Pipe Major Douglas raised his baton and brought it down sharply to cut the pipes off in mid skirl. Lysander, feeling bulky in combat leathers and Nemourlon armor, followed Falkenberg into the first of the four waiting helicopters. Harv Middleton climbed in behind them.
"Prince, I like those," Harv said. He gestured to indicate the pipers. "We ought to do that at home."
Lysander nodded thoughtfully. He had been surprised to find pipers at the airfield, and had been ready to laugh at the needless ceremony. Why should they pipe troops aboard helicopters? Then they began to play the stirring old marches that had sent men to a thousand battles, and he knew.
They did nothing like that on Sparta. Why not? Leonidas and his Three Hundred had marched to Thermopylae to the sound of flutes. Something to mention to the Council . . .
The helicopter was surprisingly quiet even without combat helmets. When Lysander and the others put their helmets on in obedience to Falkenberg's gesture, every bit of the helicopter motor noise was gone. Instinctively Lysander adjusted the gain on the helmet's pickup until he could dimly hear the chopper motors again.
The helicopter held ten men in addition to its own crew, two rows of five on each side of the ship. The deck between them was covered with their equipment. The helicopter's crew chief inspected the equipment lashings. "Looks good, Mr. Fuller."
Lysander strapped himself into his seat. Falkenberg sat to Lysander's right. Harv was to his left, with two Scouts beyond him. Andrew Mace, the senior Scout lieutenant, sat across from Falkenberg, with second Lieutenant Harry Janowitz next to him. Then came Corporal McClaren, who seemed to be Falkenberg's bodyguard, and two others of the Headquarters Guard. The guards were all big men, and looked strangely alike. Harv had said they were pretty good troops, which was a lot for Harv to concede to anyone but Spartans.
"All correct, chief?" the pilot called.
"All correct, sir." The crew chief took his seat forward of the passengers. "Let 'er rip."
The motor sounds rose in pitch and the helicopter lifted. Lysander was surprised at how quiet it was even in flight.
"It had better be quiet," he muttered. "And what in hell am I doing here?"
"Good question." Falkenberg's voice startled him.
"Sir?"
"Your mike is on, Mister Prince."
Lysander looked around in dismay. No one was staring at him.
"You needn't be alarmed. You're switched to my frequency," Falkenberg said.
"Oh." Lysander touched a stud on the side of his helmet to activate the status displays. There were five communication channels, each with a diagram showing its connections. Channel One was a link directly to Falkenberg. Channel Two showed links to Falkenberg, Mace, and Janowitz. The other three had not been configured. "I'll turn it off, sir."
"No need," Falkenberg said. "It was a good question. What the devil are you doing here?"
"Sir?"
"Not that we're ungrateful, but this isn't your fight," Falkenberg said. "And you don't strike me as a glory hunter."
"No, sir. If you—I was told that if I got a chance to watch you in action, I should take it."
"Good enough."
"Sir—why are you here?"
"We're paid to be here, Mr. Prince."
"Yes, sir."
"You can hardly say that protecting the Grand Admiral's secret funds isn't my fight," Falkenberg said.
"No, sir, but on that scoring it's my fight too."
"So it is, Mr. Prince."
Lysander listened to the thrum of the helicopter motors.
"Very well, Mr. Prince. You asked a question. Verbal games aside, you asked why we were here."
"Yes, sir."
"I may have an answer."
"I'd like to hear it."
There was another long silence. "I don't generally care much for preachers," Falkenberg said. "But I don't often get an opportunity to preach to a future king.
"We are here, Mr. Prince, because it is our job to be here. Have you ever read a book called La Peste?"
"The Plague. Albert Camus," Lysander said. "No sir. It's on the reading list my tutor prepared."
"Along with a hundred other books you don't particularly want to read, I make no doubt," Falkenberg said. "Read that one. You won't enjoy it, but you'll be glad for having read it."
"Yes, sir."
