C M Kornbluth & Judith Merril - Gunner Cade

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Gunner Cade

C.M. Kornbluth & Judith

Merril

CHAPTER 1

Far below the sleeping loft, in ancient cellars of reinforced concrete, a relay closed in perfect silent

automaton adjustment; up through the Chapter House, the tiny noises multiplied and increased. The soft

whir of machinery in the walls; the gurgle of condensing fluid in conditioners; the thumping of cookers,

where giant ladles stirred the breakfast mash; the beat of pistons pumping water to the top.

Gunner Cade, consecrate Brother in the Order of Armsmen, compliant student of the Klin Philosophy,

and loyal citizen of the Realm of Man, stirred in his sleepbag on the scrubbed plastic floor. He half-heard

the rising sounds of the machinery of the House, and recognized the almost imperceptible change in the

rhythm of the air blowers. Not quite awake, he listened for the final sound of morning, the scraping noise

of the bars at windows and gates, as they drew back reluctantly into the stone walls.

It is fitting that the Emperor rules.

It is fitting that the Armsmen serve the Emperor through the Power Master and our particular Stars.

While this is so, all will be well, to the end of time.

The words came to his mind without effort, before he opened his eyes. He had not fumbled for them

since his sixth year, when, between his parents and himself, it had been somehow settled that he would

become a Brother of the Order. For at least the six thousandth time, his day began with the conscious

affirmation of Klin.

The bars grated in their grooves, and at the instant, the first light struck through the slits of windows

overhead. Cade shivered inside the scanty insulation of his bag and came fully awake, at once aware of

the meaning of the chill. This was a Battle Morn.

The air blew steadily stronger and colder from the conditioners, tingling against his skin as Cade slipped

from his sleepbag and folded it, deflated, into the precise small package that would fit the pocket of his

cloak. Timing each action by the habits of thirteen years, he unbuckled his gunbelt, removed the gun, and

closed away the belt and sleepbag in the locker that held his neatly folded uniform. It was by now

reflexive action to open the gun and check the charge, then close the waterproof seal.

BattleMorn! With mounting elation, Cade performed each meticulous detail of the morning routine, his

body operating like the smooth machine it was, while his mind woke gradually to the new day. He

thought vaguely of commoners lolling late in bed, mumbling a morning thought of the Emperor, and

breaking their fast at a grossly laden table. He thought vaguely of Klin teachers waking with subtle and

elaborate propositions that proved what any Gunner feels in his bones. He thought vaguely of his own

Star of France, doubtless haggard this morning after a night vigil of meditation on the fitting course.

He thought, too, of the Emperor—the Given Healer, the Given Teacher, the Given Ruler—but, like a

gun’s blast came the thought: That is not fitting.

Guiltily he brought his attention back to the bare room, and saw with dismay that Gunner Harrow still lay

in his bag, yawning and stretching.

The indecent gaping was infectious; Cade’s mouth opened first with amazement, then to say sharply:

“Battle Morn, Brother!”

“How does it find you?”Harrow replied courteously, unashamed.

“Awake,” Cade answered coolly, “and ready for a good death if that is fitting—or a decorous life if I am

spared today.”

The Marsman seemed to miss the reprimand entirely, but he climbed out of his bag and began to deflate

it. What kind of Chapter House did they have on Mars?

“How long till shower?” he asked, unconcerned.

“Seconds,” was Cade’s contemptuous answer. “Perhaps twenty or thirty:”

The Marsman sprang to life with a speed that would have done him credit under other circumstances.

Cade watched with disgust as the other Gunner rushed for the wall cabinet and stuffed away his

sleepbag, still unfolded, not yet fully drained of last night’s air. The gunbelt was thrown in on top, and the

cabinet door slammed shut, with only an instant left to seal the waterclosures of the gun. Then the ceiling

vents opened, and the needle spray showered down and around the room. A cool invigorating stream of

water splattered against the naked bodies of the men, cascaded down the three walls of the roam, and

drained out through the floor vent, leaving just enough dampness for the scouring by novices when the

Gunners had left the room.

