8.

Guy pulled on his pajamas, hung up his uniform, and turned to Maxim. Candidate Sim was sitting on a small sofa that Rada had placed in an empty corner for him. One boot was off and he had started on the other. His eyes were turned to the wall. Guy crept up to him from the side and tried to jab him playfully. As usual, he missed his mark: Mac jerked his head back just in time.

"What's on your mind?" asked Guy playfully. "Pining for Rada? You're out of luck, brother; she's on the night shift today."

Mac smiled weakly and started on the other boot.

"Why out of luck?" he said absentmindedly. "Guy, I know you wouldn't lie to me." He stopped tugging. "You're always saying they get paid for their work."

"Who? The degens?"

"Right. You've talked about it a lot, to me and the men. Paid agents of the Khontis, you said. And the captain gives us the same story every day."

"What else is there to say about them?" Oh, God, there goes Mac again with one of his boring conversations. "You're really a funny guy, Mac. Nothing's changed with them, so there's nothing new to say. Degens have always been degens, and that's the way it is now. They've always received money from our enemies. They do it now, too. For example, just last year, a group of them were caught red-handed with a cellarful of dough. How could an honest man have that much money? They weren't bankers."

Mac set his boots neatly by the wall, rose, and began unbuttoning his jump suit.

"Guy," he said, "There's something I don't understand about you people. You're told something about a person, but when you look at him, you know it can't be true. That it's a mistake."

"That happens," said Guy, frowning. "But if you're referring to degens ..."

"Precisely. I watched them today. They're ordinary people... like everybody else. Some a little better, some a little worse. Some are brave, others cowardly. But they certainly aren't the animals I expected. Or that all of you think they are. Wait, don't interrupt me. I don't know if they are dangerous. Everything seems to indicate that they are. But I don't believe they're bought."

"Why can't you believe it? Look, let's say you don't believe me; I'm a little guy. But what about the captain? And the brigadier?"

Maxim threw off his jump suit, went over to the window, and stared out, pressing his forehead against the pane.

"And if mistakes are made?"

"Mistakes?" Guy was bewildered. "Who makes mistakes? The brigadier? Mac, you areare a jerk!"

"OK." Mac turned around. "But we're not discussing him now. We're talking about the degens. Let's take you, for example. You would die for your cause, right?"

"Right! And so would you."

"OK, so we would. And that's precisely my point. We would die for a cause, not for the Legion's rations or for money. Offer me a billion of your paper bills and I wouldn't be willing to die for it. And you're the same way."

"Of course," said Guy, thinking what a character Mac was, always getting strange ideas.

"Well?"

"What do you mean -- well?"

"Well, all right," said Maxim impatiently. "You wouldn't agree to die for money. Neither would I. But you think the degens would? Ridiculous!"

"Sure they would!" Guy was steamed up. "That's why they're degens! Money means more to them than anything else. Nothing's holy to them. Strangling a child is no big deal to them, They've done it! Get this, Mac: if a man tries to destroy the ABM network, what kind of man can he be? I'll tell you -- a cold-blooded murderer!"

"I'm not so sure about that. Some of them were interrogated today. If they had named their confederates, they could have saved their necks, gotten off with hard labor in a penal colony, But they didn't. So doesn't that mean that their confederates mean more to them than money? More than life itself?"

"You can't say that for sure," replied Guy. "According to the law, all the degens would be sentenced to death, without a court trial. You yourself saw them tried."

He looked at Mac and saw that he was confused and wavering. He was really good-hearted but so naive; he didn't understand that cruelty to the enemy was unavoidable. He should really lay it on the line, tell him to stop talking nonsense, to shut up and listen to his superiors. Mac was no blockhead or ignorant kid; if things were explained to him properly, he'd understand.

"No!" said Mac stubbornly. "You can't hate for money alone. And the degens do hate -- more than I believed possible for people to hate. You hate them less than they hate you. And I want to know why."

