The battle had been won, but the war wasn't won yet. The invaders had
managed to establish a good-sized base up in the Frozen Country. They'd
sneaked their ships in and had put up a defensive system that stopped
any high-speed missiles. Not that Xedii had many missiles. Xedii was an
agricultural planet; most manufactured articles were imported. It had
never occurred to the government of Xedii that there would be any real
need for implements of war.
The invaders seemed to be limiting their use of weapons, too. They
wanted to control the planet, not destroy it. Through the summer and
into the autumn, Anketam listened to the news as it filtered down from
the battlegrounds. There were skirmishes here and there, but nothing
decisive. Xedii seemed to be holding her own against the invaders.
After the first news of the big victory, things settled back pretty much
to normal.
The harvest was good that year, but after the leaves were shredded and
dried, they went into storage warehouses. The invaders had set up a
patrol system around Xedii which prevented the slow cargo ships from
taking off or landing. A few adventurous space officers managed to get a
ship out now and then, but those few flights could hardly be called
regular trade shipments.
The cool of winter had come when Chief Samas did something he had never
done before. He called all the men in the barony to assemble before the
main gate of the castle enclosure. He had a speech to make.
For the first time, Anketam felt a touch of apprehension. He got his
crew together, and they walked to the castle in silence, wondering what
it was that The Chief had to say.
All the men of the barony, except those who couldn't be spared from
their jobs, were assembled in front of Chief Samas' baronial castle.
The castle itself was not a single building. Inside the four-foot-high
thorn hedge that surrounded the two-acre area, there were a dozen
buildings of hard, irridescent plastic shining in the sun. They all
looked soft and pleasant and comfortable. Even the thorn hedge, filled
as it was by the lacy leaves that concealed the hard, sharp thorns,
looked soft and inviting.
Anketam listened to the soft murmur of whispered conversation from the
men around him. They stood quietly outside the main gate that led into
the castle area, waiting for The Chief to appear, and wondering among
themselves what it was that The Chief had to say.
"You think the invaders have won?"
Anketam recognized the hoarse whisper from the man behind him. He turned
to face the dark, squat, hard-looking man who had spoken. "It couldn't
be, Jacovik. It couldn't be."
The other supervisor looked down at his big, knuckle-scarred hands
instead of looking at Anketam. He was not a handsome man, Jacovik; his
great, beaklike nose was canted to one side from a break that had come
in his teens; his left eye was squinted almost closed by the scar tissue
that surrounded it, and the right only looked better by comparison. His
eyebrows, his beard, and the fringe of hair that outlined his bald head
made an incongruous pale yellow pattern against the sunburnt darkness of
his face. In his youth, Jacovik had been almost pathologically devoted
to boxing--even to the point of picking fights with others in his
village for no reason at all, except to fight. Twice, he had been
brought up before The Chief's court because of the severe beating he had
given to men bigger than he, and he had finally killed a man with his
fists.
Chief Samas had given him Special Punishment for that, and a final
warning that the next fight would be punished by death.
Anketam didn't know whether it was that threat, or the emotional
reaction Jacovik had suffered from killing a man, or simply that he had
had some sense beaten into his head, but from that moment on Jacovik was
a different man. He had changed from a thug into a determined, ambitious
man. In twenty-two years, he had not used his fists except to discipline
one of his crew, and that had only happened four times that Anketam knew
of. Jacovik had shown that he had ability as well as strength, that he
could control men by words as well as by force, and The Chief had made
him a supervisor. He had proved himself worthy of the job; next to
Anketam, he was the best supervisor in the barony.
Anketam had a great deal of respect for the little, wide-shouldered,
barrel-chested man who stood there looking at the scars on the backs of
his hands.
Jacovik turned his hands over and looked at the calloused palms. "How do
we know? Maybe the Council of Chiefs has given up. Maybe they've
authorized the President to surrender. After all, we're not fighters;
we're farmers. The invaders outnumber us. They've got us cut off by a
blockade, to keep us from sending out the harvest. They've got machines
and weapons." He looked up suddenly, his bright blue eyes looking
straight into Anketam's. "How do we know?"
Anketam's grin was hard. "Look, Jac; the invaders have said that they
intend to smash our whole society, haven't they? Haven't they?"
Jacovik nodded.
"And they want to break up the baronies--take everything away from the
Chiefs--force us farmers to give up the security we've worked all our
lives for. That's what they've said, isn't it?"
Jacovik nodded again.
"Well, then," Anketam continued remorselessly, "do you think the Chiefs
would give up easily? Are they going to simply smile and shake hands
with the invaders and say: 'Go ahead, take all our property, reduce us
to poverty, smash the whole civilization we've built up, destroy the
security and peace of mind of millions of human beings, and then send
your troops in to rule us by martial law.' Are they going to do that?
Are they?"
Jacovik spread his big, hard hands. "I don't know. I'm not a Chief. I
don't know how their minds work. Do you? Maybe they'll think surrender
would be better than having all of Xedii destroyed inch by inch."
