“And even if you made hundreds, thousands, they’d be great if we were fightin’ a real army, like in Vietnam or Kenya before the Doomtime. But they’re nearly useless against th’ damsurvivalists!”

Although he kept silent, Gordon couldn’t help agreeing. Dr. Taigher looked down at his hands. After sixteen years of peaceful, benign hoaxing — doling out a small stream of recycled Twentieth-Century wonders to keep the area farmers entranced — he and his technicians were being called on to deliver real miracles, at last. Fixing toys and wind-driven electric generators to impress the locals just wouldn’t suffice anymore.

The man sitting to Gordon’s right stirred. It was Eric Stevens, young Johnny Stevens’s grandfather. The old man wore the same uniform as Gordon, and represented the Upper Willamette region, those few towns just south of Eugene that had joined the alliance.

“So we’re back to square one,” Stevens said. “Cyclops’s gimmicks can help here and there. Mostly they’ll make a few strong points a bit stronger. But I think we’re all in agreement that that won’t do much more than inconvenience the enemy.

“Likewise Gordon tells us that we can’t expect help from the civilized East anywhere near in time. It’s a decade or more before the Restored U.S. will arrive out here in any force. We have to hold out at least that long, maybe, before real contact is established.”

The old man looked at the others fiercely. “There’s only one way to do that, and that’s to fight!” He pounded the table. “It all comes down to basics, once again. Men are what’ll make the difference.”

There was a mutter of agreement down the table. But Gordon was acutely aware of Dena, sitting in the seats below, waiting her chance to address the Council. She was shaking her head, and Gordon felt as if he could read her mind.

Not just men… she was thinking. The tall young woman wore the robes of a Servant, but Gordon knew where her real loyalties lay. She sat with three of her disciples — buckskin-clad female scouts in the Army of the Willamette — all members of her eccentric cabal.

Until now the Council would have rejected their scheme out of hand. The girls had barely been allowed to join the Army at all, and then only out of a latent sense of last-century feminism that lingered in this still-civilized val-ley.

But Gordon sensed a growing desperation at the table today. The news Johnny Stevens had brought home from the south had struck hard. Soon, when the snows stopped falling and the warm rains began again, the councillors would begin grasping at any plan. Any idiocy at all.

Gordon decided to enter this discussion before things got out of hand. The Chairman quickly deferred when Gordon lifted his hand.

“I’m sure the Council wishes to convey to Cyclops — and to his technicians — our gratitude for their unceasing efforts.” There was a mutter of agreement. Neither Taigher nor Peter Aage met his eyes.

“We have perhaps another six or eight weeks of bad weather on our side before we can look for a resumption of major activity by the enemy. After hearing the reports of the training and ordnance committees, it’s clear we have our work cut out for us.”

Indeed, Philip Bokuto’s summary had begun the morning’s litany of bad news. Gordon took a breath. “When the Holnist invasion began last summer, I told you all not to expect any help from the rest of the nation. Establishing a postal network, as I have been doing with your help, is only the first step in a long process until the continent can be reunited. For years to come, Oregon will stand essentially alone.”

He managed to lie by implication while speaking words that were the literal truth, a skill he had grown good at, if not proud of.

“I won’t mince words with you. The failure of the people of the Roseburg region to send more than a dribble of aid has been the worst blow of all. The southern folk have the experience, the skill, and most of all, the leadership we need. In my opinion, persuading them to help us must take priority over everything else.”

He paused.

“I shall go south personally, then, and try to get them to change their minds.”

That brought on an immediate tumult.

“Gordon, that’s crazy!”

“You can’t…”

“We need you here!”

He closed his eyes. In four months he had welded an alliance strong enough to delay and frustrate the invaders. He had forged it mostly through his skill as a storyteller, a posturer … a liar.

Gordon had no illusions that he was a real leader. It was his image that held the Army of the Willamette together… his legendary authority as the Inspector — a manifestation of the nation reborn.

A nation whose only remaining spark will soon be stone cold dead if something isn’t done damn quick. I can’t lead these people! They need a general! A warrior!

They need a man like George Powhatan.

He cut the uproar by holding up a hand.

“I am going. And I want you all to promise me you’ll not agree to any crazy, desperate enterprises while I’m away.” He looked directly at Dena. For an instant she met his gaze. But her lips were tight, and after a moment her eyes clouded and she jerked her head aside.

Is she concerned for me? Gordon wondered. Or for her plan?

“I’ll be back before spring,” he promised. “I’ll be back with help.”

Under his breath he added:

“Or I’ll be dead.”

6

It took three days to get ready. All that time Gordon chafed, wishing he could simply be off.

But it had turned into an expedition, the Council insisting that Bokuto and four other men accompany him at least as far as Cottage Grove. Johnny Stevens and one of the southern volunteers rode ahead to prepare the way. After all, it was only fitting that the Inspector be well heralded.

To Gordon it was all a lot of nonsense. An hour with Johnny, spent going over a prewar road map, would be enough to tell him how to get where he was going. One fast horse, and another for remount, would protect him as well as an entire squad.

Gordon particularly resented having to take Bokuto. The man was needed here. But the Council was adamant. It was accept their terms or not be allowed to go at all.

The party departed Corvallis early in the morning, their horses steaming in the bitter cold as they rode out past the old OSU athletic field. A column of marching recruits passed by. Muffled as they were, it was nonetheless easy to tell from their chanting voices that these were more of Dena’s girl soldiers.

Oh, I won’t marry a man who smokes,

Who scratches, belches, or bellows bad jokes,

I might not marry at all, at all,

I might not marry at all!

Oh I would rather just sit in the shade,

And be a choosy, picky old maid,

Oh I might not marry at all, at all,

I might not many at all!

The troop performed eyes right as the men rode by. Dena’s expression was masked by distance, but he felt her gaze, nonetheless.

Their farewell had been physically passionate and emotionally tense. Gordon wasn’t sure if even prewar America, with all its sexual variations, had ever come up with a name for the kind of relationship they had. It was a relief to be getting away from her. He knew he would miss her.

As the women’s voices faded behind him, Gordon’s throat was tight. He tried to pass it off partly as pride in their obvious courage. But it wasn’t possible to completely rule out dread.

The party rode hard past barren orchards and frosted countryside to make the stockade at Rowland by sundown. That was how close the lines were — one day’s journey from the fragile center of what passed for civilization. From here on it would be bandit country.

In Rowland they heard new rumors — that one contingent of Holnists had already established a small duchy in the ruins of Eugene. Refugees told of bands of the white-camouflaged barbarians roaming the countryside, burning small hamlets and dragging off food, women, slaves.