Hartford knelt over the microscope in the yoga-posture called for by
its being so near the floor and tried to adjust the instrument as he
remembered having seen it done. He focused the coarse adjustment of
the 'scope till he saw spots darting about the fluid Takeko had placed
on the slide. He nailed the spots down with a gentle hand on the fine
adjustment.
The juice of the pickled turnip was aswim with tiny bodies that looked
like tadpoles. "What are they?" he asked, peering into the micro-world
below him.
"Pia-san named them monads," said the carpenter, white-bearded Togo.
"We all have them in our bodies. You have them now in yours. Our soil
is alive with them. They chew the chaff of our fields into black loam;
they turn to dust the flesh of our fathers. They cause turnips to
become _takuwan_."
Hartford rocked back from the microscope to sit again on his heels.
"You have no disease, no benign bacterial flora and of course no
bacterial antibodies. Instead you have this whip-tailed animalcule,
this monad. Is this correct?"
"So Pia-san said," Takeko agreed. "He said that the monad is a
jealous beast. It is a tiger among the pygmies, he said. No little
nuisance-makers can exist on Kansas; the monad would eat them in a
rage."
"The ultimate antibiotic," Hartford said. "A micro-organism that
functions as a saprophyte, a soil-former and a scavenger. Besides all
this, it's a universal phagocyte, policing up the human environment
inside and out, to keep it clean of any other microscopic organisms.
The monad fills every niche in the micro-ecology of the planet."
"This is what Pia-san and his _okusama_, poor dead girl, discovered,"
Takeko said. "Renkei entered the Stone House to tell you that we do
not stink, that we are not dangerous. Three people have died to tell
this--and Nef still does not know."
"I think he may know it after all," Hartford said. "He knows about the
monad, and fears it. This little bug means that every member of the
human race can join his damned Brotherhood. A crew of monads in his gut
would make every man on Stinker Earth a dignotobiote, germ-free except
for his housekeeping protozoa."
"Until Pia-san told us," Yamata said, "we knew nothing except that we
lived longer than our ancestors had. We knew that we did not suffer
from the strange tirednesses the books told of, ills caused by the
little animals. We did not know that the smallest natives of this
planet had made of us their fortresses."
"If I could only get past Nasty Nef to tell this to the Axenites,"
Hartford said.
"_Ron yori shoko_," Kiwa-san said. Takeko translated for her father.
"He says, Proof is stronger than argument."
"Indeed," Hartford agreed. "But how do I prove to the troopers that the
monad sweeps Kansas cleaner than their Barracks floors?"
"As Pia-san tried to," Takeko said. "He removed his glasshead and his
silken suit. He breathed our air and ate our food. He wanted to prove
that he could live, but he was killed before he could. Now you have
made that proof. Your brothers of the Stone House must undress of their
silken suits and come among us, Lee-san."
* * * * *
"That they will not," Hartford said. "They are certain they will die if
they inhale a breath of Kansas air, chew a bite of Kansas food, drink
your clear stream water. I was certain I would die when my safety-suit
was torn: remember our meeting, Takeko-san? It will not be easy to
persuade my brothers and sisters in the Barracks to forget their fears.
We are so sure, we Axenites, that contamination will kill us that
we'd rather dance with lightning and eat stones than walk this world
unprotected and eat its fruits."
When Takeko had respoken these words to her father, the old man said
again: "_Ron yori shoko_." Proof is greater than argument.
"Proof?" Hartford asked. "I am not proof enough to have a Regiment
of Axenites shed their safety-suits and declare the Kansans their
brothers. It would take years of lab work before the first of them
would walk suitless onto bug-dirt. We'd have to knock down the walls of
the Barracks and burn two thousand-odd safety-suits, before we'd have
the Axenite troopers here trapped into being guinea-pigs."
"Each trooper carries the Stone House with him when he walks our
roads," the calligrapher remarked. "We have but to break through the
silken suit he wears to make a trooper know the garment isn't needed
here."
