The landing boat fell away from the orbiting warship, drifted to a safe distance and fired retros. When it entered the thin reaches of the planet's upper atmosphere, scoops opened in the bows, drew in air until the stagnation temperature in the ramjet chambers was high enough for ignition. Engines lit with a roar of flame. Wings swung out slightly, enough to provide lift at hypersonic speeds, and the spaceplane turned, streaked over empty ocean toward the continental land mass two thousand kilometers away.

It circled over craggy mountains twelve kilometers high, dropped low over thickly forested plains, slowing until the craft posed no danger to the thin strip of inhabited lands along the ocean shores. The planet's great ocean was joined to a nearly landlocked channel no more than five kilometers across at its widest point, and nearly all of the colonists lived near the junction of the waters. Hadley's capital city nestled on a long peninsula at the mouth of that channel, the two natural harbors, one in the sea, the other in the ocean, giving the city the fitting name of Refuge.

The ship extended its wings to their fullest reach, floated low over the calm water of the channel harbor until it touched, settled in. Tugboats raced across clear blue water. Sweating seamen threw lines, secured the landing craft and warped it to dock.

A long line of CoDominium marines in garrison uniform marched out of the boat, were gathered on the gray concrete piers into bright lines of color by cursing officers and sergeants. Two men in civilian clothes followed the marines from the flier. They blinked at the unaccustomed blue-white of Hadley's sun, a sun so far away that it would have been a small point if either of them were foolish enough to look directly at it.

Both men were tall and stood as straight as the marines in front of them, so that except for their clothing they might have been mistaken for a part of the disembarking battalion. The shorter of the two carried luggage for both of them and stood respectfully behind; although older, he was obviously a subordinate. They watched as two younger men came uncertainly along the pier. The newcomers' unadorned blue uniforms contrasted sharply with the bright reds and golds of the CoDominium marines who milled around them. Already the marines were scurrying back into the flier, carrying out barracks bags, weapons, the personal gear of a light infantry battalion.

The taller of the two civilians faced the uniformed newcomers. "I take it you're here to meet us?" he asked pleasantly. His voice rang through the noise on the pier, carrying easily although he had not shouted. The accent was neutral, the nearly universal English of American officers in CoDominium service, marking his profession almost as certainly as did his posture and the tone of command.

The newcomers were uncertain, however. There were a lot of ex-officers of the CoDominium Space Navy on the beach with CD budgets lower every year. "I think so," one finally said. "John Christian Falkenberg?"

His name was actually John Christian Falkenberg III, he thought amusedly. His grandfather would probably have insisted on the distinction. "Right. And Sergeant-Major Calvin."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Lieutenant Banners, this is Ensign Mowrer. We're on President Budreau's staff." Banners looked around as if expecting other men, but there were none except the marines. He gave Falkenberg a slightly puzzled look, then added, "We have transportation for you, but I'm afraid your men will have to walk. It's about eleven miles."

"Miles." Falkenberg smiled to himself. This was out in the boondocks. "I see no reason why ten healthy mercenaries can't march eighteen kilometers, Lieutenant." He turned to the black shape of the landing boat's entry port, called to someone still inside. "Captain Fast. There's no transportation, but someone here will show you where to march the men. Have them carry all gear."

"Uh, sir, that won't be necessary," the lieutenant protested. "We can get—well, we have horse-drawn transport for baggage." He looked at Falkenberg as if he expected the man to laugh, then went on. "Ensign Mowrer will attend to it." He paused again, looked thoughtful, his youthful features knotted in a puzzled expression as if he were uncertain of how to tell Falkenberg something. Finally he shook his head. "I think it would be wise if you issued your men their personal weapons, sir. There shouldn't be any trouble on their way to barracks, but—anyway, ten armed men certainly won't have any problems."

"I see. Perhaps I should go with my troops, Lieutenant. I hadn't known things were quite that bad on Hadley." Falkenberg's voice was calm and even, but he looked intently at the junior man.

"No, sir. They aren't, really ... just that, well, there's no point in taking chances." He waved Ensign Mowrer to the landing craft, turned to Falkenberg again. A large black shape rose from the water outboard of the landing craft, splashed, and vanished. Banners seemed not to notice, but the marines shouted excitedly. "I'm sure the ensign and your officers can handle the disembarkation . . . the President would like to see you, sir."

"No doubt. All right, Banners. Lead on. I'll bring Sergeant-Major Calvin with me." No point in continuing this farce, Falkenberg thought. Anyone seeing ten armed men conducted by a presidential ensign would know they were troops, civilian clothes or not. Another case of wrong information; he'd been told to keep their status secret. He wondered whether this was going to make it more difficult to keep his own secrets.

Banners ushered them quickly through the bustling CoDominium marine barracks, past bored guards who half-saluted the Presidential Guard uniform. The marine fortress was a blur of activity, every open space crammed with packs and weapons, the signs of a military force about to move on to another station.

As they were leaving the building, Falkenberg saw an elderly naval officer. "Excuse me a moment, Banners," he muttered, and turned to the CoDominium Navy captain. "They sent someone for me. Thanks, Ed."

"No problem. I'll report your arrival to the admiral, he wants to keep track of you. Unofficially, of course. Good luck, John. God knows you need some right now. Sorry about everything else."

"Way it goes," Falkenberg said. He shook the offered hand warmly. "Pay my respects to the rest of your officers. You run a good ship."

The captain smiled thinly. "You ought to know . . . look, we pull out of here in a couple of days, John. No more than that. If you need a ride out, I can arrange it. The Senate won't have to know. We can fix you a hitch to anywhere in CD territory. Just in case, I mean. It might be rough here."

"And it won't be everywhere else in the CoDominium? Thanks again,

Ed." He gave a half salute, checked himself, and strode back to where Banners stood with his sergeant. Calvin lifted three personal effects bags as if they were empty, pushed the door open in a smooth motion.

"The car's here." Banners opened the rear door of a battered ground-effects vehicle of no discoverable make. It had been cannibalized from a dozen other machines, and some parts were obviously cut-and-try jobs done by an uncertain machinist. Banners climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, which coughed twice, then ran smoothly. They moved away in a cloud of black smoke.

They drove past another dock where a landing craft with wings as large as the entire marine landing boat was unloading an endless stream of civilian passengers. Children screamed, men and women stared about uncertainly until they were ungently hustled along by guards in uniforms matching Banners'. The sour smell of unwashed humanity mingled with the crisp clean salt air from the ocean beyond. Banners rolled up the windows with an expression of distaste.

"Always like that," Calvin commented to no one in particular. "Water discipline on them CoDominium prison ships being what it is, takes weeks dirtside to get clean again."

"Have you ever been inside one of those ships?" Banners asked.

"No, sir," Calvin replied. "Been in marine assault boats just about as bad, I reckon. But I can't say I fancy being stuffed into no cubicles with ten, fifteen thousand civilians for six months."

"We may all see the inside of one of those," Falkenberg commented. "And be glad of the chance. Tell me about the situation here, Banners."

"I don't even know where to start, sir," the young man answered. "I—you know about Hadley?"

"Assume I don't," John Falkenberg told him. Might as well see what kind of estimate of the situation the President's officers could make. The fleet intelligence report bulged in the inner pocket of his tunic, but those reports always left out important details.

"Yes, sir. Well, to begin with, we're a long way from the nearest shipping lanes—but I guess you knew that. The only real reason we had any merchant trade was the mines. Thorium, richest veins known for a while, until they started to run out. For the first few years, that's all we had. The mines are up in the hills, about eighty miles over that way." He pointed to a thin blue line just visible at the horizon.

"Must be pretty high mountains," Falkenberg said. "What's the diameter of Hadley? About sixty percent of Earth? Something like that. Horizon ought to be pretty close."

"Yes, sir. They are high mountains. Hadley is small, but we've got bigger and better everything here."

There was pride in the young officer's voice.

"Them bags seem pretty heavy for a planet this small," Calvin said.

"Hadley's very dense," Banners answered. "Gravity nearly ninety percent standard. Anyway, the mines are over there. Have their own spaceport. Refuge—that's this city—was founded by the American Express Company. Brought in colonists, quite a lot of them, all volunteers. The usual misfits. I suppose my father was typical enough, an engineer who couldn't keep up with the knowledge explosion, got tired of the rat race. That was the first wave, and they took the best land, founded he city, got an economy going. Paid back American Express in twenty years." Banners' pride was evident, and Falkenberg knew it had been a difficult job.

"That was, what, fifty years ago?" Falkenberg asked. They were driving through crowded streets lined with wooden houses, some stone buildings. Rooming houses, bars, sailors' brothels, the usual for a dock street, but there were no other, cars on the roads. They could see horses and oxen pulling carts. The sky above Refuge was clear, no trace of smog or industrial wastes. Out in the harbor, tugboats moved with the silent efficiency of electric power, but there were also wind-driven sailing ships, lobster boats powered by oars, a tops'l schooner lovely against clean blue water throwing up white spume as she raced out to sea. A three-masted, full-rigged ship was drawn up to a wharf where men loaded it by hand with huge bales of what might have been cotton.

They passed a wagonload of melons. A gaily dressed young couple waved cheerfully at them, then the man snapped a long whip at the team of horses which pulled them. Falkenberg studied the primitive scene, said, "It doesn't look like you've been here fifty years."

"No." Banners gave them a bitter look, swerved to avoid several shapeless teen-agers lounging in the dockside street, swerved again to avoid a barricade of paving stones which they had masked. A shower of stones banged against the vehicle. The car jounced wildly, leaped over a low place in the wall, and Banners accelerated rapidly.

Falkenberg carefully took his hand from inside his shirt, noted that Calvin was now inspecting an automatic rifle that appeared from the oversized barracks bag he'd brought into the car with him. When Banners said nothing about the incident, Falkenberg knitted his brows and sat back, listening. The intelligence reports mentioned lawlessness, but this was as bad as a Welfare Island on Earth.

"No, we're not much industrialized," Banners continued. "At first there wasn't any need to develop basic industries. The mines made everyone rich, so rich we imported everything we needed. The farmers sold fresh food to the miners for enormous prices. Refuge was a service-industry town. People who worked here could soon afford farm animals, and they scattered out across the plains, into the forest. Those people didn't want industry, they'd come here to escape it. Then some blasted CoDominium bureaucrat read the ecology reports about Hadley. The Population Control Bureau in Washington decided this was a perfect world for involuntary colonization. The ships were coming here for the thorium anyway, so instead of luxuries and machinery they were ordered to carry convicts. Hundreds of thousands of them, Colonel Falkenberg. For the last ten years, it's been better than fifty thousand people a year dumped in here."

"And you couldn't support them all," John said carefully.

"No, sir." Banners' face tightened. He seemed to be fighting tears. "Every erg the fusion generators can make has to go into basic protocarb just to feed them. These weren't like the original colonists. They didn't know anything, they wouldn't do anything . . . oh, not really, of course. Some of them work. Some of our best citizens are transportees. But there were so many of the other kind."

"Why'n't you let 'em work or starve?" Calvin asked bluntly. Falkenberg gave him a cold look, and the sergeant nodded slightly, sank back into his seat.

"Because the CD wouldn't let us!" Banners shouted. "Damn it, we didn't have self-government. CD Bureau of Relocation people told us what to do, ran everything . . ."

"We know," Falkenberg said gently. "We've seen the results of Humanity League influence over BuRelock. My sergeant-major wasn't asking you a question, he was expressing an opinion. I'm surprised though—won't your farms support the urban population?"

"They should, sir." Banners drove in grim silence for long moments. "But there's no transportation. The people are here, and most of the agricultural land is five hundred miles inland. There's arable land closer, but it isn't cleared . . . our settlers wanted to get away from Refuge and BuRelock. We have a railroad, but bandit gangs keep blowing it up, so we can't rely on Hadley's produce to keep Refuge alive. With about a million people on Hadley, half of them are crammed into this one ungovernable city."

They were approaching an enormous bowl-shaped structure attached to a massive square stone fortress. Falkenberg inspected the buildings carefully, then asked what they were.

"Our stadium," Banners replied. There was no pride in his voice now. "The CD built it for us. We'd rather have had a new fusion plant, but we got a stadium that can hold a hundred thousand people. For recreation. We have very fine sports teams and racehorses," he added bitterly. "The building next to it is the Palace. Its architecture is quite functional."

The city was even more thickly populated as they approached the fortress-like palace. Now the buildings were mostly stone and concrete instead of wood. Few were more than three stories high, so that Refuge spread as far as the eye could see along the shore, the population density increasing beyond the stadium-palace complex. Banners was watchful as he drove along the wide streets, but seemed less nervous.

Refuge was a city of contrasts. The streets were straight and wide, and there was evidently a good waste disposal system, but the lower floors of the buildings were open shops, the sidewalks were clogged with market stalls, crowds of pedestrians; there was still no motor traffic, no moving pedways. Horse troughs and hitching posts had been constructed at frequent intervals, along with starkly functional street lights and water distribution towers. The few signs of technology contrasted strongly with the general primitive air of the city.

