* * *

The medic rinsed his hands and said with a weary finality, "That's the last one, marshal. If you've any bright ideas for tomorrow, perhaps you'll let me know. I'm not fond of surprises."

"You object?"

"I'm a doctor. What else would you expect me to do, cheer?"

"You are an officer in the medical corps," corrected Dumarest. "If you don't like picking pellets out of barely hurt men, how are you going to handle real casualties?"

"I've done it before."

"Accidents, yes. Stitching up a knife slash, maybe, but I'm talking about men with their intestines hanging out, limbs torn from their bodies, faces roasted in laser beams. You think that what happened today was bad? It was nothing, an essential part of military training. How else can you teach men to dodge and stay under cover? Those who got hit learned the price of being careless."

"One man blinded in his left eye," said the doctor savagely. "One shot in the groin-and he hasn't been married a month. Two others practically riddled, and one of them with a slug almost touching his heart. A dozen more with minor wounds, twenty others in pain, most of the rest suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion. A hell of a way to train men!"

He was disrespectful, forgetting rank and the deference due to higher command, outraged and unable to retain his opinions to himself. A dangerous man to have in any military force.

Dumarest crossed the space between them in three long strides, reached out, and caught the front of the green smock the man wore, lifted his right hand, and deliberately slapped the rotund cheek.

"Listen," he grated. "I am a marshal of the army of Chard. You are under military law. You could be facing a court-martial for those remarks, and I mean a drumhead trial here and now with death as the penalty, should you be found guilty. You doubt my power to do it?"

"You can't-I have my rights!"

"You have no rights," snapped Dumarest. "You yielded them all when you put on that uniform. What's bothering you, doctor? You want the glamor without the responsibility? The right to command without the duty to obey? Those men you treated wanted to be soldiers. I've shown them what it means to face an enemy, and did it by taking away the real danger. That eye can be replaced, the groin will heal, not one of them will suffer more than a little inconvenience, and under slowtime they will be ready to march in a day. You know the alternative. That force which got itself massacred taught you that. And you know what we're up against-or have you remained blind to what was found in the villages?"

"You're hard," whispered the doctor, rubbing at the welts on his face. "By God, you're hard."

"But truthful."

"Yes, I guess you are. It's Just that…" The doctor broke off, kicking at the leg of his field table. "Damnit, why do fools make war out to be wonderful?"

"Because they are fools," said Dumarest bitterly. "Because they never have to fight. They prate of glory and heroism and ignore the death and dirt and wounds. No sane man or culture wants a war."

The doctor blinked. "You say that? A lord of Samalle?"

Dumarest stepped to the door of the tent. Outside, it was dark, the night blazing with stars, relatively cool after the heat of the day. Without looking at the other man, he said, "You think I should glorify war because it is my profession? You are a doctor, a surgeon, do you then love pain and operations?"

"The things aren't the same. I work to heal."

"And so do I. What can be worse than a badly fought war? With skill I try to limit the destruction, but if you think that any soldier loves war, you are mistaken." Without changing his tone, Dumarest added, "You have the necessary equipment to conduct a deep bodily survey?"

"What?" The doctor looked baffled. "I don't understand."

"I have reason to suspect that I may have a foreign object buried somewhere in my person." Dumarest turned and faced the man. "With action imminent, I want to make certain that I am fit. Will you please examine me and report on what you find."

A chance, but one which had to be taken now that he had the opportunity. Chan Parect had spoken of a device, a radio capsule perhaps, something implanted which could be triggered into activity. As yet he had found nothing remotely resembling a trigger, not among Zenya's clothing, nor any scar tissue where it could have been implanted in her body. He had searched carefully, running his fingers over every inch of her body as she lay quivering beneath what she thought was his sensuous embrace. Now it was time to examine himself.

He lay nude as the doctor busied himself with his instruments, talking as he worked.

"Has there been any pain? It would help to localize the potential site. Were you wounded? Your head? I see. Well, let's take a look." A long silence; then, "Nothing there that I can see, marshal. Elsewhere, perhaps? Would it be metallic? A fragment from a bomb, a bullet? There is such a diversity of weapons. Well, we shall sec."

And then, finally, "Nothing, my lord."

"Are you certain?"

"I have made a thorough examination. There is nothing metallic."

"It needn't be metallic."

"Even so, there would be traces. A foreign object cannot be simply inserted into the tissue without some distortion of the surrounding fibers, and there would be a difference in density. My instruments would have revealed any such divergence. You may rest assured, marshal. There is nothing implanted within your flesh."

"I see." Dumarest sat, brooding. "Could there be a possibility that…"

He broke off as Fran Paran burst into the tent. The youth was wild-eyed, panting. He said, "For God's sake, Earl, marshal, Lord Dumarest-"

"Control yourself, lieutenant! Report!" The man, Dumarest remembered, had been placed in charge of the communications equipment.

"Sir!" He saluted and said, his voice strained against imposed control, "A message from the city, sir. Verital is under attack!"

Chapter Eight

There was time for thought on the journey. Sitting, hunched in the body of the raft, Dumarest thought of Aihult Chan Parect and his madness. His deviousness and his threat. All were real enough, and he had been even more cunning than suspected. Dumarest had imagined that a radio beacon had been implanted while he had lain helpless beneath the ministrations of his doctor. A device, booby-trapped, maybe, but a thing which could be safely removed with care and skill. Yet it seemed that the obvious had not been employed. A bluff? It was barely possible, but Dumarest doubted it. Chan Parect had been more clever than he had guessed.

"Sir?" Fran Paran was at his side, earphones on his head, a communicator in his hand. "A recording of the initial message, sir. Do you want to hear it?"

The voice was strained, incredulous.

"Monsters! Things all around. Killing, screaming, everywhere. Help. Send help. This is Verital calling. Verital. For God's sake, come quickly! It's horrible! Ghastly! We haven't got a chance. Hurry! Hurry! Devils from hell, spawn of the underworld, help! Help!"

The rest was distortion, a mouthing of frenzied words, screams, the sound of smashing timbers.

Dumarest played it again, a third time, learning nothing new. A man, almost incoherent, pleading for help from the city, raving about monsters and things of nightmare.

To the lieutenant he said, "Contact the city. Find out if there is anything new."

In the earphones Colonel Paran's voice sounded as if he were speaking through layers of cotton. "Nothing since the message, Earl. I've ordered two units to rendezvous with you at map reference 0136-2784. That's a mile from the southern edge of the village."

"Is there anything closer?"

"A detachment was based twenty miles to the west. We can't establish contact." The voice hardened a little. "Natural enough if the devils attacked them first."