"Now listen. I'll explain it to you again. In the first place, they are degens. They hate all normal people. By nature they're vicious, like rats. And second, we interfere in their affairs. They would like to do their dirty work, get their dough, and live in clover. And what do we do? We say to them: 'Freeze! Hands up!' What do you expect them to do, love us?"

"If they're all as vicious as rats, what about that landlord? H they're all bought, as you say they are, why was he released?"

Guy laughed.

"That landlord is a coward. There are plenty of those, too. They hate us, but they're afraid. They know it pays to be nice to us. Besides, he's a landlord, a rich man. You can't buy him off so easy. He's not like that dentist. Mac, you're funny; you're like a kid! You know that all people aren't alike, and neither are the degens."

"Of course I know," interrupted Mac. "But, take the dentist. I'll bet my shirt he wasn't bought. I can't prove it to you, but I feel it in my bones. That dentist is a courageous, decent man."

"You mean degen!"

"Have it your way. A courageous, decent degen. I saw his library. He's well educated. He knows a thousand times more than you or the captain. Why is he against us? If everything is as you say, why doesn't an educated man like that know it? Even when threatened with death, he tells us straight to our faces that he's for the people and against us. Why?"

"An educated degen is doubly dangerous," Guy lectured him. "Just being a degen, he hates us. But if he's educated, he can spread that hatred everywhere. Education, my dear friend, is not always a blessing. Like a gun, it depends on who has it."

"Education is always a blessing."

"I disagree. I'd rather see all the Khontis ignorant. Then, at least, we could live like people instead of being always afraid that they'll get us. If they were uneducated, we could control them better."

"Yes," said Mac in a strange tone, "we know how to do that all right. We know very well how to be cruel."

"You're talking like a child again. We'd be very happy to convince them by rational persuasion. It certainly would be less expensive and less bloody. But what would you do if persuasion didn't work?"

"That means they do have convictions, doesn't it?" Mac interrupted. "If a well-educated person like that dentist is convinced he's right, then where does Khonti money come into the picture?"

Guy was fed up with Mac's arguments, so as a last resort he began to cite the Creators' Code. But Mac broke in, calling out suddenly: "Rada! You've had enough sleep! Your legionnaires are starving to death and want your company!"

Guy was surprised to hear Rada's voice come from behind the screen.

"I've been awake for a long time. You've been shouting as if you were on the drill field."

"What are you doing home?" asked Guy.

Wrapping her robe more closely around her, she came out from behind the screen.

"Lost my job," she announced. "Mama Tei closed down her place. She inherited some money and is going off to the country. But she recommended me for a good job. Mac, why are your things all over the place? Put them in the closet. I've asked you both a dozen times not to come in with your boots on! Guy, set the table, we'll eat right away. Mac, you've lost weight. My goodness, what are they doing to you there?"

"Come on, come on!" said Guy. "Let's have some dinner."

Rada went to the kitchen. As she left the room, Mac watched her with a tender expression on his face.

"Pretty, isn't she?" asked Guy. He was startled to see Mac's face harden abruptly. "What's the matter with you?"

"Listen," said Mac. "They can do anything. Even torture a person. You know more about that than I do. But to shoot women, to torture women." He grabbed his boots and left the room.

Guy grunted, scratched his head vigorously, and began to put out plates. Their discussion had left him with an unpleasant aftertaste and conflicting feelings. Of course Mac was still green, and not from their world. But it was amazing how these arguments with Mac always turned out. He certainly was remarkably logical. Although he had been talking nonsense this time, too, everything had shaped up so logically! Guy had to admit that, if not for this conversation, he would hardly have reached a basically simple conclusion, namely: that the main objection to the degens was that they were degens. Discount this, and all the other accusations against them turned out to be nonsense. "Yes, the whole point is that they are degens and hate everything normal. This is sufficient reason for them to oppose us without Khonti's gold. Does that mean the Khontis are degens, too? We've never been told they are. If they aren't, then our degens should hate them as they hate us. Oh, massaraksh! Darn this logic!"

When Mac returned. Guy pounced on him.

"How did you know Rada was home?"

"What do you mean -- how? It was quite obvious.

