Mark’s mouth drew tight. He moved his head from side to side, not shaking it, quite.

“That’s moot. The fact is, you did it in there. All by yourself. You know what you are, son?” He clapped Mark on the biceps. “You’re a leader.”

“Oh, no, man, you got it all wrong -”

“I never get things all wrong, though I’ve pulled some sockdolagers in my day.”

“Some what?”

“Nineteenth-century slang. Don’t mind me. The important thing is, I know what I’m talking about.”

A strong forefinger stabbed Mark in the sternum. “You are the real leader of the revolt. Don’t ever forget it.”

Denial bubbled up in Mark so furiously, he couldn’t find words to vent it. He just shook his head.

“You’ll see,” Belew said. He took Mark’s arm and steered him into motion again.

“Now, something else. Don’t take anything for granted. Walking out here alone like this -” He shook his head. “The bad guys have gotten lucky before. And not all the bad guys wear PAVN khaki; you and your foxy alter ego in the yin-yang mask have roused some pretty fierce jealousies. Not everybody thinks it’s too swell that farang types are leading this revolution. And remember what Confucius said about the gentleman, affections, and the Right. We won’t always walk the same path, maybe, and I won’t necessarily warn you when I head another way.”

“Me neither,” Mark said, from sheer bravado.

“Excellent.” Belew put fingers in his mouth and whistled.

To both sides of the trail the elephant grass parted. On the right were Montagnards in their ponchos and bracelets. On the left stood Khmer Rouge in red headbands.

“You were safe,” Belew said, “tonight. Your guardian angel J. Robert was looking out for you. But there’s one thing you should bear in mind, son.”

“What’s that?”

“What happened to the Duke of Montrose.” The guerrillas faded back into the high grass. Belew turned and walked back down the trail, whistling. He would have called the tune “Marlbrouck S’en Va-t-en Guerre.” To Mark it was “The Bear Went Over the Mountain.”

Belew’s warning to the Council about presenting the government with too convenient a target so that a single blow could decapitate the rebellion was perfectly correct. Moonchild had not needed to be told in fact. To his surprise, neither did Mark.

It seemed strangely natural for him to spend the next few days divvying up the rebel forces: who should stay behind in the bush to keep raising trouble and who should go to Saigon; how the rebel forces should split up to infiltrate down to the southern capital so that even in a worst-case calamity the government could not catch them all on the march at once. Mark had always heard the military clichй “never divide your forces.” Maybe there were times when that was right. But in the core of him, he knew it wasn’t right now. He acted out that insight with a confidence that frankly amazed him.

When he faltered, he had Moonchild there in his mind to offer suggestions and soft, soothing words of encouragement. J. J. Flash of course took to antigovernment guerrilla warfare like flame to tinder, and what he had to offer was the basic insight that a hundred small fires are a lot harder to put out than one big one – and when they all get bigger and combine, they turn into a firestorm.

Even Cosmic Traveler calmed down enough to offer suggestions, and some of them were actually useful. Who knew better how to keep out of harm’s way than a confirmed coward with an infinity of faces? For all their popular support – which seemed to be causing total consternation to the world’s media – they were still fighting a war of weakness against strength. Trav was weaker than anybody.

Mark suspected his main goal was to get back to Saigon. Now that he’d had time to consider, the Traveler realized he felt much safer in a city than in the paddies or mountains or rain forests. There were four million faces in Saigon, and he could imitate any of them. He couldn’t turn himself into a stand of bamboo.

Only Aquarius, immovably hostile to land-dwellers and all their doings, remained aloof. That was all right. Of all Mark’s personalities Aquarius was the only one who was almost always content to let Mark go along in his own way. Better silence now than another voice in the peanut gallery.

Belew watched everything Mark did, his scrutiny unobtrusive but minute as a circling sparrow hawk’s. He himself said nothing. Either Mark was making all the right moves or the American soldier of fortune figured he was setting himself up for an error he, Belew, could capitalize upon for his own agenda. Mark found he didn’t care. Somewhere he had gotten out of the habit of second-guessing himself.

The tribes came together and flowed apart again, like cloud masses. The storm moved down upon Saigon by divers ways.

The enemy was not totally paralyzed. Despite the Soviets’ defection, the People’s Armed Forces were able to keep both strike craft and helicopters aloft. The rebels generally kept good dispersal, which made them tough to find from the air, and exposed only a few at a time when they got caught. They moved by night, knowing that Soviet-bloc ground-attack aircraft, choppers as well as jets, flew only during daylight.

But sometimes the government pilots got lucky. And PAVN patrols were still thick on the ground, and while some of them were looking mainly to desert, others were still loyal, motivated, and mean. The government still had its spies and informers. It took its toll.

But the guerrilla forces continued to trickle toward Saigon, in a thousand rivulets, like water down a cliff face. The government seemed powerless to stop them.

After a brief respite Mark found himself resorting to the black-and-silver powder even more than before. Maybe Belew was right; maybe he was capable of being a leader himself, maybe he had commanded respect in his own person when he made the decision to go down to Saigon. But Moonchild was still the figurehead of the revolt, the mysterious ace whose quiet word could soothe all tempers and settle all disputes.

Sometimes when she was out, Moonchild felt Eric, probing for her mind. She sealed herself against him. She had chosen her Way. It was too late to change direction.

And then, coming down out of the Cao Nguyen Di Linh into the Cochin lowlands northeast of Ho-ville, Mark’s contingent met white-flag emissaries.

“We’re here to talk to Moonchild,” said the leader of the three jokers. They were scarified, painted, and feathered. In the mottled forest shadow it was hard to tell what was the wild card and what was self-inflicted.

J. Bob Belew turned his head aside, spoke in steadily descending tones. Then he looked back at the three.

“I was telling my boys,” he said conversationally, “to waste you if you looked like causing trouble. They’re Khmer Rouge. Ever hear of them, or hasn’t the Cambodian Civil War come out for Gameboy yet?”

“Save your breath, nat-lover,” said a second joker. “You’ll need it for screaming.”

The leader held up a three-fingered hand. “Easy. We’re here under a flag of truce.”

Mark pushed forward. “Let’s keep everything cool,” he agreed. He realized Belew was casting him as Good Cop in a standard Mutt and Jeff routine. He didn’t see anything to do about it.

The lead emissary frowned him up and down. “We’re here -”

“I’m Moonchild’s personal representative. Ask anybody here.”

The young joker looked mulish. “We have our orders -”

“Let’s just plow these fools under,” Belew said harshly. At the tone of his voice the Khmer Rouge brought up their Kalashnikovs with a multiple clack of safeties. “We have places to go and promises to keep.”

“- but, hey, we’re not slaves,” the joker leader finished. “I guess we can give the message to you.”