Cade took his eyes from the Marsman and tried to tear away his thoughts as well. He watched devoutly

while the swirling waters struck each wall in turn, touching his gun to his lips, For the Teacher, at the first

impact; to his chest, For the Healer, at the next; and at the last, the long wall, to his brow, with awe, For

the Ruler, the Emperor.

He tried not to think ofHarrow in the room beside him, saluting the cleansing waters with an unchecked

charge in his gun. It was true, then, what they said about conditions on Mars. Laxity at any time was bad

enough, but to let the peril of sloth pass from the previous day through the purifying waters of a Battle

Morn was more than Cade could understand. A novice might meet the shower unprepared; an armiger

might fail to check his charge beforehand; but how didHarrow ever rise to the rank of Gunner? And why

was such a one sent to Cade on the eve of battle? Even now, his own Battle Morn meditations were

disturbed.

Anger is a peril at all times. And anger is acutely unfitting on Battle Morn before the Klin teacher’s

lesson. Cade refused to think of it further. The water vents closed, and he dressed without regard for the

Marsman.

Each garment had its thought, soothing and enfolding: they brought peace.

UNDERSUIT: Like this the Order embraces the Realm.

SHIRT: The Order protects the Power Master, slave of the brain, loyal heart of the Realm.

HOSE: Armsmen are sturdy pillars; without them the

Realm cannot stand, but without the Realm the Order can not live.

BOOTS: Gunners march where the Emperor wills; that is their glory.

HELMET: The Order protects the Emperor—the Given Teacher, the Given Healer, the Given

Ruler—the brain and life of the Realm.

CLOAK: Like this the Order wraps the Realm and shields it.

Again he touched his gun to his lips, For the Teacher; to his chest, For the Healer, to his brow, with

awe, For the Ruler, the Emperor.

Briskly he released the waterclosures and dropped the gun into the belt on his hip. A gong sounded in

the wall, and Cade went to a cabinet for two steaming bowls of concentrate, freshly prepared in the giant

mash cookers far below. “Brother?”Harrow called across the open door.

Silence at this time was customary but not mandatory, Cade reminded himself—andHarrow was new

to this Chapter.

“Yes, Brother,” he said.

“Are there other Marsmen among us?”

“I know no others,” Cade said, and congratulated himself on that fact. “How would it concern you?”

“It would please me,”Harrow said formally. “A man likes to be among his own people in time of

battle.”

Cade could not answer him at first. What sort of talk was this? One didn’t call himself a man in the

Order. There were novices, armigers, Gunners, the Gunners Superior, and Arle himself, the Gunner

Supreme. They were your brothers, elder or younger.

“You are among your own people,” he said gently, refusing to allow himself to be tempted into the

peril of anger. “We are your brothers all.”

“But I am new among you,” the other said. “My brothers here are strangers to me.”

That was more reasonable. Cade could still remember his first battle for the Star of France, after he

left the Denver Chapter, where he spent his youth. “Your brothers will soon be beside you in battle,” he

reminded the newcomer. “An Armsman who has fought by your side is no stranger.”

“That will be tomorrow.” Harrow smiled. “And if I live through today, I shall not be here long after.”

“Where, then?”

“Back to Mars!”

“How can that be?” Cade demanded. “Mars-born Gunners fight for Earthly Stars. Earth-born

Gunners fight for the Star of Mars. That’s fitting.”

“Perhaps so, Brother; perhaps so. But a letter from my father at home says our Star has petitioned the

Emperor to allow him all Mars-born Armsmen, and I would be one of them.”

“Your Star is the Star of France,” said Cade sharply. He himself had received Harrow’s assignment

yesterday, sealed by the Power Master, and counter sealed by the Gunner Supreme. He was silent a

moment, then could contain himself no longer. “By all that’s fitting,” he asked, “what sort of talk is this?

Why does an Armsman speak of himself as a man? And how can you think of your ‘own people,’ other

than your brothers in arms?”

