He thought of Tilly Trice.
Yes, Till. She had milked him of information when he was infatuated with her, and now, at the end of the road, had given the final humiliation of kidnapping him.
And at that point, Tilly herself entered the bunker, immediately followed by Centurion Combs and a dozen others of the youthful appearing guerrillas that were her command.
Combs, his face whitish, had his right arm in a sling. Two of the others seemed to bear minor wounds. Tilly herself was filthy dirty, as though she had rolled on the ground. She had lost her Robin Hood cap and her hair, short-cut, was a mess.
She did manage, however, to come up with a characteristically pert grin when she saw he was awake.
“Hi, lover-mine,” she said, coming over. “Those Surety men of yours are beginning to look a little more stute. They’re catching on to even the better of our little fun and games bits. They’re evidently now in the silly position of arresting all boy scouts and such uniformed teen-age groups.”
He shook his head. “It’s just a matter of time, Till. They’ll get you.”
She twisted her small mouth. “Perhaps. But there are others. Besides, it’s not just us, anymore. Your own people are beginning to take to the field. This country is becoming one fouled up confusion, Rossie.”
She sat down on a stool next to his bed. “How are you feeling?”
He said in a burst of candor, “I’m fine. I’ve just been figuring out a plan of escape.”
“Escape,” Combs said curtly, over a cup of coffee he’d just drawn for himself one handed, from a huge urn on a mess table. “Did you labor under the illusion we’d stop you?”
“That’ll be all, Centurion,” Tilly Trice said.
Ross scowled at her. “You mean I’m free to go?”
“Why not? Have you someplace better to be?”
Then it came back to him—the circumstances under which he had been seized by the Betastani irregulars. He flushed.
“I suppose I should be thanking you.”
“Oh, don’t bother.” One of the other seeming-youngsters grinned. “It was no trouble at all, getting you away from those Surety goons.”
“Shut up, Altshuler,” Tilly said. She looked back to Ross. “What’re your plans, Rossie?”
“I have none,” he said bitterly. “Fielder, Croft-Gordon and the rest are overthrowing Number One. I don’t know why I didn’t string along. I suppose it was because of my old man. He wasn’t really very smart about politics, but he was, well, loyal. He thought Number One was the only answer to combat the Karlists. I couldn’t betray his memory, I suppose.”
Combs looked at him and then at Tilly, his expression surly. At what, Ross didn’t know. Combs didn’t seem to think much of Ross Westley.
Tilly turned to another of the guerrillas who stood to one side, ultra-weary, a cup of coffee in one hand. He had been watching, unspeaking.
She said, “Manuel, you’d better get that on the air. Either Number One is overthrown, or, if not, our broadcasting it will precipitate the crisis. In fact, it’d help if Alphaland first heard of his mutinied deputies from a Betastan source.”
Manuel Gonzales put the coffee down and said, “It’s doubtful if there’s a station left in Betastan capable of planet-wide broadcasting. The Alphaland troops have overrun them all.” But he moved toward a corner of electronic equipment at the far end of the bunker.
Tilly said, “We don’t need a station of our own. Just so we can beam the information to a neutral—if there are any neutrals left.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Ross scowled up at her. He began to feel foolish, remaining in his bunk after admitting that nothing was wrong with him. Especially since the others seemed so completely exhausted, Tilly included. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat erect, preparatory to coming to his feet.
“About the neutrals? They’re lining up, Rossie.” Her mouth twisted wry humor. “And I’m afraid that, in choosing sides, yours hasn’t come up with many pals.”
She had slumped down on a bench at the mess table nearest him, and he changed his mind about standing.
He shook his head at her. “I don’t see how you’ve done what you have. Admittedly, you’ve shot your bolt by now; your government is in hiding, your army has deteriorated into small units, except in a few places like the Tatra Mountains. Your navy is scattered or sunk and your air fleet either shot down or in hiding at minor fields. But what amazes me is that you were able to hold out as long as you have. The computers…”
Combs chuckled sourly, as he drew some more coffee. “You’ve been listening to your own propaganda, fella. We’re still going strong. It’s you Alphaland yokes who’re disintegrating. Sure, our army has split up into small units. That was the plan. Sure, maybe half our navy has been sunk. It’s expendable. But where’s your merchant fleet, eh? It’s not doing so well. And what’s the effect on your economy? Fella, this war is just getting under way.”
Ross looked at Tilly rather than at the speaker, and he was frowning.
Tilly said, reasonably, “Rossie, never underestimate the enemy. Never expect him to do what you want him to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your Marshal Croft-Gordon and his general staff, with all their computers. Figuring out exactly what we would do, were we logical and consistent. Figuring out just where we would logically make our stand. How we would defend our cities against your bombers and missiles. How our fleet would sail forth to do what it could against your stronger, more numerous vessels. Don’t you see the only answer, Rossie?”
He continued to scowl his lack of understanding.
“Rossie, we simply couldn’t be logical and consistent, your computers were exactly right. They were quite infallible…”
“Ha!” he snorted.
“… if we had been logical and consistent, or, worse still, if we had resorted to our own few computers to give us our answers to military problems.”
She shook her head. “Rossie, what is the best defense against a mechanized army, complete with every latest device of the military, including computer-brains and data banks containing every bit of military information accumulated on any of the United Planets?”
He looked at her blankly.
She continued. “What is the defense against a man in an ultra-tank, with enough firepower at his control to equal a division of the time of the historic World Wars of old Mother Earth? What is such a soldier’s potential enemy?”
He was still blank.
She told him. “A man with a pair of pliers and perhaps a knife, a shotgun. Of course, a small amount of dynamite or even more efficient explosive helps also.”
She could see he was still foundering after her.
“Rossie, have you ever heard of the Yugoslavian, Tito?”
“Vaguely.”
“Very well. Along about the middle of the Second War, when the Nazi star was at its ascendancy, the Germans decided that Yugoslavia was needed in their camp. In a matter of days, they had sent an ultimatum, bombed Belgrade, the capital, into ruins, dispatched their panzers down the roads of the little country, capturing every town that counted. The king fled, the army capitulated. The whole world realized that little Yugoslavia had been defeated, as so many of the smaller European nations had been defeated by the Nazi hosts.”
She looked at him mockingly. “Everybody realized the defeat but the Yugoslavians. They took to the mountains. Small groups at first, slowly to be united. They fought, initially as individuals or in small squads. Slowly they grew to company, brigade, regiment and then division size. Large areas were under their domination, though the cities and roads remained in German hands. By the time of Stalingrad, the Germans had two full Army Corps tied up in Yugoslavia fighting Tito and his partisans. You’re a historian. Do you remember the significance of Stalingrad, Rossie? It was the turning point of the war. Adolph the Aryan could have used those two army corps at the time of crisis.”