Going to lose it . . .
“Doc,” grated Chip, “would you mind giving me a translation? Before I just tell you to shut up?”
The rat reached up a stumpy forepaw and adjusted his pince-nez spectacles. “To put it crudely—inaccurately—we are seeing racial telepathy at work.”
Chip stared at the Maggots. The Magh’ fighters stood and muddled around their dead, or what was left of them. Eventually the mob split into little search parties, wandering hither and thither, plainly searching scent traces.
“See,” said Bronstein. “They don’t know where we’ve gone. I told you so.”
It wasn’t a popular statement, because it never is, but it was true. “They’ll still find us,” muttered Chip. “There are just too many of them.”
He glanced down at G.W.F. Hegel, perched on his hip and peering over the boulder. “And if Doc’s right . . .”
“Any time we fight one, the rest of them know about it,” concluded Bronstein. Oddly, however, the thought seemed to cheer her up.
“But meanwhile”—she nodded toward the Maggots wandering aimlessly across the torn-up landscape below—”it gives us time.”
“Time for what?” snorted Chip. “Time to sleep?” He found himself yawning.
“No,” replied Bronstein firmly. “A time to die. Philosophically speaking, that is. Even—” She fluttered her wings. “Artistically!”
“I’m going to lose it,” muttered Chip. “Completely.”
Chapter 6: Meanwhile, back at the chateau . . .
Lieutenant-General Blutin’s family were second cousins to the Shaws. Even if he hadn’t been overall commander of military operations he would have been an important man on Harmony And Reason. He was a short, fat, choleric man. His tailored uniform, despite the expensive material and the care and attention that his four Vat servants lavished on it, always looked as if should have been worn by a smaller, more upright sort of fellow.
But no one could argue that the uniform itself, and the avalanche of medals and ribbons which poured down its expanse, were out of place in the general’s headquarters. Once a Shareholder’s mansion, the huge edifice had been redesigned to the general’s own detailed specifications. Damn the cost and labor! A war needs a suitably martial headquarters from which to be waged.
Major Fitzhugh thought the crenellations were a particularly nice touch, along with the portcullis. Completely useless, of course, against Magh’s weaponry and tactics. But—certainly martial. Essential, no doubt, for maintaining the army’s élan vital.
The major’s attention was drawn back to the moment. Judging from the general’s puce complexion—just the other side of beetroot—Fitzhugh thought the martial fellow was on the verge of completing his peroration. He’d better be, for his own sake. If the general puffed himself up any more he’d burst those polished buttons. He looked uncommonly like an angry bullfrog, without the anatomical design to make the swelling survivable.
But, fortunately, the major had gauged the affair correctly. At that very moment, the general finished his train of thought.
“So, explain yourself, Fitzhugh!” he spittled and thundered. “What do you mean—’No’?!”
Despite his appreciation of the superb spittling, Fitzhugh thought that the thunder was a bit spoiled by the rising squeak at the end. And while the halitosis undoubtedly added a certain charm, it fell far short of terrifying.
But the major thrust aside these idle connoisseur’s musings and pulled himself even more rigidly upright. A response seemed appropriate for the moment. So—
From his towering height, Fitzhugh gazed down at the general over a long, bony, aquiline nose. As always, he kept his head tilted back a bit, giving his stare that certain panache. It was a habit they’d tried to break him of in OCS, but Fitzhugh had simply taken advantage of the criticism to perfect the mannerism. Disrespect toward one’s superiors, of course, was a court-martial offense. But how could it be proved that a man could sneer with his nose?
“The word ‘no’ implies the negative, sir. Actually, it defines the negative. In this instance, the word ‘no’ actually means ‘no.’ I cannot do it, sir.”
The fat general glared up at him. But, within seconds, his eyes moved away. Flinched away, really.
Fitzhugh was accustomed to that also, and was quite willing to take advantage of it. His face wasn’t a pretty sight, to say the least. A Magh’ claw had done for that.