“Well . . . God damn it . . .” Captain Fassbander’s cheeks grew purple. “. . . YES!” he exploded.
The situation was so hackneyed in 3V and microcomics that it was less a matter of explaining it than of making it seem real. Dietrich Fassbander’s powers of exposition were not great, but his sincerity was evident and in itself convincing.
“Didn’t believe it myself at first,” he admitted. “But he was right. Our patrol ran into a patrol of. . . of them. There was a skirmish; we lost two men but killed one of the things. Their small arms use explosive propulsion of metal much like ours; God knows what they might have in that ship to counter our A-warheads. But we’ve got to put up a fight for Mars; and that’s where you come in.”
The two priests looked at him wordlessly, Acosta with a faint air of puzzled withdrawal, Malloy almost as if he expected the captain to start diagraming the play on a blackboard.
“You especially, Rabbi. I’m not worried about your boys, Father. We’ve got a Catholic chaplain on this rotation because this bunch of legionnaires is largely Poles and Irish-Americans. They’ll fight all right, and we’ll expect you to say a field Mass beforehand, and that’s about all. Oh, and that fool gunner Olszewski has some idea he’d like his A-cannon sprinkled with holy water; I guess you can handle that without any trouble.
“But your Israelis are a different problem, Acosta. They don’t know the meaning of discipline—not what we call discipline in the legion; and Mars doesn’t mean to them what it does to a legionnaire. And besides a lot of them have got a . . . hell, guess I shouldn’t call it superstition, but a kind of . . . well, reverence—awe, you might say—about you, Rabbi. They say you’re a miracle-worker.”
“He is,” said Mule Malloy simply. “He saved my life.”
He could still feel that extraordinary invisible power (a “force-field,” one of the technicians later called it, as he cursed the shots that had destroyed the machine past all analysis) which had bound him helpless there in that narrow pass, too far from the dome for rescue by any patrol. It was his first week on Mars, and he had hiked too long, enjoying the easy strides of low gravity and alternately meditating on the versatility of the Creator of planets and on that Year Day long ago when he had blocked out the most famous of All-American line-backers to bring about the most impressive of Rose Bowl upsets. Sibiryakov’s touchdown made the headlines; but he and Sibiryakov knew why that touchdown happened, and he felt his own inner warmth . . . and was that sinful pride or just self-recognition? And then he was held as no line had ever held him and the hours passed and no one on Mars could know where he was and when the patrol arrived they said, “The Israeli chaplain sent us.” And later Chaim Acosta, laconic for the first and only time, said simply, “I knew where you were. It happens to me sometimes.”
Now Acosta shrugged and his graceful hands waved deprecation. “Scientifically speaking, Captain, I believe that I have, on occasion, a certain amount of extrasensory perception and conceivably a touch of some of the other psi faculties. The Rhinists at Tel Aviv are quite interested in me; but my faculties too often refuse to perform on laboratory command. But ‘miracle-working’ is a strong word. Remind me to tell you some time the story of the guaranteed genuine miracle-working rabbi from Lwow.”
“Call it miracles, call it ESP, you’ve got something, Acosta . . .”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned Joshua,” the rabbi smiled. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that I try a miracle to win your battle for you?”
“Hell with that,” snorted Fassbander. “It’s your men. They’ve got it fixed in their minds that you’re a . . . a saint. No, you Jews don’t have saints, do you?”
“A nice question in semantics,” Chaim Acosta observed quietly.
“Well, a prophet. Whatever you people call it. And we’ve got to make men out of your boys. Stiffen their backbones, send ’em in there knowing they’re going to win.”
“Are they?” Acosta asked flatly.
“God knows. But they sure as hell won’t if they don’t think so. So it’s up to you.”
“What is?”
“They may pull a sneak attack on us, but I don’t think so. Way I see it, they’re as surprised and puzzled as we are; and they need time to think the situation over. We’ll attack before dawn tomorrow; and to make sure your Israelis go in there with fighting spirit, you’re going to curse them.”
“Curse my men?”
“PotztausendSapperment noch einmal! ’’Captain Fassbander’s English was flawless, but not adequate to such a situation as this. “Curse them!‘We . . . the things, the aliens, the invaders, whatever the urverdammt bloody hell you want to call them!”
He could have used far stronger language without offending either chaplain. Both had suddenly realized that he was perfectly serious.
“A formal curse, Captain?” Chaim Acosta asked. “Anathema maranatha? Perhaps Father Malloy would lend me bell, book, and candle?”
Mule Malloy looked uncomfortable. “You read about such things, Captain,” he admitted. “They were done, a long time ago . . .”
“There’s nothing in your religion against it, is there, Acosta?”
‘There is . . . precedent,” the rabbi confessed softly.
“Then it’s an order, from your superior officer. I’ll leave the mechanics up to you. You know how it’s done. If you need anything . . . what kind of bell?”
“I’m afraid that was meant as a joke, Captain.”
“Well, these things are no joke. And you’ll curse them tomorrow morning before all your men.”
“I shall pray,” said Rabbi Chaim Acosta, “for guidance . . .” But the captain was already gone. He turned to his fellow priest. “Mule, you’ll pray for me too?” The normally agile hands hung limp at his side.
Mule Malloy nodded. He
