Goodman had landed heavily on his shoulder. He was up at once, sprinting, and Rondo's second shot scorched his arm. Then he ducked behind a house and was momentarily safe. He didn't stop to think about it. Running for all he was worth, he headed for the spaceport.
Fortunately, a ship was preparing for blastoff and took him to g'Moree. From there he wired to Tranai for his funds and bought passage to Higastomeritreia, where the authorities accused him of being a Ding spy. The charge couldn't stick, since the Dingans were an amphibious race, and Goodman almost drowned proving to everyone's satisfaction that he could breathe only air.
A drone transport took him to the double planet Mvanti, past Seves, Olgo and Mi. He hired a bush pilot to take him to Bellismoranti, where the influence of Terra began. From there, a local spaceline transported him past the Galactic Whirl and, after stopping at Oyster, Lekung, Pankang, Inchang and Ma-chang, arrived at Tung-Bradar IV.
His money was now gone, but he was practically next door to Terra, as astronomical distances go. He was able to work his passage to Oume, and from Oume to Legis II. There the Interstellar Travelers Aid Society arranged a berth for him and at last he arrived back on Earth.
Goodman has settled down in Seakirk, New Jersey, where a man is perfectly safe as long as he pays his taxes. He holds the post of Chief Robotic Technician for the Seakirk Construction Corporation and has married a small, dark, quiet girl, who obviously adores him, although he rarely lets her out of the house.
He and old Captain Savage go frequently to Eddie's Moonlight Bar, drink Tranai Specials, and talk of Tranai the Blessed, where The Way has been found and Man is no longer bound to The Wheel. On such occasions, Goodman complains of a touch of space malaria — because of it, he can never go back into space, can never return to Tranai.
There is always an admiring audience on these nights.
Goodman has recently organized, with Captain Savage's help, the Seakirk League to Take the Vote from Women. They are its only members, but as Goodman puts it, when did that ever stop a crusader?
The Battle
Supreme General Fetterer barked “At ease!” as he hurried into the command room. Obediently, his three generals stood at ease. “We haven’t much time,” Fetterer said, glancing at his watch. “We’ll go over the plan of battle again.” He walked to the wall and unrolled a gigantic map of the Sahara Desert. “According to our best theological information, Satan is going to present his forces at these co-ordinates.” He indicated the place with a blunt forefinger. “In the front rank there will be the devils, demons, succubi, incubi, and the rest of the ratings. Bael will command the right flank, Buer the left. His Satanic Majesty will hold the centre.”
“Rather medieval,” General Dell murmured.
General Fetterer’s aide came in, his face shining and happy with the thought of the Coming. “Sir,” he said, “the priest is outside again.”
“Stand to attention, soldier,” Fetterer said sternly. “There’s still a battle to be fought and won.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said, and stood rigidly, some of the joy fading from his face.
“The priest, eh?” Supreme General Fetterer rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. Ever since the Coming, since the knowledge of the imminent Last Battle, the religious workers of the world had made a complete nuisance of themselves. They had stopped their bickering, which was commendable. But now they were trying to run military business.
“Send him away,” Fetterer said. “He knows we’re planning Armageddon.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said. He saluted sharply, wheeled, and marched out.
“To go on,” Supreme General Fetterer said. “Behind Satan’s first line of defence will be the resurrected sinners, and various elemental forces of evil. The fallen angels will act as his bomber corps. Dell’s robot interceptors will meet them.”
General Dell smiled grimly.
“Upon contact, MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed towards the centre of the line. MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed towards the centre,” Fetterer went on, “supported by General Ongin’s robot infantry. Dell will command the H bombing of the rear, which should be tightly massed. I will thrust with the mechanised cavalry, here and here.”
The aide came back, and stood rigidly at attention.
“Sir,” he said, “the priest refuses to go. He says he must speak with you.”
Supreme General Fetterer hesitated before saying no. He remembered that this was the Last Battle, and that the religious workers were connected with it. He decided to give the man five minutes.
“Show him in,” he said.
The priest wore a plain business suit, to show that he represented no particular religion. His face was tired but determined.
“General,” he said, “I am a representative of all the religious workers of the world, the priests, rabbis, ministers, mullahs, and all the rest. We beg of you, General, to let us fight in the Lord’s battle.”
Supreme General Fetterer drummed his fingers nervously against his side. He wanted to stay on friendly terms with these men. Even he, the Supreme Commander, might need a good word, when all was said and done …
“You can understand my position,” Fetterer said unhappily. “I’m a general. I have a battle to fight.”
“But it’s the Last Battle,” the priest said. “It should be the people’s battle.”
“It is,” Fetterer said. “It’s being fought by their representatives, the military.”
The priest didn’t look at all convinced. Fetterer said, “You wouldn’t want to lose this battle, would you? Have Satan win?”
“Of course not,” the priest murmured.
“Then we can’t take any chances,” Fetterer said. “All the governments agreed on that, didn’t they? Oh, it would be very nice to fight Armageddon with the mass of humanity. Symbolic, you might say. But could we be certain of victory?”
The priest tried to say something, but Fetterer was talking rapidly.
“How do we know the strength of Satan’s forces? We simply must put forth our best foot, militarily speaking. And that means the automatic armies, the robot interceptors and tanks, the H bombs.”
The priest looked very unhappy.
“But it isn’t right,” he said. “Certainly you can find some place in your plan for people?”
Fetterer thought about it, but the request was impossible. The plan of battle was fully developed, beautiful, irresistible. Any introduction of a gross human element would only throw it out of order. No living flesh could stand the noise of that mechanical attack, the energy potentials humming in the air, the all-enveloping fire power. A human being who came within a hundred miles of the front would not live to see the enemy.
“I’m afraid not,” Fetterer said.
“There are some,” the priest said sternly, “who feel that it was an error to put this in the hands of the military.”
“Sorry,” Fetterer said cheerfully. “That’s defeatist talk. If you don’t mind —”
He gestured at the door. Wearily the priest left.
“These civilians,” Fetterer mused. “Well gentlemen, are your troops ready?”
“We’re ready to fight for Him,” General MacFee said enthusiastically. “I can vouch for every automatic in my command. Their metal is shining, all relays have been renewed, and the energy reservoirs are fully charged. Sir, they’re positively itching for battle!”
General Ongin snapped fully out of his daze. “The ground troops are ready, sir!”
“Air arm ready,” General Dell said.
“Excellent,” General Fetterer said. “All other arrangements have been made. Television facilities are available for the total population of the world. No one, rich or poor, will miss the spectacle of the Last Battle.”
“And after the battle —” General Ongin began, and stopped. He looked at Fetterer. Fetterer frowned deeply. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen after the Battle. That part of it was, presumably, in the hands of the religious agencies.