"He'd die of fright," Hartford said. "I very nearly did. Besides,
each column of troopers, a squad or the Regiment, goes out with a
Decontamination Team. If a man becomes septic through some sort of
accident, he's hustled by a cleanup squad into a Decontamination
Vehicle for his shower, shave and shots. I know the process well," he
said, running his palm over his naked head.
"_Ano ne_," Kiwa said. "Will this Decontamination-_kuruma_ house two
thousand men? Two hundred? Twenty?"
"It will hold two or three troopers at once," Hartford answered. "We
have several of them, though."
"_So ... ka?_" white-bearded Togo exclaimed. He leaned over to whisper
into the ear of Takeko's father, who nodded and smiled.
Old Kiwa spoke, and Takeko interpreted. "We must surprise a group of
troopers," he said. "We must cause all their silken suits to be torn,
or all their glass heads shattered, at one time. It is so simple as
that."
"Simple in all but the doing," said Yamata the calligrapher. He
picked up a brush and sketched on the mat before him a line of
trooper-silhouettes, a platoon, marching single-file. "How do we break
into all those Stone Houses at once?" he asked.
Hartford's face was pale. "We could use grenades, perhaps," he said.
"Or bombs. After all, these troopers we speak of are no more than my
family, my village, my people. I may of course be expected to cooperate
in their destruction."
* * * * *
Takeko reached over and took his hand, then dropped it. "_Ano ne!_
You do not understand! We can no more injure your brothers than you
can, Lee-san. We may not harm any living person. Forgive us. You
misunderstand us. We are bound, Lee-sensei, by _Butsudo_: the Peaceful
Path of the Lord Buddha." She bowed toward him, her hands clasped
together, her head touching the _tatami_.
"It is my fault if I have misunderstood," Hartford said. The men were
staring, Takeko's eyes were filled with tears, the room was silent. "I
do not know you well. I did not know you do not kill."
"Let me tell you, then," Takeko said, rising to sit beside him. "Our
people, who once lived on islands in the greater sea of Earth, were
folk mighty in battle. Their pride was named the Way of the Warrior,
which is called _Bushido_. Their loveliest flower, the _sakura_ or
cherry-blossom, they made the symbol of the warrior, so highly did they
hold his calling.
"After their villages had been crushed many times in war, our ancestors
vowed forever to abandon _Bushido_, the warrior's path, and to place
their feet in the path of the Lord Buddha, called _Butsudo_. This was
many years ago, before any man had ventured into space, before our
ancestors found this world you call Kansas. When they came here, they
came in peace. And they named this place _Jodo_, which we still call
it. It means the Pure Land, where men are just. And all justice is
built on a single law. No man shall take man's life."
"I spoke of the Axenite Brotherhood," Hartford said. "These men are
a group of our leaders--Colonel Nef is one; he invited me to join
him--who have decided that Stinker humanity must go. They're dedicated
men, prepared to extinguish all the rest of mankind, to sterilize Earth
and reseed it as a gnotobiotopic Paradise. Nef has, I fear, already
killed three people to this end.
"You who cannot kill will face an enemy trained in killing," he went
on. "Your camelopard-mounted messengers will meet veeto-platforms with
machine-guns. Your peaceful words will be drowned out by the roar of
Dardick-rifles. How can you hope to live if you will not kill?"
"If the choice were death or killing, Lee-san, we would gladly die,"
Takeko said. "We have a saying, _Muriga toreba dori ga hikkomu_. When
might takes charge justice withdraws. We will not kill, and neither
will we be defeated."
Yamata the calligrapher addressed Hartford. "How badly torn must
a safety-suit be, to make necessary the wearer's going into the
purification cart?" he asked.
"Only so much as the point of a pin would make would be enough,"
Hartford said.
"We have to drive pins into several dozens of men's clothing at one
time," Yamata said. He smiled. "So phrased, the mountain does not seem
too tall to be climbed."
"It would be difficult to puncture the safety-suits without hurting the
wearers," Hartford said. "Few armies are so solicitous."