A uniformed contingent of men - thrust their way through the crowd at a street crossing. Falkenberg looked at them closely, then at Banners. "Your troops?"

"No, sir. That's the livery of Glenn Foster's household. Officially they're unorganized reserves of the President's Guard, but they're household troops all the same." Banners laughed bitterly. "Sounds like something out of a history book, doesn't it? We're nearly back to feudalism, Colonel Falkenberg. Anyone rich enough keeps hired bodyguards. They have to. The criminal gangs are so strong the police don't try to catch anyone under organized protection, and the judges wouldn't punish them if they were caught."

"And the private bodyguards become gangs in their own right, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir." Banners looked at him sharply. "Have you seen it happen before?"

"Yes. I've seen it before." Banners was unable to make out the expression on Falkenberg's lips.

They drove into the Presidential Palace, were saluted by blue-uniformed troopers. Falken berg noted the polished weapons, precise drill of the Presidential Guard. There were some well-trained men on duty here, although there probably weren't too many of them. He wondered if they could fight as well as stand guard.

He was conducted through a series of rooms in the heavy stone fortress. Each had heavy metal doors, and several seemed to be guardrooms. Falkenberg saw no signs of governmental activity until they had passed through the outer layers of the enormous palace to an open courtyard, through that to an inner building where clerks bustled through halls, girls in the draped togas fashionable two years before on Earth sat at desks in offices. Most seemed to be packing desk contents into boxes, and all around the palace people were scurrying about. Some offices were empty, desks covered with fine dust, plastiboard moving boxes stacked outside them.

There were two anterooms to the President's office. President Budreau was a tall thin man with a red pencil moustache and quick gestures. As they were ushered into the overly ornate room the President looked up from a sheaf of papers, but his eyes didn't focus on his visitors for long seconds. Slowly the worried concentration left his face and he rose.

"Colonel John Christian Falkenberg, sir," Lieutenant Banners said. "And Sergeant-Major Calvin."

"Pleased to see you, Falkenberg," the President said. His expression told them differently; he looked at his visitors with faint distaste, said nothing else until Banners had left the room. When the door closed he asked, "How many men did you bring with you?"

"Ten, Mister President. All we could get on board the carrier without arousing suspicion. We were lucky to get those. The Senate had an inspector at the loading docks to check for violation of the antimercenary codes. If we hadn't bribed a port official to distract him we wouldn't be here at all. Calvin and I would be on Tanith as involuntary colonists."

"I see." From his expression he was not surprised. John thought he might have been as happy if the inspector had caught them. Budreau tapped the desk nervously. "Perhaps it will be enough. I understand the ship you came on carried the marines who have volunteered to settle on Hadley. They should provide the nucleus of an excellent constabulary for us. Good troops?"

"It was a demobilized battalion," Falkenberg replied. "Those are usually the scrapings of every guardhouse on twenty planets. We'll be lucky if there's a real trooper in the lot." Falkenberg saw Budreau's face relax into a mask of depression, every trace of hope draining out. "Surely you have troops of your own?"

Budreau picked up a sheaf of papers. "It's all here, I was just looking it over when you came in." He handed the report to Falkenberg. "There's not much encouragement in it, Colonel. There's no military solution to Hadley's problems. I never thought there could be, but if you have only ten men plus a battalion of forced labor marines, the military answer isn't worth considering." Budreau gave Falkenberg a thin smile, moved his hands rapidly over the sea of papers on his desk. "If I were you, I'd get back on that Navy boat and forget Hadley."

"Why don't you?" Falkenberg asked.

"Because Hadley's my home!" Budreau snapped. "And no rabble is going to drive me off the plantation my grandfather built with his own hands. They won't make me run out."

Falkenberg took the report, flipped the pages and handed it to Calvin. "We've come a long way, Mister President. You might as well tell me what the problem is before I leave."

Budreau nodded sourly. The red moustache twitched, and he ran the back of his hand across it. "It's simple enough. The ostensible reason you're here, the reason we gave the Colonial Office for letting us recruit a planetary constabulary, is the bandit gangs out in the hills. Nobody knows how many of them there are, but they're strong enough to raid farms, cut communications between Refuge and the countryside whenever they want to. They're serious enough but they're not the real problem, as I presume Vice-President Bradford told you."

Falkenberg nodded. Budreau paused, but when John said nothing, continued. The President's voice was strong, but there was a querulous note in it, as if he were accustomed to having his conclusions argued. "Actually, the bandits aren't my worst problem. But they get support from the Freedom Party, which makes them hard to fight. My Progressive Party is larger than the Freedom Party, but the Progressives are scattered all over the planet and the FP is concentrated right here in Refuge, with God knows how many voters and about forty thousand people they can concentrate when they want to stage a riot."

"Do you have riots very often?" John asked.

"Too often. There's not much to control them with. I have three hundred men in the Presidential Guard, but they're CD recruited and trained like young Banners. Loyal to the job, not to me. And the FP's got men inside it. So scratch the President's Guard when it comes to controlling the Freedom Party."

Budreau smiled without amusement. "Then there's my police force. My police were all commanded by CoDominium officers who are pulling out. My administrative staff was recruited and trained by the CD and all the competent people have been recalled to Earth. There's nobody left who can govern, but I've got the job and everybody else wants it. I might be able to scrape up a thousand Progressive partisans, another fifteen thousand loyalists who would fight in a pinch but have no training, to face the FP's forty thousand. And the Freedom Party's demanded a constitutional convention after the CoDominium Governor leaves. If we don't give them a convention, they'll rebel. If we do, they'll drag things out until there's nobody left but their people, throw the Progressives out of office, and ruin the planet. Under the circumstances, I don't see what a military man can do for us, but Bradford insisted we hire you."

"I take it the Progressive Party is mostly old settlers," Falkenberg said casually.

"Yes and no. It's extremely complicated. The Progressive Party wants to industrialize Hadley, which some of our farm families oppose. But we want to do it slowly. We'll close most of the mines, take out only as much thorium as we have to sell to get basic industrial equipment, keep the rest for our own fusion generators. We'll need it later. We want to develop agriculture and transportation, cut the basic rations so that we can have fusion power for industry. Close out the convenience industries and keep them closed until we can afford them." Budreau's voice rose steadily, his eyes shone. "We want to build the tools of a self-sustaining world and get along without the CoDominium until we can rejoin the human race as equals!" The President caught himself, frowned. He seemed angry with John for witnessing his emotional speech.

Falkenberg leaned back in the heavy leather chair, seemingly relaxed, but his eyes darted around the room, noting the ornate furnishings. The office decor must have cost a fortune to bring from Earth, but most of it was tasteless, chosen for the spectacular rather than for beauty. He waited until Budreau was seated again, then asked, "What does the opposition want?"

"Do you really need to know all this in order—I suppose you do." Budreau's moustache twitched nervously. "The Freedom Party's slogan is 'Service to the People.' They want strip mining—that's got them the miners' support, you can bet. They'll rape the planet to buy goods from other systems. Introduce internal combustion engines—God knows how, there's no technology for them, no heavy industry to make them even if the ecology could absorb them, but they promise cars for everyone, instant modernization. More food, robotic factories, entertainment, all the benefits of immediate industrialization."

"They mean it, or is that just slogans?"

"I think most of them mean it," Budreau answered. "It's hard to believe, but I think they do. Their people have no idea of the realities of our situation, and their leaders are ready to blame anything on the Progressive Party, CoDominium administrators, anything but admit that what they promise isn't possible. Some of the party leaders may know better." Budreau poured brandy into two glasses, waited for Falkenberg to lift one, and muttered a perfunctory "Cheers." He drained the glass at one gulp. "Some of the oldest families on Hadley have joined the Freedom Party. They're worried about the taxes I've proposed, joined the opposition hoping to make a deal . . . you don't look surprised."

"No, sir. It's an old story . . . a military man reads history, if he's smart he'll look for the causes of wars. After all, war is the normal state of affairs, isn't it? Peace is the name of an ideal we deduce from the fact that there have been interludes between wars." Before Budreau could answer, Falkenberg caught himself. "No matter. I take it you expect armed resistance from the Freedom Party after the CD pulls out."

"I hope to prevent it," Budreau snapped. "I do have some gifts at the art of persuasion . . . but they don't want to compromise. They see total victory. As to fighting, the FP partisans claim credit for driving the CoDominium out, Colonel."

Falkenberg laughed. The CD was leaving because the mines weren't worth enough to make it pay to govern Hadley. If the mines were as good as they'd been in the past, no partisans would drive the marines away ...

Budreau nodded as if reading his thoughts. "They've got people believing it anyway. There was a campaign of terrorism for years, nothing very serious to the CD or the marines would have put a stop to it, but they've demoralized the capital police. Out in the bush people administer their own justice. In Refuge, FP gangs control a lot of the city. I don't even know how many police I'll have left when the CD pulls out." He pointed to a stack of papers. "These are resignations from the force."

Budreau sat very still, gathering his thoughts with an effort, the faraway look in his eyes again. "I'm President by courtesy of the CoDominium," he said bitterly. "They installed me and now they're leaving!

Sometimes I wish Bradford hadn't been so successful in talking to the Colonial Office. Bureau of Relocation wanted to leave a Freedom Party president in charge, you know. I wonder if that wouldn't have been better."

"I thought you said their policies would ruin Hadley," Falkenberg mused. He had little use for weaklings, and Budreau seemed to be one.

"They would. But—the policy issues came after the split, I think," Budreau said slowly. He was talking to himself as much as to John. "Now they hate us so much, they oppose anything we want out of spite. And we do the same thing."

"Sounds like CoDominium politics. Russki senators versus United States senators. Just like home," Falkenberg said. There was no trace of humor in the polite laugh that followed. "You say Vice-President Bradford arranged for the Colonial Office to install you as President against the advice of BuRelock?"

Budreau nodded. "Yes . . . the public relations campaign was expensive, more expensive than I'd have ever dreamed, but once we were in office we had the Ministry of Information funds . . . well, you see the situation, Colonel. If you stay, I'll keep the agreement, you'll be Commander of Constabulary. Your commission's already signed. But really, I think it would be better if you didn't take the post. Hadley's problems can't be solved by military consultants."

"Perhaps you're right," Falkenberg said. He suppressed the impulse to grin at the euphemism for mercenaries and finished his drink.

"Now, Mr. Bradford wants to see you," Budreau said. "Lieutenant Banners will show you to his office. And please let me know your decision."

"I will, sir." Falkenberg strode from the big room. As he did, President Budreau buried his face in his hands.

Vice-President Earnest Bradford was a small man with a perpetual half smile on a round face that might have been cherubic if it weren't so haggard. Falkenberg was conducted into the small office, waited until Calvin and Lieutenant Banners left before speaking. As the others were leaving John glanced around the room. In contrast to Budreau's richly furnished suite, the First Vice-President's office was starkly functional, desk and chairs made of local woods with an indifferent finish. A solitary rose in a crystal vase provided the only color.

"Thank God you're here," Bradford said. "But I'm told you only brought ten men! We can't do anything with just ten men! You were supposed to bring a hundred men loyal to us!" He bounced up excitedly, stopped, then sat again. "Can you do something?"

"There were ten men in the Navy ship with me," Falkenberg said. "My staff. When you show me where I'm to train the regiment, I'll find the rest of the mercenaries."

"Others—" Bradford gave him a broad wink, beamed. "Then you did get more to come! We'll show them, all of them . . . What did you think of Budreau?"

"He seems sincere enough. Worried, though. Think I would be in his place."

Bradford shook his head. "He can't make up his mind. About anything! Good man, hut he has to be forced to every decision. Why did the Colonial Office pick him? I thought you were going to arrange for me to be President."

"One thing at a time," Falkenberg said. "The permanent Undersecretary couldn't justify you to the Minister. It was hard enough for Whitlock to get them to approve Budreau with all his experience, let alone a newcomer like you. We sweated blood on this, Ernie."

Bradford's head bobbed up and down. "Good work, too," he said, but he looked at Falkenberg closely. "You kept your part of the bargain, John. I just wish you could have ... well, we'll get to it." His smile expanded confidentially, then he grimaced. "We have to let Mr. Hamner meet you now. Then we can go to the Warner estate. I've arranged for your troops to be quartered there; it's got what you wanted for a training ground. Perfect place, nobody will bother you. You can say your other men are volunteers from the countryside."

Falkenberg nodded slightly. "Let me handle that, will you? I'm getting rather good at cover stories."

"Sure." Bradford beamed again. "By God, we'll win this yet." He touched a button on his desk. "Send Mr. Hamner in, please."

"Wait until you see this Hamner," he told John while they were waiting. "He's the Second Vice-President. Budreau trusts him, so he's dangerous. Represents the technocracy people in the Progressive Party; we can't do without him, but his policies are ridiculous. He wants to let go of everything. There wouldn't be a planetary government if he was in charge. And his people take credit for everything, as if technology was all there was to government. He doesn't know about the meetings, the intrigues, all the people I've had to see, speeches ... He thinks you build a party by working like an engineer."

"Doesn't understand the political realities," Falkenberg finished for him. "Just so. You say he has to be eliminated?"

