He stood up and said, “That was my news. Goodbye.”
He saluted and was turning to leave when a voice said, “Can I say a word to you Colonel Dryhope?”
It was a firm voice, quiet, adult, male and it came from the crowd.
“You’ve said several already,” said Wat turning back, “Seven at least. How did you say them through the Warrior house speakers?”
“I’m Archie Crook Cot,” said the voice. This caused a burst of laughter; the Crook Cots were famous for their electronic expertise.
“That explains it,” said Wat, looking amiably toward a group of horsemen with one stout rider a little before the rest, “What have you to say, Archie?”
“Just that Geneva’s wrong about the ten years. More than two hundred full-grown Ettrick men are here to sign on as recruits today and you may get as many tomorrow. Our average age is eighteen or so. If we put our backs into the training … and we will lads, won’t we?” he asked turning in his saddle — there was a widespread shout of “Aye!” — “Then you’ll have a full adult fighting force in less than a year.” The last words were drowned in a storm of cheering as the whole crowd of younger folk jumped to their feet shouting and clapping and laughing. The Henderlands raised their pipes, puffed their cheeks and were obviously about to raise the sound level.
“YE GOWK ARCHIE!” yelled Wat, “YE DOITED GOMERIL! YE STUPIT NYAFF! YE BLIRT!”
The amplification was so great that the crowd was silenced, many clapped their hands to their ears, Tam Wardlaw turned his chair and sped back to the mess. With an effort Wat said more quietly, “Men become soldiers, Archie Crook Cot, because we’re no good at anything else! The Crook Cots are teachers, wizards, gurus in the mandarin network! When I was in the satellite belt people who heard my voice said, ‘You’re Scottish. Which part?’ ‘Ettrick,’ said I. ‘Ettrick?’ said they, ‘Do you know the Crook Cots?’ and because I had played with ye when we were bairns their respect for me doubled. Whenever crazy chemicals provoke a new virus — or maybe it’s the other way round, I’m too ignorant to ken — the star seeders want the problem keyed into a mandarin web with at least one Crook Cot guru in it. Why should anyone with an ounce of intellectual talent train for a life of grievous bodily harm?”
“You think we havenae the spunk for it Wat?” jeered a voice from somewhere and provoked scattered laughter.
“Wattie,” said Archie pleasantly, “There’s no use saying what our aunties told us this morning. You’re a great soldier and have no illusions about fighting. I’m a guru and don’t think much of my job either. I enjoy playing mandarin on keyboards, spinning threads in a web of knowledge that will join the stars one day, but I’m no immortal genius. Immortals talk to me like an equal because I know their language and they find me useful, but when my cousin Willie told me yesterday he was off to join the army I discovered I was an Ettrick patriot before anything else.”
“WHY?” said Wat sharply enough to quell the beginnings of another cheer.
“For fun,” said Archie and across the sea of heads Wat saw a toothy grin divide the round face of the squat figure on the horse, “I enjoyed spreading consternation through an eternal network which thought me a dependable unit. I like the amazement, admiration and grief my sisters, aunts and grannies now feel for me. But I most like astonishing myself. What! Will a guru like me drill for months in the martial arts and sleep in his cloak during forced marches over the hills? The notion is too fantastic to be resisted. Mibby I’ll crack under the strain. I doubt it. We’ll see.”
The cheer which now arose was too loud to be quelled. Wat strolled up and down the platform waiting for it to fade. He noticed that the veterans and Boys’ Brigade captains now stood behind him in the formal groups he had meant to avoid, but now they would have looked silly seated so he gave them an approving nod. The more he thought about this renewal of the army the more exciting it seemed. When he again faced the crowd a small tight smile twisted his mouth. He silenced the fading din with a gesture and said, “There is no law to stop any man in Ettrick joining us if he’s healthy and crazy enough to do it. If I tried to keep ye out now you’d think I wanted all the wee boys to myself. Go back to your homes and send your names and physical profiles here. If you’re fit you’ll get word saying what to bring for your first term of training which, I promise, will be no picnic. You’ve seven days to change your minds while I work out a completely new training programme. Goodbye.”
He turned his back on a new wave of cheering and went quickly into the mess where a fit of huge yawning seized him.
“You need a rest, Colonel Dryhope,” murmured Jenny.
“Rest and privacy, Jenny.”
“The commander’s quarters are ready for you sir,” said Jenny and led him from the mess into the communications room, led him from there by lift to an apartment he was visiting for the first time. The last man to use it had been his father.
FOUR PUDDOCK PLOT
WAT WAKENED sitting on a lavatory pan, sure he had not been unconscious for more than a minute or two. On leaving the cubicle he could not at first remember where he was and why. Through clear walls on every side he saw hills, woods, lochs he had known from childhood. They were lit by familiar evening sunlight but in an order he could not recognize. A central part was missing — the Warrior house. Then he realized he was above it. The Ettrick commander’s apartment was in a tower which from outside he had always thought a solar heating duct. Delighted by his new elevation he let out a bark of laughter which almost hurt his throat. Without hurry he bathed then dressed in a clean suit of loose clothes which fitted perfectly. He walked about glorying in the soft carpet, the spare efficient furniture, the combination of perfect comfort with a view commanding the countryside he loved best. No wonder his father had preferred this place to houses where all apartments were on the same level.
“Privacy and power,” he murmured aloud,
“Power and privacy.”
He would hate leaving here if someone else became general, but who else could they make general? Three days ago he had honestly meant to nominate Joe for the job but then a new army had seemed years away. If Archie Crook Cot was right Ettrick would perhaps be able to fight again in six months. Some recruits would certainly crack under their training — he hoped so, it would show the strength of the rest — but only Wat Dryhope would be fit for the general’s job if he did not waste time daydreaming. Sitting at a keyboard Colonel Dryhope summoned a series of training programmes and started adapting them to the probable needs of middle-aged recruits.
There was a slight cough and he saw Jenny laying a meal on a table.
“Yes, it’s time I ate,” said Wat, “And I appreciate your quality of silence. But next time warn me before you enter. A quiet tinkle will do. When a chain of thoughts is being connected even wee surprises can break it.”
“I will do so in future, Colonel Dryhope, but may I speak?”
“Fire away,” said Wat, sitting at the table and uncovering a dish of roast woodcocks.
“I have served four Ettrick commanders, Colonel Dryhope, and those who worked hardest kenned how to relax. Three relaxed with alcohol but you, I think, are your father’s son?”
“Aye?”
“Messages await your attention, Colonel Dryhope. Some will be invitations,” said Jenny, pointing to a shelf where a stack of papers lay under a wallprinter.