“Can you trust him, then?” Laura asked. “His men may be the only thing keeping you alive—”
“I know. And you, and Jimmy, and Christie, and Peter. . . . I asked Boris that, and he said there’s no better man available. You can’t hire CD men from active duty. Boris recommends him highly. Says troops love him, he’s a brilliant tactician, has experience in troop command and staff work as well—”
“Sounds like quite a catch.”
“Yes. But Laura, if he’s all that valuable, why did they boot him out? My God, it all sounds so trivial—”
The interphone buzzed, and Hamner answered it absently. It was the butler to announce that his car and driver were waiting. “I’ll be late, sweetheart. Don’t wait up for me. But you might think about it . . . I swear Falkenberg is the key to something, and I wish I knew what.”
“Do you like him?” Laura asked.
“He isn’t a man who tries to be liked.”
“I asked if you like him.”
“Yes. And there’s no reason to. I like him, but can I trust him?”
As he went out he thought about that. Could he trust Falkenberg? With Laura’s life . . . and the kids . . . and for that matter, with a whole planet that seemed headed for hell and no way out.
* * *
The troops were camped in an orderly square. Earth ramparts had been thrown up around the perimeter, and the tents were pitched in lines that might have been laid with a transit.
The equipment was scrubbed and polished, blanket rolls were tight, each item in the same place inside the two-man tents . . . but the men were milling about, shouting, gambling openly in front of the campfires. There were plenty of bottles in evidence even from the outer gates.
“Halt! Who’s there?”
Hamner started. The car had stopped at the barricaded gate, but Hamner hadn’t seen the sentry. This was his first visit to the camp at night, and he was edgy. “Vice President Hamner,” he answered.
A strong light played on his face from the opposite side of the car. Two sentries, then, and both invisible until he’d come on them. “Good evening, sir,” the first sentry said. “I’ll pass the word you’re here.”
He raised a small communicator to his lips. “Corporal of the Guard. Post Number Five.” Then he shouted the same thing, the call ringing clear in the night. A few heads around campfires turned toward the gate, then went back to their other activities.
Hamner was escorted across the camp to officers’ row. The huts and tent stood across a wide parade ground from the densely packed company streets of the troops and had their own guards.
Over in the company area the men were singing, and Hamner paused to listen.
“I’ve a head like a concertina, and I think
I’m ready to die,
and I’m here in the clink for a thundrin’ drink
and blacking the Corporal’s eye,
With another man’s cloak underneath of my head
and a beautiful view of the yard,
it’s the crapaud for me, and no more System D,
I was Drunk and Resistin’ the Guard!
Mad drunk and resistin’ the guard!
It’s the crapaud for me, and no more System D,
I was Drunk and Resistin’ the Guard.”
Falkenberg came out of his hut. “Good evening, sir. What brings you here?”
I’ll just bet you’d like to know, Hamner thought. “I have a few things to discuss with you, Colonel. About the organization of the constabulary.”
“Certainly.” Falkenberg was crisp and seemed slightly nervous. Hamner wondered if he were drunk. “Shall we go to the Mess?” Falkenberg asked. “More comfortable there, and I haven’t got my quarters made up for visitors.”
Or you’ve got something here I shouldn’t see, George thought. Something or someone. Local girl? What difference does it make? God, I wish I could trust this man.
Falkenberg led the way to the ranch house in the center of officers’ row. The troops were still shouting and singing, and a group was chasing each other on the parade ground. Most were dressed in the blue and yellow garrison uniforms Falkenberg had designed, but others trotted past in synthi-leather battledress. They carried rifles and heavy packs.
“Punishment detail,” Falkenberg explained. “Not as many of those as there used to be.”
Sound crashed from the Officers’ Mess building: drums and bagpipes, a wild sound of war mingled with shouted laughter. Inside, two dozen men sat at a long table as white-coated stewards moved briskly about with whiskey bottles and glasses.
