Before Dumarest could lean over the table, a civilian entered the room and came toward him. Deftly he took a series of measurements, departing as quietly as he came. "For your uniform," explained Paran. "Your rank will be that of marshal, your pay equal to my own, two years' pay as initial bonus-it has already been placed to your credit. Your suite, of course, will be provided by the state, and all other expenses similarly met."
"My powers?"
"Advisory as regards operations. Almost unlimited in the field. We need to end this thing, and quickly. Do that, and no one will argue about what steps you may take."
Dumarest studied the map spread on the table. The rafts were strung in a thin line, and the field detachments were based, as far as he could see, more on a precise mathematical pattern than on the varying needs of the terrain.
"Your basic assumption is at fault," he commented. "Sonel does not lie within easy attacking distance from the hills; therefore, we must assume that an attack can come at any time from any direction. I would suggest that half the rafts be fitted with infrared detectors in order to spot the advance of any large body of men. They should ride high and maintain constant observation. The field detachments are of little use based as they are. They would be of more use placed in the actual villages. A strong body of well-armed men will maintain the morale of the farmers and provide a defensive force against any attack."
"True," admitted Paran. "But then how to protect the crops?"
"You can't, so forget it."
"But-"
"The lofios is important to you," said Dumarest patiently. "I haven't forgotten that. But to protect the crop would mean a fantastic number of men, and even then you would have no assurance of success. Let me clarify. In any war it is essential to determine the objective; once that is done, the next step is to decide the tolerable cost in both men and material. A defensive war is always a long one. In this case, the equation consists of three variables at least; to protect the crops, to protect the villages, to remove the threat posed by the attacks. You cant do them all."
"No," admitted Paran. "I realize that."
"Remove the threat, and you will have no need to worry about the rest," said Dumarest. "That can only be done by making contact with the enemy."
"Destroying them? But-"
"Contacting them," interrupted Dumarest. "I am aware of the situation. That means an expeditionary force must be sent into the hills."
"We tried that," said Paran grimly. "Twice. The second force didn't come back."
"Which means the next must be better trained. I shall need volunteers."
"Sir!" Fran Paran had been listening. He stepped forward, his salute crisp. "With respect, sir, I would like to accompany you."
Dumarest heard Paran's sharp intake of breath. "No Fran! I can't permit it!"
"Sir?"
Dumarest said bluntly, "What were you before you became an officer? A student?"
"I trained in electronics, but-"
"Have you ever killed a man? Fought for your life?" Unfair, perhaps; few men on a civilized world had done either of those things. Sharply Dumarest added, "Have you traveled the country? Seen the Ayutha?"
Frowning, the young man said, "I don't understand. I am willing to go. Isn't that enough?"
"Far from it. You realize that if I take you, I could be risking my life on your obedience? That others may die because you misjudge, or simply because you are ignorant? War isn't a game conducted with neat, clear-cut rules. There is no glory, and little honor. You'll be tired and hungry and afraid most of the time. You could be killed. And, frankly, I can't see that you would be an asset. Here you are doing a good job; out in the field you would be simply a man with a gun. I want more than that."
"You'll get more! Damnit! Must I stay here at a desk just because my father…" Fran broke off, controlling himself. More quietly he said, "You'll need communications equipment and someone who knows about such things. I am an expert in the field."
Knowledge and eagerness, two assets for any task, and Dumarest hesitated, conscious of Colonel Paran, the delicate situation. He was in no position to make enemies.
And then the colonel said flatly, "All right, Fran. I won't stand in your way. If Earl is willing to take you, I'll arrange for your replacement."
"Sir!" The salute was a model copied from a book. "Thank you, sir. When do I start?"
Dumarest glanced at Captain Louk, who had remained silent during the exchange. "Is there a place we can use for intensive training?"
"Yes, marshal. The Lambda warehouse."
* * *
It was a big, rambling structure still redolent of the goods it had once held, the sacks of lofios blooms, the precious oils. Open ground flanked it, now filled with marching men, uniforms bright in the prenoon sunlight. A hoarse-voiced officer yelled commands, sending them through routine motions, turning, wheeling, keeping step. His salute was casual, the gesture of a man who knew his business to those who, in his estimation, didn't.
Captain Louk said, "Lieutenant Thomile, Marshal Dumarest."
Thomile grinned, jerking his thumb at the marching men. "New intake," he explained. "Raw, as yet, but they'll improve." His eyes studied Dumarest. "I've heard about you, marshal. From Samalle, right? What do you think of the men?"
Dumarest said harshly, "When talking to me, you stand at attention. You address me as 'sir.' As for your question, the men look like yourself, dirty, lax, more of a mob than a disciplined unit. How long have you been training them?"
"Eight days."
"What?"
"Eight days… sir."
"In my experience, you should have reached this point at the end of the first day. Basic maneuvering is used only to instill obedience to orders and to achieve an esprit de corps. I don't want a machine, I want men who can move and fight and think for themselves. Soldiers, not automatons. Now, get out there, lieutenant, and get to work. Real work. Move!"
As they moved toward the open doors of the warehouse, Louk said, "You were hard on him, marshal. Thomile's a good man."
"Too good to be allowed to fall into bad habits," agreed Dumarest. "And while we're on the subject, I noticed too many soldiers in the streets. They should be at camp, training, not displaying their new uniforms to admiring females. See to it."
"Yes, sir."
"You don't agree?"
"Well, sir, they are young, and it's natural to show off a little. Also it helps recruiting, and-"
"You think I'm acting like a thick-headed martinet, right?" Dumarest shrugged, as the other made no comment. "As you heard me tell Fran Paran, war isn't a game. Each of those men may have to risk his life and the only thing they will have between living and dying is the training given to them. A good officer hates waste, the waste of his men most of all, and if he is careless of lives, then he is unfitted to hold command. If I appear hard, it is with reason."
He glanced toward the field, where Thomile's voice could be heard. It was different now, harsher, more savage, and beneath its lash the men had straightened, moved with grim purpose instead of casual indifference.
"Take my compliments to the lieutenant. Ask him to select a group of men from those he has trained. They are to be tough, skilled, clever, and obedient. He won't find many, but have him send those he picks to the warehouse."
"Sir!"
"You have an intensive training program already under way?"
"Yes, sir. Captain Raougat is in command."
He stood at the back of the vast building surrounded by a circle of men stripped to shorts and shoes. He was of medium height, well-muscled, his torso scarred from old wounds. He moved like a cat, poised on the balls of his feet, and watching him, Dumarest was reminded of a fighter, a skilled professional who had earned his living in the arena.
Raougat was talking, his voice like a purr, echoing softly from the beams overhead.
"Now, listen and pay attention. I'm going to show you how to take care of an enemy guard. You there!" He pointed. "You get up here. Stand in front of me, back toward me, looking ahead."