Bradford shuddered slightly, but kept the thin smile on his face. "Eventually. We do need his influence with the technicians at the moment. And of course he doesn't know anything at all about ... about . . ."

"Of course." Falkenberg sat easily, looking about the office, studied maps on the walls until the intercom announced that Hamner was outside.

George Hamner was a large man, taller than Falkenberg and even heavier than Sergeant-Major Calvin. He had the relaxed movements of a big man, and much of the easy confidence that such massive size usually wins. People didn't pick fights with George Hamner, drunk or sober. His grip was gentle, but he closed his hand relentlessly, testing Falkenberg carefully. As he felt answering pressure he looked surprised, and the two men stood in silence for long moments before Hamner relaxed and waved at Bradford.

"So you're our new Colonel of Constabulary," Hamner said. "Hope you know what you're getting into. I should say I hope you don't know. If you know about our problems and take the job anyway, we'll have to wonder if you're sane."

"I keep hearing a lot about how severe Hadley's problems are, but nobody's briefed me," Falkenberg replied. "I gather we're outnumbered by the Freedom Party people and you expect trouble. What kind of weapons do they have to make trouble with?"

Hamner laughed. "Direct son of a gun, aren't you? Nothing spectacular in the weapons, just a lot of them . . . enough small problems is a big problem, right? But the CD hasn't permitted big stuff. No tanks or armored cars . . . hell, there aren't enough cars of any kind to make any difference. No fuel or power distribution network ever built, so no way cars would be useful. We've got a subway, couple of monorails for in-city stuff, and what's left of the railroad . . . You didn't ask for a lecture on our transport, did you? My pet worry at the moment. Let's see, weapons . . ." The big man sprawled into a chair, hooked one leg over the arm and ran his fingers through thick hair just receding from his large brows. "No military aircraft, hardly any aircraft at all. No artillery, machine guns, heavy weapons in general. Mostly light caliber hunting rifles and shotguns. Some police weapons. Military rifles and bayonets, a few, and we have almost all of them. Out in the streets you can find anything, Colonel, and I mean literally anything. Bows and arrows, knives, swords, axes, hammers, you name it."

"He doesn't need to know about obsolete things like that," Bradford said contemptuously.

"No weapon is ever obsolete," Falkenberg said carefully, "not in the hands of a man who'll use it. What about armor? Enemy and our own. How good a supply of Nemourlon do you have?"

Hamner looked thoughtful for a second. "There's some body armor in the streets, and the police . . . the President's Guard doesn't use the stuff. I can supply you with Nemourlon, but you'll have to make your own armor out of it. Can you do that?"

Falkenberg nodded. "I brought men and equipment for that. Well, the situation's about what I expected. I can't see why everyone's so worried. We have a battalion of CD marines, not the best marines but they're trained soldiers. With the weapons of a light infantry battalion and the training I can give the recruits, I'll undertake to face your forty thousand Freedom Party people. The guerrilla problem will be a lot more severe, but we control the food distribution system in the city. Ration cards, identity papers ... it shouldn't be hard to set up controls."

Hamner laughed, a bitter laugh. "You want to tell him Ernie?" When Bradford looked confused, Hamner laughed again. "Not doing your homework. It's in the morning report for a couple of days ago. The Colonial Office has decided, on the advice of BuRelock, that Hadley doesn't need any military weapons. The CD marines will be lucky to keep their rifles and bayonets, because all the rest of their gear is being taken back to Earth."

"I see," Falkenberg said slowly. His lips compressed into a tight line, and he cursed to himself. "Hadn't counted on that. Means that if we do tighten up control through food rationing, we face armed rebellion ... How well organized are these FP types, anyway?"

"Well organized and well financed," Hamner said. "And I can't agree about ration cards being the answer to the guerrilla problem. The CoDominium was able to put up with a lot of sabotage, since all they were really interested in was the mines, but we can't live with the level of terror we have in this city. Some way we're going to have to restore order—and justice for that matter."

"Justice isn't a commodity soldiers generally deal with," Falkenberg said grimly. "Order's another matter. That I think we can supply."

"With five hundred men?" Hamner's voice was incredulous. "But I like your attitude. At least you don't sit around and whine for somebody to help you, the way some of our officials do." He looked significantly at Bradford. "Well, I wanted to meet you, Colonel. Now I have. I've got work to do." He didn't look at them again as he strode briskly from the room.

"You see," Bradford said as soon as Hamner was out of sight. "The man's no good. We'll find someone to deal with the technicians as soon as you've got everything else under control."

"He seemed to be right on some points," John said slowly. "For example, he knows as well as I do that it won't be easy to get proper police protection established. I saw an example of what goes on in Refuge on the way here, and if it's that bad everywhere . . ."

"You'll find a way," Bradford said reassuringly. "Lot of it's just teenage street gangs. Not loyal to anything, FP, us, CD, or anything else. They call it defending their turf or something . . . and forget Hamner. His whole group is . . . well, they're just not real Progressives, that's all." He was emphatic, then lowered his voice and leaned forward. "He used to be in the Freedom Party, you know. Claims to have broken with them over technology policies, but you can never trust a man like that." Then he smiled again, stood. "Let's get you started. And don't forget your agreement to train some men for me, too . . ."

Falkenberg woke to a soft rapping on the door of his room. He opened his eyes, put his hand on the pistol under his pillow, but made no other movement. "Yes," he called softly.

"I'm back, Colonel," Calvin answered.

"Right. Come on in." John swung his feet out of the bunk, put on his boots. Otherwise he was fully dressed. Sergeant-Major Calvin came in, dressed in the light leather tunic and trousers of the CD marine battle dress. Falkenberg could see the total black of a night combat coverall protruding from Calvin's war bag. A short wiry man came in with the sergeant.

"Glad to see you," Falkenberg said. "Have any trouble?"

"Gang of toughs tried to stir up something as we was coming through the city, Colonel," Calvin replied. "Didn't last long enough to set any records." He grinned wolfishly.

"What about at the relocation barracks?"

"No, sir," Calvin replied. "They don't guard them places. Anybody wants to get away from BuRelock's charity, they let 'em go. Without citizens' basic supply cards, of course." Falkenberg was inspecting the man who had entered with Calvin. Major Jeremy Savage looked tired, older than his forty-five standard years, and thinner than John remembered him. "Was it as bad as I've heard?" he asked.

"No picnic," Savage replied in the clipped accents he'd learned as a boy on Churchill. "Didn't expect it to be. We're here, John Christian."

"Good. Nobody spotted you? Men behave all right?"

"Yes, sir, we were treated no differently from any other involuntary colonists. The men behaved splendidly, and a week of hard exercise and good food ought to have us back in shape. Sergeant-Major tells me the battalion arrived intact."

"I sort of filled the major in while we was coming out," Calvin said. "I think he sees the score, sir."

Falkenberg nodded. "But keep your eyes open, Jerry, and be careful with the men until the CD pulls out. Yes, and I've hired Dr. Whitlock to check things for us. He hasn't reported in yet, but I assume he's on Hadley."

"Whitlock?" Savage sat in the room's single chair, accepted whiskey from Calvin with a nod of thanks. "My, that's good. Heard of Whitlock. Best in the field, although he puts on as a hillbilly. Very appropriate man for us, don't you know?"

John nodded. "Until he reports we won't have a full staff meeting. Just stay with the original plan. Bradford brings the battalion of marines out tomorrow, and a few hundred volunteers from the Progressive Party's little private army for us to train. More recruits coming, supposedly. Now tell me a bit about those toughs you fought on the way out here."

"Street gang, Colonel," Calvin replied. "Not bad at individual fightin', but no organization. Hardly no match for near a hundred of us."

"Street gang." John pulled his lower lip speculatively, then grinned. "How many of our battalion used to be punks just like them, Sergeant-Major?"

"Half, maybe more, sir." Falkenberg nodded. "I think it might be a good thing if the marines got to meet some of those kids, Sergeant-Major. Informally, you know . . ."

"Sir!" Calvin's faced beamed with comprehension.

"Now," Falkenberg continued. "Recruits will be our real problem. You can bet some of them will try to get chummy with the troops, pump the men about their backgrounds and outfits. We can't have that, of course. Anticipate any problems there, Top Soldier?"

Calvin looked thoughtful. "No, sir, not for a while. Won't be no trick to keep the recruits away from the men until they've passed through training, till then all they'll meet'll be drillmasters. We can do it, sir."

"Right." Falkenberg turned to Major Savage. "That's it, then."

"Yes, sir," Savage answered crisply. He drew himself erect and saluted. "Damned if it doesn't feel good to be doing this again, sir," he grinned. Years fell away from his face.

"Good to have you aboard," Falkenberg replied. He stood to return the salute. "And thanks, Jerry. For everything . . ."

The Warner estate was large, nearly four kilometers on a side, located in low hills outside the city of Refuge but no more than a day's march from the Palace and stadium. Falkenberg's troops found themselves in a partly wooded bowl in the center of the estate. At John's request there were no cooking services or other support activities other than food and fuel and basic military equipment. The troops spent the first week constructing a base camp.

The marines relearned lessons of their basic training. Each maniple of five men cooked for itself, did its own laundry, made tents from woven synthetics and ropes, and contributed men for work on the encampment revetments and palisade. When the recruits arrived they were forced to do the same things under the supervision of Falkenberg's mercenary officers and NCO's. Most of the men who had come with Savage on the BuRelock colony transport were officers, sergeants, and technicians, while there seemed to be an unusual number of monitors and corporals within the marine battalion, so that there were more than enough leaders for a regiment. Some Progressive Party stalwarts selected by Bradford were given junior commissioned rank and trained separately.

The men learned to sleep in their military greatcloaks, to live under field conditions with no uniform but synthileather battle dress and boots, cooking their own food and constructing their own quarters, dependent on no one outside the regiment. They were also taught to fashion their own body armor from Nemourlon; when it was completed they lived in it, and any man selected for punishment found his armor weighted with a calculated quantity of lead. Maniples, squads, and whole sections of recruits on punishment marches lasting late into the night became a common sight around the estate.

The volunteers had little time to fraternize with the marines as Savage and Calvin and the other cadres relentlessly drove them through drills, field problems, combat exercises, and maintenance work. The number of recruits fell every day as men were driven to leave the service, but from somewhere there was a steady supply of new troops. These were younger men, who came in small groups directly to the camp, appearing before the regimental orderly room at reveille, often in the company of a section of marine veterans. There was attrition in their numbers as well as among the Party volunteers, but the proportion was much smaller, and they were eager for combat training.

One of the regiment's main problems was the commissioned Progressives. They had to be taught basic military arts, yet they were officers by courtesy and couldn't be driven out of the regiment without protest from Bradford. The worst of them were summarily dismissed, but Falkenberg was forced to keep many men as officers who he wouldn't have had as private soldiers if given free choice.

Twice a week John went to the estate house two kilometers from the camp to report to Bradford, Hamner and, infrequently, President Budreau Budreau had made it clear that he considered the military force as an evil whose necessity was not established, and only Bradford's insistence kept the regiment supplied. After six weeks, Bradford raised the question of the decreasing numbers of Progressive volunteers in training.

"You're letting those men go too easily, Colonel," he protested. "Those are loyal men! Loyalty is important here!"

"Sir, I'd rather have one battalion of good men I can trust than a regiment of troops who might break under fire," Falkenberg answered stiffly. "After we have the bare minimum of first-class troops, we can consider taking on others for garrison duties. For now I want men who can fight."

"You don't have them yet," Bradford sniffed. "And where are you getting those new recruits? Jailbirds, kids with police records. I notice you're keeping them when you let my Progressives go!"

"It takes time to train green men. The recruits are all treated the same, Mister Vice-President, and if those street warriors stand up better than your party toughs, I can't help it."

"We'll discuss this later," Bradford said coldly. "There's another thing." He indicated a large man with a fat jowl seated down the table from him. "This is Chief Horgan of the Refuge police. He has some complaints, Colonel."

Falkenberg faced the Chief of Police, stood silently until the other man spoke.

"Your marines, Colonel." Horgan rubbed his chin carefully. "They're raising hell in the city at night. Never hauled any of them in, but I'm not saying we couldn't have if we'd wanted to. But they've taken over a couple of taverns, won't let anybody in without their permission. Have fights with street gangs there every night. And they go out into the toughest parts of town, start fights whenever they can find anyone to mix with."

"How are they doing?" Falkenberg asked interestedly.

Horgan grinned, caught himself. "Pretty well. I understand they've never been beaten . . . but it raises hell with the citizens, Colonel. And another trick of theirs is driving people crazy! They march through the streets fifty strong at all hours of the night playing bagpipes! Bagpipes in the small hours, Colonel, can be a frightening thing." Falkenberg thought he saw a tiny flutter to Horgan's left eye. The man was holding back a wry smile.

"I wanted to ask you about that, Colonel," Second Vice-President Hamner added. "This is hardly a Scots outfit, why do they have bagpipes?"