Kilted bandsmen marched around the table with pipes. Drummers stood in one corner. The deafening noise stopped as Falkenberg entered, and everyone got to his feet. Some were quite unsteady.
“Carry on,” Falkenberg said, but no one did. They eyed Hamner nervously, and at a wave from the mess president at the head of the table the pipers and drummers went outside. Several stewards with bottles followed them. The other officers sat and talked in low tones. After all the noise the room seemed very quiet.
“We’ll sit over here, shall we?” the colonel asked. He led Hamner to a small table in one corner. A steward brought two glasses of whiskey and set them down.
The room seemed curiously bare to Hamner. A few banners, some paintings; very little else. Somehow, he thought, there ought to be more. As if they’re waiting. But that’s ridiculous.
Most of the officers were strangers, but George recognized half a dozen Progressives, the highest rank a first lieutenant. He waved at the ones he knew and received brief smiles that seemed almost guilty before the Party volunteers turned back to their companions.
“Yes, sir?” Falkenberg prompted.
“Just who are these men?” George demanded. “I know they’re not native to Hadley. Where did they come from?”
“CoDominium officers on the beach,” Falkenberg answered promptly. “Reduction in force. Lots of good men got riffed into early retirement. Some of them heard I was coming here and chose to give up their reserve ranks. They came out on the colony ship on the chance I’d hire them.”
“And you did.”
“Naturally I jumped at the chance to get experienced men at prices we could afford.”
“But why all the secrecy? Why haven’t I heard about them before?”
Falkenberg shrugged. “We’ve violated several of the Grand Senate’s regulations on mercenaries, you know. It’s best not to talk about these things until the CD has definitely gone. After that, the men are committed. They’ll have to stay loyal to Hadley.” Falkenberg lifted his whiskey glass. “Vice President Bradford knew all about it.”
“I’ll bet he did.” Hamner lifted his own glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
And I wonder what else that little snake knows about, Hamner wondered. Without his support Falkenberg would be out of here in a minute . . . and what then?
“Colonel, your organization charts came to my office yesterday. You’ve kept all the Marines in one battalion with these newly hired officers. Then you’ve got three battalions of locals, but all the Party stalwarts are in the Fourth. The Second and Third are local recruits, but under your own men.”
“That’s a fair enough description, yes, sir,” Falkenberg said.
And you know my question, George thought. “Why, Colonel? A suspicious man would say that you’ve got your own little army here, with a structure set so that you can take complete control if there’s ever a difference of opinion between you and the government.”
“A suspicious man might say that,” Falkenberg agreed. He drained his glass and waited for George to do the same. A steward came over with freshly filled glasses.
“But a practical man might say something else,” Falkenberg continued. “Do you expect me to put green officers in command of those guardhouse troops? Or your good-hearted Progressives in command of green recruits?”
“But you’ve done just that—”
“On Mr. Bradford’s orders I’ve kept the Fourth Battalion as free of my mercenaries as possible. That isn’t helping their training, either. But Mr. Bradford seems to have the same complaint as you.”
“I haven’t complained.”
“I thought you had,” Falkenberg said. “In any event, you have your Party force, if you wish to use it to control me. Actually you have all the control you need anyway. You hold the purse strings. Without supplies to feed these men and money to pay them, I couldn’t hold them an hour.”
“Troops have found it easier to rob the paymaster than fight for him before now,” Hamner observed. “Cheers.” He drained the glass, then suppressed a cough. The stuff was strong, and he wasn’t used to drinking neat whiskey. He wondered what would happen if he ordered something else, beer, or a mixed drink. Somehow it didn’t seem to go with the party.
“I might have expected that remark from Bradford,” Falkenberg said.
Hamner nodded. Bradford was always suspicious of something. There were times when George wondered if the First Vice President were quite sane, but that was silly. Still, when the pressure was on, Ernie Bradford did manage to get on people’s nerves with his suspicions, and he would rather see nothing done than give up control of anything.