Robert Adams - A Man Called Milo Morai

In silence, the junior officer opened a drawer of his desk to reveal an array of buttons. He pressed one of them and a succession of metallic slamming noises from the direction of the door to the reception office told of a number of bolts now in place. The pressing of another button brought forth a deep-toned humming noise that pervaded the room. Then the lieutenant opened the cabinet behind him, took out a civilian-model Thompson with no shoulder stock and a drum rather than the military box magazine, armed it and laid it on the desktop before him. Then and only then he spoke.

“Condition Four-Oh, sir.”

When once more Barstow had closed and, this time, multiply bolted his office door and resumed his seat, Milo said, “Jesus fucking Christ, general, what are you expecting? The survivors of the Das Reich SS-Panzer Division to assault this place?”

“As I said earlier, Milo, you forget that this is a counter-intelligence operation, but you can bet your bottom dollar on the fact that the NKVD and Red Army intelligence don’t forget just what we have here. And the real pity of it all is that certain persons in very highly placed offices in Washington have allowed our armed services to become so infiltrated with Uncle Joe Stalin’s agents that it sometimes is difficult to be sure of the motives of anyone. But, for now, let’s get your question out of the way. I can’t maintain Condition Four-Oh for any length of time without arousing comment.

“Why were your name and other facts about you in a certain file? For this reason, Milo: your involvement with Brigadier General Jethro Stiles, deceased.”

“Oh, come on, general, I knew Jethro from my basic training days on. He was no fucking spy for the Red Army, the Nazis or any fucking body else, and you’re not going to convince me that he was!” Milo exploded with heat.

“Please keep your voice down,” said Barstow mildly. “The device we activated only mutes out normal, conversational speech. You are quite correct, Milo, Stiles was not a spy, not in the ordinary sense of that word. But still we felt it well advised to keep an eye on him and any of his friends who spent time alone with him. We also had in his quarters microphones connected to a listening post and a wire-recording instrument.”

“Well, you’re sweet, trusting bastards, aren’t you?” Milo said bitterly. “And why all of this shit, just because he was buying a few things from Nazis who were due to lose everything soon anyway?”

Barstow smiled thinly. “That operation was nothing more than what we in the intelligence community call a cover, Milo. It gave him a reason for being in touch with the still-unconquered portions of Germany, a reason even for occasional trips behind German lines. The few who knew aught about his clandestine ‘purchasing trips’ were of the consensus that he was representing and given protection by a clique of greedy general officers at corps or possibly army level, and he himself enhanced that impression by allowing the commander of your division to buy in on the operation.

“In reality, of course, General Stiles was performing something of inestimable importance for the United States and the future. It was something that is still too highly classified to tell you about. But we are certain that sudden realization of the truth, the real purposes of his activities, was what got General Stiles and ..Captain Wesley killed that day in Delitzsch.”

“General, I was there, remember? Jethro was killed by three Hitler Youth amateur snipers. And who the hell is Captain Wesley?” Milo tersely informed and demanded.

“Wesley? Oh, you knew him as Sergeant Webber, his cover name for that operation. He was a loan from another agency. And yes, the shootings were very cut-and dried, but only on the surface, Milo. And I cannot impart any more information on that subject to you, not now. Should you decide to remain in the Army and should you be cleared to work for me in my new assignment, I might be able to tell you more, someday.

“But for now, Milo, the war is over. You’ve done all that you can in Europe, so why not take this opportunity to go home?”

As Milo closed his memories and ceased to speak, there was a ripple of movement around the ranks of seated boys and girls and men and prairiecats who had gathered about the main Skaht firepit to be entertained by his tale of long ago.

While others rubbed at arms and legs and sleepy eyes or began to gather up tools and handiworks to stow them away for another night, two of the Skaht girls kept to what they had been doing. Myrah Skaht cracked nuts from a pile, separated the meats and tossed the shells down into the bed of dying-out coals in the firepit. Karee Skaht then took up the nutmeats and fed them to Gy Linsee, who sat between them. From time to time, Myrah stopped her nut-cracking to take from its place in a nest of coals a small long-handled pot with which she refilled the horn cup for Gy with a heated mixture of herb tea laced with fermented honey.

Milo communicated on a tight, highly personal beaming to Tchuk Skaht. “Look at those three, would you? I believe that the first thing we are going to witness upon our return is a wedding—Gy Linsee and not just one but two of your Skaht girls, Karee and Myrah. What do you think your chief will say to that?”

The hunt chief grinned and said, “He will say just what he has said since she first saw Sacred Sun: ‘Anything that my Myrah wants, she is to have.’ That’s what he’ll say, Uncle Milo.”

Milo grinned, beaming on, “Well, considering what I brought you all here for, I can think of much worse results than marriage of a son of a Clan Linsee bard to a brace of Clan Skaht females, one of them the favorite daughter of the Skaht of Skaht himself.

“Yes, I think that my purpose here is beginning to see accomplishment, Tchuk, Wind and Sacred Sun be thanked. A few more such ties made between your nubile young people and I think that we will have seen the last of any bloodletting, on any large scale, at least. What true Kindred father would ride to raid against his own children and grandchildren, after all, and what Kindred son would ride against the camp of his parents or in-laws?”

Tchuk grinned, beaming, “Have you met my in-laws, Uncle Milo? But, no, you’re right, of course, as you have always been, so I am told. Those of us who for so long have desired to see an end to this ruinous conflict should have thought of something like this, but then we lacked your vast store of knowledge and experience, too. We soon will start back to the clan camps, then?”

“Not hardly,” replied Milo. “For all else I intended this hunt to be, it still is an autumn hunt, just like any other save for the fact that few warriors and no matrons are taking part in it. When we have loaded down the pack-horses with smoked game and fish and dried plant foods, that is when we’ll head back to the camps, not before then.”

“Well, that boar that Gy Linsee speared will help mightily in that regard, Uncle Milo. Even without the hide and the guts and the bones, there must be three hundred pounds of flesh and hard fat in that carcass.”

“True,” Milo agreed, “and the rest of the pigs are still out there, awaiting our arrows and spears, too. But what I’d like to find now is a salt lick, for I dislike curing pigmeat without salt. Let’s give that task to the foragers tomorrow, eh? They’ll be frequenting the vicinities of springs, anyway, in their search for edible plants and roots. You might try mindspeaking the more intelligent and communicative of the horses, too—sometimes they can scent deposits on the prairie.

“Now, I suggest we all get some sleep, for the dawn will come early, as always.”

To the seemingly bemused Linsee boy, he beamed, “Come, Gy , it is late, and I am going back to your clan’s fires, this night. We can walk together and converse.”