"Heed not this warning -- you will be cast down from your high place!" The Prince felt himself suddenly become light; he was cast into the air, pressed hard against the high ceiling. Just . as suddenly his support left him; he fell heavily back to the bed.
"So speaks my Lord Mota!"
"Wise is the man who heeds him!" Wilkie was running short of choruses.
Ardmore was ready to conclude. His eye swept around the room and noted something he had seen before -- the Prince's ubiquitous chess table. It was set up by the head of the bed, as if the Prince amused himself with it on sleepless nights. Apparently the man set much store by the game. Ardmore added a postscript. "My Lord Mota is done -- but heed the advice of an old man: men and women are not pieces in a game!" An invisible hand swept the costly, beautiful chessmen to the floor. In spite of his rough handling, the Prince had sufficient spirit left in him to glare.
"And now my Lord Shaam bids you sleep." The green light flared up to greater brilliance; the Prince went limp.
"Whew!" sighed Ardmore. "I'm glad that's over. Nice cooperation, Wilkie -- I was never cut out to be an actor." He hoisted up one side of his robes and dug a package of cigarettes out of his pants-pocket. "Better have one," he offered. "We've got a really dirty job ahead of us."
"Thanks," said Wilkie, accepting the offer. "Look, Chief -- is it really necessary to kill everybody here? I don't relish it."
"Don't get chicken, son," admonished Ardmore with an edge in his voice. "This is war -- and war is no joke. There is no such thing as humane war. This is a military fortress we are in; it is necessary to our plans that it be reduced completely. We couldn't do it from the air because the plan requires keeping the Prince alive."
"Why wouldn't it do just as well to leave them unconscious?"
"You argue too much. Part of the disorganization plan is to leave the Prince still alive and in command, but cut off from all his usual assistants. That will create a turmoil of inefficiency much greater than if we had simply killed him and let their command devolve to their number-two man. You know that. Get on with your job."
With the lethal ray from their staffs turned to maximum power, they swept the walls and floor and ceiling, varying death to Asiatics for hundreds of feet -- through rock and metal, plaster and wood. Wilkie did his job with white-lipped efficiency.
Five minutes later they were carving the stratosphere for home -- the Citadel.
Eleven other scout cars were hurrying through the night. In Cincinnati, in Chicago, in Dallas, in major cities across the breadth of the continent they dove out of the darkness, silencing opposition where they found it, and landed little squads of intent and resolute men. In they went, past sleeping guards, and dragged out local senior officials of the PanAsians provincial governors, military commanders, the men on horseback. They dumped each unconscious kidnapped Oriental on the roof of the local temple of Mota, there to be received and dragged down below by the arms of a robed and bearded priest.
Then to the next city to repeat it again, as long as the night lasted.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Calhoun buttonholed Ardmore almost as soon as he was back in the Citadel. "Major Ardmore," he announced, clearing his throat, "I have waited up to discuss a matter of import with you."
This man, Ardmore thought, can pick the damnedest times for a conference. "Yes?"
"I believe you expect a rapid culmination of events?"
"Things are coming to a head, yes."
"I presume the issue will be decided very presently. I have not been able to get the details I want from your man Thomas -- he is not very cooperative; I fail to see why you have thrust him up to the position of speaking for you in your absence -- but that is beside the point," Calhoun conceded with a magnanimous gesture. "What I wanted to say is this: Have you given any thought to the form of government after we drive out the Asiatic invader?"
What the devil was the man getting at? "Not particularly -- why should I? Of course, there will have to be a sort of provisional interim period, military government of sorts, while we locate all the old officials left alive and get them back on the job and arrange for a national election. But that ought not to be too hard -- we'll have the local priests to work through."
Calhoun's eyebrows shot up. "Do you really mean to tell me, my dear man, that you are seriously contemplating returning to the outmoded inefficiencies of elections and all that sort of thing?"
Ardmore stared at him. "What else are you suggesting?"
"It seems obvious. We have here a unique opportunity to break with the stupidities of the past and substitute a truly scientific rule, headed by a man chosen for his intelligence and scientific training rather than for his skill in catering to the prejudices of the mob. "
"Dictatorship, eh? And where would I find such a man?" Ardmore's voice was disarmingly, dangerously gentle.
Calhoun did not speak, but indicated by the slightest of smug self-deprecatory gestures that Ardmore would not have far to look to find the right man.
Ardmore chose not to notice Calhoun's implied willingness to serve. "Never mind," he said, and his voice was no longer gentle, but sharp. "Colonel Calhoun, I dislike to have to remind you of your duty -- but understand this: you and I are military men. It is not the business of military men to monkey with politics. You and I hold our commissions by grace of a constitution, and our sole duty is to that constitution. If the people of the United States want to streamline their government, they will let us know!
"In the meantime, you have military duties, and so do I. Go ahead with yours."
Calhoun seemed about to burst into speech. Ardmore cut him short. "That is all. Carry out your orders, sir!"
Calhoun turned abruptly and left.
Ardmore called his Chief of Intelligence to him. "Thomas," he said, "I want a close, but discreet, check kept on Colonel Calhoun's movements."
"Yes, sir."
"The last of the scout cars are in, sir."
"Good. How does the tally stand now?" Ardmore asked.
"Just a moment, sir. It was running about six raids to a ship -- with this last one that makes a total of ... uh ... nine and two makes eleven-seventy-one prisoners in sixty-eight raids. Some of them doubled up...
"Any casualties?"
"Only to the PanAsians --"
"Damn it that's what I meant! No, I mean to our men, of course."
"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?"