"Camus tells us that life consists of doing one's job. As I get older, I find that more and more profound. Mr. Prince, I have tried to live up to that notion. I believe that the sum total of your life is what you have accomplished. Some of us don't get to accomplish much."
"Sir? Some may not, but you have. You've changed the history of whole planets!"
"True enough. Whether for better or worse, whether anything I've done has any significance for the future, is another matter, and doesn't depend on me. Everything I've done could be made irrelevant by events I can't control. I like to think I have done what I could with the opportunities I had, but I do not delude myself. I have never had any great weight in the cosmic balance."
"Who does?"
"You may have. Statesmen and kings sometimes have. I once thought I might. That was easy to think as a boy in Rome, tramping the Via Flaminia and looking down the Tarpian Rock on the Capitolean. The ruins of glory. Do you know that for over two thousand years the Romans kept a female wolf in a cage on the Capitolean? During the Republic, in the Civil Wars, in the great days of the Empire. During the dark ages after the fall, during the Renaissance, the Papal States, the Risorgimento. Mussolini. But after the Second World War they couldn't do it any more. They couldn't protect the wolf from vandals. Modern vandals. I don't know what the original Vandals did."
Falkenberg laughed. "Enough of that. I've had no great weight in the cosmic balance because for better or worse, Mr. Prince, I chose the profession of arms."
"Surely you're not saying that violence never settled anything?"
"Hardly. But soldiers do not often get to choose what issues their actions settle. I suppose it's irrelevant in my case. I said I chose the profession of arms, but in fact it chose me."
"A good profession, sir."
Lysander felt Falkenberg's shrug. "Perhaps. Certainly a much misunderstood profession. In my case, as I was not born an American taxpayer or a Soviet Party Member, there was no chance I would rise high enough in the CoDominium service to have any great influence. Of course, we soldiers seldom have as much influence as we like to believe. It is true that what we do is necessary and often can be decisive, but we are not often asked to make the crucial decisions. War and peace. We don't make wars, and we seldom control the peace."
"Is peace the goal?" Lysander asked.
"What is peace?" Falkenberg asked. "On historical grounds I could argue that it is no more than an ideal whose existence we deduce from the fact that there have been intervals between wars. Not very many such intervals, or very long ones, either. But let's assume we know what peace is, and that we want it. At what price? Patrick Henry demanded liberty or death. Others say nothing is worth dying for. Again those are issues soldiers are seldom asked to deal with."
"Then what do we—"
"If you think of war and oppression and violence as a plague like the Red Death, then soldiers are the sanitation crew. We bury the dead. We sterilize regions, and try to keep the plague from spreading. Sometimes we spread plague, even when we try not to. Sometimes, not often, we are allowed to eliminate the causes of the plague. We are seldom asked to treat the victims, although good soldiers often do. The politicians are the physicians and surgeons, the ones who are supposed to find a cure."
"They never have—"
"They never have. There may not be one, which makes the sanitation crew even more necessary. You were born a politician, Mr. Prince. If you live, remember the sanitation crew. You need us. Interestingly, we need you as well. We need to believe that there are physicians and surgeons."
"It's a fascinating analogy, sir, but haven't you carried it too far? You say you have no weight, but you've certainly influenced events."
"And will again," Falkenberg said. "Sometimes we find the scales are balanced. Each pan holds enormous weight, far more than anything we control—but at times like that, a small weight can tip the balance. It's that way now."
The helicopter banked sharply. Lysander caught a glimpse of lights far below. The pilot's voice came through the intercom. "Coming down now. It'll be rough when we get to the deck. Be sure you're fastened in."
Lysander inspected his straps. Then he turned to Falkenberg. "Yes, sir. How do you know which side to choose?" Lysander demanded.
"The key question. I can tell you what I do. Which side will leave the human race with the greatest potential?" Falkenberg asked. "Find that out and the answer is clear enough. Mr. Prince, every man is born with a potential. Life consists of using that potential as well as possible. To hurt as few people as possible—but understand that to do nothing may be far worse than any harm you can possibly do."