Anketam shook his head. "Never. The Chiefs will fight to the very end.
And they'll win in the long run because right is on their side. The
invaders have no right to change our way of living; they have no right
to impose their way of doing things on us. No, Jac--the Chiefs will
never give up. They haven't surrendered yet, and they never will.
They'll win. The invaders will be destroyed."
Jacovik frowned, completely closing his left eye. "You've always been
better at thinking things out that I, Ank." He paused and looked down at
his hands again. "I hope you're right, Ank. I hope you're right."
* * * * *
In spite of his personal conviction that he was right, Anketam had to
admit that Jacovik had reason for his own opinion. He knew that many of
the farmers were uncertain about the ultimate outcome of the war.
Anketam looked around him at the several hundred men who made up the
farming force of the barony. His own crew were standing nearby, mixing
with Jacovik's crew and talking in low voices. In the cool winter air,
Anketam could still detect the aroma of human bodies, the smell of sweat
that always arose when a crowd of people were grouped closely together.
And he thought he could detect a faint scent of fear and apprehension in
that atmosphere.
Or was that just his imagination, brought on by Jacovik's pessimism?
He opened his lips to say something to Jacovik, but his words died
unborn. The sudden silence in the throng around him, the abrupt
cessation of whispering, told him, more definitely than a chorus of
trumpets could have done, that The Chief had appeared.
He turned around quickly, to face the Main Gate again.
The Main Gate was no higher than the thorn-bush hedge that it pierced.
It was a heavily built, intricately decorated piece of polished
goldwood, four feet high and eight feet across, set in a sturdy goldwood
frame. The arch above the gate reached a good ten feet, giving The Chief
plenty of room to stand.
He was just climbing up to stand on the gate itself as Anketam turned.
Chief Samas was a tall man, lean of face and wide of brow. His
smooth-shaven chin was long and angular, and his dark eyes were deeply
imbedded beneath heavy, bushy eyebrows.
And he was dressed in clothing cut in a manner that Anketam had never
seen before.
He stood there, tall and proud, a half smile on his face. It was several
seconds before he spoke. During that time, there was no sound from the
assembled farmers.
"Men," he said at last, "I think that none of you have seen this uniform
before. I look odd in it, do I not?"
The men recognized The Chief's remark as a joke, and a ripple of
laughter ran through the crowd.
The Chief's smile broadened. "Odd indeed. Yes. And do you perceive the
golden emblems, here at my throat? They, and the uniform, indicate that
I have been chosen to help lead the armed forces--a portion of them, I
should say."
He smiled around at the men. "The Council of Chiefs has authorized the
President to appoint me a Colonel of Light Tank. I am expected to lead
our armored forces into battle against the damned Invaders."
A cheer came from the farmers, loud and long. Anketam found himself
yelling as loud as anyone. The pronunciation and the idiom of the speech
of the Chiefs was subtly different from those of the farmers, but
Anketam could recognize the emphasis that his Chief was putting on the
words of his speech. "Invaders." With a capital "I."
The Chief held up his hands, and the cheering died. At the same time,
the face of Chief Samas lost its smile.
"I will be gone for some time," he said somberly. "The Council feels
that it will be two or three years before we have finally driven the
Invaders from our planet. This will not be a simple war, nor an easy
one. The blockade of orbital ships which encircle Xedii keep us from
making proper contact with any friends that we may have outside the
circle of influence of the damned Invaders. We are, at the moment,
fighting alone. And yet, in spite of that--in _spite_ of that, I say--we
have thus far held the enemy at a standstill. And, in the long run, we
shall win."
He took a deep breath then, and his baritone voice thundered out when he
spoke.
[Illustration]
"_Shall_ win? No! We _must_ win! None of you want to become slaves in
the factories of the Invaders. I know that, and you know it. Who among
you would slave your life away in the sweatshops of the Invaders,
knowing that those for whom you worked might, at any time, simply
deprive you of your livelihood at their own whim, since they feel no
sense of responsibility toward you as individuals?"
Again The Chief stopped, and his eyes sought out each man in turn.
"If there are any such among you, I renounce you at this moment. If
there are any such, I ask ... nay, I plead ... I _order_ ... I order you
to go immediately to the Invaders."
Another deep breath. No one moved.
"You have all heard the propaganda of the Invaders. You know that they
have offered you--well, what? Freedom? Yes, that's the way they term it.
Freedom." Another pause. "Freedom. _Hah!_"
He put his hands on his hips. "None of you have ever seen a really
regimented society--and I'm thankful that you haven't. I hope that you
never will."
Chief Samas twisted his lips into an expression of hatred. "Freedom?
Freedom from _what_! Freedom to _do_ what?
"I'll tell you. Freedom to work in their factories for twelve hours a
day! Freedom to work until you are no longer of any use to them, and
then be turned out to die--with no home, and no food to support you.
Freedom to live by yourselves, with every man's hand against you, with
every pittance that you earn taxed to support a government that has no
thought for the individual!
"Is that what you want? Is that what you've worked for all your lives?"