"This must be timed perfectly," he told the man who was to head the
diversionary squad.
"I understand that."
"Too soon or too late, either will destroy us. It will take us too long
to reach the Administrator. He must be exactly opposite the tailor's
shop. It must be done right."
"It will be done right."
"If it is not, all the sacrifices are for nothing, you understand that?
The consequences will be as bad, or worse, for the village, and we will
have accomplished nothing. If the Administrator is dead, there will
be time for most of the villagers to escape into the hills before the
Federation can take action against them."
The man left, after Wolf had provided him with the weapons his group
would need from his cache on the nearby hillside.
The dependable five were instructed in their parts, and then there was
nothing to do but wait.
The next morning dawned clear. The air was cool, a slight breeze
ruffled the fields around the village. As the sun rose higher in the
sky, it glinted sharply from the towers of Thanlar.
It had been impossible to keep the entire operation a secret from
the villagers. They knew something was to happen, and they knew it
concerned the inspection trip of Mayne Landing to the village. It was
not hard to guess what it was.
As the day drew on toward noon, the tension of the people grew. Small
knots of farmers gathered on the corners, their fields forgotten for
the day, talking low.
Wolf didn't like it, it was too obvious. The village was primed, ready
to explode, and he was afraid the tension would make the guards _too_
alert. They had to be just tense enough to respond to the diversion,
not enough so they would be watching _everywhere_. He was counting on
an instinctive, rapid response.
He sat behind the tailor shop, talking to his men with a confidence and
calm he did not feel. He spoke as if the success of the mission were a
foregone fact, and the escape of the villagers into the hills. But he
knew it was tenuous.
Perhaps he had planned it too critically. Perhaps a simple direct
attack would have been better. Perhaps, perhaps--
Any number of things were possible, he thought. But it was done now. If
he had made a mistake, they would know soon.
On the contraband comset behind the tailor shop, Wolf had called the
mother-ship that hovered just out of detection range. All right, they
confirmed, there would be a shuttle in the hills back of the town. Did
he know the shuttle that had brought him had been lost? No? Well, it
had. With the whole crew aboard.
_That many more_, thought Wolf. _If anybody's keeping a list, I've got
a lot to my credit. Or damnation._ And, bitterly: _More friends than
enemies._
Don't think about it. Do your job and get the hell out. If you can.
He spoke to Daimya, but on her father's advice did not tell her of his
plan to take her along.
"She won't go voluntarily," the old man said frankly. "We will have to
pretend we are all going to the hills. After that--" he nodded slowly,
"--the problem is yours."
"I will take care of her, Joseph," Wolf had promised, and the
sun-browned farmer had clasped his hand tightly in a mute gesture of
hopefulness.
"You understand--a man and his daughter--you understand?"
_More than you probably know, Joseph._
"Yes," he said aloud. "I think I understand."
And then came the word that the Administrator's procession was in
sight.
Wolf looked at his five dependables. He passed each face slowly,
as if he had never seen them before. They were young, and old, and
middle-aged. They were dark from the hours in the sun, strong from the
work that pulled their muscles for the long hours each day. They smiled
at him, grimly, nervous, but they were good men.
_The faces of freedom_, Wolf thought. _These are the faces and the
bodies of freedom._
Then it was time.
* * * * *
The streets were lined with silent people when the procession came into
view around the slight curve.
Then there was a tentative cheer from someone. It was taken up by
someone else, and soon the crowd was roaring its synthetic appreciation
of Administrator Mayne Landing. Wolf breathed easier.
Craning his neck in the crowd, Wolf spotted the other five, standing
dispersed in the crowd, but all near the spot on the street opposite
the tailor's shop. They made no acknowledgement except meeting his
eyes, then turning away to watch the procession near.
As they came closer, Wolf noted with satisfaction that several of the
guards occasionally glanced at the street behind them.
Good. They had seen the knot of men outside town, then. If they
expected anything, they were expecting it from behind them.
He could see the tall, straight figure of Mayne Landing in the ground
car. He took in the familiar face almost hungrily, the great shock
of white hair moving gently in the slight breeze, the characteristic
gesture, a half-salute, the slight smile, the kindly eyes of the old
man--
He tore his eyes away from the dignified figure and glanced behind him,
down the street. He saw a figure move on a roof-top, and wondered if
the guards saw it, too.
Then the ground car was opposite, and Wolf had a wrenching sensation
that the diversionary squad was not going to go through with it....