"The greatest happiness for the greatest number?"
"No. That goal is often used to justify doing people good whether they like it or not. No, Mr. Prince, it's not that simple. You have to ask people what they want. You have to ask the experts what humanity needs. And you must listen to the answers. But having done all that you still must make your own decisions.
"You can't just count noses. You have to weigh them, but you can't just weigh opinions either. Numbers do count," Falkenberg laughed suddenly. "We're flying over a jungle toward a battle. If we're lucky we'll rescue a huge supply of drugs. Drugs that will keep Earth's hordes docile for a while longer. They may well think they are happy. Is that good? Or would Earth be a better place if we destroyed the crop? And that's only one question, because there is more at stake than borloi. Our job, Mr. Prince, is to give Admiral Lermontov his secret funds—and hope that he does more good than harm, more good than the borloi does harm. Will he?"
"We can't know," Lysander said. "My father supports Lermontov. I don't think he likes him."
"He doesn't have to. So, Mr. Prince, what do you fight for?"
"Freedom, Colonel. The rights of free men."
"And what are those? Where do they come from?"
"Sir?"
"Consider, Mr. Prince. The soldiers of the 42nd are under rigid discipline. Most would say they are not free—yet we are under no government. We may be the most free people in the galaxy. Of course, that kind of freedom has a damned high cost."
"Yes, sir, we're finding that out on Sparta."
Falkenberg chuckled. "I expect you are, Mr. Prince. I expect you are." He was silent for a moment. "Mr. Prince, would you like to know the most significant event in the history of freedom?"
"The American revolution?"
"A defensible choice, a close second even, but not mine. I would choose the moment when the Roman plebians required the patricians to write down the twelve tables of the law and put them where everyone could see them—and thereby proclaimed the law supreme over the politicians. The rule of law is the essence of freedom."
"I'll think about that, sir."
Lysander felt Colonel Falkenberg's shrug. "Please do. My apologies, Mr. Prince. When I have a politician for a captive audience it's tempting to lecture, but I suspect a young man brought up on a planet settled by professors of political science has heard enough of this to last a lifetime."
Not from you. Lysander wanted to ask Falkenberg to go on, but the colonel had already changed channels on his helmet radio.
"Gentlemen," Falkenberg said. "You were all introduced, so we can dispense with that." The two lieutenants across the aisle nodded agreement. "It's school time." The helicopter maneuvered violently. "We're close to the jungle top now, so we won't distract Cornet Fuller from his piloting. That leaves the four of us. Lieutenant Mace, I believe you are senior. Please explain to Mr. Prince."
"Yes, sir." Mace looked at Lysander. "The Colonel means that it's time for what he calls his school for captains. Since there aren't any captains aboard I guess we'll have to do. The colonel states a problem, then we say what we'd do about the situation, then we all discuss it. Ready? Good. Colonel—"
"Gentlemen, we have a decision to make," Falkenberg said. He pointed to the heavy gear lashed to the deck of the helicopter.
"Our objective is to get ourselves and that equipment from the Ledoux village to a point close to Rochemont. We can presume that we will reach Village Ledoux undetected. From there we load onto small boats. Propulsion will be provided by the villagers, with paddles and poles. They are experts and have made this journey many times. The boats are wooden, not large. As I understand it, each can carry two men and their personal gear, or an equivalent amount of equipment. There are some twenty boats, enough to carry all of us as well as our heavy equipment in one trip. Naturally we'll space the boats out somewhat. Clear so far? Good. The problem is, how do we load the boats, and in what order do we send them?
"Mr. Prince, as junior man you're first. What's in the first boat we send down river?"
"Two Scouts, sir?"
"Don't ask," Lieutenant Mace said.
"Scouts," Falkenberg said. "And in the second?"