"If it was so obvious to you, why didn't you warn me? And why, massaraksh, do you blab so much in the presence of outsiders? I've told you dozens of times, massaraksh!"

"Massaraksh, who's an outsider here? Rada? Rada is less an outsider to me than all your captains!"

"Massaraksh! What do the regulations say about military secrets?"

"Massaraksh and massaraksh! Why are you badgering me? I thought you knew she was home! I thought you were kidding about the night shift. Besides, what the hell kind of military secrets were we discussing anyway?"

"Anything concerning the service is -- "

"Damn you and your service! You can't even talk in front of your own sister! You've got your lousy secrets everywhere. It's impossible -- we can't even open our mouths!"

"Who do you think you are, shouting at me? Remember, I'm the one who's teaching you, you fool! And you have the nerve to shout at me?"

Before Guy could finish, Mac had calmed down. Mac walked over to him, and then Guy felt powerful arms seize him, the room began to spin, and the ceiling rushed toward him. He let out a muffled cry, and Mac, carrying him carefully above his head, walked over to the window.

"Well, where should I throw you and your secrets? Out the window?"

"What an idiotic joke, massaraksh!" shouted Guy, waving his arms wildly.

"So you don't want to be thrown out the window? Well, then stay here."

Mac carried Guy behind the screen and threw him down on Rada's bed. Guy sat up, straightened his pajamas, and muttered: "Some joke."

Guy had cooled down too; he might as well save his anger for the degens.

They set the table. Rada came in with a pot of soup. Behind her was Unc Kaan with his precious flask. It alone, he assured everyone, protected him from colds and a host of geriatric ailments. They sat down and started on the soup. Unc drained a wine glass, took a deep breath, and began to talk about his enemy. Shapshu, he said, had written an article about the function of certain bones in some ancient lizard, and the entire article was based on idiocy, contained nothing but idiocy, and was written for idiots.

As far as Unc Kaan was concerned, everyone was an idiot, including his faculty colleagues and his assistants. And the students? The height of idiocy. So the fate of paleontology was a foregone conclusion. Guy wasn't particularly distressed -- what use would it ever be to anyone? But Rada was very fond of Unc and always grieved along with him when he complained about his colleagues or the university's failure to supply funds for an expedition.

Today the dinner conversation took a different turn. Rada, who had heard everything from behind the screen, asked Unc how the degens differed from normal people. Guy glowered at Maxim and asked Rada not to ruin their appetites. He suggested that she read the literature on degens.

Unc declared that this literature was prepared for downright idiots; that the people in the Department of Education believed everyone to be as ignorant as themselves; that the degen problem was certainly not as simple as the literature deliberately portrayed it. "Either we behave like cultured people or like our brave but ignorant barracks officers." Unc drained another glass of wine and launched into a theory now current in scientific circles: the degens were nothing other than a new biological form that evolved as a result of radiation exposure.

"The degens are dangerous -- no doubt about that," said Unc, raising his finger, "But they are far more dangerous than you think, Guy. They are fighting for a place in this world, for the survival of their species, and this struggle is not a question of social conditions. It will end only when either the last man or the last de-gen-mutant leaves the arena of biological history victorious. Khonti gold? Nonsense! Diversions against the ABM network? Trivial. Look beyond the Blue Snake River, my friends. Yes, beyond the Blue Snake River! That's where your real danger comes from. The prolific colonies of humanoid monsters will come from down there to trample us, to annihilate us! Guy, you are blind. And your commanders, too. You must fight to save an entire civilization, not just one people, not simply our mothers and children, but allall humanity!"

Guy became furious. He was hardly concerned, he said, with the fate of humanity. He didn't believe this theory nonsense. If he was told that it was possible to set the wild degens against Khonti, he would devote his whole life to the task. Unc called him a blind fool. He said that the All-Powerful Creators were real martyrs and were truly engaged in unequal battle if all they had at their command were such miserable, blind supporters.

