“I am greatly taken by your plight, young gentlemen. On this planet such a thing is impossible. Against our laws, which laws state that there are no laws. Why do you permit yourself to be treated in this vile manner?”

“No choice, Pops. Barbed wire all around, watched night and day, shot if you try to escape, shot twice if recaptured. No place to go to, no place to hide, in uniform, every man’s hand turned against you.” He sniffed in maudlin self-pity; a tear ran down his companion’s cheek.

“Well,” Stirner said, sinking the gaff in deep and twisting it so it would take hold. “None of those things are .true here. There is no barbed wire, no one is watching you, no one is about to shoot you. There is a great big country out there that stretches away beyond the mountains and riv-

ers. A country where you will always find a welcome, always find hospitality and refuge. A country where the army will never find you.”

They sat up at that, trying to understand his words through their alcoholic haze. “Cagal…” the drunkest one muttered. Sharia smiled angelically.

“I do not understand that word, young friend, but I feel that it indicates disbelief. Not so. Every word my father has spoken is true. For example, we live a full day’s journey distant from this city in an idyllic farming village.

We travel there by speedy railroad—and these are our tickets to prove it. Why, look, the machine made a mistake, it issued four tickets instead of two. I must return them—unless you would like them for souvenirs?” Faster than light, they vanished.

“There is a side entrance to the railway station that is not guarded,” she said brightly.

“But the train leaves soon,” Stimer said, standing and picking up the bundle from the floor. “Before going I must use the necesejo, as we say down on the farm, and I am taking this bundle with me. It contains clothing for my two sons at home who, strangely enough, are just your size.” He started away, then turned. “You may borrow the clothes—if you wish. ”

They beat him to the cagalhouse door. Sharia smiled beatifically after them.

“You know this farming town well?” I asked. “So you can line the lads up with friends.”

“I have never been there—1 found its name on the map. But you forget the strength of IM. We would welcome them here and aid them, so they will be welcome there. Do not worry. I will guide them and return in two days. Ohh, here they come, don’t they look handsome out of those dreary uniforms!”

They looked rotten, I thought, the demon of jealousy burning within me. I almost wished that I was going with them. But no, the work was here. I turned to the next table where Morton was mooning after the lovely retreating form of Sharia. I had to kick him twice before I could attract his attention.

“She’ll be back, don’t worry. Did you get all that on tape?”

“Every word. Can I have another beer? All I had was the one Sharia bought me before you came in. And you had a steak…”

“No drinking on duty, soldier.”

’Stimer joined us and pointed to the basket he was carrying. “I have their uniforms in here, just as you asked.”

“Good. We’ll need that for the video. Now—take us to your recording studio.”

He led us by tack streets to the back of a building, to the back door that opened as we approached. They were eagerly waiting for us on the soundstage, brightly lit, windowless and invisible from the street. Volunteers all, IM enthusiasts just dying to subvert the troops, I held up the audio cassette.

“We’ll need a few hun.dred copies of this.”

“Within the hour!” It was snatched from my hand and whisked away. I turned tg the waiting production crew who were trembling with enthusiasm. “Director?” I asked. A gorgeous redhead stepped forward.

“At your service. Lights, sound, camera ready.”

“Wonderful. As soon as my associate and I put on these uniforms—you can roll. Point us to the dressing room.” As I stripped Morton took one of the uniforms out of the basket and held it out between thumb and index finger like a dead rat.

“I feel depressed even looking at this thing,” he said. Depressedly. “To feel its touch upon my skin again, the clammy embrace…”

“Morton,” I hinted, “shut up.” I whipped it away and held it before me. A good fit. I climbed into it. “You are an actor now, Morton, playing before the camera. You will act your role—then remove the uniform forever. Burn it if you wish to. Thousands will applaud your performance. So put it on. Like this.”

I sat and pushed my legs into the trousers and something fell from a pocket and tinkled to the floor. I bent and picked it up. An ID disc. Private soldier Pyek0765 had been eager to wipe all memory of the army from him, to be reborn a happy civilian. I turned it over and over in my fingers and an idea began to sizzle about low down in my brain. Morton’s cry of dismay cut through my thoughts.

“It’s there! I can see it! That glazed look in your eye. Whenever you are dreaming up a suicidal idea you get it. Not again! I don’t volunteer!”

I patted his shoulder cheerfully, then reknotted his tie into a semblance of military order. “Relax. I have had a brilliant idea, yes. But you are not involved, no. Now let us shoot this video and after it is done I will tell you all about this plan.”

I stood Morton up with a wall for a backdrop; not a good choice because he looked like he was waiting to be shot. No changes, time was of the essence.

“If you please. I want a full-figure shot of that man. Let me have a roving microphone. Ready when you are, “ Morton winced a bit when two spotlights pinned him to the wall. A mike was thrust into my hand and a pure contralto voice rang out across the set.

“Silence. Ready to roll. Sound. Camera. Action.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of Chojecki, I bring you greetings. You are looking at a typical unwilling member of the invading Nevenkebia army. With this video you will have received an audio cassette that is a live recording of an actual encounter with two of these soldiers. You will listen to their bieating complaints, will be shocked at the terror of their involuntary servitude, will cry with joy as they are given the opportunity to hurl the shackles from their shoulders and stride forth into the green countryside, to prosper under the glowing sun of Individual Mutualism.” My sales pitch was so sincere that Stimer could not restrain himself and burst out clapping—as did the crew and technicians, Morton clasped his hands over his head—there is a bit of ham lurking in all of us—and bowed.

“Silence,” I ordered and all was instantly quiet. I strode onto camera and pointed at the subdued Morton. “This is the kind of soldier you will meet and befriend and subvert. Note then the complete absence of markings upon the sleeve.” Morton extended his arm and I pointed to the right place. “Empty of stripes, chevrons, angled or curved bits of colored cloth. This is what you must look for. If there is a single stripe, two or more, or most frightening thought, three up and three down with a lozenge in the middle—retreat! Do not talk to anyone with these kinds of adornment because you will be addressing one of the enslaving devils incarnate!

“Also be warned if there are shining bits of metal on the shoulders, here and here. Those who wear these are known as officers and are usually too stupid to be dangerous. They must still be avoided.

“Another group, very dangerous, can be recognized by their headgear and brassard. If the letters MP appear upon the arm—go the other way. Also look for the redcap which will be mounted squarely upon the brutal head.

“Now that you know what to avoid, you know whom to approach. A simple uniformed slave. Q?me close, smile, make sure that none of thei striped and barred beasts are close, then whisper in the slave’s ear… ‘Do you like fresh air?’ If he smiles with joy and answers ‘yes,’ why then he is yours. May Mark Forer guide you in this great work!”