"I guess I want to think about it," Lysander said.
"Lieutenant Janowitz has recently been promoted from cornet to second lieutenant," Falkenberg said. "Congratulations. What's in the first boat, Mr. Janowitz?"
"Two Scouts," Janowitz said. He sounded older than Lysander, and quite positive. "Officers in the second. We send the boats in waves, with the personnel first, then the heavy equipment following, the colonel and his guard in the last boat."
"I see. Why?" Falkenberg asked.
"Radar, Colonel. They may not be able to see into the jungle, but if they can, there's less chance of being spotted—"
"Yes. Lieutenant Mace? Do you agree?"
"I don't know, Colonel. I see Harry's point. The heavy stuff will show up on radar better than troops. A lot better, so there's more chance some scope dope will see the blips. Easier to sneak the men through. Less chance of alerting Barton's people. But—"
"You have reservations," Falkenberg said. "Noted. Mr. Prince?"
"I have some reservations too, now that I think about it," Lysander said. "If the troops are spotted, if they even raise suspicions, then the heavy weapons are much more likely to be spotted."
"They may think they're Ledoux's people," Janowitz said. "Probably will."
"It's possible," Mace said. "Especially if all they see is people. Suppose they don't believe it's natives?"
"Calculated risk," Lieutenant Janowitz said. "The probabilities favor sending the troops first."
"Sure of that?" Falkenberg asked. "Mr. Mace?"
"It's the other way," Mace said. "We send the heavy stuff first, because if it gets through, then the troops will, and if Barton's people are alerted we'll never get the weapons through."
"And?" Falkenberg prompted.
"Well—I don't know, sir."
"Mr. Prince?"
"We can't do the mission without the heavy guns?"
"Precisely," Falkenberg said. "Our whole mission depends on getting our heavy equipment into place. If we fail in that, we're not likely to accomplish much. Well done, gentlemen. Now I have an entirely different problem for your consideration. . . ."
The clearing was small, and utterly dark except for tiny pencil beams of red light from the crews' flashlights. Four helicopters had come here. Two, refueled by the others, would go on. The other two would keep just enough fuel to get back to the last staging point.
Cornet Fuller squatted on the ground and used his helmet to project a map. "Fuel's going to be close," he said.
Falkenberg pointed to Village Ledoux. "Once we're there, what will be your operating radius?"
"Maybe a hundred klicks," Fuller said. "Depends on the winds for the rest of the way."
"That should be enough," Falkenberg said. "One way or another, you won't need more." He got up and strolled to the edge of the clearing.
"Now why does the way he says that scare hell out of me?" Fuller asked.
Lysander chuckled. "You too? Good."
"I never got a chance to thank you for putting Juanita up."
"It was Ursula's notion," Lysander said.
"Yeah. Thanks anyway. And for talking the colonel into giving me five minutes with her." Fuller wiped his forehead. "Sure hot."
"It is that."
"What's it like on Sparta?" Fuller asked.
"Well, it's much cooler—"
"Yeah. I heard that. I meant for convicts."
"We don't have contract labor like Tanith," Lysander said. "New chums from Earth can choose their employment."
"You just turn convicts loose?"
"Well, not precisely, but anyone willing to work won't find the restrictions onerous. The CoDominium doesn't like our giving citizenship to anyone still under formal sentence, but that doesn't come up often anyway. Not many try to become citizens."
"Uh? People want to be citizens?"
"Some do," Lysander said.
"Oh. Perks? Welfare?"
"Not precisely. Everyone on Sparta has political rights, but citizens have more. More obligations, too, of course."
"Oh. Sort of like taxpayers."
"No, not quite—"
The crew chief materialized next to them. "Fuel's aboard, Mr. Fuller."
"Thanks, Chief. Load 'em up." Fuller chuckled in the dark. "If I'd been a little smarter, I'd have got to Sparta. Had a chance, but I didn't know what to do. Maybe it's just as well."