Guy decided not to argue with him because Unc understood nothing about politics. Mac tried to get involved in the argument and began to talk about the one-armed degen, but Guy cut short his feeble attempts to publicize a service secret. He told Rada to serve the second course and asked Mac to turn on the television set. "Too much yak-yakking today," he said. "We're on leave; let's relax."

But his imagination had been aroused, and since there was | nothing worthwhile on TV, Guy began to tell stories about the wild degens. Having fought them for three years, he knew a thing or two about them. He hadn't sat it out in the rear like those philosophizing types. Rada felt sorry for the old man and called her brother a braggart. Still, Unc and Mac defended him and asked him to continue. Guy refused: his feelings had been hurt, and besides, he couldn't think of a single example to refute the old souse's arguments. Suddenly he remembered what Zef, first sergeant of the 114th Unit of condemned prisoners, had once told him, and he presented this theory to Unc with pleasure. Zef had said that degens were becoming increasingly active because the radioactive desert was closing in on them. Their only hope for survival was to fight their way into areas free of radioactivity.

"Who told you that?" asked Unc scornfully. "What idiot ever concocted that simplistic explanation?"

Guy looked at him, gloating, and replied with authority: "That happens to be the opinion of Allu Zef, one of our most eminent psychiatrists."

"Where did you meet him?" inquired Unc even more scornfully. "In the company kitchen?"

Guy bit his tongue and focused his attention on the TV weatherman.

Massaraksh, Mac barged into the argument again.

"All right, I am ready to grant you that those monsters in the south are some new species. But tell me -- what does that landlord Renadu have in common with them? Renadu is also considered a degen, but clearly he doesn't belong to this new species."

Since this had never occurred to Guy, he was relieved what Unc jumped in to answer the question. After calling Mac all sort of names, Unc explained that the undetected degens, the city ones, were actually the surviving remnants of the new specie who, in the central regions, had been almost completely wiped out in the cradle. They still remembered those horrors. Many were killed at birth, sometimes together with their mothers. Only the ones in whom the new species traits were invisible to the naked eye survived. Uncle Kaan drained a fifth glass of wine, dropped all restraint, and developed for his audience an efficient program for the medical inspection of the entire population. This, he insisted, must be undertaken sooner or later, and better sooner than later. Absolutely no exceptions! Weeds must be torn with the roots without mercy.

With this, dinner ended. Rada cleared the dishes from tit table. Without waiting for his listeners' reactions, Unc triumphantly corked his flask and started for his room. Guy follow"l| him with his eyes -- the old man in his threadbare jacket, patched trousers, darned socks, and worn shoes. Damned war! Before the war the entire apartment had belonged to Uncle. He had a servant, wife, son, fancy china, lots of money, even a country home somewhere. But now his dusty book-crammed study served as bedroom and what have you. Secondhand clothing, loneliness, oblivion. A sorry state. Guy pushed the easy chair closer to the TV, stretched out, and began to watch the screen drowsily. Mac sat beside him for a while, then rose silently, and disappeared into another comer. He browsed in Guy's small collection of books, selected a textbook, and began to leaf through it.

After Rada had finished the dishes, she sat down beside Guy and crocheted, glancing up at the screen occasionally. All was peaceful and serene. Guy dozed off.

He had a ridiculous dream: he caught two degens in a railroad tunnel, began interrogating them, and suddenly discovered that one of them was Mac. The other one, smiling gently, said to Guy: "All this time you've been making a big mistake. Your place is with us. The captain is just a hired killer. He's no patriot. He just likes to kill." Guy was crushed by doubts, but then sensed that everything was about to become crystal clear. Just one more second, and all Ms doubts would vanish. Ibis strange situation was so agonizing that his heart skipped several beats, and he woke up abruptly.

Mac and Rada were quietly chatting about trivial things. About swimming in the sea, about sand and cockleshells. A thought suddenly occurred to him: was he really capable of doubling, of vacillating? What did the doubts in his dream mean? Could they happen during his waking life? For some time he tried to recall the dream in all its details, but it slipped away like a bar of wet soap. Relieved, Guy passed it off as nonsense.