The Mars-born Gunner hesitated. “It’s newer on Mars. Six hundred years isn’t a long time. We have

a proverb—‘Earth is changeless, but Mars is young.’ Families—I am descended from Erik Hogness and

Mary Lara, who mapped the Northern Hemisphere long ago. I know my cousins because of that. We all

are descended from Erik Hogness and Mary Lara, who mapped the Northern Hemisphere. I don’t

suppose you know anything about your eight-times great-grandfather or what he may have done?”

“I presume,” said Cade stiffly, “that he did what was fitting to his station, as I will do what is fitting to

mine.”

“Exactly,” said Harrow, and fell silent—disconcertingly resembling a man who had wrung an

admission from an opponent and won an argument by it.

Cade went stiffly to the door and opened it, leaving the empty bowls for Harrow to return. The line of

Armsmen came in sight down the corridor, and they waited at attention to take their place among the

Gunners, marching in silence and with downcast eyes along the route of procession to the lectory.

Seated on the front row of benches, with twenty rows apiece of armigers and novices behind, Cade

was grateful that the Klin teacher had not yet arrived. It left time for him to dispel the perilous mood of

irritation and suspicion. By the time the man did appear, Cade’s troubled spirits had resolved into the

proper quiet glow of appreciation.

It was fitting to be a Gunner; it was fitting to be a Klin teacher; they were almost brothers in their

dedication. The glow nearly vanished when the man began to speak.

Cade had heard many teachers who’d been worse; it made not a particle of difference in the Klin

Philosophy whether it was expounded by a subtle, able teacher or a half-trained younger son of a Star,

as this fellow appeared to be; what was fitting was fitting and would be until the end of time. But on a

Battle Morn, Cade thought, a senior teacher might have been a reasonable tribute. The peril of pride,

came a thought like a gun’s blast, and he recoiled. In contrition he listened carefully, marking the

youngster’s words.

“Since the creation of the worlds ten thousand years ago the Order of Armsmen has existed and

served the Emperor through the Power Master and the Stars. Klin says of armed men: They must be

poor, because riches make men fear to lose them, and fear is unfitting in an Armsman. They must be

chaste, because love of woman makes men love their rulers—the word rulers here means, as always,

with Klin, the Emperor—less. They must be obedient, because the consequence of disobedience is to

make men refuse even the most gloriously profitable death. These are the words of Klin, set down ten

thousand years ago at the creation of the worlds.”

It was wonderful, thought Cade, wonderful how it had all occurred together: the creation of the

worlds, the Emperor to rule them, the Order to serve him, and the Klin Philosophy to teach them how to

serve. The fitness and beautiful economy of it never failed to awe him. He wondered if this creation was

somehow The Fitness, the original of which all others were reflections.

The teacher leaned forward, speaking directly to those in the front row. “You Gunners are envied, but

you do not envy. Klin says of you Gunners: ‘They must be always occupied with fiddling details’—I

should perhaps explain that a fiddle was a musical instrument; fiddling hence means harmonious, or

proper. Another possibility is that fiddling is an error for fitting, but our earliest copies fail to bear this

out—‘with fiddling details so they will have no time to think. Let armed men think, and the fat’s in the

fire.’ “

Good old Klin! thought Cade affectionately. He liked the occasional earthy metaphors met within the

Reflections on Government. Stars and their courts sometimes diverted themselves for a day or two by

playing at commoners’ life; the same playfulness appeared in Klin when he took an image from the

kitchen or the factory. The teacher was explaining the way Klin’s usage of think as applied to anybody

below the rank of a Star was equated with the peril of pride, and how the homely kitchen metaphor

meant nothing less than universal ruin. “For Klin, as usual, softens the blow.”

