The Rival Rigelians

Cogswell, his ear to the radio, said, “Their main body of horses is hitting our right flank.” He wet his lips. “Terry Stevens is over there. He’s outnumbered something like ten to one. At least ten to one.”

“They’ve got to hold,” Watson said. “Tell Reif and Chessman that flank has to hold, no matter what. You can’t allow a phalanx to have a flank turned. It’s too clumsy to maneuver. If those nomad funkers come around our end, we’re sunk.”

The enemy infantrymen in their hundreds of thousands hit the Tulan line in a clash of deafening military thunder. Barry Watson resumed his pacing. He signaled to the drummers, who beat out another march. The phalanx moved forward again slowly, and slowly went into their formation, each of the six divisions slightly ahead of the one following. Of necessity, the straight lines of the nomads and rebels had to break, and their line became a mob of raging warriors.

The Tulan drums went: boom, ah boom, ah boom, ah boom.

The Tulan phalanx moved slowly, obliquely across the valley. The hedge of spears ruthlessly pressed the mass of enemy infantry before them.

The sergeants paced behind, shouting over the din. “Dress it up, you bastards, you funkers. Dress it up! You spearman! Your spearpoint is three inches low. Dress it up!”

“You there,” a sergeant yelled. “You’ve been hit. Fall out to the rear.”

“I’m all right,” the wounded spearman snarled, battle lust in his voice.

“Fall out, I said, you cloddy! Back to the dressing station. You there, take his place!”

The Tulan phalanx ground ahead.

One of the sergeants grinned wanly at Barry Watson as his men moved forward’ with the preciseness of the famed Rockettes of another era. “It’s working,” he said proudly. “All that drill. But it’s working!”

Barry Watson snorted, and hit his leather kilt with his swagger stick. “Don’t give me the credit,” he said. “It belongs to another man a long ways away in both space and time.”

Cogswell came up, worriedly. He reported: “Our right flank cavalry is falling back, being pushed up into the hills further. Joe Chessman wants to know if you can send any support.”

Barry Watson’s face went expressionless. “No,” he said flatly. “It’s got to hold. We need another hour. Possibly two. If the nomads get around that end, there won’t be a Tulan alive by nightfall. Tell Joe and the Khan that flank can’t be turned. Suggest they throw in those cavalry units they’re not sure of. The ones that threatened mutiny last week.”

“Dress it up, you funkers! Dress it up,” the sergeants rasped. The phalanx ground forward, into the shouting, screaming mob opposed to them.

Joe Chessman stood on the knoll flanked by the Khan’s ranking officers and the balance of the Earthmen save Terry Stevens, who was somewhere in the cavalry fray. Natt Roberts was at the radio. He turned to the others and repeated Watson’s message.

He added, “I can’t raise Terry. Haven’t been able to for the past fifteen minutes.”

Joe Chessman looked out over the valley. The thirty thousand-man phalanx was pressing back the enemy infantry with the precision of a machine. He looked up the hillside to the point where the enemy cavalry was turning the right flank. Given cavalry behind the Tulan line and the battle was lost, as everyone involved realized.

“O.K., boys,” Chessman growled sourly. “We’re in the clutch now. All bets are down. Hawkins!”

“Yeah,” the pilot said.

“See what you can do. Use what bombs you have, including the napalm. Fly as low as you can in the way of scaring their horses.” He added, sourly, “Avoiding scaring ours, if you can.”

“You’re the boss,” Hawkins said, and scurried off down the hill toward his scout plane.

Joe Chessman growled to the others. “When I was taking my degree in Primitive Society and Primitive Military Tactics, I didn’t exactly have this in mind. Come on, boys!”

It was the right thing to say. The others laughed and took up their equipment, submachine guns, riot guns, a flame thrower, grenades, and followed him up the hill toward the fray.

Chessman said over his shoulder to Reif, “Khan, you’re in the saddle. You can keep in touch with both us and Watson on the radio.”

Reif hesitated only a moment. “There is no need for further direction of the battle from this point. A warrior is of more value now than a Khan. Come my son.” He caught up a double barreled musket and followed the Earthmen and other Tulan officers. The ten year old Taller scurried after with a revolver.

Natt Roberts said, “If we can hold their cavalry for only another hour or so, Watson’s phalanx will have their infantry pressed up against the pass they entered by. It took them three days to get through it; they’re not going to be able to get out in a few hours.”

“That’s the idea,” Joe Chessman said dourly. “Let’s go.”