The TV program was boring, so Guy suggested a few beers. Rada went to the kitchen and brought two bottles from the refrigerator. They drank and chatted, and in the course of their aimless conversation it came out that Mac had absorbed an entire textbook on geopolitics in the preceding half-hour. Rada was delighted, but Guy refused to believe it. He insisted that a person might be able to leaf through it in half an hour, but certainly not read it and assimilate it. Impossible! Mac demanded a test and they made a bet: the loser would tell Uncle Kaan straight to his face that his colleague Shapshu was a superior intellect and a brilliant scientist.

Guy opened the book at random, found questions at the end of a chapter, and read: "Explain our government's moral magnanimity with respect to northern expansion." Mac answered in his own words but correctly summarized the text, adding that in his opinion moral magnanimity had nothing to do with expansion; he viewed the entire problem as stemming from Khonti's and Pandeya's aggressive regimes. Guy scratched his head, turned several pages, and asked: "What is the average cereal yield in the northwestern regions?" Mac laughed and said that there were no data for the northwest. Guy's inability to trip up Mac delighted Rada. "What is the population pressure at the mouth of the Blue Snake River?" continued Guy. Mac stated a figure, cited an error in calculation, and did not fail to add that the concept of population pressure troubled him. He couldn't understand why it had been introduced. Guy started to explain that population pressure was a measure of aggressiveness, but Rada interrupted him. Guy, she said, was deliberately changing the subject, trying to squirm out of their bet because he realized how poorly he was doing.

Dismayed by the prospect of confronting Uncle Kaan, Guy stalled for time by starting an argument. Mac listened for a while. Then, out of the blue, he declared that Rada should not accept the job as a waitress but should return to school. Relieved at the change of subject. Guy shouted that he had told her the same thing a thousand times and had suggested she apply for the Women's Legion Corps, where she would be turned into a useful citizen. But the conversation fell flat. Mac merely shook his head, and Rada, as she had on previous occasions, spoke about the WLC in the most disrespectful terms.

Guy didn't bother to argue with her. He threw aside the textbook, went over to the closet for his guitar, and tuned it. Mac and Rada pushed the table aside and faced each other, preparing dance to the accompaniment of "Yes -- Yes, No -- No." Guy played for them. As he watched them dance, he thought what splendid couple they made. But apartments were impossible find. If they got married, he would have to move to the barracks.

Oh well, that wouldn't be so bad. Many of the corporals lived in the barracks. On the other hand, Mac didn't act as though he planning to get married. He treated Rada more like a friend, although with unusual tenderness and respect. Yet it was clear that Rada had fallen in love with him. How her eyes sparkled! How could a girl not fall in love with such a man! Even that old hag, Madame Go, stuck her skull out the door and grinned as soon as she heard Mac walking down the corridor. Every tenant in the building was fond of him. The legionnaires, too. Only captain treated him strangely... although he didn't deny that Mac was a firebrand.

The couple danced on and on, until they were about to drop from exhaustion. Mac took the guitar from Guy, retuned it in his own special way, and began to sing his mountain songs. Dozens of them, but not one familiar tune. Yet they had a strange effect on Guy. Although he didn't understand a single word, sometimes he would feel like crying, sometimes like laughing. Rada had already memorized some of them and tried to hum them now. One of her favorites was a funny song about a girl who sat on a mountain, waiting for her boyfriend. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not reach her -- one obstacle after another blocked his path.

The doorbell rang, but they did not hear it through the music. Then a loud knocking, and Captain Chachu's orderly burst into the room.

"Corporal, sir, may I speak with you?" he bellowed, casting a furtive glance at Rada.

Mac stopped playing.

"What is it?" said Guy.

"The captain has ordered you and Candidate Sim to report to company headquarters at once. A car is waiting below."

Guy jumped up.

"Go wait for us in the car. We'll be down in a few minutes. Hurry and dress," he said to Maxim.

Rada took the guitar and cradled it in her arms like a baby. Then she turned and walked to the window.

"What's it all about?" asked Mac.

"How should I know? Maybe it's a practice alert."

"I don't like it."

