"None, Major. One man got a broken arm when he fell down a staircase in the dark."
"I guess we can stand that. We should get some reports on the local demonstrations -- at least from the East coast cities -- before long. Let me know."
"I will. "
"Would you mind telling my orderly to step in as you leave? I want to send for some caffeine tablets, better have one yourself; this is going to be a big day."
"A good notion, Major." The communications aide went out.
In sixty-eight cities throughout the land, preparations were in progress for the demonstrations that constituted Phase 2 of Disorganization Plan IV. The priest of the temple in Oklahoma City had delegated part of his local task to two men, Patrick Minkowski, taxi driver, and John W. (Jack) Smyth, retail merchant. They were engaged in fitting leg irons to the ankles of the Voice of the Hand, PanAsian administrator of Oklahoma City. The limp, naked body of the Oriental lay on a long table in a workshop down under the temple.
"There," announced Minkowski, "that's the best job of riveting I can do without heating tools. It'll take him a while to get it off, anyway. Where's that stencil?"
"By your elbow. Captain Isaacs said he'd weld those joints with his staff after we finished; I wouldn't worry about them. Say, it seems odd to call the priest Captain Isaacs, doesn't it? Do you think we're really in the army -- legally, I mean?"
"I wouldn't know about that -- and as long as it gives me a chance to take a crack at those flat-faced apes, I don't care. I suppose we are, though -- if you admit that Isaacs is an army officer, I guess he can take recruits. Look -- do we put this stencil on his back or on his stomach?"
"I'd say to put it on both sides. It does seem funny, though, about this army business, I mean. One day you're going to church; the next you're told it's a military outfit, and they swear you in."
"Personally, I like it," commented Minkowski. "Sergeant Minkowski -- it sounds good. They wouldn't take me before on account o' my heart. As for the church part, I never took any stock in this great God Mota business, anyhow; I came for the free food and the chance to breathe in peace." He removed the stencil from the back of the Asiatic; Smyth commenced filling in the traced design of an ideograph with quick-drying indelible paint. "I wonder what that heathen writing means?"
"Didn't you hear?" asked Smyth, and told him.
A delighted grin came over Minkowski's face. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. "If anybody called me that, it wouldn't do him no good to smile when he said it. You wouldn't kid me?"
"No, indeed. I was in the communications office when they were getting the design from the Mother Temple -- I mean general headquarters. Here's another funny thing, too. I saw the chap in the screen who was passing out the design, and he was Asiatic as this monkey" -- Smyth indicated the unconscious voice of the Hand -- "but they called him Captain Downer and treated him like one of us. What do you make of that?"
"Couldn't say. He must be on our side, or else he wouldn't be loose in headquarters. What'll we do with the rest of the paint?"
Between them they found something to do with it, which Captain Isaacs noticed at once when he came in to see how they were progressing. He suppressed a smile. "I see you have elaborated on your instructions a bit," he commented, trying to keep his voice soberly official.
"It seemed a pity to waste the paint," Minkowski explained ingenuously. "Besides, he looked so naked the way he was."
"That's a matter of opinion. Personally, I would say that he looks nakeder now. We'll drop the point; hurry up and get his head shaved. I want to leave any time now."
Minkowski and Smyth waited at the door of the temple five minutes later, the Voice of the Hand rolled in a blanket on the floor between them. They saw a sleek duocycle station wagon come shooting up to the curb in front of the temple and brake to a sudden stop. Its bell sounded, and Captain Isaacs' face appeared in the window of the driver's compartment. Minkowski threw down the butt of a cigarette and grabbed the shoulders of the muffled figure at their feet; Smyth took the legs and they trotted clumsily and heavily out to the car.
"Dump him in the back," ordered Captain Isaacs.
That done, Minkowski took the wheel while Isaacs and Smyth crouched in the back with the subject of the pending demonstration.
"I want you to find a considerable gathering of PanAsians almost anywhere," directed the captain. "If there are Americans present, too, so much the better. Drive fast and pay no attention to anyone. I'll take care of any difficulties with my staff." He settled himself to watch the street over Minkowski's shoulder.
"Right, Captain! Say, this is a sweet little buggy," he added as the car shot forward. "How did you pick it up so fast?"
"I knocked out a few of our Oriental friends;" answered Isaacs briefly. "Watch that signal!"
"Got it!" The car dewed around and dodged under the nose of oncoming cross traffic. A PanAsian policeman was left futilely waving at them.
A few seconds later Minkowski demanded, "How about that spot up ahead, Captain?" and hooked his chin in the indicated direction. It was the square of the civic center.
"O. K. " He bent over the silent figure on the floor of the car, busy with his staff.
The Asiatic began to struggle. Smyth fell on him and pinned the blanket more firmly about the head and shoulders of their victim. "Pick your spot. When you stop, we'll be ready."
The car lurched to a stomach-twisting halt. Smyth slammed open the rear door; he and Isaacs grabbed corners of the blanket and rolled the now-conscious official into the street. "Take it away, Pal"
The car jumped forward, leaving startled and scandalized Asiatics to deal with an utterly disgraceful situation as best they might. Twenty minutes later a brief but explicit account of their exploit was handed to Ardmore in his office at the Citadel. He glanced over it and passed it to Thomas. "Here's a crew with imagination, Jeff."
Thomas took the report and read it, then nodded agreement. "I hope they all do as well. Perhaps we should have given more detailed instructions."
"I don't think so. Detailed instructions are the death of initiative. This way we have them all striving to think up some particularly annoying way to get under the skins of our slant-eyed lords. I expect some very amusing arid ingenious results."
By nine a.m., headquarters time, each one of the seventy-odd PanAsian major officials had been returned alive, but permanently, unbearably disgraced, to his racial brethren. In all cases, so far as the data at hand went, there had been no cause given to the Asiatics to associate their latest trouble directly with the cult of Mota. It was simply catastrophe, psychological catastrophe of the worst sort, which had struck in the night without warning and without trace.
"You have not set the time for Phase 3 as yet, Major," Thomas reminded Ardmore when all reports were in.
"I know it. I don't expect it to be more than two hours from now at the outside. We've got to give them a little time to appreciate what has happened to them. The force of demoralization will be. many times as great when they have had time to compare notes around the country and realize that all of their top men have been publicly humiliated. That, combined with the fact that we crippled their continental headquarters almost to the limit, should produce as sweet a case of mass hysteria as one could wish: But we'll have to give it time to spread. Is Downer on deck?"
"He's standing by in the communications watch office."
"Tell them to cut in a relay circuit from him to my office. I want to listen to what he picks up here."
Thomas dialed with the interoffice communicator and spoke briefly. Very shortly Downer's pseudoAsiatic countenance showed on the screen above Ardmore's desk. Ardmore spoke to him. Downer slipped an earphone off one ear and gave him an inquiring look.