Irresistibly Cade’s thoughts wandered to a subject he loved. As the young teacher earnestly

expounded, the Gunner thought of the grandeur of the Klin Philosophy: how copies of the Reflections

were cherished in all the Chapter Houses of the Order, in al! the cities of all the Stars of Earth, on

sparsely settled Venus, the cold moons of the monster outer planets, on three manmade planetoids, and

on Mars. What could be wrong with Harrow? How could he have gone awry with the Klin Philosophy to

guide him? Was it possible that the teachers on Mars failed to explain Klin adequately? Even commoners

on Earth heard teachers expound the suitable portion of the Philosophy. But Cade was warmly aware

that the Armsmen’s study of Klin was more profound and pure than the commoners’.

“...so I come to a subject which causes me some pain.” Cade brought his mind back sharply to the

words of the teacher. This was the crucial part, the thing he had been waiting to hear. “It is not easy to

contemplate willful wickedness, but I must tell you that unfit deeds fill the heart of the Star of Muscovy.

Through certain sources our Star of France has learned that pride and greed possess his brother to the

north. With sorrow he discovered that the Star of Muscovy intends to occupy Alsace-Lorraine with his

Gunners. With sorrow he ordered your Superior to make ready for whatever countermeasures may be

fit, and it has been done. As you know, this is Battle Morn.”

Cade’s heart thumped with rage at the proud and greedy Star of Muscovy.

“Klin says of such as the Star of Muscovy: “The wicked you have always with you. Make them your

governors. Governors is used metaphorically, in the obsolete sense of a device to regulate the speed of a

heat engine—hence, the passage means that when a wicked person is bent on unfit deeds, you should

increase your efforts toward fit and glorious deeds to counter him. There are many interesting images in

the Reflections drawn from the world of pre-electronic—but that is by the way. I was saying that this is

Battle Morn, and that before the sun has set, many of you may have died. So I say to all of you, not

knowing which will have the fortune: go on your fitting and glorious task without the peril of pride, and

remember that there is nobody in the Realm of Man who would not eagerly change places with you.”

He stepped down, and Cade bowed his head for the thought: The Klin Philosophy in a Gunner is like

the charge in his gun. It was a favorite of his, saying so much in so little if you had only a moment, but if

you had more time, it went on and on, drawing beautifully precise parallels for every circuit and element

of the gun. But there was no time for that; the Superior, the Gunner Superior to the Star of France, had

appeared. He cast a worried glance at a window, through which the sun could be seen, and began at

once:

“Brothers, our intelligence is that one hundred Gunners, more or less, are now flying from an unknown

Muscovite base to occupy the Forbach-Sarralbe triangle on the border of our Star’s realm. Time of

arrival—I can only say ‘this afternoon or evening’ and hope I am correct. The importance of the area is

incalculable. It was a top secret until the information evidently got to Muscovy. There is iron ore in the

district.”

A murmur swept the lectory, and Cade murmured with the rest in astonishment. Iron ore on Earth!

Power metal still to be found on the ten-thousand-year-old planet after ten thousand years of mining for

the stuff that drove engines and charged guns! All reserves were supposed to have been exhausted four

hundred years ago; that was why rust-red Mars had been colonized, and from rust-red Mars for four

hundred years had come Earth’s iron.

“Enough, Brothers! Enough! Our plan will be roughly the same as that employed in our raid last month

on Aachen—two divisions to the front, one in reserve. The first company, under me, will be based at

Dieuze, about forty kilometers south of the triangle. The second company, under Gunner Cade, will be

based at Metz, fifty kilometers west of the triangle. The third company will be in reserve, based at

Nancy, seventy kilometers southwest of the triangle. The companies will proceed to their bases in

two-man fliers immediately after this briefing.

“After arrival and the establishment of communication, my company and Gunner Cade’s will send out

air scouts to reconnoiter the triangle. If no enemy action is discovered from the air, scouts will parachute

for recon on foot. The orders I will issue from that point on will depend on their reports. Man your fliers

and take off at once, Brothers. May your deeds today be fitting and glorious.”

