Savagely, his own men opened up from the trees. And for several moments wild confusion reigned on the ground. It is not easy to tell all at once from which direction a sliver gun is being fired at you. For perhaps five minutes, the attacking Orthodox soldiers labored under the delusion that the guns cutting them down were concealed in some groundlevel ambush. They killed ruthlessly, everything they could see on their own eye-level; and, by the time they had discovered their mistake, it was too late. On their dwin- died numbers was concentrated the fire of a hundred and fifty-one rifles; and if the marksmanship of only one of these was up to Dorsai standards, that of the rest was adequate to the task. In less than forty minutes from the moment in which Donal had begun to harry his sleep-drugged men up into the trees, the combat was over.
The Third Group slid down out of their trees and one of the first down—a soldier named Kennedy— calmly lifted his rifle to his shoulder and sent a sliver through the throat of an Orthodox that was writhing on the ground, nearby.
“None of that!” cried Donal, sharply and clearly; and his voice carried out over the sea. A mercenary hates wanton killing, it not being his business to slaughter men, but to win battles. But not another shot was fired. The fact said something about a significant change in the attitude of the men of the Third Command toward a certain new officer by the name of Graeme.
Under Donal’s orders, the wounded on both sides were collected and those with serious wounds medicated. The attacking soldiery had been wiped out almost to a man. But it had not been completely one-sided. Of the three hundred-odd men who had been on the ground at the time of the attack, all but forty-three—and that included Force-Leader Skuak— were casualties.
“Prepare to retreat,” ordered Donal—and, at that
A moment, the man facing him turned his head to look past at something behind Donal. Donal turned about.
Pounding out of the ruined village, hand gun in his fist, was Commandant Killien.
In silence, not moving, the surviving soldiers of the Command watched him race up to him. He checked at their stare; and his eyes swung about to focus on Donal. He dropped to a walk and strode up to within a few meters of the younger officer.
“Well, Force-Leader!” he snapped. “What happened? Report?”
Donal did not answer him directly. He raised his hand and pointed to Hugh; and spoke to two of the enlisted men standing by.
“Soldiers,” he said. “Arrest that man. And hold him for immediate trial under Article Four of the Mercenaries Code.”
VETERAN
Directly after getting into the city, with his canceled contract stiff in his pocket, and cleaning up in his hotel room, Donal went down two flights to pay his visit to Marshal Hendrik Gait. He found him in, and concluded certain business with him before leaving to pay his second call at a different hotel across the city.
In spite of himself, he felt a certain weakness in the knees as he announced his presence to the doorbot. It was a weakness most men would have excused him. William, Prince of Ceta, was someone few persons would have cared to beard in his own den; and Donal, in spite of what he had just experienced, was still a young—a very young—man. However, the doorbot invited him in, and summoning up his calmest expression, Donal strode into the suite.
William was, as the last time Donal had seen him, busy at his desk. This was no affectation on William’s part, as a good many people between the stars could testify. Seldom has one individual accomplished in a single day what William accomplished in the way of business, daily, as a matter of routine. Donal walked up to the desk and nodded his greeting. William looked up at him. “I’m amazed to see you,” he said. “Are you, sir?” said Donal. William considered him in silence for perhaps half a minute.
“It’s not often I make mistakes,” he said. “Perhaps I can console myself with the thought that when I do they turn out to be on the same order of magnitude as my successes. What inhuman kind of armor are you wearing, young man, that leads you to trust yourself in my presence, again?”
“Possibly the armor of public opinion,” replied Donal. “I’ve been in the public eye, recently. I have something of a name, nowadays.”
“Yes,” said William. “I know that type of armor from personal experience, myself.”
“And then,” said Donal, “you did send for me.” “Yes.” And then, without warning, William’s face underwent a change to an expression of such savagery as Donal had never seen before. “How dare you!” snarled the older man, viciously. “How dare you!”
“Sir,” said Donal, wooden-faced, “I had no alternative.”
“No alternative! You come to me and have the effrontery to say—no alternative?”
“Yes, sir,” said Donal.
William rose in swift and lithe motion. He stalked around the desk to stand face to face, his eyes up-tilted a Httle to bore into the eyes of this tall young Dorsai.
“I took you on to follow my orders, nothing else!” he said icily. “And you—grandstand hero that you are—wreck everything.”
“Sir?”
“Yes—’sir’. You backwoods moron! You imbecile. Who told you to interfere with Hugh Killien? Who told you to take any action about him?”
“Sir,” said Donal. “I had no choice.”
“No choice? How—no choice?”
“My command was a command of mercenaries,” answered Donal, without moving a muscle. “Commandant Killien had given his assurance in accordance with the Mercenaries Code. Not only had his assurance proved false, he himself had neglected his command while in the field and in enemy territory. Indirectly, he had been responsible for the death of over half his men. As ranking field officer present, I had no choice but to arrest him and hold him for trial.”
“A trial held on the spot?”
“It is the code, sir,” said Donal. He paused. “I regret it was necessary to shoot him. The court-martial left me no alternative.”
“Again!” said William. “No alternative! Graeme, the space between the stars does not go to men who can find no alternatives]” He turned about abruptly, walked back around his desk and sat down.
“All right,” he said coldly but with all the passion gone, “get out of here.” Donal turned and walked toward the door as William picked up a paper from before him. “Leave your address with my doorbot,” said William. “I’ll find some kind of a post for you on some other world.”
“I regret, sir—” said Donal.
William looked up.
“It didn’t occur to me that you would have any further need of me. Marshal Gait has already found me another post.”
William continued to look at him for a long moment. His eyes were as cold as the eyes of a basilisk.
“I see,” he said at last, slowly. “Well, Graeme, perhaps we shall have something to do with each other in the future.”
“I’ll hope we will,” said Donal. He went out. But, even after he had closed the door behind him, he thought he could feel William’s eyes still coming at him through all the thickness of its panel.
He had yet one more call to make, before his duty on this world was done. He checked the directory out in the corridor and went down a flight.
The doorbot invited him in; and ArDell Montor, as large and untidy as ever, with his eyes only slightly blurred from drink, met him halfway to the entrance. “You!” said ArDell, when Donal explained what it was he wanted. “She won’t see you” He hunched his heavy shoulders, looking at Donal; and for a second his eyes cleared. Something sad and kind looked out of them, to be replaced with bitter humor. “But the old fox won’t like it. I’ll ask her.”
‘Tell her it’s about something she needs to know,” said Donal.
“I’ll do that. Wait here,” Ardell went out the door.
He returned in some fifteen minutes.
“You’re to go up,” he said. “Suite 1890.” Donal turned toward the door. “I don’t suppose,” said the Newtonian, almost wistfully, “I’ll be seeing you again.”
“Why, we may meet,” answered Donal.
“Yes,” said ArDell. He stared at Donal penetratingly. “We may at that. We may at that.”
Donal went out and up to Suite 1890. The doorbot let him in. Anea was waiting for him, slim and rigid in one of her high-collared, long dresses of blue.
“Well?” she said. Donal considered her almost sorrowfully.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” he said.
“You killed him!” she blazed.
“Oh, of course.” In spite of himself, the exasperation she was always so capable of tapping in him rose to the surface. “I had to—for your own good.”
“For my good!”
He reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a small telltale. But it was unlighted. For a wonder this apartment was unbugged. And then he thought—of course, I keep forgetting who she is.