Guy looked at him and turned on the radio. Nothing alarming. They dressed hurriedly.

"Well, Rada, we're going," said Guy.

"Then go," said Rada without turning around.

"Let's go, Mac." Guy pulled his beret over his eye.

"Call me if you're delayed," said Rada.

The orderly obligingly opened the door for Guy. They climbed into the car and set off for headquarters. Evidently they had been summoned because of an emergency. Turning the siren up full blast, the driver raced toward their destination. Guy thought, with some regret, about the pleasant evening they had left behind. But that was the life of a legionnaire. In a few minutes they would receive their orders, pick up their guns, and start shooting. Right on top of a cozy evening: beer, warm pajamas, singing to the accompaniment of the guitar. Ah, yes, that was the life of a legionnaire, the best of all possible lives. Wives, girlfriends? No need of them. Mac didn't want to marry Rada. Never mind, she'd wait. If she loved him, she'd wait.

The car tore onto the parade ground and braked at the entrance to the barracks. Guy leaped out and ran up the steps. He stopped short at the door, checked his beret and belt buckle, gave Mac a quick once-over and fastened his collar -- massaraksh, it was always open! -- and knocked.

"Come in!" barked a familiar voice.

Guy entered and reported for duty. Captain Chachu, wearing a cap and woolen cape, sat behind his desk, smoking and drinking coffee. The cartridge case in front of him was filled with butts. Two submachine guns rested against the side of the desk. He rose slowly, leaning heavily on the desk with both hands. Staring at Mac, he began to speak.

"Candidate Sim! You have shown yourself to be an extraordinary fighter and a loyal comrade. I applied to the brigade commander for your early promotion to the rank of regular private in the Fighting Legion. You passed the test by fire very successfully. Now you will be tested by blood."

Guy was overjoyed: he hadn't expected this to happen so soon. "There's an old soldier for you!" he thought. "What a fool I was to think he had it in for Mac." Guy glanced at Mac, and his joy paled at the sight of Mac's wooden countenance and bulging eyes. All according to regulations. But at this particular moment it wasn't necessary.

"I am about to hand you an order. Candidate Sim," continual the captain, handing Mac a document. "It is the first order addressed to you personally. And I hope not the last. Read it and sign it."

Mac took the order and skimmed through it. Guy's heart skipped again -- not from joy, but from a vague and fearful premonition. Mac's face remained immobile, and everything appeared to be in order, except that he hesitated almost imperceptibly before he picked up the pen and signed the document. The captain examined the signature and placed the paper in his map case.

He picked up a typed envelope from his desk. "Corporal Gaal, go to the guardroom and bring the condemned prisoners here. Take a gun -- no, here, take this one."

Guy took the envelope, slung the gun over his shoulder, ei-ecuted an about-face, and marched toward the door. He could still hear the captain telling Mac: "Don't worry, candidate. No need to get jittery. It's only frightening the first time."

Guy crossed the field on the double, heading toward the guardhouse. He handed the chief sentry the envelope, signed in the designated places, and received the necessary receipts in turn. The condemned prisoners were turned over to him. They were the recent conspirators: the stocky man whose fingers Mac had dislocated and the woman. Massaraksh, this was too much! The woman -- it was absolutely unnecessary! This was no job for Mac. He led the prisoners to the drill field and prodded them toward the barracks. Nursing his hand, the man dragged himself along, while the woman walked straight as a rod, her hands thrust deeply into her jacket pockets. She appeared to be oblivious to everything around her. "Massaraksh, and why not Mac? Why the hell not? The broad is just as bad as the other degen bastards. Why should we make an exception of her? And why, massaraksh, should we make an exception for Candidate Sim? Let him get used to it!"

The captain and Mac were waiting in the truck. The captain was behind the wheel; Mac sat in the back with his gun resting between his knees. Guy opened the door and the prisoners climbed in. "On the floor!" he ordered. They sat down obediently on the steel floor, and Guy sat opposite Mac. He tried to catch Mac's eye, but Mac was looking at the prisoners. No, he was looking at the woman, who was huddled up on the floor, clutching her knees. Without turning around the captain asked if they were ready. The truck pulled out.