"Pipes are standard with many marine regiments," Falkenberg answered easily. "Very stimulating to the troops. Since the Russki CD outfits started taking up Cossack customs, the Western Bloc regiments looked around for something equally impressive. A lot of them like the pipes." John grinned openly at the Chief of Police. "I'll try to keep the pipers off the streets at night, though. I can imagine they're not good for civilian morale. As to keeping the marines in camp, how do I do it? We need every one of them, and they're volunteers. They can get back on that CD carrier and ship out, and there's not one thing we can do."

"It's only a couple of weeks until they haul down the CoDominium flag," Bradford added with satisfaction. He glanced at the CD banner on the wall behind him, an eagle with a red shield, black sickle and hammer on its breast. The flag meant little to the people of Hadley, but on Earth it was enough to cause riots in nationalistic cities in both the U.S. and the Soviet Union. To Earth the CoDominium Alliance represented peace at a high price, too high for many. For Falkenberg it represented nearly thirty years of service ended by court martial.

A week before the departure of the CoDominium Governor and the official independence of Hadley, Bradford visited the camp to make a speech to the recruits. He told them of the value of loyalty to the government, and the rewards they would get as soon as the Progressive Party was completely in power. Better pay, more liberties, and the opportunities for promotion in an expanding army were all promised. When he had finished, Falkenberg took the Vice-President into his cabin and slammed the door.

"Damn you, you don't ever make offers to my troops without my permission!" John's face was cold with anger.

"I'll do as I please with my troops," Bradford replied smugly. The little smile was on his face, a smile without warmth. "Don't get snappy with me, Colonel Falkenberg. Without my influence Budreau would dismiss you in an instant." Then, with a sudden change of mood, Bradford took a flask of brandy from his pocket, poured two drinks. The little smile faded, was re placed by something more genuine. "We have to work together, John. There's too much to do, with both of us working we won't get it all done. Sorry, I'll ask in future. But don't you think the troops should know me? I'll be President soon." He looked at Falkenberg closely.

"Yes, sir," John said. He took the drink, held it up for a toast. "To the new President of Hadley. I shouldn't have snapped at you, but don't make offers to troops who haven't proved themselves. If you give men reason to think they're good when they're not, you'll never have an army worth its pay. Work them until they've nothing more to give, let them know that's just barely satisfactory, and one day they'll give you more than they thought they had in them. That's the day you offer rewards, only by then you won't have to."

Bradford nodded agreement, but then frowned. "That's all very well, but I insist on keeping my loyalists, Colonel. In future you will dismiss no Progressive without my approval. Is that understood?"

Falkenberg nodded. He'd seen this coming for some time. "In that case, sir, I will transfer all of your people into the fourth battalion and place your appointed officers in command of their training. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Provided that you continue to supervise their training, yes." Bradford thought for a moment, then smiled. "I will also expect you to consult me about any promotions in that battalion, in that case. You agree to that, of course?"

"Yes, sir. There may be some problems about finding locals to fill the senior NCO slots. You've got potential monitors and corporals, but they haven't the experience to be sergeants and centurions."

"You'll find a way, I'm sure," Bradford said carefully. "I have some rather, uh, special duties for the fourth battalion, Colonel. I'd prefer it to be completely staffed by Party loyalists. Is this agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

Bradford's smile was genuine as he left the camp.

Day after day the troops sweated in the bright blue-tinted sunlight. Riot control, bayonet drill, use of armor in defense and attacks against men with body armor, more complex exercises, and forced marches under the relentless direction of Major Savage, the harsh shouts of their sergeants and centurions, Captain Fast with his tiny swagger stick and biting sarcasm . . . but the number of men leaving the regiment was smaller now, while there was still a flow of recruits from the marines' nocturnal expeditions. Falkenberg was able to be more selective in his recruiting.

Each night groups of marines sneaked past sentries, drank and caroused with the fieldhands of nearby ranchers, gambled and shouted and paid little attention to their officers. But they always came back, and when Bradford protested their lack of discipline off duty he would get the same answer. "They don't have to stay here," Falkenberg told him. "How would you suggest I control them? Flogging?"

The constabulary army had a definite split personality. And the fourth battalion grew larger each day.

II

George Hamner tried to get home for dinner every day, no matter what that might cost in night work later. His walled estate just outside the Palace district was originally built by his grandfather with money borrowed from American Express and paid back before it was due; a big comfortable place which cunningly combined local materials and imported luxuries, George was always glad to return there, feel the pride of mastery. It was the only place in Refuge where he felt at home in the last few years.

It was less than a week until the CoDominium Governor departed, one week before complete independence for Hadley. That should be a time of hope, but George Hamner dreaded it. Problems of public order weren't officially part of his Ministry of Technology assignment, but he couldn't ignore them. Already half the city of Refuge was nearly untouched by government, an area where police went in squads and maintenance crews performed their work as quickly as possible under the protection of CD marines. What was it going to be like when the CD was gone?

Hamner sat in the paneled study watching lengthening shadows in the groves outside make dancing patterns across neatly clipped lawns. The outside walls spoiled the view of Raceway Channel below, and Hamner cursed them, cursed the necessity for walls and a dozen armed men patrolling them, remembering a time as a boy when he'd sat in this room with his father, listened to the great plans for Hadley. A paradise planet, and Lord, Lord, what have we made of it? An hour's work didn't help. There weren't any solutions, only a chain of problems that brought him back to the same place each time. A few years—that's all they needed, but he didn't see how they could get them.

The farms could support the urban population if they could move the people out to the agricultural interior and get them working, but they wouldn't leave Refuge. If only they would—if the city's population could be thinned, the power now diverted to food manufacture could be used to build a transportation net to keep people in the interior or bring food from there to the city. They could manufacture the things needed to make country life so pleasant that people would be willing to leave Refuge and go there. But there was no way to the first step. The people wouldn't move and the Freedom Party promised them they wouldn't have to.

George shook his head, thought about Falkenberg's army. If there were enough soldiers, could they forcibly evacuate part of the city? But there'd be resistance, civil war, slaughter. Budreau wouldn't let Hadley's independence be built on a foundation of blood. Hamner laughed bitterly. Not only Budreau. I can't do it either, he thought. I can see what's got to be done, but I can't do it. Bradford would . . . but what then? Besides, there weren't enough soldiers. There was no military answer.

His other problems were of the same kind. He could see that all the government was doing was putting bandages on Hadley's wounds, treating symptoms because there was never enough control over events to treat causes. He picked up an engineering report on the fusion generators.

Spare parts needed . . . how long can we keep things running even at this crazy standoff, he wondered. A few years. After that, famine, because the transportation net couldn't be built fast enough, and when the generators failed, the city's food supplies would be gone. Sanitation services would be crippled too; there would be plague despite the BuRelock inoculations.

He set his slide rule down on the desk, wishing for one of the pocket computers that were common on planets closer to Earth. The Freedom Party leader had one. George had talked to him about the fusion generators only two days before, and it seemed as if the Freedom Party didn't care that the generators wouldn't last forever. The FP leader's attitude was that Earth wouldn't allow famine, that Hadley could use her own helplessness as a weapon against the CoDominium. The concept of real independence from the CD didn't interest him. Hamner thought about that and swore, went back to engineering. He liked problems he could get his hands on and know he'd solved them, not political troubles that kept coming back no matter what he did. Laura came in with a pack of shouting children. Was it already time for them to go to bed? The four-year-old picked up his father's slide rule, played with it carefully before climbing into his lap. George kissed the boy, hugged the others and sent them out, wondering as he did every night what would happen to them. Get out of politics, he told himself. You can't do Hadley any good, and you're not cut out for the game. You'll only get Laura and the kids finished along with yourself. But what happens if we let go, if we can't succeed, another part of his mind asked, and he had no answer to that.

But it doesn't matter . . . you'll get your family killed, and for what? Debts, inadequate pay, temptation after temptation to give in, compromise, look after Number One, swim with the stream until you become somebody you don't even want to know ... "You look worried," Laura said after she'd seen the children to bed. "It's only a few days . . . What happens, George? What really happens when CoDominium leaves for good? It's going to be bad, isn't it?"

He pulled her to him, feeling her warmth, tried to draw comfort from her nearness and at the same time distract her, but she knew that trick. "Shouldn't we take what we can and go east?" she asked. "We wouldn't have much, but you'd be alive."

"It won't be that bad," he told her. He tried to chuckle, as if she had said something funny, but the sound was hollow. "We've got a planetary constabulary . . . at the worst it should be enough to protect the government. But I am moving all of you into the Palace in a couple of days."

"The army," she said with plenty of contempt. "Some army, General Bradford's volunteers who'd kill you just to make that horrible little man happy . . . and those marines! You said yourself they were the scrapings."

"I said it. I wonder if I believe it. There's something strange happening here, Laura, something I don't understand. I went to see Karantov the other day, thought I'd presume on an old friend to get a little information about this man Falkenberg. Boris wasn't in his office but one of the junior lieutenants was. The kid was green, only been on Hadley a couple of months . . . We got into a conversation about what happens after independence. Discussed street fighting, mob suppression, and how I wished I had some reliable marines instead of the people they were getting here. He looked funny and asked just what I wanted, the Grand Admiralty Guard? But then Boris came in and when I asked what the lieutenant meant, he said the kid was new and didn't know what he was talking about."

"And you think he did?" Laura asked. "But what could he have meant? Stop that!" she added hastily. "You have an appointment."

"It can wait."

"With only a couple of dozen cars on this whole planet and one of them coming for you, you will not keep it waiting while you make love to your wife, George Hamner!" Her eyes flashed, but not with anger. "Besides, I want to know what Boris told you." She danced away from him, sat on the other side of the desk. "What do you think he meant?"

"I don't know . . . but those troops don't look like misfits to me. Not on training exercises. Off duty they drink and shout and they've got the fieldhands locking up their daughters but come morning they muster out on that parade ground like . . . And there's more. The officers. They're not from Hadley, and I don't know who they are!"

"Why don't you ask?"

"I took it up with Budreau, and he gave me a stall about it being in Bradford's Ministry, so I asked him, and Ernie told me they were Progressive volunteers. I'm not that stupid, Laura. I may not notice everything, but if there were fifty men with military experience in the Party I'd know. So why would Bradford lie?"

Laura looked thoughtful, pulled her lower lip in a gesture so familiar that Hamner hardly noticed it any longer. He'd kidded her about it before they were married . . . "He lies just for practice," she said finally. "But his wife has been talking about independence, and she seems to think Earnest will he President. Not some day, but soon . . . Why would she think that?"

George shook his head. "Maybe—no, he hasn't the guts for that, Ernie would never oust Budreau. He knows half the party wouldn't stand for it . . . The technicians would walk out in a second, they can't stand him and he knows it."

"Earnest Bradford has never yet admitted any limitations," Laura reminded him. She glanced at the clock behind George. "It's getting late and you haven't told me what Boris said about Falkenberg."

"Said he was a good marine commander. Started out as a navy man, transferred to marines, became a regimental commander with a good combat record. That's all in the reports we have . . . I got the scoop on the court martial. There weren't any slots for promotion. But when a review board passed Falkenberg over for a promotion that the admiral couldn't have given in the first place, Falkenberg made such a fuss about it that he was dismissed for insubordination."

"Can you trust him to command here?" she asked. "His men may be the only thing keeping you alive . . ."

"I know." And keeping you alive, and Jimmy, and Christie, and Peter . . . "I asked Boris. He said there's not a better man available. You can't hire CD men from active duty, or even retired officers . . . Boris said that Falkenberg's really better than anyone we could get anyway. Troops love him, brilliant tactician, experience in troop command and staff work as well . . . Laura, if he's all that good, why did they boot him out? My God, fussing about promotion should be pretty trivial, and besides, it's not smart, Falkenberg would have to know it couldn't get him anywhere. None of it . . ."

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 . . . I swear that Falkenberg is the key to something, I wish I knew what."

"Do you like him?" Laura asked.

"He isn't a man who tries to be liked."

"I said, do 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, for that matter . . . with a whole planet that seemed headed for hell with no way out ...

The troops were camped in an orderly square, earth ramparts thrown up around the perimeter, tents in lines that might have been laid with a transit. Equipment was scrubbed and polished, blanket rolls tight, each item in the same place inside the two-man tents . . . yet 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. He 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. Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Five!" The call rang clearly 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 tents stood across a wide parade ground from the densely packed company streets of the troops, and Hamner saw another set of guards posted around these tents. Falken berg 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 he seemed slightly nervous. "Let's go to the mess, shall we? More comfortable there. Haven't got my quarters made up for visitors."

Or you've got something there I shouldn't see, George thought ... God, can I trust him? Can I trust anyone? Falkenberg led the way to a building in the center of officer's row. There were troops milling around the parade ground, most wearing the blue and yellow duty uniforms Falkenberg had designed, but others trotted past in synthileather battle dress carrying heavy packs.

"Punishment detail," Falkenberg commented. "Not so 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 unsteadily.

"Carry on," Falkenberg said automatically, but no one did. They eyed Hamner nervously, and at a wave from the mess president at the head of the table the pipers went outside, followed by the drummers and several stewards with bottles.

"We'll sit over here, shall we?" the colonel asked. He led Hamner to a small table in one corner. A steward brought a whiskey bottle and two glasses.

