The Rival Rigelians

“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 growled, “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.

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