They rode in silence. The captain drove at top speed, evidently anxious to finish the job. Mac kept looking at the woman, as if he were trying to get her attention, and Guy kept trying to catch Mac's eye. The condemned prisoners clung to each other and squirmed on the floor. The man started to talk to the woman, but Guy shouted at him. The car sped out of the city, passed the southern gate, and turned into a familiar deserted village. A very familiar village. It led to Pink Caves. The captain turned the car again, braked sharply, and eased it into a quarry. He switched off I the engine and ordered everyone out.

It was almost dawn, and a light mist was spreading through the quarry. Its windswept stone walls emitted a faint pink glow. Long ago marble had been mined here.

Matters were coming to a head. Mac continued to behave like a model soldier. Not a single superfluous movement. His face was impassive, and his eyes were focused on the captain in anticipation of an order. The stocky man behaved well, with dignity. No, he wouldn't give them any trouble. But the woman went to pieces toward the end. She kept clenching her fists convulsively, pressing them to her chest and then dropping them. Guy expected some hysterics, but it didn't appear that they'd have to drag her to the execution spot.

The captain lit a cigarette, looked up at the sky, and said to Mac, "Take them along this path. You'll come to a cave. You'll know where to stand them. When you're finished, be sure to check them and, if necessary, give them the coup de grace. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, sir," replied Mac woodenly.

"You're lying, boy. You don't know. It means -- in the head. Get going, candidate. You'll return here a regular private."

Suddenly the woman spoke. "If one of you is a real man... tell my mother. Duck Village, Number Two. It's the next village. Her name is -- "

"Don't lower yourself," boomed the stocky man's deep voice.

" -- her name is Illi Tader."

"Don't lower yourself," he repeated, raising his voice. The captain punched him in the face. He stopped talking, put his hand to his cheek, and glared at the captain.

"Get going, candidate," repeated the captain.

Mac turned to the prisoners and motioned to them with his gun. They started along the path. The woman turned around shouted again: "Duck Village, Number Two. Illi Tader!"

Mac walked behind them slowly with his gun raised in front of him. The captain flung open the car door and sat down sideways behind the wheel with his feet stretched out.

"O. K. We'll wait about fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir," replied Guy mechanically.

He followed Mac with his eyes until the group disappeared behind a pink ledge. "I'll have to buy a bottle on the way back," he thought. "Get him good and drunk. They say it helps."

"You may smoke, corporal," said the captain.

"Thank you, sir, but I don't smoke."

The captain spat through his teeth.

"Aren't you worried that your friend will let you down?"

"Absolutely not, sir," said Guy, but without conviction. "Although, if I may say so, sir, I'm very sorry that he got the woman. He's from the mountains and they -- "

"He's no more from the mountains than you or me," said the captain. "Anyway, it's not a question of women. Well, we'll see what happens. By the way, what were you doing when you were summoned to headquarters?"

"We were singing, sir."

"What were you singing?"

"Mountain songs, sir. He knows a lot of them."

The captain got out of the car and paced up and down along the path. He had stopped talking, and about ten minutes later began whistling the "Legion March." Guy kept listening for shots but didn't hear any. He began to grow anxious. Could they have escaped from Mac? Impossible! Disarmed him? Even more impossible. Then why the hell wasn't he firing? Maybe he had led them beyond the usual spot? The stench there was pretty strong, and Mac had a very keen sense of smell. He was so squeamish about that sort of thing, he could very well have gone another mile or so.

"Well, Corporal Gaal," said the captain, halting, "that's it. I'm afraid we can't wait any longer for your buddy. And I'm afraid you won't be called corporal after today."

Guy looked at him in dismay. The captain grinned.

"What the hell's the matter with you? You look as if your eyes are about to pop out. Your friend ran away, deserted. He's a coward and a traitor. Do you understand. Corporal Gaal?"