George looked at the officers carefully. Most of them were strangers, but he recognized half-a-dozen Progressives, the highest rank a first lieutenant. Hamner waved at the ones he knew, received a brief smile that almost seemed guilty before they turned back to their companions.

"Yes, sir," Falkenberg prompted.

"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 simply. "Reduction in force. Lots of good men rifled into early retirement. Some of them heard I was coming here, chose to give up their reserve ranks and come out on the colony ship on the chance I'd hire them. Naturally I jumped at the opportunity to get experienced men at prices we could afford. Vice-President Bradford knows all about it."

I'm sure he does, Hamner thought. I wonder what else that little snake knows about. Without his support Falkenberg would be out of here to morrow . . . but then what would we do? "I see. I've been looking at the organization of the troops, Colonel. You've kept your marines in one battalion with, uh, with these newly hired officers. Then you've got three battalions of locals, but all the Party stalwarts are in the fourth, your second and third are locals but again under your own men."

"Yes, sir?" Falkenberg nodded agreement, gave Hamner a look of puzzlement. Hamner had noticed that particular trick of Falkenberg's before.

And you know my question, George thought. "Why, Colonel? A suspicious man would say 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 lifted one glass of whiskey, waited for George, then drained it. A steward immediately brought freshly filled glasses.

"But a practical man might say something else," Falkenberg continued. "You wouldn't expect me to put green officers in command of guardhouse troops, would you? Or put your good-hearted Progressives in command of green troops? By Mr. Bradford's orders I've kept the fourth battalion as free of my mercenaries as possible, which isn't helping their training any. He seems to have the same complaint as you do, and wants his own Party force, I suspect to control me. Which is silly, Mr. Hamner. You have the purse strings. Without your supplies and money to pay these men, I couldn't hold them an hour."

"Troops have found it easier to rob the paymaster than fight before now," Hamner observed. "Cheers." He drained the glass, then suppressed a cough. The stuff was strong and he wasn't used to neat whiskey.

Falkenberg shook his head. "I might have expected that remark from Bradford, but not you."

Hamner nodded. Bradford was always suspicious of something. There were times when George wondered if the Vice-President were quite sane, but that was absurd. Still, when the pressure was on, Ernie did manage to get on people's nerves, always trying to control everything. Bradford would rather have nothing done than allow action he didn't control.

"Just how am I supposed to organize this coup?" Falkenberg asked. "You can see that I've no more than a handful of men loyal directly to me. The rest are mercenaries, and your locals make up the majority of our forces. Mr. Hamner, you have paid a large price to bring my staff and me to your planet. We're expected shortly to fight impossible odds with nonexistent equipment. If you also insist on your own organization of the forces, I cannot accept the responsibility. . . If President Budreau so orders, I'll turn over command to anyone he names."

Neatly said, Hamner thought. And predictable too. Who would Budreau name? Bradford, of course, and George trusted Falkenberg more than Ernie. Nothing wrong with Falkenberg's answers, nothing you could put your finger on. . . "What do you want out of this, Colonel Falkenberg?"

"Money. A little glory, perhaps, although that's a word not much used outside the military nowadays. A position of responsibility commensurate with my abilities. I've always been a soldier, Mr. Hamner. You do know why I'm no longer in CD service."

"No I don't." Hamner was calm, but the whiskey was enough to make him bold, even in this camp surrounded by Falkenberg's men... Who is this man we're going to entrust our lives to? For that matter, haven't we already done that? "I don't know at all. It makes no sense for you to have complained about promotion, Colonel, and the admiral wouldn't have let you be dismissed if you hadn't wanted. Why did you have yourself cashiered?"

Falkenberg inspected him closely, his lips tight, gray eyes boring into Hamner. "I suppose you are entitled to an answer. Grand Senator Bronson has sworn to ruin me, Mr. Hamner, for reasons I won't tell you. If I hadn't been dismissed for the trivial charge of technical insubordination, I'd have had to face an endless series of trumped up charges. This way I'm out with a clean record."

"And that's all there is to it?" "That's all."

It was plausible. So was everything else. And Hamner was sure that the story would check out. Yet—yet the man was lying, for no reason George could imagine. Not lying directly, not refusing to answer, but not telling it all . . . if he only knew the right questions.

The pipers came back in, looked at Falkenberg. "Something more?"

"No."

"Thank you." The colonel nodded to the pipe major, who raised his baton. The pipers marched to the crash of drums, an incredibly martial sound, and the younger officers glanced around, picked up their drinks again. Someone shouted and the party was on.

The Progressives were drinking with Falkenberg's mercenaries ... and every one of the partisans in the mess was one of his own wing, George realized. There wasn't one of Bradford's people in the lot. He rose, signalled to a Progressive lieutenant to follow him. "I'll let Farquahar escort me out, Colonel," Hamner shouted.

"As you please."

The noise followed them outside, along the regimental street. "All right, Jamie, what's going on here?" Hamner demanded.

"Going on, sir? Nothing that I know of . . . you mean the party?

Ah, we're celebrating the men's graduation from elementary training, tomorrow they start advanced work. Major Savage thought a regimental dining in would help knit the troops together, be good for morale. . ."

"I do not mean the party." They were at the edge of officers' row now, and Hamner stopped their stroll. Hadley's third moon, the bright one called Klum, cast weird shadows around them. "Maybe I do mean the party. Where are the other officers? Mr. Bradford's people?"

"Ah, they had a field problem that kept them out of camp until late, sir. Mr. Bradford came around about dinnertime and took them with him to the ranch house. He spends a lot of time with them, sir."

"You've been around the marines, Jamie. Where are the men from? What CD outfits?"

"I really don't know, sir. Colonel Falkenberg has forbidden us to ask. He told the men that no matter what their record before, they start new here. I get the impression that some of them have served with the colonel before. They don't like him, curse him quite openly. But they're afraid of that big sergeant-major of his... Calvin has offered to whip any two men in the camp, they choose the rules. None of the marines would try it. After the first couple of times, none of the recruits would either."

"Not popular." Hamner brushed his hair back from his brows with both hands, remembered what Ma jor Karantov had told him. Whiskey buzzed in his head. "Who is popular?"

"Major Savage, sir. The men like him. And Captain Fast, the marines particularly respect him. He's the colonel's adjutant."

"All right. Look, can this outfit fight? Have we got a chance?" They stood and watched the scene around the campfires, men drinking, shouting. There was a fist fight in front of one tent, and no officer moved to stop it. "Do you permit that?"

"Not—we stop the men only if we officially see something, sir. See, the sergeants have broken up the fight. As to their abilities, really, how would I know? The men are tough, Mr. Hamner, and they obey orders."

Hamner nodded. "All right, Jamie. Go back to your party." He strode to his car. As he was driven away, he knew something was wrong, but he still had no idea what.

The stadium had been built to hold 100,000 people. There were at least that many jammed inside, and an equal number swarmed about the market squares and streets adjacent to it. The full CoDominium marine garrison was on duty to keep order, but they weren't needed. The celebration was boisterous but peaceful, with Freedom Party gangs as anxious to avoid an incident as the marines on this, the greatest day for Hadley since the planet's discovery.

Hamner and Falkenberg watched from the upper tiers of the stadium.

Row after row of plastisteel seats like a giant staircase cascaded down from their perch to the central grassy field below. Across from them President Budreau and Governor Flaherty stood in the Presidential Box surrounded by the blue-uniformed President's Guard. Vice-President Bradford, Freedom Party leaders, Progressive officials, officers of the retiring CoDominium government were also there, and George knew what some of them were thinking: Where did Hamner get off to? Bradford would particularly notice his absence, probably thought Hamner was out stirring up rebellion. Lately Bradford had accused George of every kind of disloyalty to the Progressive Party.

The devil with the little man, George thought. He hated crowds, and the thought of having to stand there and listen to all those speeches, be polite to the party officials, was appalling. When he'd suggested watching from another vantage point, Falkenberg quickly agreed. As George suspected, the soldier disliked civilian ceremonies too.

The ritual was almost over. The CD marine bands had marched through the field, the speeches had been made, presents delivered and accepted. A hundred thousand people had cheered, an awesome sound, frightening in its potential power. Hamner glanced at his watch, and as he did the marine band broke into a roar of drums. The massed drummers ceased their beat one by one until there was but a single drum roll that went on and on and on, until it too, stopped. The entire stadium waited.

One trumpet, no more. A clear call, plaintive but triumphant, the final salute to the CoDominium banner above the Palace. The notes hung in Hadley's crystal air like something tangible, and slowly, deliberately, the crimson and blue banner floated down the flagpole as Hadley's blazing gold and green arose.

Across the city uniformed men saluted these flags, one rising, the other setting. The blue uniforms of Hadley saluted with smiles, the red-uniformed marines with indifference. The CoDominium banner rose and fell across two hundred light-years and seventy worlds in this year of Grace 2079; what difference would one minor planet make?

Hamner glanced at John Falkenberg. The colonel had no eyes for the rising banners of Hadley. His rigid salute was given to the CD flag, and as the last note of the final trumpet salute died away Hamner saw Falkenberg wipe his eyes. The gesture was so startling that George looked again, but there was nothing more to see.

"That's it, then," Falkenberg snapped. His voice was crisp, gruff even. "I suppose we ought to join the party. Can't keep His Nibs waiting."

Hamner nodded. The Presidential Box connected directly to the Palace, and the officials would arrive at the reception quickly while Falkenberg and Hamner had the entire width of the stadium to traverse. People were streaming out to join festive crowds outside and it would be impossible to cross directly. "Let's go this way," George said. He led Falkenberg to the top of the stadium and into a small alcove where he used a key to open an inconspicuous door. "Tunnel system takes us right into the Palace, across and under the stadium," he told Falkenberg. "Not exactly secret, but we don't want the people generally to know about it because they'll demand we open it to the public. Designed for maintenance crews, mostly." He locked the door behind him, looked around at the wide interior corridor. "Building was designed pretty well, actually."

The grudging tone of admiration wasn't natural to him. If a thing was well done, it was well done . . . but lately he found himself talking more and more that way, especially when the CoDominium was discussed. He resented the whole CD administration, the men who'd dumped the job of government after creating problems that no one could solve.

They wound down stairways, through more passages, up to another set of locked doors, finally emerged into the Palace courtyard. The celebrations were already under way, and it would be a long night; and what after that? Tomorrow the last CD boat would rise, and the CoDominium would be gone. Tomorrow, Hadley would be alone with her problems.

"Tensh-hut!" Sergeant-Major Calvin's crisp command cut through the babble.

"Please be seated, gentlemen," Falkenberg said. He took his place at the head of the long table in the command room of what had been the central headquarters for the CoDominium marines. Except for the uniforms and banners there were as yet few changes from what people already called the old days. The officers were seated in the usual places for a regimental staff meeting, maps displayed on the walls behind them, white-coated stewards brought coffee and discreetly retired past the sentries outside. The constabulary had occupied the marine headquarters barracks for two days, and the marines had been there twenty years.

There was another difference from the usual protocol of a council of war. A civilian lounged in the seat usually taken by the regimental intelligence officer, his tunic a riot of colors. He was dressed in current Earth fashions, brilliant cravat and baggy sleeves, long sash in place of a belt. Hadley's upper classes were only beginning to acquire such finery. When he spoke it was with the lazy drawl of the American South, not the more clipped accents of Hadley.

"You all know why we're here," Falkenberg told the assembled group. "Those of you who served with me before know I don't hold many staff councils, but they are customary among mercenaries. Sergeant Calvin will represent the enlisted men of the regiment."

There were faint titters. Calvin had been associated with John Falkenberg for eighteen standard years. Presumably they had differences of opinion, but no one could remember one. The idea of the RSM opposing his colonel in the name of the troops was amusing.

Falkenberg's frozen features relaxed slightly, as if he appreciated his own joke. He looked around the room at his officers. They were all men who had come with him, all former marines. The Progressives were on duty elsewhere—it had taken careful planning by the adjutant to accomplish that.

"Dr. Whitlock, you've been on Hadley sixty-seven days. That's not very long to make a planetary study, but you had access to Fleet data as well. Have you reached any conclusions?"

"Yeah. No different from Fleet evaluation, Colonel. Cain't think why you went to the expense of bringin' me out here. Your intelligence people know their jobs 'bout as well as any professor." Whitlock leaned back in his seat, relaxed and casual in the midst of military formality, but there was no contempt in his manner. The military had one set of rules, he had another, both probably right for the jobs they did.

"Your conclusions are similar to Fleet's, then?" Falkenberg prompted.

"Within the limits of analysis, yes, suh. Doubt any competent man could reach a different conclusion. This planet's headed for barbarism within a generation." Whitlock produced a cigar from a sleeve pocket, inspected it carefully. "You want the analysis or just the conclusion?"

There was no sound from the assembled officers, but Falkenberg knew that some of them were startled. Good training kept them from showing it. He examined each face in turn. Major Savage knew. Captain Fast was too concerned with regimental affairs to care. . . Calvin knew, of course. Who else? "If you could summarize your efforts briefly, Dr. Whitlock?"

