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Pandora’s Legions

by Christopher Anvil

Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

The various parts of Pandora’s Legions were previously published in the following: Part I as “Pandora's Planet” in Astounding,

September 1956. The story was later incorporated as the first seven chapters in the novel Pandora's Planet, published by Doubleday

in 1972 and reissued by DAW Books in 1973. The remaining portions of that novel, somewhat revised, now constitute Parts II, IV, VI

and VIII of this volume. Part III was originally published as “Pandora’s Envoy” in Analog, April 1961. Part V was originally published

as “The Toughest Opponent” in Analog, August 1962. Part VII was originally published as “Trap” in Analog, March 1969. “Sweet

Reason” was originally published in IF, June 1966.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31861-6

Cover art by Patrick Turner

First printing, February 2002

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

TO BE SEEN IS TO BE HIT

Horsip went off to see his Planetary Integration staff, now working happily on plans for final integration

of the planet Earth into the Integral Union, and Moffis went along. Horsip described the appalling number

of wrecked and sabotaged ground-cars.

A precocious-looking individual, with large eye-correctors and thin hair on his hands, addressed Moffis

in a peevish voice. “I fail to understand how it can be possible for the natives to approach the vehicles

without being apprehended.”

Horsip put in quickly, “He means, why aren’t the humans seen?”

Moffis, whose furry face was glowing red, said fiercely, “Because it’s night, that’s why! They can’t be

seen!”

“A simple solution. Carry the operation out in daytime.”

Moffis gritted his teeth. “We can’t. Every time a car slows down in the daytime, some sharpshooter half

a drag away puts a dart through the tires.”

Moffis’ questioner stared at him. “Oh,” he said suddenly, looking relieved, “exaggeration-for-

conversational-effect.”

“What?” demanded Moffis.

“How far the native’s gun could shoot with accuracy,” Horsip hastily interpreted. “He thought you

meant it.”

“I did mean it,” said Moffis.

There was a sound of uneasy movement in the room. “Theoretically impossible,” said someone.

Moffis glared at him. “Would you care to come up and lie down behind a tire?”

BAEN BOOKS by CHRISTOPHER ANVIL

Pandora’s Legions

BAEN BOOKS BY ERIC FLINT

Joe’s World series:

The Philosophical Strangler

Forward the Mage (with Richard Roach)

(forthcoming)

Mother of Demons

1632

Rats, Bats, and Vats (with Dave Freer)

Pyramid Scheme (with Dave Freer)

The Shadow of the Lion

(with Mercedes Lackey and Dave Freer)

(forthcoming)

The Tyrant (forthcoming)

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny’s Shield

Fortune’s Stroke

The Tide of Victory

By James H. Schmitz, edited by Eric Flint:

Telzey Amberdon

T’nT: Telzey & Trigger

Trigger & Friends

The Hub: Dangerous Territory

Agent of Vega & Other Stories

By Keith Laumer, edited by Eric Flint:

Retief!

Odyssey (forthcoming)

Part I: Pandora’s Planet

Klide Horsip, Planetary Integrator, prided himself on being much more than a jailer. Each advance of the

Integral Union meant more occupied planets, and each one of these planets, like a single tiny component in a

giant magnet, must be brought into line with the rest. This was Klide Horsip’s job, and he settled to it now with

relish.

“Phase I is complete?” he insisted, emphasizing the word.

Brak Moffis, the Military Overseer, smiled ruefully, “Not quite as complete as it often is on these humanoid -

planets.”

“Then give me a brief summary of the details,” said Horsip. He cast a quick glance out the landing-boat’s

window at the curve of the blue and green world below. “Looks promising enough.”

“Well,” said Moffis, “as far as that goes, it is. It’s a Centra-type planet, mean diameter about 0.8, with gravity,

oxygen, and temperature ideally suited to human and humanoid life. The percentage of water surface is higher

than on Centra—about seventy-five per cent—but it’s well distributed, and helps moderate the climate. There are

plenty of minerals, including massive quantities of deep nickel-iron that hasn’t yet been touched.”

