The theory further states that in centuries of warfare against the ptertha, in which millions of the globes have been destroyed, the entire population of Kolcorron has been exposed to microscopic quantities of the toxic dust. This has given us some slight degree of tolerance for the poison, increased our resistance to it, by a mechanism similar to the one which ensures that some diseases can be contracted only once. The Chamtethans, on the other hand, have no resistance whatsoever, and an encounter with a poisonous ptertha is even more catastrophic for them than it is for us.

One experiment which would go a long way towards proving the second theory would be to expose groups of Kolcorronians and Chamtethans to pink ptertha. No doubt Leddravohr will duly arrange for the experiment to be carried out if we enter a region where the pink globes are plentiful.

Dalacott broke off from his reading and glanced at the timepiece strapped to his wrist. It was of the type based on a toughened glass tube, preferred by the military in the absence of a compact and reliable chronometer. The pace beetle inside it was nearing the eighth division of the graduated cane shoot. The time of his final appointment was almost at hand.

He took a further measured sip of his wine and turned to the last entry in the diary. It had been made many days earlier, and after its completion he had abandoned the habit of a lifetime by ceasing to record each day’s activities and thoughts.

In a way that had been a symbolic suicide, preparing him for tonight’s actuality.… DAY 114. The war is over.

The ptertha plague has done our work for us.

In the space of only six days since the purple ptertha made their appearance in Chamteth the plague has raged the length and breadth of the continent, sweeping away its inhabitants in their millions. A swift and casual genocide!

We no longer have to progress on foot, fighting our way yard by yard against a dedicated enemy. Instead, we advance by airship, with our jets on continuous thrust. Travelling in that manner uses up large quantities of power crystals — both in the propulsion tubes and the anti-ptertha cannon — but such considerations are no longer important.

We are the proud possessors of an entire continent of mature brakka and veritable mountains of the green and purple. We share our riches with none. Leddravohr has not rescinded his order to take no prisoners, and the isolated handfuls of bewildered and demoralised Chamtethans we encounter are put to the sword.

I have flown over cities, towns and villages and farmlands where nothing lives except for wandering domestic animals. The architecture is impressive — clean, well-proportioned, dignified — but one has to admire it from afar. The stench of rotting corpses reaches high into the sky.

We are soldiers no longer.

We are the carriers of pestilence.

We ARE pestilence.

I have nothing more to say.

The night sky, although it had much less overall brightness than in Kolcorron, was spanned by a huge spiral of misty light, the arms of which sparkled with brilliant stars of white, blue and yellow. That wheel was flanked by two large elliptical spirals, and the rest of the celestial canopy was generously dappled with small whirlpools, wisps and patches of radiance, plus the glowing plumes of a number of comets. Although the Tree was not visible, the sky was overlaid with a field of major stars whose intensity made them seem closer than all the other heavenly objects, imparting a sense of depth to the display.

Toller was only accustomed to seeing those configurations when Land was at the opposite side of its path around the sun, at which time they were dominated and dimmed by the great disk of Overland. He stood unmoving in the dusk, watching starry reflections tremble on the broad quiet waters of the Orange River. All about him the myriad subdued lights of the Third Army’s headquarters glowed through the tree lanes of the forest, the days of open encampments having passed with the advent of the ptertha plague.

One question had been on his mind all day: Why should General Dalacott want a private interview with me?

He had spent several days of idleness at a transit camp twenty miles to the west — part of an army which, suddenly, had no work to do — and had been trying to adapt to the new pace of life when the battalion commander had ordered him to report to headquarters. On arrival he had been examined briefly by several officers, one of whom he thought might be Vorict, the adjutant-general. He had been told that General Dalacott wished to present him with valour disks in person. The various officers had plainly been puzzled by the unusual arrangement, and had discreetly pumped Toller for information before accepting that he was as unenlightened about the matter as they.

A young captain emerged from the nearby administrative enclosure, approached Toller through the spangled dimness and said, “Lieutenant Maraquine, the general will see you now.”

Toller saluted and went with the officer to a tent which, unexpectedly, was quite small and unadorned. The captain ushered him in and quickly departed. Toller stood at attention before a lean, austere-looking man who was seated at a portable desk. In the weak light from two field lanterns the general’s cropped hair could either have been white or blond, and he looked surprisingly young for a man with fifty years of distinguished service. Only his eyes seemed old, eyes which had seen more than was compatible with the ability to dream.

“Sit down, son,” he said. “This is a purely informal meeting.”

“Thank you, sir.” Toller took the indicated chair, his mystification growing.

“I see from your records that you entered the army less than a year ago as an ordinary line soldier. I know these are changed times, but wasn’t that unusual for a man of your social status?”

“It was specially arranged by Prince Leddravohr.”

“Is Leddravohr a friend of yours?”

Encouraged by the general’s forthright but amiable manner, Toller ventured a wry smile. “I cannot claim that honour, sir.”

“Good!” Dalacott smiled in return. “So you achieved the rank of lieutenant in less than a year through your own efforts.”

“It was a field commission, sir. It may not be given full endorsement.”

“It will.” Dalacott paused to sip from an enamelled cup. “Forgive me for not offering you refreshment — this is an exotic brew and I doubt if it would be to your taste.”

“I’m not thirsty, sir.”

“Perhaps you would like these instead.” Dalacott opened a compartment in his desk and took out three valour disks. They were circular flakes of brakka inlaid with white and red glass. He handed them to Toller and sat back to view his reactions.

“Thank you.” Toller fingered the disks and put them away in a pocket. “I’m honoured.”

“You disguise the fact quite well.”

Toller was embarrassed and disconcerted. “Sir, I didn’t intend any.…”

“It’s all right, son,” Dalacott said. “Tell me, is army life not what you expected?”

“Since I was a child I have dreamed of being a warrior, but.…”

“You were prepared to wipe an opponent’s blood from your sword, but you didn’t realise there would be smears of his dinner as well.”

Toller met the general’s gaze squarely. “Sir, I don’t understand why you brought me here.”

“I think it was to give you this.” Dalacott opened his right hand to reveal a small object which he dropped on to Toller’s palm.

Toller was surprised by its weight, by the massy impact of it on his hand. He held the object closer to the light and was intrigued by the colour and lustre of its polished surface. The colour was unlike any he had seen before, white but somehow more than white, resembling the sea when the sun’s rays were obliquely reflected from it at dawn. The object was rounded like a pebble, but might almost have been a miniature carving of a skull whose details had been worn away by time.