Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

Max caught his excitement. His binoculars were tight to his eyes. “Sojers. Cavalry. They sure ain’t ours. They must be Hovercraft lads. And look, field artillery.”

Joe Mauser was piloting with his left hand, his right smoothing out a chart on his lap. He growled, “What are they doing there? That’s at least a full brigade of cavalry. Here, let me have those glasses.”

With his knees gripping the stick, he went into a slow circle, as he stared down at the column of men. “Jack Alshuler,” he whistled in surprise. “The marshal’s crack heavy cavalry. And several batteries of artillery.” He swung the glasses in a wider scope and the whistle turned into a hiss of comprehension. “They’re doing a complete circle of the reservation. They’re going to hit the Baron from the direction of Phoenicia.”

Marshal Stonewall Cogswell directed his old fashioned telescope in the direction his chief of staff indicated.

“What is it?” he grunted.

“It’s an airplane, sir.”

“Over a military reservation with a fracas in progress?”

“Yes, sir.” The other put his glasses back on the circling object. “Then what is it, sir? Certainly not a free balloon.”

“Balloons,” the marshal snorted, as though to himself. “Legal to use. The Union forces had them toward the end of the Civil War. But practically useless in a fracas of movement.”

They were standing before the former resort hotel which housed the marshal’s headquarters. Other staff members were streaming from the building, and one of the ever-present Telly reporting crews were hurriedly setting up cameras.

The marshal turned and barked, “Does anybody know what in Zen that confounded thing, circling up there, is?”

Baron Zwerdling, the aging Category Transport magnate, head of Continental Hovercraft, hobbled onto the wooden veranda and stared with the others. “An airplane,” he croaked. “Haer’s gone too far this time. Too far, too far. This will strip him. Strip him, understand.” Then he added, “Why doesn’t it make any noise?”

Lieutenant Colonel Paul Warren stood next to his commanding officer. “It looks like a glider, sir.”

Cogswell glowered at him. “A what?”

“A glider, sir. It’s a sport not particularly popular these days.”

“What keeps it up, confound it?”

Paul Warren looked at him. “The same thing that keeps a hawk up, an albatross, a gull—”

“A vulture, you mean,” Cogswell snarled. He watched it for another long moment, his face working. He whirled on his chief of artillery. “Jed, can you bring that thing down?”

The other had been viewing the craft through field binoculars, his face as shocked as the rest of them. Now he faced his chief, and lowered the glasses, shaking his head. “Not with the artillery of pre-1900. No, sir.”

“What can you do?” Cogswell barked.

The artillery man was shaking his head. “We could mount some Maxim guns on wagon wheels, or something. Keep him from coming low.”

“He doesn’t have to come low,” Cogswell growled unhappily. He spun on Lieutenant Colonel Warren again. “When were they invented?” He jerked his thumb upward. “Those things.”

Warren was twisting his face in memory. “Some time about the turn of the century.”

“How long can the things stay up?”

Warren took in the surrounding mountainous countryside. “Indefinitely, sir. A single pilot, as long as he is physically able to operate. If there are two pilots up there to relieve each other, they could stay until food and water ran out.”

“How much weight do they carry?”

“I’m not sure. One that size, certainly enough for two men and any equipment they’d need. Say, five hundred pounds.”

Cogswell had his telescope glued to his eyes again, he muttered under his breath, “Five hundred pounds! They could even unload dynamite over our horses. Stampede them all over the reservation.”

“What’s going on?” Baron Zwerdling shrilled. “What’s going on Marshal Cogswell?”

Cogswell ignored him. He watched the circling, circling craft for a full five minutes, breathing deeply. Then he lowered his glass and swept the assembled officers of his staff with an indignant glare. “Ten Eyck!” he grunted.

An infantry colonel came to attention. “Yes, sir.”

Cogswell said heavily, deliberately. “Under a white flag. A dispatch to Baron Haer. My compliments and request for his terms. While you’re at it, my compliments also to Captain Joseph Mauser.”

Zwerdling was bug-eyeing him. “Terms!” he rasped.

The marshal turned to him. “Yes, sir. Face reality. We’re in the dill. I suggest you sue for terms as short of complete capitulation as you can make them.”

“You call yourself a soldier—!” the transport tycoon began to shrill.

“Yes, sir,” Cogswell snapped. “A soldier, not a butcher of the lads under me.” He called to the Telly reporter who was getting as much of this as he could. “Mr. Soligen, isn’t it?”

The reporter scurried forward, flicking signals to his cameramen for proper coverage. “Yes, sir. Freddy Soligen, marshal. Could you tell the Telly fans what this is all about, Marshal Cogswell? Folks, you all know the famous marshal. Marshal Stonewall Cogswell, who hasn’t lost a fracas in nearly ten years, now commanding the forces of Continental Hovercraft.”

“I’m losing one now,” Cogswell said grimly. “Vacuum Tube Transport has pulled a gimmick out of the hat and things have pickled for us. It will be debated before the Military Category Department, of course, and undoubtedly the Sov-world military attaches will have things to say. But as it appears now, the fracas as we have known it, has been revolutionized.”

“Revolutionized?” Even the Telly reporter was flabbergasted. “You mean by that thing?” He pointed upward, and the lenses of the cameras followed his finger.

“Yes,” Cogswell growled unhappily. “Do all of you need a blueprint? Do you think I can fight a fracas with that thing dangling above me, throughout the day hours? Do you understand the importance of reconnaissance in warfare?” His eyes glowered. “Do you think Napoleon would have lost Waterloo if he’d had the advantage of perfect reconnaissance such as that thing can deliver? Do you think Lee would have lost Gettysburg? Don’t be ridiculous.” He spun on Baron Zwerdling, who was stuttering his complete confusion.

“As it stands, Baron Haer knows every troop dispensation I make. All I know of his movements are from my cavalry scouts. I repeat, I am no butcher, sir. I will gladly cross swords with Baron Haer another day, when I, too, have… what did you call the confounded things, Paul?”

“Gliders,” Lieutenant Colonel Warren said.

Major Joseph Mauser, now attired in his best off-duty Category Military uniform, spoke his credentials to the receptionist. “I have no definite appointment, but I am sure the Baron will see me,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The receptionist did the things that receptionists do, then looked up at him again. “Right through that door, major.”

Joe Mauser gave the door a quick double rap and then entered before waiting an answer.

Balt Haer, in mufti, was standing at a far window, a drink in his hand, rather than his customary swagger stick. Nadine Haer sat in an easy-chair. The girl Joe Mauser loved had been crying.

Joe Mauser, suppressing his frown, made with the usual amenities.

Balt Haer without answering them, finished his drink in a gulp and stared at the newcomer. The old stare, the aloof stare, an aristocrat looking at an underling as though wondering what made the fellow tick. He said, finally, “I see you have been raised to Rank Major.”