Horsip nodded. “And the inhabitants?”

“The usual types of plant and animal life—and, the humanoids.”

“Ah, we come to the main point. What stage were the humanoids in when you landed?”

Brak Moffis looked at Horsip and gave a wry smile. “Technologically,” said Moffis, “they were very near

Centra 0.9, and in some areas higher.”

“You aren’t serious?”

The Military Overseer shook his head and looked away. “You wouldn’t ask me that if you’d been in on the

invasion. Perhaps you’ve heard of Centralis II?”

“The hell-planet! Who hasn’t heard of it?” Horsip let his voice show impatience. “What of it?”

“Well,” said Moffis, “that gives us ground for comparison. This was worse. Thirty per cent of the Initial

Landing Parties were vaporized the first day. Another fifty per cent had their sites eliminated by the second day,

and were pinned to the earth that day or the day after. The whole second wave had to funnel through the

remaining twenty per cent of sites in isolated regions, and of course that meant the natives retained effective

control of the situation everywhere it counted. If you’ll imagine yourself wrestling one of the giant snakes of

Goa, you’ll have a good idea of our position.” He raised a hand as Horsip, frowning, started to speak. “Let me

summarize. Thirty per cent of our selected sites were eliminated, fifty per cent were in desperate straits, and the

remaining twenty per cent were jampacked, overloaded, and only meant for secondary purposes in the first

place. All this, mind you, despite the fact that the natives let off a couple of incomplete attacks on each other

during the initial stages.”

“Hysteria?” scowled Horsip.

“Regional rivalries,” said Moffis.

“Well,” said Horsip, “give the censorship another silver nova for efficiency. All I ever heard of this was that it

was proceeding ‘according to schedule.’ ”

“It was,” said Moffis, “but it wasn’t our schedule.”

“I see,” said Horsip, his face disapproving. “Well, what did you do?”

“Organized our established sites as fast as possible, and improvised new ones in chosen locations connecting

the outer sites to form a defensive perimeter.”

“Defensive!”

“That was what it boiled down to.”

“What about the other sites—the fifty per cent under attack?”

“We supplied them as well as we could. When we were built up enough, we started a heavy thrust to split the

enemy—I mean, native forces—and at the same time ordered a simultaneous break-out of the surrounded units

toward common centers. The idea was to build up strong enough groups so they could fight their way to the

perimeter.”

“You were actually giving up the original sites?” Horsip looked at the Military Overseer with an expression of

offended disbelief.

Moffis looked back coldly. “I’m telling you all this in detail so you’ll understand it wasn’t the usual matter of

slaughtering a molk in a stall, and so you’ll be ready in case you run into anything. I’m telling you we had a

rough tossing around in the beginning. Maybe you’ll have a better idea when I tell you one of our northern

groups of Initial Landing Parties ran into this routine:

“The natives vaporized the center of each site with a nuclear bomb, contained the troops remaining in each

site with minimum forces, then switched a heavy reserve from one Landing Party to the next, slaughtering them

one-after-the-other, in succession. This wasn’t brilliance on their part; this was their usual level of

performance.”

Horsip swallowed and looked serious.

Moffis noted Horsip’s reaction and nodded. “I’m no more used to being on the defensive than you are, and I

can assure you I didn’t enjoy a minute of it. But that’s what we were up against. We managed to recover just one

large group—about eighteen per cent—of the original Landing Parties, then we pulled back into our perimeter

under heavy attack. We had to bring the Fleet down into the atmosphere to get at their communications. At that

the ships took losses of better than one-in-five despite the meteor guards. It was touch-and-go for three weeks,

then we got the edge, and by the end of the month we had them hamstrung. Then we had some terrific fighting

when we broke out of the defensive perimeter. But we won. At the end, we crushed them piecemeal.”

“How long did this take?” asked Horsip.

“A hundred and twenty-seven of the planet’s days,” said Moffis. “Their day is roughly the same length as a

day on Centra.”

“I see,” said Horsip, “and ten to twelve days is considered average.”

“Averages don’t count with something worse than Centralis II.”

