"Very well, sir. But I had planned to be in that car myself. Do you object to that slight change?"

"I do," Ardmore said dryly. "If you will look at Disorganization Plan IV you will see that it calls for the commanding officer to remain in the Citadel. Since I am already here, outside the Citadel, you will remain in my place."

"But, Chief --"

"We are not going to risk both of us, not at this stage of the game. Now pipe down."

"Yes, sir."

Ardmore was called back to the communicator later that morning. The face of the headquarters communication watch officer peered out of the screen at him. "Oh! -- Major Ardmore, Salt Lake City is trying to reach you with a priority routing."

"Put them on."

The face gave way to that of the priest at Salt Lake City.

"Chief," he began, "we've got a most extraordinary prisoner. I'm of the opinion you'd better question him yourself."

"I'm short of time. Why?"

"Well, he's a PanAsian, but claims he is a white man and that you will know him. The funny thing about it is that he got past our screen. I thought that was impossible."

"So it is. Let me see him."

It was Downer, as Ardmore had begun to suspect. Ardmore introduced him to the local priest and as cured that official that his screens had not failed him. "Now, Captain, out with it."

"Sir, I decided to come in and report to you in detail because things are coming to a head."

"I know it. Give me all the details you can."

"I will, sir. I wonder if you have any idea how much damage you've done the enemy already? -- their morale is cracking up like rotten ice in a thaw. They axe all nervous, uncertain of themselves. What happened?"

Ardmore sketched out briefly the events of the past twenty -- four hours, his own arrest, the arrest of the priests, the arrest of the entire cult of Mota, and the subsequent delivery. Downer nodded. "That explains it. I couldn't really tell what had happened; they never tell a common soldier anything -- but I could see them going to pieces, and I thought you had better know."

"What happened?"

"Well -- I guess I had better just tell you what I saw, and let you make your own inferences. The second battalion of the Dragon Regiment at Salt Lake City is under arrest. I heard a rumor that every officer in it had committed suicide. I suppose that is the outfit that let the local congregation escape, but I don't know."

"Probably. Go ahead."

"All I know is what I saw. They were marched in about the middle of the morning with their banners reversed and confined to their barracks, with a heavy guard around the buildings. But that's not all. It affects more than the one outfit under arrest. Chief, you know how an entire regiment will go to pieces if the colonel starts losing his grip?"

"I do. Is that the way they act?"

"Yes -- at least the command stationed at Salt Lake City. I'm damned well certain that the big shot there is afraid of something he can't understand, and his fear has infected his troops, right down to the ordinary soldiers. Suicides, lots of 'em, even among the common soldiers. A man will get moody for about a day, then sit down facing toward the Pacific and rip out his guts.

"But here is the tip-off, the thing that proves that morale is bad all over the country. There has been a general order issued by the Prince Royal, in the name of the Heavenly Emperor, forbidding any more honorable suicides."

"What effect did that have?"

"Too soon to tell -- it just came out today. But you don't appreciate what that means, Chief. You have to live among these people, as I have, to appreciate it. With the PanAsians, everything is face -- everything. They care more for appearances than an American can possibly understand. To tell a man who has lost face that he can't balance the books and get square with his ancestors by committing suicide is to take the heart right out of him. It jeopardizes his most precious possession.

"You can count on it that the Prince Royal is scared, too, or he would never have resorted to any such measures. He must have lost an incredible number of his officers lately ever to have thought of such a thing."

"That is reassuring. Before this night is out, I think we will have damaged their morale at least as much more as we have already. So you think we've got them on the run?"

"I didn't say that, Major -- don't ever think so. These damned yellow baboons" -- he spoke quite earnestly, evidently forgetting his own exact physical resemblance to the Asiatics -- "are just about four times as deadly and dangerous as their present frames of mine as they were when they were cock o' the walk. They are likely to run amuck with just a slight push and start slaughtering right and left -- babies, women -- indiscriminately!"

"H-m-m. Any recommendations?"

"Yes, Chief, I have. Hit 'em with everything you've got just as soon as possible, and before they start in on a general massacre. You've got 'em softened up now -- sock it to 'em! before they have time to think about the general population. Otherwise you'll have a blood letting that will make the Collapse look like a tea party.

"That's the other reason I came in," he added. "I didn't want to find myself ordered out to butcher my own kind."

Downer's report left Ardmore plenty to worry about. He conceded that Downer was probably right in his judgment of the workings of the Oriental mind. The thing that Downer warned against retaliation against the civilian population always had been the key to the whole problem -- that was why the religion of Mota had been founded; because they dare not strike directly for fear of systematic retaliation against the helpless. Now -- if Downer was a judge in attacking indirectly, Ardmore had rendered an hysterical retaliation almost as probable.

Should he call off Plan IV and attack today?

No -- it simply was not practicable. The priests had to have a few hours at least in which to organize the men of their flocks into guerrilla warriors. That being the case, one might as well go ahead with Plan IV and soften up the war lords still further. Once it was under way, the PanAsians would be much too busy to plan massacres.

A small, neat scout car dropped from a great height and settled softly and noiselessly on the roof of the temple in the capital city of the Prince Royal. Ardmore stepped up to it as the wide door in its side opened and Wilkie climbed out. He saluted. "Howdy, Chief!"

"H'lo, Bob. Right on time, I see -- just midnight. Think you were spotted?"

"I don't think so; at least, no one turned a spot on us. And we cruised high and fast; this gravitic control is great stuff." As they climbed in, Scheer gave his C.O. a brief nod accompanied by, "Evening, sir," with his hands still on the controls. As soon as the safety belts were buckled he shot the car vertically into the air.

"Orders, sir?"

"Roof of the palace -- and be careful."

Without lights, at great speed, with no power source the enemy could detect, the little car plummeted to the roof designated. Wilkie started to open the door. Ardmore checked him. "Look around first."

An Asiatic cruiser, on routine patrol over the residence of the vice-royal, changed course and stabbed out with a searchlight. The radar-guided beam settled on the scout car.

"Can you hit him at this range?" inquired Ardmore, whispering unnecessarily.

"Easiest thing in the world, Chief." Cross hairs matched on the target; Wilkie depressed his thumb. Nothing seemed to happen, but the beam of the searchlight swept on .past them.

"Are you sure you hit him?" Ardmore inquired doubtfully.

"Certain. That ship'll go ahead on automatic control till her fuel gives out. But it's a dead hand at the helm."