"Simple enough. There's no self-sustaining technology for a population half this size. Without imports the standard of livin's going to fall, and when that happens, 'stead of working, the people here in Refuge will demand that the Guv'mint do something about it. Guv'mint's in no position to refuse. Not strong enough. Have to divert investment resources into consumption goods. Be a decrease in technological efficiency, fewer goods, more demands, lead to a new cycle of the same. Hard to predict just what comes after that, but it can't be good. Afore long they won't have the technological resources even if they get better organized. Not a new pattern, Colonel. Surprised you didn't just take Fleet's word for it."

Falkenberg nodded. "I did. But with something this important I thought I better get an expert. You've met the Freedom Party leaders, Dr. Whitlock. Is there any chance they could, ah, save civilization here?"

Whitlock laughed. It was a long drawn out laugh, relaxed, totally out of place in a military council. "'Bout as much chance as for a 'gator to turn loose of a hog, Colonel. Even did they want to, what are they goin' to do? Suppose they get a vision, try to change their policies? Somebody'll start a new party 'long the lines of the one they got now. You never going to convince all them people that there's things the Guv'mint just cain't do, Colonel. They don't want to believe that, and there's always going to be slick talkers willing to say it's a plot. Now if the Progressive Party was able to set up along the lines of the Communists, they might keep something going for a while longer."

"Do you think they can?" Major Savage asked.

"Nope. They might have fun tryin'," Whitlock answered. "Problem is the countryside's pretty independent. Not enough support for that kind of thing in the city, either. Eventually it'll happen, but the revolution that gives this planet a real powerful government's going to be one bloody mess, I can tell you. And a long drawn out bloody mess at that."

Whitlock sighed. "No matter where you look, you see problems, gentlemen. City's vulnerable to any sabotage that stops the food plants . . . and you know them fusion generators ain't exactly eternal; I don't give them a lot of time before they slow down the way they're runnin' 'em. This place is operating on its capital, not its income, and pretty soon that's going to be gone." Whitlock sat up, stretched elaborately. "I can give you a dozen more reasons, but they always come out the same. This place ain't about to be self-sufficient without a lot of blood spilled."

"Could they ask for help from American Express?" The question was from a junior officer near the foot of the table.

"Sure they could," Whitlock drawled. "Wouldn't get it, but they could ask. Son, the Russians ain't going to let a U.S. company get hold of a planet and add it to the U.S. sphere same as the States won't let the Commies come in and set up shop. Grand Senate would order a quarantine on this system like that." The historian snapped his fingers. "Whole purpose of the CoDominium."

"One thing bothers me," Captain Fast said. "You've been assuming that the CD will simply let Hadley revert to barbarism. Won't BuRelock and the Colonial Office come back if things get that desperate?"

"Might, if they was around to do it," Whitlock answered. This time there was a startled gasp from several junior officers. "Haven't told them about that, Colonel? Sorry."

"Sir, what does he mean?" the lieutenant asked. "What could happen to the Bureau of Relocation?"

"No budget," Falkenberg answered. "Gentlemen, you've seen the tensions back on Earth. Kaslov's people are gaining influence in the Presidium, Harmon's gang have won minor elections in the States, and both want to abolish the CD. They've had enough influence to get appropriations cut to the bone—I shouldn't have to tell you that, you've seen what's happening to the Navy and the civilian agencies get the same. Population control has to ship people to worlds closer to Earth whether they can hold them or not. Marginal exploitation ventures like Hadley's mines are to be shut down. This isn't the only planet the CD's abandoning this year—excuse me, granting independence," he added ironically. "No, Hadley can't rely on CoDominium help. If this world's to reach takeoff, it's going to have to do it on its own."

"Which Dr. Whitlock says is impossible," Major Savage observed. "John, we've got ourselves into a cleft stick, haven't we?"

"Ah said it wasn't likely, not that it was impossible," Whitlock reminded them. "It'll take a guv'mint stronger than anything Hadley's liable to get, and some pretty Smart people making the right moves. Or maybe there'll be some luck. Like a good, selective plague. Now that'd do it. Plague to kill off about a hundred thousand, leave just the right ones . . . course if it killed a lot more'n that, probably wouldn't be enough left to take advantage of the technology. Reckon a plague's not the answer at that."

Falkenberg nodded grimly. "Thank you, Dr. Whitlock. Now, gentlemen, I want battalion commanders and the headquarters officers to read Dr. Whitlock's report carefully. Meanwhile, we have other actions. Major Savage will shortly make a report to the Cabinet. I want you to pay attention to that report. Jerry?"

Savage stood, strode briskly to the wall chartboard, uncovered briefing charts. "Gentlemen. The regiment consists of approximately two thousand officers and men. Of these, five hundred are former marines. Another five hundred, approximately, are Progressive partisans, who are organized under officers appointed by Mr. Bradford. The other thousand are general recruits including youngsters who want to play soldier. All locals have received basic training comparable to CD marine ground basic without assault, fleet, or jump schooling. Their performance has been somewhat better than we might expect from a comparable number of marine recruits in CD service."

"This morning, Mr. Bradford ordered the colonel to remove the last of our officers and noncoms from the fourth battalion. As of retreat this P.M. the fourth will be totally under the control of the First Vice-President, for what purpose he has not informed us."

Falkenberg nodded. "In your estimate, Major, are the troops ready for combat duties?" John sipped his coffee, listened idly. The briefing was rehearsed, and he knew what Savage would answer. The men were trained but not yet a combat unit. He waited until Savage had completed that part of the presentation. "Recommendations?"

"Recommend that the second battalion be integrated with the first, sir. Normal practice is to have one recruit, three privates, and a monitor to each maniple. With equal numbers of new men and veterans we'll have a much higher proportion of recruits, of course, but this will give us two battalions of men under our veteran marines, with marine privates for leavening. We will thus break up the provisional training organization and set up the regiment with a new permanent structure, first and second battalions for combat duties, third composed of locals with former marine officers and some noncoms to be held in reserve. The fourth will not be under our command."

"Your reasons for this organization?" Falkenberg asked.

"Morale, sir. The new troops feel discriminated against. They're under harsher discipline than the former marines, and they resent it. Putting them in the same maniples with the marines will stop that."

"You have the new organization plan there, Major?"

"Yes, sir." Savage turned the charts from their wall recess. The administrative structure was a compromise between the permanent garrison organization of CD marines and the national army of Churchill, so arranged that all of the key positions had to be held by Falkenberg's mercenaries. The best officers of the Progressive forces were in either the third or fourth battalions, and there were no locals with the proper experience...

John looked at it carefully, listened to Savage's explanation. It ought to work. It looked very good, and there was no sound military reason to question the structure. . . He didn't think the President could object. Bradford would be pleased about the fourth, hardly interested in the other battalions now, although give him time.

When Savage was finished, Falkenberg thanked him and stood again at the head of the table. "All right. You've heard Major Savage give the briefing. If you have critiques, let's hear them now. We want this smooth, without problems from the civilians. Another thing. Sergeant-Major!"

"Sir!"

"As of reveille tomorrow, this entire regiment is under normal discipline. Tell the 42nd the act's over, we want them back on behavior. From here on the recruits and the old hands will be treated the same, and the next man who gives me trouble will wish he hadn't been born."

"Sir!" Calvin smiled happily. The last months had been a strain for everyone. Now the old man was taking over again, thank God. The men had lost some of the edge, but he'd soon put it back again. It was time to take off the masks, and Calvin for one was glad of it.

III

The sound of fifty thousand people shouting in unison can be terrifying. It raises fears at a level below thought, a panic older than the fear of nuclear weapons and the whole panoply of technology, raw naked power, a cauldron of sound. Everyone in the Palace listened to the chanting crowd, and if most of the government officials were able to appear calm, they were afraid nonetheless.

The Cabinet meeting started at dawn, went on until late in the morning, on and on without settling anything. It was growing close to noon when Vice-President Bradford stood at his place at the council table, the thin smile gone, his lips tight with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at Hamner.

"It's your fault!" Bradford shouted. "Now the technicians have joined in the demand for a new constitution, and you control them! I've always said you were a traitor to the Progressive Party!"

"Gentlemen, please," President Budreau insisted tiredly. "Come now, that sort of language. . ."

"Traitor?" Hamner demanded. "If your blasted officials would pay a little attention to the technicians this wouldn't have happened. In three months you've managed to convert the techs from the staunchest supporters of this Party into allies of the rebels, despite everything I could do." George made a conscious effort to control his own anger. "You've herded them around the city like cattle, worked them overtime for no increase in pay, and set those damned soldiers of yours on them when they protested. It's worth a man's life to have your constabulary mad at him, I know of cases where your troops have beaten my people to death! And you've got the nerve to call me a traitor! I ought to wring your goddam neck."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Budreau protested. There was a roar from the stadium. The Palace seemed to vibrate to the shouts of the constitutional convention. Wearily, Budreau rose to his feet. The others remained sitting, something they wouldn't have done even a month earlier. "We will adjourn for half an hour to allow tempers to cool," Budreau insisted. "And I want no more accusations when we convene again."

Bradford left the room with a handful of his close supporters. Other Ministers followed him, afraid not to be seen with the First Vice-President. It could be dangerous to oppose him...

Outside in the hall he was joined by Lieutenant Colonel Cordova, commander of the fourth battalion of constabulary, a fanatic Bradford supporter. They whispered together until they were out of Hamner's sight.

"Buy you some coffee?" The voice behind him startled George. He turned to see Falkenberg.

"Sure. Not that it's going to do any good . . . we're in trouble, Colonel."

"Anything decided?" Falkenberg asked. "It's been a long wait."

"And a useless one. They ought to invite you into the Cabinet meetings or let you go, there's certainly no reason to make you wait in the anteroom while we yell at each other. I've tried to change the policy, but I'm not too popular right now. . ." There was another shout from the stadium.

"Whole government's not too popular," Falkenberg observed. "And when that convention gets through. . ."

"Another thing I tried to stop last week," George told him. "But Budreau didn't have the guts to stand up to them. So now we've got fifty thousand drifters with nothing better to do sitting as an assembly of the people. That ought to produce quite a constitution."

Falkenberg shrugged. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind. They reached the executive dining room, took seats near one wall. Bradford's group had a table across the room from them. All of Bradford's people looked at them suspiciously.

"You'll get tagged as a traitor for sitting with me, Colonel." Hamner laughed, then grew serious. "I think I meant that, you know. Bradford's blaming me for our problems with the techs, and between us he's also insisting that you aren't doing enough to restore order in the city."

Falkenberg ordered coffee, waited until the waitress had left the table. "Do I need to explain to you why we haven't?"

"No." George shook his head slowly. "God knows you've been given almost no support the last two months. Impossible orders, never allowed to do anything decisive. . . I see you've stopped the raids on rebel headquarters."

Falkenberg nodded. "We weren't catching anyone. Too many leaks in the Palace, too often the fourth battalion had already muddied the waters. If they'd let us do our job instead of having to ask permission through channels for each operation we undertake, maybe the enemy wouldn't know as much about what we're going to do. I've quit asking."

"You've done pretty well with the railroad."

Falkenberg nodded. "That's one success, anyway. Things are pretty calm out in the country where we're on our own. Odd, isn't it, that the closer we are to the expert super vision of the government, the less effective my men seem to be?"

"But can't you control Cordova's men? They're causing more people to join the Freedom Party than you can count. I can't believe unrestrained brutality is useful."

"Mr. Bradford has removed all command over the fourth from me," Falkenberg answered. "Expanded it pretty well, too. That battalion's nearly as big as the rest of the regiment."

"He's accused me of being a traitor," Hamner said carefully. "With his own army, he might have something planned. . ."

Falkenberg smiled grimly. "I wouldn't worry about it too much."

"You wouldn't. Well, I'm scared, Colonel. And I've got my family to think about. I'm plenty scared."

"Would you feel safer if your family were in our regimental barracks?" Falkenberg looked at Hamner critically. "It could be arranged."

"It's about time we had something out," George said. "Yes, I'd feel safer with my wife and children under your protection. But I want you to level with me. Those marines of yours—those aren't penal battalion men. I've watched them. And those battle banners they've got on the regimental standard . . . they didn't win those in any peanut actions in three months on this planet! Just who are those troops, Colonel?"

John smiled thinly. "Wondering when you'd ask. Why haven't you brought this up with Budreau?"

"I don't know. Trust you more than I do Bradford, maybe . . . if the President dismissed you, there'd be nobody able to oppose Ernie. Hadley's going downhill so fast another conspirator more or less can't make any difference. . . You still haven't answered my question."

"The battle banners are from the 42nd CD Marine Regiment," Falkenberg answered slowly. "Decommissioned as part of the budget cuts."

"Forty-second." Hamner thought for a second, remembering the files he'd seen on Falkenberg. "Your regiment."

"A battalion of it," John agreed. "Their women are waiting to join them when we get settled. When the 42nd was decommissioned, the men decided to stay together if they could."

"So you brought not only the officers, but the men as well. . . What's your game, Colonel? You want something more than just pay for your troops. What is it? I wonder if I shouldn't be more afraid of you than of Bradford."

