The Spectre General. Theodore Cogswell
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COPYRIGHT INFO
“The Spectre General,” by Theodore Cogswell, originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, June 1952. It is copyright © 1952 by Theodore Cogswell. Renewed © 1980 by Theodore Cogswell. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
Cover art © 2014 by Stephen Sweet / Fotolia.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Theodore Rose Cogswell, (1918–1987), was an American science fiction author. He wrote nearly 40 science fiction stories, many in a lighthearted vein, and was co-author of the Star Trek novel, Spock, Messiah! (with Charles A. Spano, Jr.)
Cogswell also edited the long-running “fanzine for pros,” Proceedings of the Institute for Twenty-First Century Studies, a collection of which was published in 1993. In this, writers and editors discussed their and each other’s works.
During the Spanish Civil War, he serv 9781479408993 ed as an ambulance driver on the Republican side in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.
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“The Spectre General”—Cogswell’s first published story—appeared in the June 1952 issue of Astounding Science Fiction magazine.
It was voted by the Science Fiction Writers of America as one of the finest novellas prior to the introduction of the Nebula Awards in 1965 and included in their anthology, The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume Two.
Wildside Press will be reprinting all of Theodore Cogswell’s works in 2014-2015. The Spectre General is the first in the series.
THE SPECTRE GENERAL
by Theodore Cogswell
CHAPTER ONE
“Sergeant Dixon!”
Kurt stiffened. He knew that voice. Dropping the handles of the wooden plow, he gave a quick “rest” to the private and a polite “by your leave, sir” to the lieutenant who were yoked together in double harness. They both sank gratefully to the ground as Kurt advanced to meet the approaching officer.
Marcus Harris, the commander of the 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the Imperial Space Marines, was an imposing figure. The three silver eagle feathers of a full colonel rose proudly from his war bonnet, and the flaming-comet insignia of the Space Marines painted on his chest stood out starkly against his sun-blackened, leathery skin. As Kurt snapped to attention before him and saluted, the colonel surveyed the fresh-turned earth with an experienced eye.
“You plow a straight furrow, soldier!” His voice was hard and metallic, but it seemed to Kurt that there was a concealed glimmer of approval in those flinty eyes. Dixon flushed with pleasure and drew back his broad shoulders a little further.
The commander’s eyes flicked down to the battle-ax that rested snugly in its leather holster at Kurt’s side. “You keep a clean side-arm, too.”
Kurt uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving that he had worked over his weapon before reveille that morning. Now its redwood handle had a satin gloss and its black obsidian head held the sheen of well-polished glass.
“In fact,” said Colonel Harris, “you’d be officer material if . . .” His voice trailed off.
“If what?” asked Kurt eagerly.
“If,” said the colonel with a note of paternal fondness in his voice that sent chills dancing down Kurt’s spine, “you weren’t the most completely unmanageable, undisciplined, overmuscled, and underbrained moron I’ve had the misfortune to have in my command. This last little unauthorized jaunt of yours indicates to me that you have as much right to sergeant’s stripes as I have to have garmo kittens. Report to me at ten-hundred tomorrow! I personally guarantee that when I’m through with you—if you live that long—you’ll have a bare forehead!”
Colonel Harris turned smartly and stalked back across the dusty plateau toward the walled garrison at its far end. Kurt stared after him for a moment and then turned and let his eyes slip across the wide belt of lush green jungle that surrounded the high plateau. To the north rose a great range of snow-capped mountains, and his heart filled with longing as he thought of the strange and beautiful country he had found hidden behind them. Finally he plodded slowly back to the plow, his shoulders stooped and his head sagging. With an effort he recalled himself to the business at hand.
“Up on your aching feet, soldier!” he barked to the reclining private. “If you please, sir!” he said to the lieutenant. His calloused hands grasped the worn plow handles. “Giddyup!”
The two men strained against their collars, and with a creak of harness the wooden plow started to move slowly across the arid plateau.
CHAPTER TWO
Conrad Krogson, Supreme Director of War Base Three of Sector Seven of the Galactic Protectorate, stood at quaking attention before the viewscreen of his space communicator. It was an unusual position for the director. He was accustomed to having people quake while he talked.
“The Lord Protector just received a tip that General Carr is still alive!” said the sector commander. “He’s yelling for blood, and if it’s a choice between yours and mine, you know whose it’s going to be!”
“But sir,” Krogson protested in a quavering voice, “I can’t do anything more than I am doing. I’ve had double security checks running since the last time there was an alert, and they haven’t turned up a thing. And I’m so shorthanded now that if I pull another random purge, I won’t have enough techs left to work the base.”
“That’s your problem, not mine,” said the sector commander viciously, “because I’m giving you exactly ten days to produce something that is big enough to take the heat off me. If you don’t, I’ll break you, Krogson. If I’m sent to the uranium mines, you’ll be sweating right alongside me. That’s a promise!”
Krogson’s face blanched.
“Any questions?” snapped the sector commander.
“Yes,” said Krogson.
“Well, don’t bother me with them. I’ve got troubles of my own!” The screen went dark.
Krogson slumped into his chair and stared dully at the blank screen. Finally he roused himself with an effort and let out a bellow that rattled the lightpens in the cup atop his desk.
“Schankle! Get in here!”
A gnomelike little figure scuttled through the door and bobbed obsequiously. “Yes, Director?”
“I need advice,” said Krogson. “The Lord Protector has the shakes again, and his eyes are on us.”
“What is it this time?”
“General Carr!” said the director gloomily. “The ex-Number Two.”
“I thought he’d been reeducated.”
“So did I,” said Krogson, “but he must have slipped out some way. The Protector thinks he’s started up an underground.”
“He’d be a fool if he didn’t,” said the little man. “The Lord Protector isn’t as young as he once was, and his grip on the Protectorate is getting a little shaky.”
“Maybe so, but he’s still strong enough to get us before General Carr gets him. The sector commander just gave the word. We produce or else!”
“We?” said Schankle unhappily.
“Of course,” snapped Krogson. “We’re in this together. Now let’s get to work! If you were Carr, where would be the logical place for you to hide out?”
“Well,” said Schankle thoughtfully, “if I were as smart as Carr is supposed to be, I’d find myself a hideout right on Prime Base. Everything’s so fouled up there that they’d never find me.”
“That’s out for us,” said Krogson. “We can’t