One of them got up as Margie approached: Lieutenant Kristianides, one whole side of her body in gauze and antiburn dressing. But functioning. “Colonel,” she said. “I had to leave the radio—”

Marge glanced at the doctor, who shook her head. “Get back in bed, Kris. Tell me about it later.”

“No, I’m all right. When they shot the tent up I ran out. But I left the tape going. I was getting their chatter, only it was in all different languages.”

“Thanks. Now get back in bed,” Marge ordered, and looked around. “Dalehouse, front and center!” she called. “Check the radio shack. If the tape’s still working, give me a yell.”

He didn’t look too good himself, she thought as he put down the tray of dressings and headed up the hill without a word — but then, none of them did. Especially herself. Margie’s own tent had been totaled, and she was wearing fatigues belonging to a woman who would never again need them — not unfair, but she had been a taller and fatter woman than Marge Menninger.

When Dalehouse called her, she had forgotten about the tapes. But she went up to the shack, which was unburned and not really harmed except for bullet holes, commandeering Ana Dimitrova on the way. The tape was voice-actuated, and Dalehouse had already found the right place to begin. Ana put on the earphones and began to translate.

“First one of the pilots says, ‘On target,’ and the base acknowledges. Then there are some carrier noises, as though they were going to transmit and changed their minds, and then the base says, ‘Suspend operations at once. Do not attack.’ And one of the pilots, I think it is the Egyptian, says in a different Arab dialect, ‘Strike already in progress. We have taken out their weapons dump. Body count around twenty-five.’ Then there is some mumbling that I cannot make out, as though they are talking at the base with the transmitter on but not close enough to pick it up. And then the base says, ‘Urgent. Suspend operations immediately.’ And then the other pilot, the Irishman, says they are observing from over the water, waiting for instructions, and then the base orders them to return without further attack. That is all there is on the tape until they get landing instructions later on.”

“That’s it?” Margie asked.

“As I have said, colonel, yes. There is nothing else.”

“Now, why would they change their minds in the middle?” Margie asked. Neither Dalehouse nor Dimitrova offered an answer. She hadn’t expected one. It didn’t matter. The Greasies had declared war, and if they backed out in the middle of it that was their problem, not hers. She would not back out. To Marge Menninger, the attack on her base — her base! — answered all questions right there. Why didn’t really matter. The only question was how — how to carry the fight to them, and win it.

“Can you dig with that shoulder?” she asked Dalehouse.

“I guess so. It’s not bleeding.”

“Then go help Kappelyushnikov dig graves. Dimitrova, you’re a radio operator now. No transmissions. Just listen. If the Greasies say anything, I want to hear about it right away.”

She left them and headed for the surviving latrine. She didn’t particularly need to go to the bathroom; she just wanted to be alone for a moment to clarify her thoughts. She ranked her way to the head of the line, closed the door, and sat there smoking a cigarette and staring into space.

There was no question in her mind that she could win this war, because she had some powerful cards to play. The plutonium store was one of them. The other was Major Vandemeer’s little dispatch case. There were still four birds in orbit; one could hit the Greasy main camp, and another their Farside base, anytime she gave the order — and that would be that.

The trouble was, she didn’t want to destroy the Greasy facilities. She wanted to acquire them. The birds and the bomb were overkill, like trying to take care of a mosquito with a mortar.

No. It would have to be a straight overland operation. Maybe the plutonium, if it could be placed exactly right. Not the missiles. It was a pity the Greasies had launched their preemptive strike before she was quite ready to launch hers. But not a disaster. The worst thing about the raid was that her cadre of effectives had been seriously reduced. How was she going to mount her retaliatory strike without grunts?

Marge Menninger had just taken the only decision that gave the human race a future on Jem, even though she didn’t know it.

“The only good thing about all this,” Dalehouse said to Kappelyushnikov, “is that most of the casualties were military. At least now we can get on with the real business of the expedition.”

Kappelyushnikov grunted and threw a few more spadefuls of dirt before he answered. “Of course, is so,” he said, pausing and wiping sweat off his face. “Only one question. What is real business of expedition?”

“To survive! And to preserve. God knows what’s happening on Earth. We may be all that’s left of the human race, and if anything’s going to be left of, what, maybe five thousand years of science and literature and music and art, it’s here.”

“Very discouraging amount of responsibility for two grave-diggers,” Kappelyushnikov commented. “You are of course right, Danny. We have saying in Soviet Union: longest journey begins with single step. What step do we take now?”

“Well—”

“No, wait, was rhetorical question. First step is apparent.

Have finished covering up graves of now absent friends, so you, Danny, please step up to colonel’s headquarters and report burial services can begin.”

He jammed his spade into the dirt and sat down, looking more despondent than Dalehouse had ever seen him.

Dalehouse said, “All right. We’re all pretty tired and shook up, I guess.”

The pilot shook his head, then looked up and grinned. “Am not only tired, dear Danny, am also very Russian. Heavy load to carry. We have other saying in Soviet Union: in thousand years, what difference will it make? But now I tell you the truth, Danny. All sayings are bullshit. I know what we do, you and I and all of us. We do the best we can. Is not much, but is all there is.”

Dalehouse laid down his spade and trudged up the hill to the headquarters shack, thinking hard. A heavy responsibility! When you looked at it carefully, there was no way to preserve everything; so much that was irreplaceable would inevitably be lost — probably already was lost. There was not much chance that the Arc de Triomphe and the British Museum and the Parthenon had all survived, not to mention some billions of fairly irreplaceable human beings. It was hard for Danny to accept that he would never again see a ballet or listen to a concert. Or fly in a clamjet or drink in a revolving restaurant on top of a skyscraper. So much was gone forever! And so much more would inevitably vanish as they tried to rebuild…

Yet there was one great asset not yet destroyed: hope. They could survive. They could rebuild. They could even rebuild in a better way, learning from the mistakes of the past, on this virgin planet -

There was a knot of people gathering around the headquarters shack, and Marge Menninger, with a couple of her aides, was trotting up to join them. Dalehouse hurried his pace and arrived in time to hear Ana saying, “This message just came in, Colonel Menninger. I will play the tape for you.”

“Do it,” snapped Marge, out of breath and exhausted

Dalehouse moved closer to her. She seemed near to collapse. But as the tape player hummed and scratched, she pulled herself together and stood listening intently.

Danny recognized the voice. It was the black air vice-marshal, Pontrefact; and what he said did not take very long.

“This is an official message on behalf of the Fuel Exporting Powers to the Food camp. We offer an immediate and permanent armistice. We propose that you remain within twenty kilometers of your camp, in the direction toward ours, and we will observe the same limits from ours. We request an answer within one hour.”