An explosion rocked the street a block away, shaking the ground
underfoot, shattering windows in the adjacent stores. A billow of dirty
black smoke began to drift toward the sky. There was a scattering of
small, explosive fire.
The tone of the crowd's roar changed. It deepened and became a mass cry
of confusion and fright.
Quietly, Wolf edged forward to the street, automatically noting that
his men were doing the same. Several of the guards had turned, were
running back toward the source of the excitement, and others were
turned toward it. But those around Mayne Landing had not responded.
They were keeping their eyes fixed on the crowd. They were too well
trained to be drawn off, and Wolf cursed under his breath.
He stopped his forward motion and waited, rocking on the balls of his
feet. This was the part he hadn't told his five about.
Suddenly there was a flurry in the crowd on the opposite side of
the street. The nearest guard whirled, in time to draw his hand gun
and fire. The first of the five sprawled in the street, a bloody
stump where his head had been. But the guard's blast had not been in
time to stop the long mowing knife that buried itself to the hilt in
his throat. He lurched forward, dropping the hand gun. His momentum
carried him almost into the edge of the crowd, and a woman screamed
hysterically.
Wolf's other men had been only a fraction of a second behind the first,
and the street was now a chaos of shouting and the sharp, flat reports
of the guards' hand guns. The crowd milled frantically, adding to the
confusion as the attackers leaped at the procession.
Wolf waited, waited, watching for the single split-second when the
guards were fully engaged with the crowd.
Then it came, and their heads were momentarily turned away from Mayne
Landing.
Wolf sprinted from the crowd, the short stiletto cradled in his hand.
He leaped to the side of the ground car just as Mayne Landing turned
toward him.
He saw the old man's face clearly in that moment. It held no fear, but
only an unbelievable surprise, an astonishment beyond understanding.
Then the stiletto slid gently into the throat, severing the jugular,
and all surprise and emotion was lost in the implacable blank agony
of death. The still-pumping heart forced a pulsing stream of bright
arterial blood around the blade of the knife.
Then, as quickly as he had come, Wolf was gone. He slipped back
through the crowd, into the door of the tailor shop. Seconds later,
Joseph Carroll was there, one side of his gray farmer's tunic turning
brown-black from the blood that soaked it.
"Come on!" Carroll snapped, running for the back.
"What about the others?"
"Gone," said the old man shortly. "All of them." He dashed out the door
of the tailor shop into the back and Wolf followed him.
"Daimya!" Wolf shouted.
"She's waiting for us in the foothills."
The sound of the crowd and the blasting of hand guns was loud behind
them as they began their dash across the checkered fields. For a few
moments, nothing followed. Then Wolf heard a faint shout behind them,
and a huge gout of dirt erupted from the field beside him, almost
knocking him down.
He regained his balance and started to run low, crouched and
zig-zagging while the tiny explosive pellets pocked the field around
him. It seemed an eternity before they had crossed the field, but he
knew it was not more than a couple of minutes.
Joseph Carroll was ahead of him, already beginning to tear through the
scrub growth of the foothills, making his way up. Just as he entered
the undergrowth, Wolf saw the old man joined by a smaller, slighter
figure.
There was a roar in his ears, and he fell, a searing pain across his
back. Numbly, he realized he'd been hit, but somehow it didn't seem
important. He picked himself up and followed Carroll into the scrub.
Soon he was out of sight of their pursuers, though the explosions of
their weapons still followed them with uncanny accuracy.
He caught up with the old man and his daughter in a small clearing.
Carroll lay with his head cradled in Daimya's lap, gasping for breath.
"We've got to go on," Wolf said. "Come on, I'll help."
"You're hurt!" the girl said.
"Not badly. Come on, we've got to get your father out of here!"
The old man put his arms around the shoulders of the other two, and
they struggled up the hill, breaking their way through the brush,
slipping, sometimes falling. Behind them, there was still the
occasional sound of the explosive pellets, and infrequently, one came
very near.
"Close," muttered Wolf as an explosion showered them with dirt.
"They're on the path now."
They went a few steps farther, and Joseph slumped between them.
"Dad!" called Daimya. "Please! Please try to go on!"
Wolfs hand slid down the old man's back, came away warm and wet.
He was silent for a moment, then gently lowered the suddenly limp body
to the ground.
"Come on," he said to Daimya. The girl was standing over the inert
form of her father, not understanding what had happened, words of
encouragement still on her lips.
"Dad?" she said, bewildered.