Horsip looked out at the planet, growing big as the landing-boat swung closer. As he watched, he saw a

region of pits and craters, a part of the globe that looked as if an angry giant had beat on it with a sledge

hammer. He turned away, as if to change the subject.

“What,” he asked, “do these humanoid natives look like?”

“A lot like us. They have a pair of anterior and a pair of posterior appendages, one head, eyes, ears, and nose.

They walk upright, and have opposable thumbs on the anterior appendages.”

“Any significant marking-differences?”

Moffis swallowed. “A few.”

“Good,” said Horsip, relaxing a bit. “That will save us the trouble of marking them.” When Moffis remained

quiet, Horsip turned impatiently. “Well, don’t just sit there. Enumerate them. What are the differences?”

“A bigger skull,” said Moffis, “with a larger brow and a less prominent nose. The females are practically

hairless over the greater portion of their bodies, and so are the males, though in less degree.”

“Very good,” said Horsip, nodding approval. “What else?”

“The vestigial tail is almost completely absorbed. There’s no visible stump at all. And the head is set more

nearly erect on the body.”

“Splendid! Yes, very good indeed.” Horsip looked vastly pleased. “You realize the implications?”

“I don’t see anything good about it,” said Moffis.

“Oh, come, man,” said Horsip. “You’ve had a difficult experience, but don’t let it distort your values. This is a

propitious start for Planetary Integration. These folk are self-marked, by nature. We’ll have no mixed-race

trouble here, nor any of the usual marking difficulties, either.”

Horsip paused in thought, snapped his fingers and added, “For instance, look at the words that apply to these

natives: big-headed, hairless, flat-nosed—”

“But they aren’t flat-nosed.”

“What does that matter? Didn’t you say their noses were smaller?”

“Well, yes. But not flat.”

Horsip waved his hand. “Never mind that. We’ll call them flat-nosed. Now let’s see. Big-headed, hairless, flat-

nosed. Wasn’t there another—”

“Tailless,” supplied Moffis, without enthusiasm.

“Yes, tailless. Well—” Horsip leaned back, and a smile of creative enjoyment crossed his face—“we’ll call them

‘Puff-skulled, hairless, flat-nosed, lop-tails.’ Let’s see any of our rowdy young bloods try to mate with them after

that.”

“They will,” said Moffis tonelessly.

“But not officially,” said Horsip. “And that’s what counts.” He looked down with pleasurable anticipation at

the planet grown large beneath them. He rubbed his hands. “Well,” he said, “this is going to be pleasant work. A

treat, Moffis.”

Moffis shut his eyes as if to ease a pain.

“I hope so,” he said.

A strong guard of heavily-armed soldiers awaited them in the landing area, itself ringed by several formidable

lines of spike-bar barriers, thickly sown with leaping-mine trip wires, and covered by deeply dug-in splat-gun

emplacements.

Horsip looked the defenses over curiously as he walked with Moffis to a heavily-armored ground-car. He

noted that the soldiers carried out their orders readily enough, but without a certain verve usual on newly-

conquered planets. “Trouble?” he asked.

Moffis glanced around uneasily. “Roving bands,” he said. “You think you’ve got them wiped out, and they pop

up again somewhere else.”

They got into the ground-car, an order was shouted outside, and the convoy began to move off. It wound out

onto the road like a giant chuffing snake, moving jerkily as gaps opened and closed between vehicles. The going

was bumpy till they got out onto the main road, then the cars moved smoothly along. At this stage, Horsip raised

up to peer out a shuttered slit in the side of his vehicle. For a hundred yards back from the side of the road, the

vegetation was a burnt black. He scowled.

Moffis read his thoughts. “Yes, clearing the roadside is an unusual precaution. But it’s either that or get

plastered with a can of inflammable liquid when you go by in the car.”

“Such an unnecessary width might indicate fear to the natives.”

Moffis suppressed a snort.

Horsip looked at him coldly. “Isn’t that so?”

“Maybe,” said Moffis. “And maybe it indicates fear to a molk when you put heavier bars on his stall. But the

main idea is, not to get gored.”