"_Butsudo_ forbids us to kill men," Takeko said. "It does not deny us
the right, in pointing them to the path of knowledge, to jab them a
bit." She smiled at Hartford.
* * * * *
"How do you propose to do this jabbing?" he asked. "I remind you all,
if you need reminding, that our troopers travel with Dardick-rifles and
machine-guns, with rocket-mounted jeeps and veeto-platforms from which
bombs can be dropped."
Kiwa spoke. "We are like a bear after honey," he said. "We are hungry,
but do not wish to taste the stings of the guardians of the hive. We
must surprise them."
Hartford, his knees stiff with kneeling, his backside sore from the
camelopard-saddle despite the expert massage, got up to pace the floor.
"We need a needle-gun of some sort," he said.
"No gun," insisted white-bearded Togo.
"It need have only slight power," Hartford said. "It would throw
its projectile only forcefully enough to penetrate the fabric of a
safety-suit."
"It has been so many generations since we have been soldiers, we know
nothing of weapons," Yamata-san said. He wet a fine brush with _sumi_,
Chinese ink, and sketched rapidly. "I remember seeing pictures of
_Bushi_ carrying a sort of throwing-sticks with pointed ends in pockets
on their backs, and flinging them like little spears with a kind of
one-stringed lute."
Hartford stared at the calligrapher's drawing, then exclaimed. "Of
course! A bow and arrow."
Takeko inspected the sketch. "The man who threw the stick is standing,"
she said. "Could we stand against troopers?"
"A man would have to stand exposed to shoot an arrow," Hartford
admitted. "The Dardick-guns would mow us down before we'd punctured a
single safety-suit." He paced up and down the room, the only trained
warrior there, trying to devise his unkilling weapon.
"We have wine, Lee-san," Takeko said. "Please sit and drink."
Hartford, bemused with his problem, folded his legs onto his cushion
and lowered himself gently. Takeko's mother appeared with tiny cups of
hot wine, _sake_. Hartford bowed with the others and sipped. The stuff
was good, rather like a dry sherry.
Takeko bowed to leave the room, returned, bowed and commenced playing
a tune with the instrument she'd brought in. It was a flute made of
bamboo, with a high-pitched, pure sound Hartford found quite pleasant.
He frowned, though, after a moment. Takeko took the pipe from her lips.
"You do not enjoy my playing?" she asked.
"What is that made of?" Hartford demanded. "Just bamboo, isn't it?"
"_Hai, take_," Takeko agreed. "It is my name. _Take_--bamboo. This is
only a _shakuha-chi_, for very simple music."
Hartford smiled and bowed toward Togo-san, the white-bearded carpenter.
"Sir," he said, "if we may have your advice, I believe Takeko-chan has
helped us find our weapon."
X
The meeting broke up to adjourn to Togo-san's workshop. There was
bamboo there in plenty, and young men eager to help the ex-lieutenant
of Axenites in testing his device. As the week wore on, young Kansans
appeared from other villages, called by blabrigars and messengers on
camelopard-back to join the army that was to make brothers and sisters
of the troopers of First Regiment.
The blowgun Hartford finally established as his field model was some
two yards long, made of bamboo bored through the joints and polished
smooth within, of a caliber somewhat less than the diameter of a man's
little finger. Though the bamboo-tube was somewhat flexible, Togo-san
and his apprentices were able to bind a front sight to the muzzle,
allowing somewhat greater accuracy that could be obtained by pointing
and hoping.
The dart was about the length of a man's hand. Its point was a sliver
of bamboo, sharp as steel, entirely sharp enough to penetrate the tough
material of a safety-suit if puffed from the blowgun with enough force.
All the craftsmen of the village became arms-makers. They drilled
bamboo, polished the bore with abrasive-coated cord, fitted on the
sights and tested their blowguns against the targets. Hundreds of darts
were turned out for practice, and the most perfect were saved for the
battlefield itself. The blowgunners began their drill, shooting from
a prone position at targets as far as ten yards off, as great a range
as amateurs could be expected to shoot with accuracy in the short time
these had for practice.
