Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

Barry Watson looked at him.

Stevens chuckled. “We used to have debates on whether or not the military should be tolerated on the newly opening planets.”

“And what did you decide?”

“Nothing. What’s ever decided by debating?”

Barry Watson turned to one of the drill sergeants. “Let’s put them through open phalanx to tortuga, sergeant.”

The non-com Tulan came to the salute. “Yes, sir.” He wheeled about sharply and barked out an order.

The men snapped to attention. For the next few minutes, Barry watched them, narrow eyed. They went into ranks six deep. They wheeled, they turned about, they marched this way and that, and back again.

“Tortuga,” Barry Watson snapped to the sergeant. The non-com rasped.

Of a sudden, ranks closed tight. The first file lowered its shields, the second, crowded behind, extended their own over the heads of the first rank so that their drill shields topped the others. Behind, the third rank, and fourth held their shields above their heads, horizontally. The fifth and sixth ranks had about faced sharply and duplicated the shield wall. They were a living war tank.

Barry grunted unhappily, tugging at his right ear. He said to Stevens, “That’s a Roman maneuver, actually. These cloddies aren’t doing it any too well.”

He turned to one of the drill sergeants. “That man at the end of the third file, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have him over here.” The sergeant barked commands. Terry Stevens said, “What’s the matter?”

“Is that recruit a new man or something?”

“No,” Stevens said uncomfortably. “He’s got family troubles. He’s got a lot on his mind.”

Barry looked at him. “Haven’t we all? Who told him he had a mind? He’s a phalanx man.”

The cohort had ground to a halt again. In a moment, the footman in question approached at the double. He faced the two Earthmen and came to a half-hearted salute. His lack of enthusiasm wasn’t lost on Barry Watson.

Watson looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t seem to have your heart in this, spearman.” The other said nothing.

The Earthman said, “The whole theory is that every man moves exactly so. Just one man doesn’t and the whole thing falls apart. In combat, that’s a matter of life and death. Let those nomad funkers break your ranks, and you’ve all had it. You should know all this. Answer me!”

The footman said, his voice surly, “I should be working in the fields. This is not the season for war. It is the season to plant and hoe. It is not fitting that the strongest should be playing at war, with spears without points and shields made of cloth, while the women and children are in the fields.”

“I see,” Barry Watson said, his voice very level. “Then let me tell you this, spearman. You are not needed in the fields with your hoe. Specialist MacBride has succeeded in exploiting the islands off the coast. Technician Hawkins has introduced your people to the plow and reaper. The women and the new war prisoners are capable of producing more in the fields than was ever done before when you were breaking your back with your hoe. You are needed to defend the State against the nomads and rebels.”

“The nomads were no danger until…” the footman began, his voice low still.

Barry Watson turned to the sergeant. “Flog this man,” he snapped. “If he is able to move in less than a week, you answer for it.”

“Yes, sir!”

Barry looked at another of the non-coms. The man’s face was stolid and empty. They were good men, drawn from the ranks of the Khan’s standing bodyguard. They were warriors born, and Barry Watson knew they were heart and soul behind the innovations he was making. Nothing succeeds like success, he knew, and these professionals knew success when they saw it. So far as,the drill sergeants were concerned, there was no resentment against this instructor from space.

The Earthman snapped: “Take over the drill, sergeant. These men are going to be ready for the field by the end of the week. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barry looked at his companion. “Walk on over here with me, Terry. I have something.”

They strolled toward the side of the drill field, Stevens scowling unhappily.

“You sure that was a good idea?”

“What? Having that man flogged?”

Stevens said nothing for a moment, then, finally, “There’s only eight of us—and Isobel.”

Barry Watson grunted sour humor. “And that’s probably the reason I should have had him shot for insubordination, instead of simply whipped. Tula is at war. Joe Chessman has the right idea. You don’t run a military machine by being humanitarian, Terry.”

“Maybe there was some other way to do it,” Stevens muttered.

“Some other way of uniting Texcoco?” Barry grinned at him. “You should have come up with it sooner, friend. It would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”

Stevens took a deep breath. “What’d you want to talk about, Barry?”

The other stopped and turned. He said evenly, “Mynor has defected. The Chief Priest. He’s gone over to the nomads and rebels.”

Stevens pursed his lips and thought about it. “He’s a big wig on this planet. That religion of his is pretty well worldwide. What does Leonid Plekhanov think it will mean?”

Watson said sourly, “He’s dithering, as usual. Joe was in favor of rounding up Mynor’s closest associates and shooting them before they have a chance to take off too.”

“Holy Jumping Zen,” Stevens protested. “Plekhanov stopped that idea, didn’t he?”

“Yes. As predictable. Our intrepid leader is great with his books, or in debate with somebody like Amschel Mayers, but when it comes to thinking on his feet, he dithers.”

“Well, I’d rather have Plekhanov dithering, than Joe Chessman running around shooting everybody that doesn’t look right to him.”

Barry Watson said thoughtfully, “I don’t know, Terry. I don’t know. Sometimes by shooting one or two, you don’t have to shoot one or two thousand a few weeks later.”

Terry Stevens said, “And by shooting one or two thousand, you don’t have to shoot ten or twenty thousand a month later?” Watson laughed, though without humor. “You’re beginning to get it.” But then he sobered. “I didn’t ask for this job, Terry. But if this planet is ever going to become united, we’ve got to have a military to do it. It’s anarchy now. Mynor and his rebels want only one thing: to turn the wheels backward to the old days.”

“It’s their world,” Stevens muttered.

Barry Watson laughed his humorless laugh again. “Whose side are you on? Remember us? We’re the handful of specialists sent out by the Office of Galactic Colonization to bring this world into the human community. Nobody thought it was going to be fun.”

“I suppose so,” Stevens said. “I’m just tired.”

Watson grinned. “You’ll be more tired tomorrow. I’m leaving you and Steve Cogswell in charge when we go up to the Pedagogue to confer with Amschel Mayer and his team. Plekhanov is leaving Isobel, Dick Hawkins, MacBride and you and Cogswell to hold the fort.”

“Shouldn’t either he or Chessman be here?”

Barry winked. “He’s afraid to leave Joe Chessman. He labors under the illusion that Joe is his only rival for Hot Pants Sanchez.”

Stevens flushed.

Barry Watson cocked his head and looked at his colleague narrowly. “Don’t tell me our good doctor has got to you, too. Why don’t you take a lesson from Cogswell and round yourself up a bevy from the Tulan curves? With the man shortage that’s beginning to develop around here, we’re developing the largest number of round heeled mopsies known in history.”

“You think it’s a good example for us to be setting?” Stevens said accusingly.