He nodded, slowly. “So you decided to follow the example of Tito.”
“Oh, more than that. We improved considerably. You see, in the past, Rossie, guerrillas were found in their own country after it had been overrun by the enemy. But we extrapolated in the field of partisan warfare and decided to carry it into the aggressor land. In the past, saboteurs were single individuals who stealthily crept about planting an occasional bomb here, blowing up a bridge there, gimmicking up some valuable machinery the other place. We decided on parlaying that up to a grander scale. When we could see the chips were all soon to be down, we planted thousands of saboteurs-to-be here in your—” she made her typical pouting face—“Free Democratic Commonwealth.
“But that obviously wasn’t going to be enough. We also acted illogically in not utilizing our fleet to protect our coasts against your own ships. We let our coastal cities capitulate, undefended, and our ships struck at your Achilles heel, your economy. Nor did our army stand bravely and attempt to defend our frontiers, as your computers expected. Instead, they cut for the rear, giving up space in return for finding a better field of battle. Or, indeed, splitting up and becoming guerrillas on our own soil.”
Tilly came to an end with a pert snort. “Combs is right, Rossie. We haven’t begun to lose this war, at this point.”
Ross stood and walked over to the coffee urn, his face in puzzlement.
As he drew his cup of coffee, his back to her, he said slowly, “All right, but let’s take the long view. You’re possibly familiar with the reasons Number One felt the war had to be precipitated. It was either that or economic collapse on the part of Alphaland, the strongest power on this planet. What follows such a collapse, Till? How many of the neutral economies are tied in with that of Alphaland, how many currencies backed by the gold Alpha?”
He turned and faced her when his cup was full. “Take the long view. Suppose you attain your goal. Alphaland’s economy collapses. What will we have left, a vacuum for the Karlists to fill?”
A voice from the door said, “What’s wrong with the Karlists?”
Ross turned his head. It was a roly-poly man in the robes of a Temple Monk,
“Pater Riggin,” Tilly exclaimed in welcome.
Chapter XI
“Is that coffee?” the Temple Monk asked, making his way to the um.
Combs stood there, cup in hand, scowling at the newcomer. He made no motion to get out of the way.
Most of the others in the room, those of the guerrillas who were not confined to their bunks, made their way toward the Temple Monk, the larger number grinning.
The newcomer looked at Centurion Combs slyly. “I suspect, my son, that you have little respect for my cloth.”
Combs said ungraciously, “Very little.”
The Temple Monk looked about the mess table, noted that there were no clean cups and took up a dirty one. He began to fill it, saying, “Then that makes two of us, eh?”
“What was that?”
“Ummm. Haven’t you ever heard the old saying that the more one knows of one’s religion, the less one believes?”
Combs was, on the face of it, taken aback. He stuttered indignantly. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then why not get out of that costume you’re wearing?”
The older man laughed at him. “My dear boy, look who’s talking. Your own costume isn’t exactly the uniform of the country you serve, is it?”
“I’m a guerrilla!”
Pater Riggin raised shaggy eyebrows. Then gesturing with his full cup at them all, said, “And so, I suppose, in a way, am I.”
Tilly had come up smiling and had stood silently thus far on the sidelines of the discussion.
She said to Combs, “Knock it, sour-puss. Boys, meet the longest-time guerrilla of us all.” She twisted her mouth in her mocking moue. “The espionage agent, the saboteur, the underground operative to shame the most competent.”
In his few years in the Central Comita, Ross Westley had seen Pater Riggin on a few occasions, and even exchanged amenities with him, but although the Temple Monk was well whispered about in innermost party circles, he had never come to know the man more than in passing. The alter ego of Number One; the man behind the throne; the Svengali to the Presidor’s Trilby; the only friend before whom the dictator let down his hair. All this he had heard Pater Riggin called, but he had found no evidence to back the charges.
But now this. The Temple Monk in the camp of the enemy, and obviously well-known to some, welcome by all, save possibly the junior officer Combs, a surly one at best.
Ross said, “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate are you doing here?”
Pater Riggin, his cup in his left hand, patted his tummy with his right, like nothing so much as a jovial Santa Claus. “I might ask you the same, Coaid Deputy.”
Tilly said, “I’m afraid that handle no longer quite fits Rossie. We had to pull a cloak and dagger rescue.”
Ross, still confused, snapped, ” I am not so sure it was a rescue. When my hearing came up, I would have had my say.”
The one called Altshuler laughed lowly.
Tilly tilted her head and looked up at the deposed propaganda head. “Rossie, Rossie. There was to be no hearing. You were on your way to be shot.”
A chill went through him, but he demanded, “How do you know?”
Most of those present, now crowded around the table, laughed. They seemed to do a great deal of laughing and joking, Ross realized impatiently. Was it a characteristic of those continually in extreme danger? A bravado brought on by the proximity of death?
Tilly said, mocking, “How did we know where you were and that you’d be passing that exact spot where we picked you away from Fielder’s Surety men, lover-mine? Let me give you an idea of just how well we are worked into the fabric of Alphaland. It was Jet Pirincin, who sits immediately outside your private offices; who smelled a rat when she saw you leave with the Temple Bishop. She relayed the message. So we got in contact with one of our other inside people, in Surety, who was able to get the details of what was to happen to you, and where. So, deciding that even though Alphaland might think you expendable, Betastan didn’t, we jumped on our horses and dashed off in all directions to the rescue.”
Ross was staring at her.
“You mean to tell me that Jet Pirincin is a Betastani agent? And that you also have them planted in the other commissariats in such Surety spots?”
“Certainly not,” she said.
“Then what do you mean?”
“Jet Pirincin, my dear Rossie, is a most patriotic citizen of Alphaland. She—”
He interrupted her, blurting, “You don’t make any sense at all.”
“She’s a Karlist.”
He held a long silence, then finally turned to look at Pater Riggin who had been beaming away, all the while sipping his coffee.
“And so are you!” Ross accused.
The Temple Monk nodded.
Ross turned on Tilly, then shot his eyes to Combs and around at the others. Most of them were grinning and eying him expectantly, though he couldn’t think why that should be in their expressions.
It came to his lips before it was fully comprehended in his mind. “So are the rest of you!”
The Temple Monk put down his empty cup. He sighed and said, “Let us be seated. I am sure we’ve all been through a great deal in the past hours. However, there is no opportunity for much rest, and we’re even short of time for explanation.”