CHAPTER 2

Cade, icily calm, ran from the Chapter House two hundred meters to the flying field. He was not panting

when he swung himself easily into his little craft. His fingers flew over the unlabeled switches and dials of

the control panel. It had been many years since he’d relied on mnemonic jingles to recall the order and

setting of the more than two hundred controls. As the red electronic warm-up fog misted from the tail of

the flier, his passenger, Armiger Kemble, vaulted in and was immediately slammed back against his

uncushioned seat by a 3.25-G takeoff.

Paris was a blur beneath them, the Paris that Cade, Denver-born, had seen only from the air and the

windows of the Chapter House. Minutes later Reims flashed past to their left. The braking and landing in

the square at Metz were as cruel as the takeoff. Cade had never spared himself or anybody else on

service, though he did not know that he was famous for it.

“Brother,” he said to the battered armiger, “line up the command set on Dieuze and Nancy.” To his

disgust, Kemble juggled with the map, the compass, and the verniers of the aiming circle for two minutes,

until he had laid beams on the fields at the reserve base and the other front-line command post. The peril

of pride, he guiltily thought, choking down his annoyance. The twelve other ships of his company had

landed by then.

“Brother Cade,” said the voice of the Superior. “Scouts out!”

“Scouts out, Brother,” he said, and waved two fliers aloft. From them a monotonous drone of “No

enemy action” began over the command set.

The tune changed after five minutes: “Rendezvous with first company scouts over Forbach. No enemy

action.”

“Brother Cade,” said the Superior, “order your scouts to jump. My fliers will provide cover.”

Cade ordered: “Second-company scouts—Gunner Orris, take over Gunner Meynall’s flier on slave

circuit. Brother Meynall, parachute into Forbach for recon on foot. Armiger Raymond, recon

Sarreguemines. Armiger Bonfils, recon Sarralbe.”

Brothers Meynall, Raymond, and Bonfils reported successful landings. The Gunner in Forbach said, “No

commoners about at all. As usual. I’m in the village square headed for the phone exchange. No en—“

There was the sound of a gun and no further report.

Cade opened the Raymond-Bonfils circuit to the Superior and reserve company and snapped: “Take

cover. Forbach is occupied. Gunner Orris, return to base with fliers immediately.”

The Superior’s voice said: “First-company fliers return to base immediately. Brothers Raymond and

Bonfils, report!”

Armiger Raymond’s voice said: “Sarreguemines is empty of commoners. I’ve taken cover in the

basement of a bakery whose windows command the square. I see movement at the windows of a

building across the square—the town hall, phone exchange, water department, and I don’t know what

else. It’s just a village.”

“Brother Bonfils, report!” There was no answer.

“Brother Raymond, stand fast. We shall mount an attack. Hold your fire until the enemy is engaged, and

then select targets of opportunity. You will regard yourself as expendable.”

“Yes, Brother.”

“Third company at Nancy, you are alerted. Second company and third company, rendezvous with first

company in ten minutes, at ten-thirty-six hours, two kilometers south of the Sarralbe town square. Align

your fliers for unloading to fight on foot; we shall conduct a frontal assault on Sarralbe and clear it of the

enemy. The third company will be on the left wing, the second company will be our center, and the first

company will be on the right wing. Gunner Cade, you will detail one flier to amuse the enemy with a

parachute attack on the town hall as our skirmishers reach the square. Into action, Brothers.”

“Load!” yelled Cade to his company, and they tumbled into their craft. On the slave circuit he took the

fliers up in dress-parade style, hurled them to the rendezvous, and released the ships for individual

landings. The first company was aligned straight as a string to his right, and moments later the third

company touched down.

His armiger Kemble had done a most unsatisfactory job lining up the communications, Cade reflected,

but it was not fitting in a Gunner to hold a grievance. “Brother,” he said, “I’ve chosen you to conduct the

diversion our Superior ordered.”

The youngster straightened proudly. “Yes, Brother,” he said, repressing a pleased grin.

