Robert Heinlein - Sixth Column

"Peace be unto you!"

And it was so! The feeling of dread, of irrational fright, dropped away from the PanAsian as if someone had turned a switch. In his relief he found himself regarding this member of an inferior race -- so evidently a priest with a warmth reserved for equals. He recalled the Admonitions for dealing with inferior religions.

"What is this place, Holy One?"

"You stand at the threshold of the Temple of Mota, Lord of Lords and Lord of All!"

"Mota-h-m-m-m." He could not recall such a god, but it did not matter. These sallow creatures had a thousand strange gods. Three things only do slaves require, food, work, and their gods, and of the three their gods must never be touched, else they grow troublesome. So said the Precepts for Ruling. "Who are you?"

"I am an humble priest, First Server of Shaam, Lord of Peace."

"Shaam? I thought you said Mota was your god?"

"We serve the Lord Mota in six of his thousand attributes. You serve him in your way. Even the Heavenly Emperor serves him in his. My duty is to the Lord of Peace."

This was perilously close to treason, the lieutenant thought, if not to blasphemy. Still, it may be that the gods have many names, and the native did not seem disposed to make trouble. "Very well, old Holy One, the Heavenly Emperor permits you to serve your god as you see him, but I must inspect for the Empire. Stand aside."

The old man did not move, but answered regretfully, "I am sorry, Master. It cannot be."

"It must be. Stand aside!"

"Please, Master, I beg of you! It is not possible for you to enter here. In these attributes Mota is Lord of the white men. You must go to your own temple; you cannot enter this one. It is death to any but his followers."

"You threaten me?"

"No, Master, no -- we serve the Emperor, as our faith requires. But this thing the Lord Mota Himself forbids. I cannot save you if you offend."

"On the Heavenly Emperor's service -- stand aside!" He strode steadily across the broad terrace toward the door, his squad clomping stolidly after him. The panic dread clutched at him as he marched and increased in intensity as he approached the great door. His heart seemed constricted, and a mad longing to flee clamored through him senselessly. Only the fatalistic courage of his training made him go on. Through the door he saw a vast empty hall and on the far side an altar, large in itself, but dwarfed by the mammoth proportions of the room. The inner walls shone, each with its own light, red, blue, green, golden. The ceiling was a perfect, flawless white, the floor an equally perfect black.

There was nothing to be afraid of here, he told himself, this illogical but horribly real dread was a sickness, unworthy of a warrior. He stepped across the threshold. A momentary dizziness, a flash of terrifying insecurity and he collapsed.

His squad, close at his heels, had no more warning.

Ardmore came trotting out of concealment. "Nice work, Jeff," he called out, "you should be on the stage!"

The old priest relaxed. "Thanks, Chief. What happens next?"

"We'll have time to figure that out." He turned toward the altar and shouted, "Scheer!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Turn off the fourteen-cycle note!" He added to Thomas, "Those damned subsonics give me the creeping horrors even when I know what's going on. I wonder what effect it had on our pal here?"

"He was cracking up, I believe. I never thought he'd make it to the doorway."

"I don't blame him. It made me want to howl like a dog, and 1 ordered it turned on. There's nothing like the fear of something you can't understand to break a man down. Well, we got a bear by the tail. Now to figure out a way to turn loose --"

"How about him?" Thomas jerked his head toward the mountaineer, who still stood near the head of the great flight of steps.

"Oh, yes." Ardmore whistled at him and shouted, "Hey you -- come here!"

The man hesitated, and Ardmore added, "Damn it -- we're white men! Can't you see that?"

The man answered, "I see it, but I don't like it." Nevertheless he slowly approached.

Ardmore said, "This is a piece of razzle-dazzle for the benefit of our yellow brethren. Now that you're in it, you're in it! Are you game?"

The other members of the personnel of the Citadel had gathered around by this time. The mountain guide glanced around at their faces. "It doesn't look as if I had much choice."

"Maybe not, but we would rather have a volunteer than a prisoner."

The mountaineer shifted tobacco from left cheek to right, glanced around the immaculate pavement for a place to spit, decided not to, and answered. "What's the game?"

"It's a frame-up on our Asiatic bosses. We plan to give them the run-around-with the help of God and the great Lord Mota."

The guide looked them over again, then suddenly stuck out his hand and said, "I'm in."

"Fine," agreed Ardmore, taking his hand. "What's your name?"

"Howe. Alexander Hamilton Howe. Friends call me Alec."

"O.K., Alec. Now what can you do? Can you cook?" he added.

"Some. "

"Good." He turned away. "Graham, he's your man for now. I'll talk with him later. Now -- Jeff, did it seem to you that one of those monkeys went down a little slowly?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"This one; wasn't it?" He touched one of the quiet, sprawled figures with his shoe.

"I think so."

"All right, I want to check up on him before we bring them to. If he's a Mongolian he should have keeled over quicker. Dr. Brooks, will you give this laddie's reflexes a work-out? And don't be too gentle about it."

Brooks managed to produce some jerks in short order. Seeing this, Ardmore reached down and set his thumb firmly on the exposed nerve under the ear. The soldier came to his knees, writhing. "All right, bud -- explain yourself." The soldier stared impassively. Ardmore studied his face for a moment, then made a quick gesture, which was protected from the gaze of the others by his body.

"Why didn't you say so?" asked the PanAsian soldier.

"I must say it's a good make-up job," commented Ardmore admiringly. "What's your name and rank?"

"Tattoo and plastic surgery," the other returned. "Name's Downer, captain, United States army."

"Mine's Ardmore. Major Ardmore."

"Glad to know you, Major." They shook hands. "Very glad, I should say. I've been hanging on for months, wondering who to report to and how."

"Well, we can certainly use you. It's a scratch organization. I've got to get busy now -- we'll talk later." He turned away. "Places, gentlemen. Second act. Check each other's make-up. Wilkie, see to it that Howe and Downer are out of sight. We are going to bring our drowsy guests back to consciousness."

They started to comply. Downer touched Ardmore's sleeve.

"Just a moment, Major. I don't know your layout, but before we go any further, are you sure you don't want me to stay on my present assignment?"

"Eh? H-m-m-m -- you've got something there. Are you willing to do it?"

"I'm willing to do it, if it's useful," Downer replied soberly.

"It would be useful. Thomas, come here." The three of them went into a short conference and arranged a way for Downer to report through the grapevine, and Ardmore told him as much about the set-up as he needed to know. "Well, good luck, old man," he concluded. "Get back down there and play dead, and we'll reanimate your messmates."

Thomas, Ardmore, and Calhoun attended the Asiatic lieutenant as his eyes flickered open. "Praise be!" intoned Thomas. "The Master lives!"

The lieutenant stared around him, shook his head, then reached for his sidearm. Ardmore, impressive in the red robes of Dis, Lord of Destruction, held up a hand. "Careful, Master, please! I have beseeched my Lord Dis to return you to us. Do not offend him again."

The Asiatic hesitated, then asked, "What happened?"