Falkenberg shrugged. "Decision you have to make, Mr. Hamner. I could give you my word that we mean you no harm, but what would that be worth? I will pledge to take care of your family. If you want us to."

There was another shout from the stadium. Bradford and Lieutenant Colonel Cordova left their table, still talking in low tones. The conversation was animated, with violent gestures, as if Cordova were trying to talk Bradford into something. As they left, Bradford agreed.

George watched them leave the room, then nodded thoughtfully to Falkenberg. "I'll send Laura and the kids over to your headquarters this afternoon. There isn't much time, is there? Whatever you've got planned, it's going to have to be quick."

John shook his head slowly. "You seem to think I have some kind of master plan, Mister Vice-President. I'm only a soldier in a political situation."

"With Professor Whitlock to advise you," Hamner reminded him. "That cornball stuff of his doesn't fool me, I looked him up. He's another part of the puzzle I don't understand. Why doesn't he come to the President instead of moving around the city like a ghost? He must have fifty political agents out there." Hamner watched Falkenberg's face closely. "Surprised you with that one, didn't I? I'm not quite so stupid as I look . . . but I can't fit the pieces together. Maybe I ought to use whatever influence I have left to get you out of the picture entirely."

"Go ahead." Falkenberg's smile was cold. "Who watches your wife for you after that? The Chief of Police? Listen." The stadium roared again, an angry sound that swelled in volume.

"You win." Hammer left the table, walked slowly back toward the council room, his head swirling with doubts. One thing stood out clearly: John Christian Falkenberg controlled the only military force on Hadley that could oppose both Bradford's people and the Freedom Party gangsters. He kept that firmly in mind as he turned, went downstairs to the apartment he'd been assigned. The sooner Laura was in the marine barracks, the safer he'd feel . . . Was he sending her to another enemy? But what could Falkenberg use her for? Mercenary or not, the man was honorable. Boris Karantov had been emphatic about that. And he hadn't any reason to hate George Hamner. Keep remembering that, he told himself. Keep remembering that and try not to remember the rest of it. The crowd screamed again. "Power to the people!" George heard it, and walked faster.

Bradford's grin was back. It was the first thing Hamner noticed as he came into the council chamber. The little man stood at the table with an amused smile.

"Ah, here is our Minister of Technology," Bradford grinned. "Just in time. Mister President, that gang outside is threatening the city. I'm sure you'll all be pleased to know that I've taken steps to end the situation. At this moment, Colonel Cordova is arresting the leaders of the opposition. Including, Mister President, the Engineers' and Technicians' Association leaders who have joined them. This rebellion will be over within the hour."

Hamner stared at the man. "You fool! You'll have every technician in the city joining the FP! And they control the power plants, our last influence over the crowd! You bloody damn fool!"

Bradford's smirk widened, as he spoke with exaggerated surprise. "I thought you'd be pleased, George. And naturally I've sent men to the power plants as well. Ah, listen."

The crowd outside wasn't chanting anymore. There was a confused babble, a welling of sound that turned ugly, but nothing coherent. Then a rapid fusillade of shots.

"My God!" Budreau stared wildly in confusion. "Who are they shooting at? You've started open civil war!"

"It takes stern measures, Mister President," Bradford said calmly. "Perhaps too stern for you?" He shook his head slightly. "The time is come for harsh measures, Mister President. Hadley cannot be governed by weak-willed men. Our future belongs to those who have the will to grasp it!"

Hamner stood, went to the door. Before he reached it, Bradford called to him. "Please, George," he said pleasantly. "I'm afraid you can't leave just yet. It wouldn't be safe for you. I took the liberty of ordering Colonel Cordova's men to, uh, guard this room while my troops restore order."

An uneasy quiet had settled on the stadium, and they waited for long minutes. Then there were screams, more shots, and the sounds were moving closer, as if they were outside the stadium. Bradford frowned slightly, but no one said anything. They waited for what seemed a lifetime as the firing continued, guns, shouts, screams, sirens and alarms.

The door burst open. Cordova, now wearing the insignia of a full colonel, came into the room, glanced about wildly. "Mister Bradford—could you come outside, please?"

"You will make your report to the Cabinet," Budreau ordered. "Now, sir."

Cordova glanced at Bradford, who nodded. "Yes, sir," the young officer said. "As directed by Vice-President Bradford, elements of the fourth battalion proceeded to the stadium and arrested some forty leaders of the so-called constitutional convention. Our plan was to enter quickly and take the men out through the Presidential Box into the Palace. However, when we attempted to make the arrests we were opposed by armed men, many of them in the uniforms of household guards. There were not supposed to be any weapons in the stadium, but this was in error. The crowd overpowered my officers and released their prisoners. When we attempted to recover them, we were attacked by the mob and forced to fight our way out of the stadium."

"Good Lord," Budreau sighed.

"The power plants! Did you secure them?" Hamner demanded.

Cordova looked miserable. "No, sir. My men were not admitted. A council of technicians holds the power plants and threatens to destroy them if we attempt forcible entry. We will try to seal them off from outside support, but I don't think that will be possible with only my battalion. In my judgment, we will require the full complement of constabulary to restore order."

Hamner sat heavily, tried to think. Council of technicians. He'd know most of them, they'd be his friends . . . but did they trust him now? Was this good or bad? At least Bradford didn't control the plants.

"What is the current status outside?" Budreau demanded. They could still hear firing in the streets.

"Uh, there's a mob barricaded in the market, another in the theater across from the Palace, sir. My troops are trying to dislodge them."

"Trying. I take it they weren't able to succeed." Budreau struck his hands together, suddenly rose and went to the anteroom door. "Colonel Falkenberg?" he called.

"Yes, sir?" John entered the room as the President beckoned.

"Colonel, are you familiar with the situation outside?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn it, man, can you do something?"

"What does the President suggest that I do?" Falkenberg looked at the Cabinet. "For three months we have attempted to restore order in this city. Even with the cooperation of the technicians we have been unable to do so for reasons which ought to be obvious. Now there is open rebellion and you have alienated one of the most powerful blocs within your party. We no longer control either the power plants or the food processing centers. I repeat, what does the President suggest I do now?"

Budreau nodded. "A fair enough criticism."

He was interrupted by Bradford. "Disperse that mob! Use those precious troops of yours to fight!"

"Will the President draw up a proclamation of martial law?" Falkenberg asked.

Budreau nodded. "I have to."

"Very well," John continued. "But I want something made clear. If I am to enforce martial law, I must have command of all government forces, including the fourth battalion. I will not attempt to restore order when some of the troops are not responsive to my policies."

"No!" Bradford stared wildly at Falkenberg. "I see what you're trying to do! You're against me too. You always have been. That's why it was never time to make me President, you're planning to take over this planet yourself! You want to be dictator. Well, you won't get away with it. Cordova, arrest that man!"

Cordova licked his lips, glanced at Falkenberg. "Lieutenant Hargreave!" he called. The door to the anteroom opened fully, but no one came in. "Hargreave!" Cordova shouted again. He put his hand to his pistol. "You're under arrest, Colonel Falkenberg."

"This is absurd," Budreau shouted. "Colonel Cordova, take your hand off that weapon! I will not have my Cabinet meeting turned into a farce."

Bradford stared intently at the President. "You too, huh? Arrest Budreau, Colonel Cordova. As for you, Mister Traitor George Hamner, you'll get what's coming to you. I've got men all through this Palace, I knew I might have to do this."

"What is this, Earnest?" Budreau asked. He seemed bewildered. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, shut up, old man," Bradford snarled. "I suppose you'll have to be shot as well."

"I think we've heard enough," Falkenberg said carefully. His voice rang through the room, although he hadn't shouted. "And I refuse to be arrested."

"Kill him!" Bradford shouted. He reached under his tunic.

Cordova put his hand back on his pistol. There were shots from the doorway, impossibly loud, filling the room. Hamner's ears rang from the muzzle blast. Bradford spun toward the door, a surprised look on his face, then his eyes glazed and he slid to the floor, the half-smile still on his lips. More shots, a crash of automatic weapons, and Cordova was flung against the wall of the council chamber, held there for an incredibly long moment. Bright red blotches spurted across his uniform.

Sergeant-Major Calvin came into the room with three marines in battle dress, leather over bulging body armor, their helmets dull in the bright blue sunlight streaming from the chamber's windows.

Falkenberg nodded, holstered his pistol. "All secure, Sergeant-Major?"

"Sir!"

Falkenberg nodded again. "To quote Mister Bradford, I took the liberty of securing the corridors, Mister President. Now, if you'll issue that proclamation, I'll see to the situation in the streets outside. I believe Captain Fast has already drawn it up for your signature."

"But—" Budreau's tone was hopeless. "All right. Not that there's much chance." The President sat at the head of the table, still bewildered by the rapid events. Too much had happened, too much to do. The battle sounds outside were louder, and the room was filled with the sharp copper odor of blood.

"You'd better speak to the President's Guard," Falkenberg told Hamner. "They won't know what to do."

"Aren't you going to use them in the street fight?"

Falkenberg shook his head. "I doubt if they'd fight. They live here in the city, too many friends on both sides. They'll protect the Palace, but they won't be reliable for anything else."

"Have we got a chance?" "Depends on how good the people we're fighting are. If they've got a commander half as good as I think, we won't win this battle."

Two hours proved him right. Fierce attacks drove the rioters away from the immediate area of the Palace, but Falkenberg's regiment paid for every yard they gained. Whenever they took a building, the enemy left it blazing. When the regiment trapped one large group of rebels, Falkenberg was forced to abandon the assault to aid in evacuating a hospital that the enemy torched. In three hours, fires were raging all around the Palace.

There was no one in the council chamber with Budreau and Hamner when Falkenberg came back to report.

"They've got good leaders," John told them. "When they left the stadium, immediately after Cordova's assault, they stormed the police barracks. Took the weapons, distributed them to their allies, and butchered the police. And we're not fighting just the mob out there. We've repeatedly run up against well-armed men in household forces uniform. I'll try again in the morning, but for now, Mister President, we don't hold much more than half a kilometer around the Palace.

The fires burned all night, but there was little fighting. In the morning the regiment sallied out again, moved northward toward the concentration points of the rioters. Within an hour they were heavily engaged against rooftop snipers, barricaded streets, and everywhere burning buildings.

The fourth regiment, Bradford's former troops, were decimated in repeated assaults against the barricades. Hamner accompanied the soldiers to Falkenberg's field headquarters, watched the combat operations.

"You're using up those men pretty fast, aren't you?" he asked.

"Not by choice," Falkenberg told him. "The President has ordered me to break the enemy resistance. That squanders soldiers. I'd as soon use the fourth battalion as to blunt the fighting edge of the rest of the regiment."

"But we're not getting anywhere."

"No. The opposition's too good, and there are too many of them. We can't get them concentrated for an all-out battle, they simply set fire to part of the city and retreat under cover of the flames." He stopped, listened to reports from a runner, then spoke quietly into a communicator. "Fall back to the Palace."

"You're retreating?"

"I have to. I can't hold this thin a perimeter. I've only two battalions—and what's left of the fourth."

"Where's the third? The Progressive partisans? My people?"

"Out at the power plants and food centers," Falkenberg answered. "We can't get in without giving the techs time to wreck the place, but we can keep any of the rebels from getting in. The third isn't as well trained as the rest of the regiment—and besides, the techs may trust them."

They walked through burned out streets, the sounds of fighting following them as the regiment retreated. Worried Presidential Guards let them into the Palace, swung heavy doors shut behind them.

President Budreau was in the ornate office with Lieutenant Banners. "I was going to send for you," Budreau said. "We can't win this, can we?"

"Not the way it's going."

"That's what I thought. Pull your men back to barracks, Colonel. I'm going to surrender."

"But you can't," George protested. "Everything we've dreamed of ... You'll doom Hadley. The Freedom Party can't govern . . ."

"Precisely. You've seen it too, haven't you? How much governing are we doing? Before it came to an open break, perhaps we had a chance. Not now. Bring your men back to the Palace, Colonel Falkenberg. Or are you going to resist my commands?"

"No, sir. The men are retreating already. They'll be here in a few minutes."

Budreau sighed loudly. "I told you the military answer wouldn't work here, Falkenberg."

"We might have accomplished something in the past months if we'd been given the chance."

"You might. You might not, also. It doesn't matter now. This isn't three months ago. It's not even yesterday. I might have bargained with them then. But it's today, and we've lost. You're not doing much besides burning down the city . . . at least I can spare Hadley that. Banners, go tell the Freedom Party people I can't take anymore." The Guard officer saluted and left, his face an unreadable mask.

"So you're resigning," Falkenberg said slowly.

Budreau nodded.

"Have you resigned, sir?" Falkenberg asked deliberately.

"Yes, blast it. Banners has promised to get me out of here. On a boat, I can sail up the coast, cut inland to the mines. There'll be a starship come in there sometime, I can get out on it. You'd better come with me, George." He put his face to his hands for a moment, then looked up. "What will you do, Colonel Falkenberg?"

"We'll manage. There are plenty of boats in the harbor. For that matter, the new government will need soldiers."