Cade spoke into his command set: “Gunner Orris. You will remain here in your flier during the attack,

with Armiger Kemble as a passenger. On my signal, you will take off and fly over the Sarralbe town hall,

dropping Brother Kemble by parachute to create a diversion. After dropping him, return your flier to its

present position and dismount to join the attack on foot.”

The armiger climbed out of Cade’s flier to head for Orris’ craft, but hesitated on the ground and turned

to brag: “I’ll bet I get a dozen of them before they get me.”

“Well, perhaps, Brother,” said Cade, and this time the grin did break out as the armiger marched down

the line. Cade hadn’t wanted to discourage him, but the only Muscovite gunman he had a chance of

killing before he was picked off in midair was their roof spotter. But how could he be expected to

understand? Thirty seconds of confusion among the enemy could be vastly more important than killing

thirty of their best Gunners.

The clock said 1036; men boiled out of the fliers and formed a skirmish line carefully ragged. The raised

right arm of the Superior, far on the right of the line, went down, and the Brothers began to trudge

forward, all with the same solid, deliberate style....

Cade’s eyes were on anywhere but his boots; they were scanning bushes for untoward movements, the

ground for new dirt cast up in the digging of a foxhole, trees for unnatural man-sized clumps of foliage

among the branches. But somehow he felt his feet in his boots, not painfully but happily. Gunners march

where the Emperor wills; that is their glory.

Off to the right a gun blasted. The Superior’s voice said in his Hemet: “Enemy observation post, one

novice. We got him, but now they’re alerted in town.” He told the man flanking him: “Enemy O.P.

spotted us. Pass the word, Brothers.” It murmured down the line. Brothers who had absently let

themselves drift into a dress-parade rank noticed it and lagged or heel-and-toed until the line was

properly irregular again.

It was done none too soon. Some thirty meters to the left of Cade the excellently camouflaged lid of a

firing pit flipped up as the line passed. The Muscovite blasted two armigers with a single shot before he

was killed. Defilading fire into a straight rank would have netted him twenty. The wood grew thicker, and

direct flank contact was lost. “Scouts out,” said the Superior’s voice, and Cade waved two Gunners

forward.

Their eloquent arms were the eyes of the company. One upraised, and the company saw possible

danger; it halted. The upraised arm down and forward, and the company saw safety; it trudged on. Both

arms moved forward in a gesture like clasping a great bundle of straw, and the company was alarmed by

something inexplicable; it inched forward with guns drawn, faces tingling. Both arms beating down like

vultures’ wings, and the company was face-to-face with grinning death; it hurled its fifty bodies to the

ground to dodge the whistling scythe.

Grinding himself into the ground while his eyes methodically scanned before him for the well-concealed

Muscovite combat patrol that had been harassing them, Cade thought: It is fitting that we Gunmen serve.

He saw the unnatural movement of a bush and incinerated it. In the heart of the blaze was a black thing

that capered and gibbered like a large ape: one more of the enemy charred to nonexistence. His blast had

given away his position; automatically he snap-rolled two meters and saw flame blaze from a tree’s lower

branches to the spot he’d fired from. Before the blast from the tree expired he had answered it.

He thought: While this is so, all will be well to the end of time.

The surviving scout’s arm went up with an air of finality. The company halted, and the scout trotted back

to Cade. “Ten meters of scrub and underbrush, and then the town. Three rows of four-story stone

houses, and then the square, as I recall. The underbrush is clear. But those windows looking down on it!”

“Plunging fire,” Cade muttered, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from beside him. He turned to

look sternly on the young armiger with the stricken face, but before he could reprove the lad, he heard

Harrow, the Marsman, intervene.

“I hate it too,” the Gunner said, and the unexpected note of sympathy broke the youngster completely.

“I can’t stand it,” he babbled hysterically. “That feeling you get when it’s coming at you from above, and

all the ground cover in the world won’t help—all you can do is run! I can’t stand it!”

“Quiet him,” Cade said with disgust, and someone led the armiger away, but not before Cade noted his

name. He would deal with it later.

“Brother,” Harrow spoke in his ear earnestly.