Guy was stunned. Not so much by what the captain said as how he said it. The captain was ecstatic. He looked as if he had just won a large bet. Guy looked into the quarry mechanically and suddenly saw Mac. He was returning alone, carrying his gun by its strap.

"Massaraksh," the captain said hoarsely. He, too, was stunned.

They stopped talking and watched Mac approach them -- slowly, stepping easily over the stone fragments. They watched his calm face with its strange eyes. Guy's head was spinning. What happened to the shots? Had he strangled them? Or smashed them with the butt of his gun? He, Mac, do that to a woman? Never! But the shots? There hadn't been any,

Five paces away, Mac halted and, looking the captain straight in the eye, flung the gun at his feet.

"Good-bye, captain," he said. "I released them, and now I want to leave. Take your gun! Take your clothes!" He turned to Guy and, unbuckling his belt, said to him: "Guy, this is a dirty business. They've been lying to us."

He pulled off his boots and jump suit, tied everything into a bundle and stood there, almost naked, in his silver shorts and barefoot, just as Guy had seen him for the first time on the southern border. He went over to the truck and placed the bundle on the hood. Guy was shocked. He looked at the captain -- then almost froze in horror.

"Captain!" he shouted. "Don't! He's out of his mind! He -- "

"Candidate Sim!" snapped the captain, his hand on his holster. "Get into the car! You're under arrest."

"That's what you think. I'm free. I've come for Guy. Let's go, Guy. They've made a sucker out of you. They're dishonest people. Before I had doubts about them, but now I'm sure. Let's go, Guy."

Guy shook his head. He wanted to say something, to explain something, but he had neither the time nor the words to express it. The captain had drawn his pistol.

"Candidate Sim! Into the car!"

"Are you coming?" asked Mac.

Guy shook his head again. He looked at the pistol. Only one thought ran through his head: Mac was about to be shot. Oh God, what should he do?

"OK," said Mac. "I'll find you. I'll find out everything and I'll find you. You don't belong with them. Give Rada my love."

He turned and began to walk away, striding over the stone fragments as easily as if he were wearing boots. Guy stared mutely at his triangular back and waited for the shot and the black hole beneath his left shoulder blade.

"Candidate Sim," said the captain without raising his voice. "For the last time, I'm ordering you to return. I'm going to shoot."

Mac halted and turned toward him again.

"Shoot?" he said. "Why? Well, the reason doesn't matter. Put down your pistol."

Holding the pistol at his hip, Chachu aimed at Mac.

"I'm counting to three. Get into the truck, candidate. One!"

"Come, hand over your pistol." Mac extended his hand and advanced toward the captain.

"Two!"

"Don't!" shouted Guy.

The captain fired. Mac was close to him. Guy saw the bullet hit his shoulder. Mac staggered back, as if he had run into an obstacle.

"You fool!" said Mac. "Hand over your gun, you vicious fool!"

Mac continued to advance toward the captain, his hand reaching out for the weapon. Blood was spurting from his shoulder. With a strangely unsteady cry, the captain retreated and fired three shots in rapid succession into the broad tanned chest. Mac fell on his back, rose, and fell again. The captain fired three more shots. Mac fell forward and lay still.

Guy felt giddy and his legs buckled. He sank down on the truck's running board. The repulsive crunching sound of bullets penetrating the body of his closest friend still ran through his head. Soon he recovered his strength, but still unsure of his legs, rested a little longer.

Mac's motionless body lay like a rock among the pink and white fragments. The captain returned to where he had been standing, held his gun in readiness, and lit up a cigarette, inhaling greedily. He didn't look at Guy. Smoking the cigarette down to the last puff, he burned himself; he threw the butt away and took two steps toward the dead man.

"Massaraksh!" grunted the captain, replacing his pistol in its holster.

He fumbled for a long time, trying to fasten it, and finally gave up. He walked over to Guy, grabbed his clothing at the chest with his crippled hand, and jerked him up. Breathing noisily in Guy's face, he spoke unsteadily.

"OK, boy, we won't bust you to private. But you're finished in the Legion. You'll write out a request for transfer to the army. Get in the van."