To fire the blowgun, the dart was wrapped in a bit of silk of
sunflower-stalk-fluff, so that it would fit tightly into the tube. The
puff that sent it on its way had to be sharp and hard. Achieving the
proper slap of air took more practice even than aiming.
Hartford became every day a better horseman, or rather camelopardist.
He in fact rejoiced in opportunities to leap-frog into his saddle, fit
his feet and legs into the leather gambadoes, and go hailing off into
the hills to recruit men and material. He carried with him the radio
he'd salvaged from his safety-suit, and could from time to time pick up
First Regiment transmissions. The bitcher from his suit was useful in
training large numbers of recruits on the blowgun range, and would be
used when the Kansan guerrillas took the field against the troopers.
He was picking up the language rapidly, now. He had to use Takeko's
services as interpreter less and less. Her usefulness declined not
a bit, though, as the girl became his first lieutenant in charge of
details.
The band of expert puff-gunners was joined by a company of scouts.
These men and women skulked the hills afoot or astride camelopards,
spying out the programs of the Regiment. Having no radio to maintain
contact with Yamamura, each scout carried a pair of blabrigars, trained
to report to a specific person in its home village when given a
selected prompt-word.
Yamata-san, the calligrapher, became a cartographer. He drew in
jet-black _sumi_ ink the contours of the mountains, greened in
the stands of bamboo, drew blue streams and broad brown fields of
sunflowers, till at last the map that filled the largest room in
Yamamura was almost as real as the Kansan soil it reflected. Walking
across this map in his _tabi_-stockinged feet, Hartford and the others
of Kansas Intelligence would move toy troopers, made of wood like
_kokeshi_-dolls, into the positions where the blabrigars reported
patrols to be.
* * * * *
The plan of battle of the Kansas forces was _yawara-do_, the Gentle Way
also called _judo_. They would wait till the enemy made a move they
could use, then they'd trip him up by re-directing his own strength.
The move they most wanted the troopers to make was into the ravine that
led toward the village of Yamamura, the pass under the _Daibutsu_, the
huge bronze Buddha set there by their ancestors. In that ravine, under
the gaze of the Lord of Boundless Light, the Kansas forces would either
prevail against the invader and make him their brother by darts and
sweet reason, or they would all die in the attempt.
The camelopards were stabled, ready as the steeds of any
march-patrolling cavalry troop. The dartsmen, and those of the women
who'd shown skill in handling the blowgun, were trained and eager.
The path through the pass had been memorized in infinite detail by
every one of the guerrillas. The squad of sappers responsible for
check-mating the troopers had prepared their levers, their blocks and
skids. Nothing remained now but to coax the enemy into the battlefield
of the Kansans' choosing.
"Take out what's left of the safety-suit," Hartford ordered one of his
men. "Leave it here--" He stabbed a toe at the map they both stood on.
"Would it be well for me to leave beside the torn and broken suit
signs of a fight?" asked the boy, Ito Jiro, son of Old Ito-san, the
knife-maker. "If the troopers are angry, they will be careless."
"If only you believed in war, Jiro-chan, you'd make a fine warrior,"
Hartford grinned. "Do it your way, and hurry back."
Jiro placed the bait under the Regiment's nose early in the day, and
returned to Yamamura. It was midday when a blabrigar flew in from one
of the scouts posted to watch First Regiment's reaction. The bird
prated its message into the ear of its receiver. Troopers, a band
of fifty-odd, were scouring the hills to the west, following the
camelopard-hoofprints left by Jiro. Aiding them in their search was the
Regiment's veeto-platform, skimming, hovering, pouncing to pick up
clues. "They're on the scent," Hartford said. He turned again to Ito
Jiro, fleetest of the camelopard-riders. "Jiro-chan, lead them a chase
that will bring them to the ravine no sooner than the Hour of the Dog.