“What is it?” Cade snapped.

“Brother, I have an idea.” He hesitated, but as Cade turned impatiently away, he rushed on: “Brother,

let’s give them plunging fire. No one would have to know.”

“What are you talking about?” Cade asked blankly. “There aren’t any trees high enough or near

enough.”

The Marsman said wildly: “Cade, don’t pretend to me. I can’t be the only Gunner who ever thought of

it! Who’s going to know the difference? I mean—“ His throat sealed; he couldn’t get the words out.

“I’m glad to see you have some shame left,” Cade said disgustedly. “I know what you mean.” He turned

aside and called out: “Bring back the coward armiger! Now,” he went on as soon as the youngster was

with them, “I want you to learn for yourself the consequences of submitting to the peril of fear. Your

outburst made Gunner Harrow propose that we—we fire on the houses from our fliers.”

The armiger looked down at his feet for a long moment and then faced his commander. He said

hoarsely, “I didn’t know there were people like that, sir. Sir, I should like to request the honor of being

permitted to draw fire for our men.”

“You have earned no honors,” Cade snapped. “Nor does your rank entitle you to privileged requests.”

He looked meaningfully at the Mars-born Gunner.

Harrow wiped sweat from his face. “I would have got back to Mars,” he said bitterly, “back with my

own people, if I’d lived through this one.”

“You deserve less than this, Gunner Harrow,” Cade pronounced sternly into a sudden listening silence.

The firing was momentarily stilled; the enemy was awaiting their action. All the Armsmen of France within

hearing distance of the episode had edged closer to be in on the final outcome. Cade seized the moment

to impress an unforgettable lesson on his men. He said loudly:

“Klin wrote: ‘Always assume mankind is essentially merciful; nothing else explains why crooks are

regularly returned to office.’ If you know as little of the Philosophy as you do of decency, Brother, I

should explain that a crook is an implement formerly used by good shepherds and in this case stands, by

a figure of speech, for the good shepherd himself. I shall obey Klin’s precept of mercy. We need a

Gunner to draw fire from the house windows so we can spot those which are—are you listening to me?”

The Mars-born Gunner was mumbling to himself; he looked up and said clearly, “Yes, Brother, I’m

listening.” But his lips kept moving as Cade went on: “We have to draw fire from the house windows so

we can see which are manned, blast them with a volley, and take the house in a rush.”

“Yes, Brother, I’ll draw their fire,” said Harrow.

Cade wheeled suddenly and confronted the rest of his company. “Are you Armsmen,” he demanded

fiercely, “or commoner kitchen gossips? Back to your posts before the enemy discovers your weakness!

And may the fighting scourge your minds of this memory. Such things are better forgotten.”

He called the first and third companies on his helmet phone and filled them in—saying nothing of the

disgraceful episode.

“Well done,” the Superior told him. “Rush the first row of houses immediately; we have your coordinates

and will follow behind after you have secured a house or two.”

Harrow’s muttering had started again and became loud enough during the conversation to be a nuisance.

He was repeating to himself:

“It is fitting that the Emperor rules.”

“It is fitting that the Power Master serves him.”

“It is fitting that we Gunmen serve the Emperor through the Power Master and our particular Stars.”

“While this is so, all will be well until the end of time.”

Cade could not very well rebuke him.

Harrow distinguished himself in drawing fire from the house windows. In such an operation there is the

risk that—well, call him the target—that the target will walk out in a state of exaltation, thinking more of

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GunnerCadeC.M.Kornbluth&JudithMerril CHAPTER1Farbelowthesleepingloft,inancientcellarsofreinforcedconcrete,arelayclosedinperfectsilentautomatonadjustment;upthroughtheChapterHouse,thetinynoisesmultipliedandincreased.Thesoftwhirofmachineryinthewalls;thegurgleofcondensingfluidinconditioners;...

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C M Kornbluth & Judith Merril - Gunner Cade.pdf

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C M Kornbluth & Judith Merril - Gunner Cade

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