“We’ve already conquered these lop-tails.”

“Some of them don’t know it yet. That’s the trouble.”

“We won’t convince them by being frightened.”

“We won’t convince them by being dead, either.”

Horsip looked at Moffis coldly. His heavy brows came together and he opened his mouth.

There was a dull boom from somewhere up ahead. Their car slowed suddenly, swerved, and then rolled

forward so fast they were thrown hard back against the cushions. Something spanged against the side of the car.

The snapping whack of a splat-gun sounded up ahead, was joined by others, and rose to a crescendo as they

raced forward and passed to one side of the uproar. Acrid fumes momentarily filled the car, making Horsip

cough and his eyes run. Somewhere in the background there was an unfamiliar hammering thud that jarred

Horsip’s nerves. There was another explosion, and another, now well to the rear. Then the car slowed with a

loud squeal from the machinery. Horsip was thrown forward, then slammed back hard as the car raced ahead

again. As they settled into a fast steady run, he turned to Moffis with a thoughtful frown. “How much farther do

we have to go?”

“We should be about a quarter of the way.”

Horsip sat, pale and thoughtful, beside Moffis, who sat, pale and gloomy, all the way to Horsip’s new

headquarters.

The site of the new headquarters was not well chosen to convey the effect of untouchable superiority. The site

consisted of a large, blackened mountain with a concrete tunnel entrance at the base. The mountain bristled

with air-defense cannon, was pocked and lined with shell holes, trenches, bunkers, and spike-bar barriers.

Around the tunnel entrance at the base, the barriers, cannon, and splat-gun emplacements were so thick as to

excite ridicule. Horsip was about to comment on it when he noted a huge thing like a monster turtle some

hundred-and-fifty yards from the entrance. He felt the hair on his neck, back, and shoulders bristle.

“What’s that?”

Moffis peered out the slit. “One of the humanoids’ traveling forts.”

Horsip stared at the long thick cannon that pointed straight at the tunnel entrance. He swallowed. “Ah . . . is

it disarmed?” The ground-car’s armor plating suddenly seemed very thin. “It is, isn’t it?”

Moffis said, “Not exactly. Our engineers are studying it.”

“You don’t mean the humanoids are still in control of it?”

“Oh, no,” said Moffis. “The concussion from our bombardment apparently killed them. Our experts are inside

it, trying to figure out the mechanism.”

“Oh.” Horsip, as his angle of view changed, saw an armored ground-car gradually come into sight, parked

near the alien fort. He damned himself for his scare. Of course, the thing was disarmed. But he could not help

noticing how ineffectual the ground-car looked beside it. He cleared his throat.

“How many of those, ah, ‘moving forts’ did the humanoids have?”

“Hundreds of them,” said Moffis.

They rode in silence through the massive concrete entrance, and Horsip felt an unexpected sense of relief as

the thick layer of earth, rock, and cement intervened between himself and the alien world. They rode downward

for a long distance, then got out of the ground-car. Moffis showed Horsip around his new headquarters, which

consisted of a large suite of rooms comfortably fitted-out; several outer offices with files, clerks, and thick bound

volumes of maps and data; and a private inner office paneled in dark wood, with Horsip’s desk and chair on a

raised dais, and a huge flag of Centra hanging behind it.

Horsip looked everything over in complete silence. Then he looked again around the private office at the

desk, dais, and flag. He cleared his throat.

“Let’s go into my suite. Do you have the time?”

“I suppose so,” said Moffis gloomily. “There isn’t a great deal I can do, anyway.”

Horsip looked at him sharply, then led the way back to his suite. They sat down in a small study, then Horsip

got up, scowling intently, and began to pace the floor. Moffis looked at him curiously.

“Moffis,” said Horsip suddenly, “you haven’t told me the whole story.”

Moffis looked startled.

“Go on,” said Horsip. “Let’s have it.”

“I’ve summarized—”

“You’ve left out pieces. Perhaps you’ve told me the facts and left out interpretations. We need it all.” He faced

Moffis and pinned him with his gaze.

