“Three should do it.”
“O.K. Now, about that carnivore you spotted, and that ran into the brush—”
Pick shook his head. “It went in. It didn’t come out. And it wasn’t there afterward. That’s all I can say. We’ve found no sign of a burrow whatever. We’ve been over those films till we’re black in the face. Maybe by some form of clever camouflage the animal could have slipped away without our seeing it at the time. But we’d spot it when we checked over the films afterwards. So that isn’t it, either. We’ve examined those films inch-by-inch, and what happened I don’t know, but no visible carnivore came out of that brush, and that is all I can say.”
Wilforce said, “Well, that leads us nowhere.”
“So,” said Pick, “I am going to concentrate on the vermin on board this ship. If I can get a grip anywhere on this mess, maybe I can straighten it out. So far, I feel like a man trying to swim in empty space.”
Wilforce nodded sympathetically, then suddenly got an idea. He glanced around and saw Rybalko coming across the room from a group of staff officers. Wilforce said, “Balky, does the 186th still have its mascot?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure of it.”
Wilforce turned back to the screen. “Pick, I think I know where you can get just what you want—a full-time expert on rats, with endless patience, great stalking ability, and extra-sensitive vision.”
“Where’s that?”
“Get in touch with the C.O. of the 186th Combat Group. If you explain your predicament, and promise to take good care of him, the 186th might let you borrow their mascot.”
Pick frowned. “What mascot?”
“A big, ugly, tiger-striped gray tomcat. For your own sake, be careful how you handle him. He’s a little rough.”
Pick’s eyes glinted. “That’s the best idea yet. Do you have anything else you want to ask me?”
“No.”
“O.K. Get off the screen so I can call the 186th.”
Wilforce punched several buttons to the side of the screen. A second lieutenant appeared.
“Sir, Special Equipment.”
“Do you have any stalker’s helmets around?”
“Stalker’s helmets? Just a moment, sir.” He turned and called out. An answering call came back. The lieutenant turned around. “Major Barnes will be here in just a minute, sir.”
A medium-sized man with major’s leaves appeared. Apologetically, he explained that stalker’s helmets were new items of equipment that weighed thirty-two pounds apiece, and were just a little clumsy. “They haven’t got all the bugs out yet, sir.”
The major turned to bark orders at the lieutenant, who vanished and reappeared with a thing like a dull-gray inverted fishbowl with a set of eyepieces sticking out in front, in back, on both sides, and on top. Wilforce was reminded of the high-pressure spheres in which Planet Certification lowered its men to the ocean depths.
“You see, sir,” said the major, “the idea is that when a man moves, he’s seen. But he has to move to see what’s going on around him. So this helmet is rigged up in such a way that by a very slight inclination or rotation of the head, the lines of vision of the man wearing it can be switched through lenses and prisms to any one of these sets of eyepieces. In theory, he can see what’s in any chosen direction. In practice, after a man has carried this weight around on his head for any length of time, he finds it hard not to move his head slightly. The result is, he sees alternately right, left, forward, back, and out the top of his head. Trying to walk in one of these is like a madman’s nightmare.”
The major paused, and added apologetically, “If you still want one of these, sir, we’ve got them. But I’d wait till the improved model comes out.”
“I see your point. Well, write a brief note explaining the shortcomings of these things, and how they’re supposed to operate and send three of the helmets down to Mr. Pick.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilforce turned away as he finished the call, to glance at the battle screen. Nothing significant appeared to have happened, and as he paused to review the situation and decide what to do next, the red warning light on the communicator beside him flashed on.
Wilforce snapped on the communicator. A neat officer with a look of intense self-discipline, wearing two stars on each shoulder, saluted stiffly. This was General Davis, Wilforce’s Combined Forces Commander. In a full-scale planetary war, Davis would control the combat forces actually on the planet. But right now, there was only a single combat group on Bemus III. Puzzled, Wilforce returned the salute.
Davis said, “Sir, I have to report a case of gross dereliction to duty, regarding the commanding officer of the Forty-second Combat Group on Bemus III.”
“What’s happened?”
“Sir, the purpose of landing the Forty-second on the planet was to enable us to very quickly send help to Mr. Pick, if he needed it. To be able to do this, the major commanding the combat group should hold his forces mobile and ready to act at a moment’s notice. This hasn’t been done.” Wilforce frowned, and Davis went on. “His troops are digging themselves in. Instead of being heavily armed, the charges for their fusion guns are locked up inside one of the communications buildings. The proxex and impax ammunition are locked up in another building, so the men have nothing but ordinary target rounds. The grav-carriers are stacked in the communications compound, along with most of the rocket launchers. Specially-selected, heavily-armed troops that the major feels he can trust man the walls around the communications center, where he has his headquarters.”
Wilforce seemed to feel his collar grow tight. ” ‘Troops the major feels he can trust’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, that’s it. The major has his nest in the communications center. Selected guards man the wall to protect him from his own troops. The bulk of these troops are armed after the style of 1912. They dig their foxholes and trenches by hand, and have to hunt for food in the forest nearby.”
An unlovely combination of words rose to the surface of Wilforce’s mind. With an effort, he kept his voice level as he asked, “It’s like this right now?”
“Yes, sir. It will be at least an hour-and-a-half before I have it straightened out.”
“I see. How did you find this out?”
“I saw the unfinished trenches on a high-level photo from one of the scout ships. It seemed to me they could have had those finished long ago. I shifted focus on the viewer, and discovered they weren’t using a trencher. They were doing it by hand. I snapped on the screen to get the Forty-second’s commanding officer, but a medical officer appeared and told me the C.O. was suffering from nervous strain, and I couldn’t talk to him.”
Wilforce loosened his collar.
Davis said, “It took me very nearly five minutes to break through this asinine situation, and get the major on the screen. The major was dead drunk. The medical officer now intruded to inform me that this was ‘therapy.’ It appears that the major is suffering from a chronic state of anxiety, which is relieved by the situation down there as it now exists. Unless we handle him with padded tongs, we are likely to upset his emotional balance.”
“You say it will take an hour-and-a-half to get him out of there?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I have near the planet a colonel of Scouts who’s had a good deal of experience with troops, but it will take that long to get him on the spot.”
“That’s too long. All hell may break loose down there any time.”
“Sir, in the rat’s nest atmosphere of the Forty-second’s headquarters, I can’t find anyone qualified to command. And we can’t risk having it bungled.”
“That may be, but it won’t do. An hour from now, the Forty-second may have suffered fifty percent casualties from a few monsters that one properly handled fusion gun could chop into hash. Not only is it bad in itself, but it makes a story that will be told for the next fifty years. A thing like that can spread cynicism and rot through the service like a virus spreads disease.”
“Yes, sir. But—”
“Wait a minute.” Wilforce thought back to his quick inspection of the Forty-second’s equipment just before they left the Space Center for Bemus III. He thought he remembered something. He said, “Find out if they have a full-range battle transceiver down there.”
“Sir, we used almost all of them on Inferno, and the Center didn’t have any new stocks.”
“Check and find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilforce glanced around, to see that nothing of any importance seemed to have happened. He frowned, thinking back to the appearance of the Forty-second at the Center, and wondering why he hadn’t noticed anything. There had been something—a general washed-out spiritless look of the troops, and a sort of nervous over-cordiality in the commanding officer—but Wilforce had attributed it to the long misery on Inferno, and the wild binge to celebrate getting off Inferno, followed by the news that they were being sent to some new mess that wasn’t even in their own sector. Wilforce glanced back at the screen, where Davis reappeared with a surprised look.