“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Ryan put in, “but aren’t battlegrounds usually covered with smoke?”
“Only because the opposition generally uses obsolete equipment like guns and bombs and flame-throwers.”
“This is worse than I thought,” Ryan said, his plump face growing paler. “Isn’t anybody else equipped with radiation equipment?”
“Only our allies—the ones we’ve equipped with advanced arms.”
Dinkle glanced at his three companions to see if they appreciated the irony of his words, then went on to belabour the point. “If we could just set up a system where we were friends with our enemies—and where we only fought our friends—we’d be all right. The trouble is…”
“I don’t believe all this crap,” Farr said, giving a characteristic scowl. “We beat Aspatria, didn’t we? Cap’n Hardy said it was a quick victory, too.”
Surprisingly, Dinkle showed signs of apprehension. “If you ask me, it wasn’t us or the Aspatrians who ended that war—it was the throwrugs. The throwrugs and the Oscars.”
The words had no sinister connotation that Peace knew of, yet he felt a flicker of unease.
“What are throwrugs and Oscars?”
“Be glad you don’t know—I saw a throwrug get one of my buddies.” Dinkle’s eyes seemed to lose focus, as though horrific memories were parading in front of him. “Dropped out of a tree, it did. Straight on to him. Covered him up, just like a big rug, and started digesting him. I’ll never forget those screams. It was a good thing for him I was right there. Lucky, he was.”
“You managed to pull it off him,” Ryan prompted.
Dinkle shook his head. “I managed to shoot him before he’d suffered more’n a few seconds.
Took a risk waiting around that long, but it was the least I could do for a pal.”
Ryan edged away from Dinkle. “Don’t do me any favors, will you? Any time you see me suffering just look the other…”
“What’s going on here?” Lieutenant Merriman’s voice was muffled by his gas mask as he came stumbling through the layered curtains of smoke. “Why aren’t you men moving up front?”
“Private Peace took a prisoner, sir.” Dinkle pointed at the recumbent Ulphan, who was showing the first signs of getting his breath back. “We were just about to interrogate him.”
“Good work, Peace. Good thinking.” Merriman gave Peace an approving glance. “I’ll be sure to keep you up front in future.”
“Thank you, sir.” Peace was less than happy about this fresh development, but the combat incident just described by Dinkle had had a strangely disturbing effect on him, and the prospect of stopping an Ulphan bullet no longer seemed so terrible. His thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the discovery that his feet, unprotected by boots or shoes, seemed to have glued themselves to the ground. He looked down at them and saw he was standing in a patch of black goo which appeared to have seeped upwards through the soil. Holding his socks on with difficulty, he moved to a better position.
“I’ll question the prisoner now.” Merriman nudged the Ulphan soldier with his toe. “Listen to me, you cowardly extraterrestrial dog, you’d better tell me all you know about the strength and disposition of your forces in this area.”
The Ulphan raised himself on one elbow. “Are you going to shoot me or torture me?”
“How dare you!” Merriman gave the others a scandalized glance. “Terra doesn’t treat her prisoners in that way.”
“In that case,” the Ulphan said comfortably, “get lost.”
Merriman pulled his gas mask down in fury, received a lungful of the smoky atmosphere, and was forced to cover up again. He began choking and coughing, the rubberized mask clapping in and swelling horribly with each spasm, and what could be seen of his face turned a plummy crimson.
“You shouldn’t have told him what you did, sir.” Dinkle pounded the lieutenant on the back.
“Let me try a different approach.”
“What can…?” Merriman wiped tears from his eyes. “What can you do?”
“The old sympathetic bit, sir. It never fails. Just watch.” Dinkle took two flat packages from his pocket and knelt beside the prisoner. He opened one of the packages, exposing a row of slim white cylinders which appeared to be cigarettes, and held it out to the Ulphan. “Have one of these.”
“Thanks.” The Ulphan took one of the cylinders, placed it between his lips and sucked eagerly. A contented expression spread over his face.
“What’s going on here?” Merriman demanded. “That thing isn’t even lit. What have you just given the prisoner?”
“The Ulphans use them instead of cigarettes, sir.” Dinkle stood up and showed the package to the officer. “We captured a truckload last week. The locals breathe tobacco smoke all the time, but they get a lift by sucking pure air through these long filters. This brand is just for hardened air-puffers, though—some of the Ulphans, specially the women, go in for these weaker ones.” He opened the second package and displayed a row of cylinders which looked like Earth-style filter cigarettes in reverse, each being mainly white filter with a short tobacco-packed section at one end.
“Disgusting habit,” Merriman said. “See what you can get out of him.”
Dinkle returned to the prisoner and dropped the two packages into his hand. “Have the lot, pal— compliments of the Legion.”
“Thanks.” The Ulphan slid open the flat trays and glanced inside. “No coupons?”
Looking rather guilty, Dinkle handed over a bundle of blue chits. “Now—how about some co-operation?”
The Ulphan inhaled deeply. “Get lost.”
Peace, who felt a proprietory interest in the prisoner, started forward angrily to relieve him of the anti-smokes. The Ulphan promptly cowered away, his face distorted by fear.
“Don’t let that one near me,” he babbled, his eyes pleading with Merriman. “Don’t let him jump on me.”
Merriman stared suspiciously at Peace. “What did you do to this man?”
“I just … ah … jumped on him, sir. You know—unarmed combat.”
“I told you Warren was something special,” Ryan said to Copgrove Farr. “I bet you Warren can get all the information we need.” He turned to Peace. “Go ahead, Warren, let’s see you jump on him.”
“I’ll talk,” the Ulphan said, clutching at Merriman’s leg. “Look, I’m talking already. We haven’t any men in this sector, apart from a few technicians and scouts. All the fire is coming from robot weapons, and if you detour round the back you can switch ‘em all off.”
“No men?” Merriman said. “Why’s that?”
“It’s that stuff.” The Ulphan pointed at the tacky patch in which Peace had been standing.
“This is a high tar area—most of our boys refuse to breathe the sort of smoke you get around here. Personally, I say it doesn’t do you any harm. My grandfather breathed it every day and he lived to be ninety. What I say is, if you’re…”
“Be quiet,” Merriman ordered. “I’m not sure about this story of yours—it might be a cunning Ulphan trick. Robot weapons would be as big a danger to you as they would to us.”
The prisoner shook his head. “We carry transmitters which broadcast a coded identity signal.
You can have mine if you want—as long as I’m allowed to stay near it.”
“It definitely has gone quiet since he’s been around,” Peace said. “Not a shot or shell anywhere near us.”
“You’ve done well, Private Peace,” Merriman’s thin voice was almost lost within his respirator, but his excitement was unmistakable. “This could be a turning point in the battle, in the whole war. I’ll report to Captain Handy immediately.” He raised his wrist communicator to the general region of his mouth. While he was talking to the captain, Ryan grasped Peace’s hand and shook it energetically, and even Farr looked reluctantly amiable.