“Well—” said Moffis, looking uncomfortable.

“You’re my military deputy,” said Horsip, his eyes never leaving Moffis. “You and I must work together, each

supplying the other’s lacks. The first rule of planetary integration is to apply the maximum available force, in

line with itself. If you apply force in one direction, and I apply force in another direction, the result will be less

than if we both apply force in the same direction. That can be proved.

“Now,” he said, “you have had a difficult time. You hit with all your strength, and the blow was blunted. The

natives showed considerable low cunning in using the brute force at their disposal. Because we are accustomed

to swift victories, the slowness of your success discouraged you. I was somewhat surprised at the situation

myself, at first.

“However,” said Horsip, his voice swelling, “a molk is a molk no matter how many bars he kicks off his stall.

He may put up a struggle. It may take twenty times as long as usual to strap his neck to the block and slam the

ax through. But when he’s dead, he’s just as dead as if it was over in a minute. Right?”

“Truth,” said Moffis, looking somewhat encouraged.

“All right,” said Horsip, pacing. “Now, we’ve got the molk into the stall, but apparently we’re having some

little trouble getting his head in the straps. Now, we can’t strap a molk in the dark, Moffis. The horns will get us

if we try it. We’ve got to have light. You’ve got to light up the beast for me with the lantern of knowledge, Moffis,

or I can’t do my part. How about it?”

“Well,” said Moffis, looking interested and sitting forward on the edge of his chair. “I’m willing, now you put

it that way, but where should I start?”

“Start anywhere,” said Horsip.

Moffis cleared his throat, and looked thoughtful.

“Well, for one thing,” he said at last, “there’s this piecemeal filing-down they’re doing to us.” He hesitated.

“Go on,” prompted Horsip. “Talk freely. If it’s important, tell me.”

“Well,” said Moffis, “it doesn’t seem important. But take that trip from the landing-boat to here. That wasn’t a

long trip, yet they knocked out at least one ground-car. If it was the same as other trips like it, they would have

put fifteen men out of action, and three ground-cars, at least. Suppose we have three hundred men and fifty

ground-cars we can spare as escort between here and the landing-boat place. Each time, they’re likely to get hit

once, at least. It seems like just a small battle. Not even a battle—just a brush with some die-hard natives.

“But in two trips, we’ve lost one man out of ten, and one car out of eight.”

Moffis paused, frowning. “And the worse of it is, we can’t put it down. It’s like a little cut that won’t stop

bleeding. If it just happened here, it would be bad enough. But it happens everywhere and anywhere that we

don’t have everything screwed down tight.”

“But,” said Horsip, “see here. Why don’t you gather together five thousand men and scour that countryside

clean? Then you’ll have an end to that. Then, take those five thousand men and clean out the next place.” He

grew a little excited. “That’s what they did to our landing parties, isn’t it? Why not spring their own trap on

them?”

Moffis looked thoughtful. “We tried something like that earlier, when all this started. But the wear on the

ground-cars was terrific. Moreover, they moved only a few scores of men, and we had to move thousands. It was

wearing us out. Worse yet, as they only had small bands in action, we couldn’t always find them. We’d end up

with thousands of men milling around in a little field, and no humanoids. Then, from somewhere else, they’d

fire into us.” Moffis shivered. “We tried to bring the whole army to bear on them, but it was like trying to shoot

insects with a cannon. It didn’t work.”

“Well,” said Horsip, “that was too bad; but still, you had the right idea. But you overdid it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Moffis. “None of us were in very good form by then.”

Horsip nodded. “But look here, take five thousand men, break them up into units of, say, five hundred each.

Train the units to act alone or with others. Take six of the units, and send them to troubled places. Hold the

other four in your hand, ready to put them here or there, as needed.”

Moffis looked thoughtful. “It sounds good. But what if on their way to the trouble place, these men get fired

on?”

Horsip suppressed a gesture of irritation. “Naturally, the five hundred would be split up into units. Say it was

ten units of fifty men each. One fifty-man unit would clean out the nest of snakes, and the rest would go on.