Be very cautious of the flying-thing; it can surprise you."
"_Hai_," Jiro said, bowing. "The Hour of the Dog they will call upon
you near the _Daibutsu_." Ito-san the knife-maker watched his son
run toward the stables, the boy as excited as though he were going
to a festival rather than to face alone half a company of full-armed
Axenites. The blabrigars that would ride out with Jiro were trained to
report to the father. It would be a long afternoon for the old man,
Hartford thought.
There was much to do before the scarlet bird came winging in from
Jiro's shoulder with the message that the trap was sprung. At the Hour
of the Monkey, four hours before the troopers were to be in ambush,
the first blabrigar flew in to report to Ito-san that the boy's mount
was winded, the enemy was drawing nearer the ravine, and that Jiro
was approaching the point of rendezvous where he would find a fresh
camelopard. Hartford ordered out two youths to join Jiro there in his
harassment of the foot-soldiers from Regiment.
"It is time we take up our positions," he told his band of dartsmen.
"Let us go in hope."
* * * * *
Kiwa-san, Takeko's father, stepped forward to pronounce a benediction
upon the little company. "The Enlightened One, speaking at Rajagriha,
spake, saying: 'Remember one thing, O beloved disciples, that hatred
cannot be silenced by lies but by truth.'"
The irregulars, heads bowed, replied, "Namu Amida Butsu," Glory to the
Amida Buddha! Hartford, though his training as an Axenite trooper had
left him as untouched by religions as by microbes, joined the prayer,
feeling that a degree of celestial interest in their stratagem would
not be unwelcome.
The camelopardists vaulted into their saddles, adjusted their legs in
the boot-like gambadoes, and slapped the reins to head their _giraffu_
toward the ravine where the endgame would be played. Hartford rode at
the head of the band, Takeko beside him. The others were dispersed at
wide interval, a precaution against the veeto-platform's swooping over
the horizon to surprise them en route. As they left Yamamura, the women
and children of the village were leaving from the other side, together
with the men too old to go out with the guerrillas. Yamamura was being
abandoned until the outcome of battle made itself known.
The canyon that led up the mountain's groin had once been the deep-cut
bed of a stream. Collapse of over-beetling rock had formed a vault
over the stream, which was consequently underground. Soil had filtered
into the rocks, and bamboo had taken root. In result the lower ravine
was a green enfilade hardly wider than a hallway, the walls on either
side rising squarely from its floor. Well within the pass, set into the
left-hand wall as one rode down from Yamamura, was a niche very like
the _tokonoma_ or honored alcove of a Kansan home. In this alcove, some
fifty feet from the bottom of the pass, was set the great bronze image
of Buddha, the _Daibutsu_ of Kansas.
Further down, below the _Daibutsu_-niche, the canyon became irregular.
Along either side, some ten feet from the floor, were ledges marking
the fracture planes along which ancient avalanches had calved. It was
from these shelves that the Kansans hoped to ambush the men from First
Regiment. The narrowness of the ravine, and the overhang of willow
trees--these growing in clefts of rock, fingering their roots down to
the subterranean stream--were enough, Hartford prayed, to prevent the
veeto-platform's pilot from spotting the Kansans lying in wait with
their blowguns.
Hartford disposed his troops on the shelves, checking to see that
each man had a good field of fire and adequate cover. He glanced at
the sun, the Kansan timepiece. It was between six and eight in the
evening, he judged, the Hour of the Clock. He pressed his ear to the
radio-receiver. Short-range, the safety-suit radio picked up only
occasional orders from Axenite officers and non-coms. Twice Hartford
caught the name, "Lieutenant Felix." He smiled, feeling mixed emotions.
Felix had been his old Platoon Sergeant, and they would face each other
in an hour or so as enemies. Very likely the fifty troopers chasing Ito
Juro and his fellows toward the canyon included men of the Terrible
Third Platoon, his old command. Hartford checked to see his bitcher
worked and waited the arrival of the message-blabrigars with fresh news.