Graylock went on, as if dictating. She kept her tone flat, though little else. “We had the luck to capture a bimbashi in a commando attack. I questioned him.”
“They’re pretty close‑mouthed, those noble sons of . . um . . . the desert,” I said. I’d bent the Geneva Convention myself, occasionally, but didn’t relish the idea of breaking it completely‑even if the enemy had no such scruples.
“Oh, we practiced no brutality,” said Graylock. “We housed him and fed him very well. But the moment a bite of food was in his throat, I’d turn it into pork. He broke pretty fast, and spilled everything he knew.”
I had to laugh aloud, and Vanbrugh himself chuckled; but she sat perfectly deadpan. Organic‑organic transformation, which merely shuffles molecules around without changing atoms, has no radiation hazards but naturally requires a good knowledge of chemistry. That’s the real reason the average dogface hates the technical corps: pure envy of a man who can turn K rations into steak and French fries. The quartermasters have enough trouble conjuring up the rations themselves, without branching into fancy dishes.
“Okay, you learned they have an afreet in Trollburg,” said the general. “What about their strength otherwise?”
“A small division, sir. You can take tie place handily, if that demon can be immobilized,” said Harrigan.
“Yes, I know.” Vanbrugh swiveled his eyes around to me. “Well, Captain, are you game? If you can carry the stunt off, it’ll mean a Silver Star at east‑pardon me, a Bronze.”
“Uh‑” I paused, fumbling after words. I was more interested in promotion and ultimate discharge, but that might follow too. Nevertheless . . . quite apart from my own neck, there was a practical objection. “Sir, I don’t know a damn thing about the job. I nearly flunked Demonology 1 in college.”
“That’ll be my part,” said Graylock.
“You!” I picked my jaw off the floor again, but couldn’t find anything else to say.
“I was head witch of the Arcane Agency in New York before the war,” she said coldly. Now I knew where she got that personality: the typical big‑city career girl. I can’t stand them. ” I know as much about handling demons as anyone on this coast. Your task will be to escort me safely to the place and back.”
“Yeah,” I said weakly. “Yeah, that’s all.”
Vanbrugh cleared his throat. He didn’t like sending a woman on such a mission, but time was too short for him to have any choice. “Captain Matuchek is one of the best werewolves in the business,” he complimented me.
Ave, Caesar, morituri to salutant, I thought. No, that isn’t what I mean, but never mind. I can figure out a better phrasing at my leisure after I’m dead.
I wasn’t afraid, exactly. Besides the spell laid on me to prevent that, I had reason to believe my personal chances were no worse than those of any infantryman headed into a firefight. Nor would Vanbrugh sacrifice personnel on a mission he himself considered hopeless. But I did feel less optimistic about the prospects than he.
“I think two adepts can get past their guards,” the general proceeded. “From then on, you’ll have to improvise. If you can put that monster out of action, we attack at noon tomorrow.” Grimly: “If I haven’t got word to that effect by dawn, we’ll have to regroup, start retreating, and save what we can. Okay, here’s a geodetic survey map of the town and approaches‑”
He didn’t waste time asking me if I had really volunteered.
II
I GUIDED CAPTAIN GRAYLOCK back to the tent I shared with two brother officers. Darkness was creeping across the long chill slant of rain. We plodded through the muck in silence until we were under canvas. My tentmates were out on picket duty, so we had the place to ourselves. I lit the saint-elmo and sat down on the sodden plank floor.
“Have a chair,” I said, pointing to our one camp stool. It was an animated job we’d bought in San Francisco: not especially bright, but it would carry our duffel and come when called. It shifted uneasily at the unfamiliar weight, then went back to sleep.