When they were finished, the unit that had stopped would go after the rest.”

Moffis nodded. “Yes, it sounds good.”

“What’s wrong then?” demanded Horsip.

“The natives’ stitching-gun,” said Moffis dryly.

“The which?” said Horsip.

“Stitching-gun,” said Moffis. “It has a single snout that the darts move into from a traveling belt, like ground-

cars on an assembly line. The snout spits them out one at a time and they work ruin on our men. If this five-

hundred man team you speak of was hit on the road, and just fifty men from it tried to beat the natives, we’d

probably lose all fifty. The only way to win would be to stop the whole five hundred, and let the men fire at them

from inside the ground-cars.”

“But, listen,” said Horsip. “Just how many natives would they be fighting?”

“Twenty, maybe.”

Horsip did a mental calculation. “Then you mean one of their men is worth two to three of ours?”

“In this kind of fighting, yes.”

Horsip made a howling sound in his throat, let out the beginning of a string of oaths and cut them off.

“I’m sorry,” said Moffis. “I know how you feel.”

“All right,” said Horsip angrily, raising his hand and making gestures as if brushing away layers of gathering

fog, “let’s get back to this stitching-gun. It only shoots one dart at a time. How does that make it better than our

splat-gun, that can shoot up to twenty-five darts at a time?”

“I don’t understand it exactly,” said Moffis, “but it has something to do with the way they fight. And then, too,

the stitching-gun shoots the darts out fast. It shoots a stream of darts. If the first one misses, the humanoid

moves the gun a little and maybe the next one strikes home. If not, he moves it a little more. This time, five or

six darts hit our man and down he goes. Now the humanoid looks around for someone else and starts in on him.

Meanwhile, another humanoid is feeding belts of darts into the gun—”

“But our splat-guns!” said Horsip exasperatedly. “What are they doing all this time?”

“They’re heavy,” said Moffis, “and it takes a little while to get them into action. Besides, the enemy . . . I

mean, the humanoids . . . have had all night to set their gun up and hide it, and now they pick out their target at

will. We have to stop the vehicles to go into action. And that isn’t the worst, either.”

“Now what?”

“The splat-gun operators can’t see the enemy. I mean, the humanoids. They’ll be dug in, and concealed.

When the gunners do realize where they are, as likely as not the splat-guns can’t get at them, because there is

nothing but the snout of the stitching-gun to fire at. It’s likely to be someone firing from inside the ground-cars

that finally picks off the humanoids.”

Horsip looked at Moffis thoughtfully. “Are there many more difficulties like this?”

“The planet is full of them,” said Moffis. “It seems like heaven compared to what it was when the full-scale

fighting was going on, but when you get right down to it, it’s hard to see whether we’ve made any headway since

then or not. The maddening part of it is, we can’t seem to get a grip on the thing.” He hesitated, then went on.

“It’s too much like trying to wear down a rock with dirt. The dirt wears away instead.”

Horsip nodded, made an effort, and looked confident. “Never mind that, Moffis. You’ve got the molk in the

stall for us. He’s still kicking, but that just means there’s so much the more meat on him.”

“I hope so,” said Moffis.

“You’ll see,” said Horsip, “once Planetary Integration gets started on the job.”

The staff of Planetary Integration came down on the planet the next day. Soon they were coming in from the

landing field in groups. They were talkative people, waving their hands excitedly, their voices higher-pitched

than most. Their faces were smug, and in their eyes was a glint of shrewdness and cunning as they regarded the

new world around them. Moffis did not look especially confident at their arrival, but Horsip brimmed over with

energy and assurance. He began to put the problems to them:

First, what to do about the ambushing on the road?

The answers flew thick as dust in summertime.

Small forts and splat-gun nests could be built along the chief roads. Light patrols could scour the fields

alongside to seek out the lop-tails before they got their guns in place. Strips of leaping mines could be laid

alongside the roads at a distance, so the lop-tails would have to cross them to do any damage. Light airplanes

could drop explosives on them. The problem was easy.

What about the stitching-gun?

