents. In such competition you’ll have to show your mettle, or go under. Man develops at his fastest when pushed by such circumstances.”

The Earthling looked off, unseeing, into a far corner of the room. “At least, so is my contention. Far away from here, a colleague is attempting to prove me wrong. We shall see.”

V

Barry Watson was dressed in the leather kilts and fatigue jacket of the Tulan non-com. Except for the heavy hand gun, slung low on his hip, he was indistinguishable from the drill sergeants who sweated and swore in the mid-day sun. Looking nothing so much as a lanky youngster, he sauntered up, checking a sheaf of reports as he came.

Terry Stevens, still attired in the coveralls that had been standard garb on the spaceship Pedagogue, called an order to one of his sergeants, who, as sergeants ever, barked out a command that could be heard from one end of the drill field to the other. The shuffling footmen came to a halt, fell into an at ease stance.

Barry Watson looked out over the field. The men were dressed in fatigues, the weapons they carried were of wood, the shields were light frameworks covered with cloth.

Barry said, “How’re they coming, Terry?”

Stevens grunted and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “All right, I suppose. This isn’t exactly my game, you know. They start out stumbling all over their feet, get their spears stuck between their legs. That goes on for weeks. They don’t seem to learn anything. Then, all of a sudden, the whole cohort is moving like a machine. They’re doing all right.”

Watson looked down at his reports. “This gang should’ve been ready for campaigning a couple of weeks ago. They should be in the field by now.”

Stevens said defensively, “I’m not as up on this as you are, Barry. It’s not my line.”

“It’s not my line, either. Only out of books. We’re all playing it more or less by ear. We’re lucky we’re not trying to train really well drilled men. The phalanx was originally conceived to take peasants, arm them simply and send them into action with a minimum of training.”

“Well, if all this is what you call a minimum of training, I’d hate to have to go through getting them into real trim.”

Barry chuckled. “Well, things have developed. A Theban named Epaminondas figured out some new departures. His innovations were so acute that they were continued and utilized as late as Frederick the Great.”

“I thought this was all based on the Greeks,” Stevens said, not really interested.

“The Macedonians. Philip came along, learned all that the Thebans knew about the phalanx and added some contributions of his own, particularly the use of cavalry in conjunction with the foot.”

Stevens snorted. “You want to know something? Back at the university, they used to call me the last of the pacifists.”

Barry Watson looked at him.

Stevens chuckled. “We used to have debates on whether or not the military should be tolerated on the newly opening planets.”

“And what did you decide?”

“Nothing. What’s ever decided by debating?”

Barry Watson turned to one of the drill sergeants. “Let’s put them through open phalanx to tortuga, sergeant.”

The non-com Tulan came to the salute. “Yes, sir.” He wheeled about sharply and barked out an order.

The men snapped to attention. For the next few minutes, Barry watched them, narrow eyed. They went into ranks six deep. They wheeled, they turned about, they marched this way and that, and back again.

“Tortuga,” Barry Watson snapped to the sergeant. The non-com rasped.

Of a sudden, ranks closed tight. The first file lowered its shields, the second, crowded behind, extended their own over the heads of the first rank so that their drill shields topped the others. Behind, the third rank, and fourth held their shields above their heads, horizontally. The fifth and sixth ranks had about faced sharply and duplicated the shield wall. They were a living war tank.

Barry grunted unhappily, tugging at his right ear. He said to Stevens, “That’s a Roman maneuver, actually. These cloddies aren’t doing it any too well.”

He turned to one of the drill sergeants. “That man at the end of the third file, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have him over here.” The sergeant barked commands. Terry Stevens said, “What’s the matter?”

“Is that recruit a new man or something?”

“No,” Stevens said uncomfortably. “He’s got family troubles. He’s got a lot on his mind.”

Barry looked at him. “Haven’t we all? Who told him he had a mind? He’s a phalanx man.”

The cohort had ground to a halt again. In a moment, the footman in question approached at the double. He faced the two Earthmen and came to a half-hearted salute. His lack of enthusiasm wasn’t lost on Barry Watson.

Watson looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t seem to have your heart in this, spearman.” The other said nothing.

The Earthman said, “The whole theory is that every man moves exactly so. Just one man doesn’t and the whole thing falls apart. In combat, that’s a matter of life and death. Let those nomad funkers break your ranks, and you’ve all had it. You should know all this. Answer me!”

The footman said, his voice surly, “I should be working in the fields. This is not the season for war. It is the season to plant and hoe. It is not fitting that the strongest should be playing at war, with spears without points and shields made of cloth, while the women and children are in the fields.”

“I see,” Barry Watson said, his voice very level. “Then let me tell you this, spearman. You are not needed in the fields with your hoe. Specialist MacBride has succeeded in exploiting the islands off the coast. Technician Hawkins has introduced your people to the plow and reaper. The women and the new war prisoners are capable of producing more in the fields than was ever done before when you were breaking your back with your hoe. You are needed to defend the State against the nomads and rebels.”

“The nomads were no danger until…” the footman began, his voice low still.