"The perfect mercenary," Budreau said with contempt. He sighed, looked around the office. "It's a relief. I don't have to decide things anymore." He stood suddenly, his shoulders no longer stooped. "I'll get the family. You'd better be moving too, George."

"I'll be along, sir. Don't wait for us—as the colonel says, there are plenty of boats." He waited until Budreau had left the office. "All right, what now?" he asked Falkenberg.

"Now we do what we came here for," Falkenberg snapped. "You haven't been sworn in as President yet, and you won't get the chance until I've finished. And there's nobody to accept your resignation, either."

Hamner looked at him carefully. "So you do have an idea. Let's hear it."

"You're not President yet," Falkenberg answered. "Under Budreau's proclamation of martial law, I am to take whatever action I deem necessary to restore order in Refuge. That order is valid until a new President rescinds it. And at the moment there's no President."

"But—Budreau's surrendered! The Freedom Party will elect one!"

"Under Hadley's constitution only the Senate and Assembly in joint session can make a change in the order of succession. They're scattered across the city, their meeting chambers have been burned . . . to play guardhouse lawyer, Mr. Hamner, Budreau doesn't have the authority to appoint a new President. With Bradford dead, you're in charge here—but not until you appear before a magistrate and take the oath of office."

"I see . . . and there aren't any magistrates around. How long do you think you can stay in control here?"

"As long as I have to." Falkenberg turned to his aides. "Corporal, I want Mr. Hamner to stay with me. You're to treat him with respect but he goes nowhere and sees no one without my permission. Understood?"

"Sir!"

"And now what?" Hamner asked.

"And now we wait," John said softly. "But not too long . . ."

Hamner and Falkenberg sat in the council chambers. When Captain Fast came in periodically to give reports on the combat situation, Falkenberg didn't seem interested; but when Dr. Whitlock's agents came in from time to time, the soldier was attentive. After a long wait the regiment was assembled in the Palace courtyard, while the Presidential Guard still held the Palace entrances, refused to admit the rioters. The rebels were obviously instructed to leave the Guardsmen alone so long as they took no action against them, giving an uneasy truce.

After Banners reported the President's surrender, the crowd began to flow into the stadium, shouting with triumph. Still they waited, Falkenberg with outward calm, Hamner with growing tension.

An hour later Dr. Whitlock came into the council room. He looked at Falkenberg and Hamner, then sat easily in the President's chair. "Don't reckon I'll get another chance to sit in the seat of the mighty," he grinned. "It's 'bout like you figured, Colonel. Mob's moved right into the stadium. Nobody wants to be left out now they think they've won. Got some Senators out there on the field, fixin' to elect themselves a brand new President."

"The election won't be valid," Hamner said.

"Naw, suh, but that don't seem to stop 'em none. They figure they've won the right, it seems. And the Guard has already said they're goin' to honor the people's choice." Whitlock smiled ironically.

"How many of my technicians are out there in that mob?" Hamner asked. "They'd listen to me, I know they would."

"Not so many as there used to be," Whitlock replied. "Most of 'em couldn't stomach the burnin' and looting. Still, there's a fair number."

"Can you get them out?" Falkenberg asked.

"Doin' that right now." Whitlock grinned. "Got some of my people goin' round tellin' them they already got Mister Hamner as President, why would they want somebody else? Seems to be working, too. Should have all that's goin' out of there in a half hour or so."

Falkenberg nodded. "Let's speed them on their way, shall we?" He strode to the control wall of the council chamber, opened a panel. "Mister Hamner, I can't give you orders, but I suggest you make a speech. Say you're going to be President and things are going to be different. Then order them to go home or face charges as rebels."

Hamner nodded. It wasn't much of a speech, and from the roar outside the crowd didn't hear much of it anyway. He promised amnesty for anyone who left the stadium, tried to appeal to the Progressives who were caught up in the rebellion. When he put the microphone down, Falkenberg nodded. "Half an hour, Dr. Whitlock?" he asked.

"About that," the historian agreed.

"Let's go, Mister President." Falkenberg was insistent.

"Where?" Hamner asked.

"To see the end of this. You want to watch, or would you like to join your family? You can go anywhere you like except to a magistrate or to someone who might accept your resignation."

"Colonel, this is ridiculous. You can't force me to be President! And I don't understand what's going on."

Falkenberg's smile was grim. "Nor do I want you to. Yet. You'll have enough trouble living with yourself anyway. Let's go."

The first and second battalions were assembled in the Palace courtyard. The men stood in ranks, synthileather battle dress stained with dirt from training and the recent street fighting. Their armor bulged under the uniforms of the impassive men. Hamner thought they might have been carved from stone.

Falkenberg led the way to the stadium entrance. Lieutenant Banners stood in the doorway. "Halt," he commanded.

"Really, Lieutenant? would you fight my troops?" Falkenberg indicated the grim lines behind him.

"No, sir," Banners protested. "But we have barred the doors. The emergency meeting of the Senate is electing a new President out there. When he's sworn in, the Guard will be under his command—until then, we can't permit your mercenaries to interfere."

"I have orders from Vice-President Hamner to arrest the leaders of the rebellion, and a valid proclamation of martial law," Falkenberg insisted.

"I'm sorry, sir." Banners seemed to mean it. "Our council of officers has decided that President Budreau's surrender is valid. We intend to honor it."

"I see." Falkenberg withdrew. "Hadn't expected this. It would take a week to fight through those guardrooms . . ." he thought for a moment. "Give me your keys!" he snapped at Hamner.

Bewildered, George took them out. Falkenberg examined them, grinned. "There's another way into there, you know . . . Major Savage! Take G and H companies of second battalion to secure the stadium exits. Place anyone who comes out under arrest. And you'd better dig the men in pretty good, they'll be coming out fighting. But I don't expect them to be well-organized."

"Yes, sir. Do we fire on armed men?"

"Without warning, Major. Without warning." Falkenberg turned to the assembled soldiers. "Follow me."

He led them to the tunnel entrance, unlocked the doors. Hamner trailed behind him as they wound down stairways, across under the field. He could hear the long column of armed men tramp behind them. They moved up the stairways on the other side, marching briskly until Hamner was panting, but the men didn't seem to notice. Gravity difference, Hamner thought. And training.

They reached the top, moved along the passageways. Falkenberg stationed men at each exit, came back to the center doors. "MOVE OUT!" he commanded.

The doors burst open. The armed troopers moved quickly across the top of the stadium. Most of the mob was below, and a few unarmed men were struck down when they tried to oppose the regiment. Rifle butts swung, then there was a moment of calm. Falkenberg took a portable speaker from a corporal attendant.

"ATTENTION ATTENTION. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE MARTIAL LAW PROCLAMATION OF PRESIDENT BUDREAU. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. IF YOU RESIST, YOU WILL BE KILLED."

Someone below fired at them. Hamner heard the flat snap of the bullet as it rushed past, then the crack of the rifle.

One of the leaders on the field had a speaker, shouted orders. "ATTACK THEM! THERE AREN'T MORE THAN A THOUSAND OF THEM, WE'RE THIRTY THOUSAND STRONG. ATTACK, KILL THEM!" There were more shots. Several of Falkenberg's men fell.

"PREPARE FOR VOLLEY FIRE!" Falkenberg called. "MAKE READY! TAKE AIM. IN VOLLEY, FIRE!"

Seven hundred rifles crashed as one.

"FIRE!"

Someone screamed, a long drawn out cry, a plea without words. "FIRE!"

The line of men clambering up the seats toward them wavered, broke. Men screamed, some pushed back, tried to get behind someone, anywhere but under the unwavering muzzles of the rifles.

"FIRE!"

It was like one shot, very loud, lasting far longer than a rifle shot ought to, but impossible to hear individual weapons.

"THE FORTY-SECOND WILL ADVANCE. FIX BAYONETS. FORWARD, MOVE. FIRE! FIRE AT WILL."

Now there was a continuous crackle of weapons. The leather-clad lines moved forward, down the stadium seats, inexorably toward the press below.

"SERGEANT-MAJOR!"

"SIR!"

"MARKSMEN AND EXPERTS. FIRE ON ALL ARMED MEN."

"SIR!"

Calvin spoke into his communicator. Two sections fell out of the advancing line, took cover behind seats. They began to fire, carefully but rapidly. Anyone below who raised a weapon died.

Hamner was sick. The screams of wounded men could be heard everywhere.

"GRENADIERS, PREPARE TO THROW," Falkenberg ordered. "THROW!" A hundred grenades arched out, down into the milling crowds below. Their muffled explosions were masked by the screams of terror. "IN VOLLEY, FIRE!"

The regiment advanced, made contact with the mob below. There was a brief struggle. Rifles fired, bayonets flashed red, the line halted momentarily. Then it moved on, leaving behind a ghastly trail.

Men were jammed at the stadium exits, trampling each other in a scramble to escape. There was a rattle of gunfire from outside.

"You won't even let them out!" he screamed at Falkenberg.

"Not armed. And not to escape." The colonel's face was hard, cold, the eyes narrowed to slits as he peered down at the battle. "Are you going to kill them all?' "All who resist."

"But they don't deserve this!" Hamner insisted.

"No one does, George. Sergeant-Major!"

"Sir!"

"Half the marksmen may concentrate on the leaders now."

"Sir!" Calvin spoke quietly into his command set. As Hamner watched, the snipers began concentrating their fire on the Presidential Box across from them. Centurions ran up and down the line of hidden troops, pointing out targets. The marksmen kept up a steady fire.

The leather lines of armored men advanced inexorably, almost reached the lower tiers of seats. There was less firing now, but the scarlet painted bayonets could be seen everywhere. A section fell out of the line, moved to guard a tiny number of prisoners at one end of the stadium. The rest of the line moved on.

When the regiment reached ground level, their progress was slower. There was not much opposition, but the sheer mass of people in front of them held the troopers. In some places there were pockets of armed fighting, which held for long moments until flying squads rushed up to reinforce the line. Falkenberg watched the battle calmly, spoke into his communicator. Below, more men died.

A company of troopers formed, rushed up a stairway on the opposite side of the stadium, fanned out across the top. Their rifles leveled, crashed in another terrible volley.

Suddenly it was over. There was no opposition, only screaming crowds, men throwing away weap- ons to., run with their hands in the air, falling to their knees to beg for quarter. A final volley crashed out, then a deathly quiet fell over the stadium.

But it wasn't quiet, Hamner discovered. The guns were silent, men no longer shouted, but there was sound. Screams of wounded men.

Falkenberg nodded grimly. "Now we can find a magistrate, Mister President. Now."

"I—oh my God!" Hamner stood at the _top of the stadium, held a column to steady his weakened legs. The scene below was unreal. There was too much of it, too much blood, rivers of blood, blood cascading down the steps, pouring down stairwells, soaking the grassy field below.

"It's over," Falkenberg said gently. "For all of us. The regiment will be leaving as soon as you're properly in command. You shouldn't have any trouble with the power plants, your technicians will trust you now that Bradford's gone. And without their leaders, the city people won't resist. You can ship as many as you have to out to the interior, disperse them among the loyalists where they won't do you any harm. That amnesty of yours—it's only a suggestion, but I'd keep it."

Hamner turned dazed eyes toward Falkenberg. "Yes. There's been too much slaughter today . . . Who are you, Falkenberg?"

"A mercenary soldier, Mister President. Nothing more."

"But—who are you working for?"

"That's the question nobody asked before. Grand Admiral Lermontov."

"Lermontov—but you've been dismissed from the CoDominium! You mean that—you were hired by the admiral? As a mercenary?"

Falkenberg nodded coldly. "More or less. The Fleet's a little sick of being used to mess up people's lives without having a chance to—to leave things in working order."

"And now you're leaving?"

"Yes. We couldn't stay here, George. Nobody is going to forget this. You couldn't keep us on and build a government that worked. I'll take first and second battalions, there's more work for us. The third will stay here to help you. We put all the married locals, the solid people in third and sent it off to the power plants where they wouldn't have to fight." He looked across the stadium, turned back to Hamner. "Blame it all on us, George. You weren't in command. You can say Bradford ordered the slaughter. killed himself in remorse . . . people will want to believe that. They'll want to think somebody was punished for—for this." He waved expressively. A child was sobbing out there somewhere.

"It had to be done," Falkenberg insisted. "Didn't it? There was no way out, nothing you could do to keep civilization . . . Dr. Whitlock estimated a third of the population would die when things collapsed. Fleet intelligence put it higher than that. Now you have a chance." Falkenberg was speaking rapidly, and George wondered who he was trying to convince. "Move them out while they're still dazed . . . you won't need much help for that. We've got the railroad running again, use it fast and ship them to the farms. It'll be rough with no preparation, but it's a long time until winter . . ."

Hamner nodded. "I know what to do." He leaned against the column, gathered new strength from the thought. "I've known all along what had to be done. Now we can do it. We won't thank you for it, but—you've saved a whole world, John."

Falkenberg looked at him grimly, then pointed to the bodies below. "Damn you, don't say that!" he shouted. "I haven't saved anything. All a soldier can do is buy time . . . I haven't saved Hadley. You have to do that. God help you if you don't."