Simple. Capture as many as possible from the lop-tails, and teach our men how to use them. Find the

factories that made them, and induce the manufacturer to make more. And the same for the place that made

their darts. Minor details of the gun’s outward appearance could be changed, and a big seal attached, reading

“Official Centra Stitching Gun.”

Now, the big question: How to end this creeping war?

The Planetary Integration staff had a simple answer for that one. Every time a human was killed, ten of the

lop-tails should lose their lives. If that didn’t stop the foolishness, then eleven lop-tails should die. If it still went

on, then twelve lop-tails. Each time the ratio was raised there should be an impressive announcement. Placards

should be scattered over the country, saying, “If you murder a Centran, you kill ten of your own kind.”

The lop-tails should be offered full humanoid equality, local self-government, and all the other inducements,

on the condition that they were peaceful, and disciplined the rowdy elements that were causing trouble.

Horsip gave the necessary commands to set the machinery in motion.

For a full week, everything worked splendidly.

Horsip was enjoying a hot scented bath when Moffis came charging in. Moffis had a raised black-and-blue

welt on his head, his uniform was torn open at the chest, and he looked furious.

Horsip put his hands over his ears.

“Stop that foul-mouthed cursing,” said Horsip. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Moffis shivered all over convulsively.

“I say, your integration program isn’t working, that’s what I say!”

“Why not?” Horsip looked stunned.

“How do I know why not? Nothing works on this stinking planet!”

Horsip clambered out of the tub into the drip pan. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong! We built the small forts and splat-gun nests just as you told us to. The crews in

them have been living a horrible life. They’re harassed from morning to night. And just what is the advantage,

I’d like to know, of having five hundred men strung out in two dozen little packets that have to be supplied

separately, instead of all together where you can do something with them?

“And then, this stitching-gun business. We can’t find the manufacturer. Everyone says someone else made it.

Or they say they used to make them, but not that model. Or they haven’t made them for years. Or we blew up

their factory when we attacked. And—hairy master of sin!—by the time we get through going from one place to

the other—they talk a different language in each place, you know—we don’t know whether we’re standing on our

hands or our feet. Let me give you an example.

“We took this stitching-gun we captured around to find out who made it. Wouldn’t you think they could just

look at it and tell us? No, sir! Not them! We showed it to the Mairicuns first. One of them said it didn’t look like

one of their jobs. He thought the Rushuns made it. The Rushuns said it wasn’t one of theirs. Theirs had wheels

on them. Try the Beljuns. The Beljuns said they didn’t make it. Maybe the Frentsh did. The Frentsh looked it

over and said, Oh, no, that was a Nazy job. And where were the Nazies? They were wiped out years ago.”

Moffis stared at Horsip in frustration. “Now what do we do? And listen, I’m just giving you a summary of this.

You don’t know what we went through. Each one of those places has bureaus, and branches, and departments,

and nobody trusts anyone else.

“The Rushuns say about the Mairicuns, ‘What can you expect of those people? Pay no attention to them.’

“The Mairicuns say about the Rushuns, ‘Oh, well, that’s just what the Rushuns say. You can’t believe that.’

“Now what do we do?”

Horsip decided he had dripped long enough, wrapped a bath-blanket around him and began drying himself.

Evading the issue, he asked, “How’s the casualty rate?”

“We haven’t had a man killed since we made the edict.”

“Well,” said Horsip, brightening, “that worked out, didn’t it?”

Moffis looked like he smelled something unpleasant. “I don’t know.”

“Well, man, why not? What’s wrong with that? That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Well . . . I guess so.”

“Well, then. We’re getting a grip on the thing.”

“Are we?” Moffis pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Since we gave the edict, we have had three

thousand seven hundred sixty-eight slit or punctured tires, one hundred twelve blown-up places in the road, five

unoccupied cars rolled over the side of a hill, eighteen cars stuck in tarry gunk on a steep incline, and a whole

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Pandora’sLegionsbyChristopherAnvilFout!Onbekendeschakeloptie-instructie.Thisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2002byChristopherAnvilThevariouspartsofPandora’sLegionswerepreviouslypublishedi...

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