“Sit down, comrades,” the Inspector General ordered. “I’ve come to see how you’ve succeeded with the task I posed you.”
Fortin knew the answer already. The grins that not even discipline could hide, the wolfish joy in the faces above the gleaming gorgets—those were the signs of success.
The other four marshals looked at Moro. He spread his plump fingers as if to examine his nails and said, “We believe we may have a—theoretical—solution to your problem, yes. We first used the Main Battle Computer to locate the target—”
“Locate the position it would occupy if it actually existed,” Breitkopf interjected in a surprisingly smooth voice. “The target is of course beyond even the possibility of actual observation.”
“By us,” added Stein.
“And quite a pretty problem it was then,” Lienau continued, “since we still couldn’t hit a point of separate spacetime with which we were in perfect balance.”
“That balance was the key,” said Marshal Czerny in his cadaverous voice. “Marshal Moro calculated—”
“The Main Battle Computer calculated,” said Moro, fluttering his fingers in protest but unable to keep a note of pride out of his voice. “I merely suggested certain parameters.”
“Marshal Moro calculated,” Breitkopf said, “that the statistical identity of Ruby and the target point could be converted to physical identity.”
“That if we bring Ruby into phase with the target,” Moro amplified, “then we become the target—”
“And displace whatever’s there now. Displace it out of the universe,” Czerny concluded.
He coughed, lightly at first but growing into a racking series during which his fellows looked studiously at their displays and pretended not to hear.
“You say `out of the universe,’ ” Fortin said. “Where, then?”
Lienau smirked. “Somewhere incomprehensible, sir,” he said. “Certainly out of play.”
“Ruby has been in a dynamic balance with the target—assuming the target exists,” Marshal Stein said. “If we displace the target, then our segment of phased spacetime remains in static balance within the greater universe.”
“Which is perfectly safe, of course,” Moro said.
Czerny cleared his throat. No one except Fortin looked at Czerny until the old field marshal managed to say, “The security of Ruby must be our chief goal, of course, sir.”
“As it is yours,” Breitkopf added, in certainty as complete as his error.
“You say, `bring into phase,’ ” the Inspector General said, examining his own perfect fingernails as he spoke. “How would you propose to go about that—if I were to give you the order to proceed?”
“Quite simple, really,” Stein explained. “Just a matter of reversing the magnetic pole, Moro thinks.”
“The Main Battle Computer indicates that would be the preferred course, yes,” Moro agreed absently as his eyes focused on a hologram aligned so that only he could see it. “And the computer would, of course, control the power fed into a planet-wide network which would achieve the switch.”
“It would have to take place when our phase was positive,” Breitkopf said.
“Otherwise—” He drew his finger across his chrome gorget. There was a smile on his hard face, but madness winked behind his eyes at the thought of taking the action that would destroy Ruby rather than the target.
“So,” said Fortin. “Physical preparations have to be made before your plan could be executed?”
Czerny began to laugh, a terrible sound that doubled him over in obvious pain. No one spoke.
Czerny straightened slowly and said, “Extensive preparations are required, sir. And they are already complete.”
“We could not be sure when you would visit us again, Inspector General,” Moro said. “So we decided to—improve our time while waiting.”
“Nothing remains,” said Lienau, “but for you to order us to execute the plan.”
Fortin felt time stop—for him, for Ruby . . . for all the planes of the Matrix. Paths branched here, and ends approached with absolute finality.
“Very good, comrades,” he said. “Execute your plan.”
His face twisted. He began to laugh, louder and louder, until his eyes no longer focused for the quivering anticipation in his belly.
Chapter Eighteen
Golsingh’s army camped in the forest on first night of the expedition against Thrasey. Hansen saw his breath when he awakened. Snow had drifted onto the furs that covered him, and there was the threat of further snow in the sullen sky.