The other members of the personnel of the Citadel had gathered around by this time. The mountain guide glanced around at their faces. "It doesn't look as if I had much choice."
"Maybe not, but we would rather have a volunteer than a prisoner."
The mountaineer shifted tobacco from left cheek to right, glanced around the immaculate pavement for a place to spit, decided not to, and answered. "What's the game?"
"It's a frame-up on our Asiatic bosses. We plan to give them the run-around-with the help of God and the great Lord Mota."
The guide looked them over again, then suddenly stuck out his hand and said, "I'm in."
"Fine," agreed Ardmore, taking his hand. "What's your name?"
"Howe. Alexander Hamilton Howe. Friends call me Alec."
"O.K., Alec. Now what can you do? Can you cook?" he added.
"Some. "
"Good." He turned away. "Graham, he's your man for now. I'll talk with him later. Now -- Jeff, did it seem to you that one of those monkeys went down a little slowly?"
"Maybe. Why?"
"This one; wasn't it?" He touched one of the quiet, sprawled figures with his shoe.
"I think so."
"All right, I want to check up on him before we bring them to. If he's a Mongolian he should have keeled over quicker. Dr. Brooks, will you give this laddie's reflexes a work-out? And don't be too gentle about it."
Brooks managed to produce some jerks in short order. Seeing this, Ardmore reached down and set his thumb firmly on the exposed nerve under the ear. The soldier came to his knees, writhing. "All right, bud -- explain yourself." The soldier stared impassively. Ardmore studied his face for a moment, then made a quick gesture, which was protected from the gaze of the others by his body.
"Why didn't you say so?" asked the PanAsian soldier.
"I must say it's a good make-up job," commented Ardmore admiringly. "What's your name and rank?"
"Tattoo and plastic surgery," the other returned. "Name's Downer, captain, United States army."
"Mine's Ardmore. Major Ardmore."
"Glad to know you, Major." They shook hands. "Very glad, I should say. I've been hanging on for months, wondering who to report to and how."
"Well, we can certainly use you. It's a scratch organization. I've got to get busy now -- we'll talk later." He turned away. "Places, gentlemen. Second act. Check each other's make-up. Wilkie, see to it that Howe and Downer are out of sight. We are going to bring our drowsy guests back to consciousness."
They started to comply. Downer touched Ardmore's sleeve.
"Just a moment, Major. I don't know your layout, but before we go any further, are you sure you don't want me to stay on my present assignment?"
"Eh? H-m-m-m -- you've got something there. Are you willing to do it?"
"I'm willing to do it, if it's useful," Downer replied soberly.
"It would be useful. Thomas, come here." The three of them went into a short conference and arranged a way for Downer to report through the grapevine, and Ardmore told him as much about the set-up as he needed to know. "Well, good luck, old man," he concluded. "Get back down there and play dead, and we'll reanimate your messmates."
Thomas, Ardmore, and Calhoun attended the Asiatic lieutenant as his eyes flickered open. "Praise be!" intoned Thomas. "The Master lives!"
The lieutenant stared around him, shook his head, then reached for his sidearm. Ardmore, impressive in the red robes of Dis, Lord of Destruction, held up a hand. "Careful, Master, please! I have beseeched my Lord Dis to return you to us. Do not offend him again."
The Asiatic hesitated, then asked, "What happened?"
"The Lord Mota, acting through Dis, the Destroyer, took you for his own. We prayed and wept and beseeched Tamar, Lady of Mercy, to intercede for us." He swept an arm toward the open door. Wilkie, Graham, and Brooks, appropriately clad, were still busily genuflecting before the altar. "Graciously, our prayer was answered. Go in peace!"
Scheer, at the control board, picked this moment to increase the volume on the fourteen-cycle note. With nameless fear pressing his heart, confused, baffled, the lieutenant took the easy way out. He gathered his men about him and marched back down the broad flight of stairs, colossal organ music still following him in awful, inescapable accompaniment.
"Well, that's that," Ardmore commented as the little group disappeared in the distance. "First round to God's chilluns. Thomas, I want you to start into town at once."
"So?"
"In your robes and full paraphernalia. Seek out the district boss and register formal complaint that Lieutenant Stinkyface did wrongfully profane our sacred places to the great indignation of our gods, and pray for assurance that it will not happen again. You want to be on your high horse about the whole matter -- righteous indignation, you know -- but, oh, very respectful to temporal authority."
"I appreciate the confidence you place in me," Thomas said with sardonic grimness. Ardmore grinned at him.
"I know it's a tough assignment, fella, but a lot depends on it. If we can make use of their own customs and rules to establish a precedent right now which sets us up as a legitimate religion, entitled to all the usual immunities, we've got half the battle won."
"Suppose they ask for my identification card?"
"If you carry yourself with sufficient arrogance they will never get around to asking for it. Just think about the typical clubwoman and try to show that much bulge. I want 'em to get used to the idea that anyone with the staff and the robes and the halo carries his identification just in his appearance. It will save us trouble later."
"I'll try -- but I'm not promising anything."
"I think you can do it. Anyhow, you are going out equipped with enough stuff to keep you safe. Keep your shield turned on whenever you are around any of 'em. Don't try to account for it in any way; just let 'em bounce off it, if they close in on you. It's a miracle -- no need to explain."
"O. K. "
The lieutenant's report was not satisfactory to his superiors. As for that, it was not satisfactory to himself. He felt an acute sense of loss of personal honor, of face, which the words of his immediate superior did nothing to lessen. "You, an officer in the army of the Heavenly Emperor, have permitted yourself to look small in the eyes of a subject race. What have you to say?"
"Your forgiveness, sire!"
"Not for me -- it is a matter for you to settle with your ancestors."
"I hear, sire!" He caressed the short sword which hung at his side.
"Let there be no haste; I intend for you to tell your tale in person to the Imperial Hand."
The local Hand of the Emperor, military governor of that region which included Denver and the Citadel, was no more pleased than his junior. "What possessed you to enter their holy place? These people are childlike, excitable. Your action could be the regrettable cause of assassinations of many more valuable than yourself. We cannot be forever wasting slaves to teach them lessons."
"I am unworthy, sire."
"I do not dispute that. You may go." The lieutenant departed, to join, not his family, but his ancestors.
The Imperial Hand turned to his adjutant. "We will probably be petitioned by this cult. See that the petitioners are pacified and assured that their gods will not be disturbed. Note the characteristics of the sect and send out a general warning to deal gently with it." He sighed. "These savages and their false gods! I grow weary of them. Yet they are necessary; the priests and the gods of slaves always fight on the side of the Masters. It is a rule of nature."