"Shacklar's big on morale," Dar explained. "Each soldier gets a two- BTU bonus if his boots are polished; another two if his uniform's clean; two more if it's pressed; and so on."

The soldiers muttered among themselves out of the comers of their mouths. Dar could catch the odd phrase: "Bloody Wolmen think they own the whole planet! Can't tell us what t'

do! They think they c'n lord it over us, they got another think comin'!"

Sam looked up at Dar, frowning. "What's that all about? It almost sounds as though they think the Wolmen are the government!"

"They do." Dar grinned.

Sam scanned the line of troops, frowning. "Where're their weapons?"

"Weapons!" Dar stared down at her, scandalized. "What do you think we are-a bunch of savages?"

"But I thought you said this was a . . ."

BR-R-R-R-ANK! rolled a huge gong atop the wall, and the officers shouted, "Charge!"

The Wolmen chiefs whooped, and their warriors leaped down toward the soldiers with piercing, ululating war cries.

The soldiers shouted, and charged them.

The two lines crashed together, and instantly broke into a chaotic melee, with everyone yelling and slashing about them with their sticks.

"This is civilized warfare?" Sam watched the confusion numbly.

"Very," Dar answered. "There's none of this nonsense about killing or maiming, you see. I mean, we're short enough on manpower as it is."

Sam looked up at him, unbelieving. "Then how do you tell who's won?"

"The war-sticks." Dar pointed. "They've got lumps of very soft chalk in the ends. If you manage to touch your opponent with it, it leaves a huge white blotch on him."

A soldier ran past, with a Wolman hot on his heels, whooping like a Saturday matinee. Suddenly the soldier dropped into a crouch, whirled about and slashed upward. The stick slashed across the Wolman's chest, leaving a long white streak. The Wolman skidded to a stop, staring down at his new badge, appalled. Then his face darkened, and he advanced toward the soldier, swinging his stick up.

"Every one loses his temper now and then," Dar murmured.

A whistle shrilled, and a Terran officer came running up. "All right, that'll do! You there, tribesman-you're out of the war, plain as the chalk on your chest! On your way, now, or I'll call one o' yer own officers."

"Oppressor of poor, ignorant savages!" the Wolman stormed. "We rise-urn up! We beat-um you down!"

"Ayuh, well, tomorrow, maybe. Move along to the sidelines, now, there's a good chap!" The officer made shooing motions.

The Wolman stood stiffly, face dark with rebellion. Then he threw down his chalk-stick with a snarl and went stalking off toward a growing crowd of men, soldiers and Wolmen alike, standing off to the east, well clear of the "battle."

The officer nodded. "That's well done, then." And he ran off, back toward the thick of the melee.

The soldier swaggered toward Dar, grinning and twirling his stick.

"Chalk up one more for the good guys, eh?"

"And another ten BTUs in your account!" Dar called back. "Well done, soldier!"

The soldier grinned, waved, and charged back into the thick of the chaos.

"Ten credits?" Sam gasped, blanching. "You don't mean your General pays a bounty?"

"No, of course not. I mean, it's not the General who let himself get chalked up, is it? It's the Wolman who pays."

"What?"

"Sure. After the battle's ovei; the officers'll transfer ten credits from that Wolman's account to the soldier's. I mean, there's got to be some risk involved."

"Right," she agreed. "Sure. Risk." Her eyes had glazed. "I, uh, notice the, uh, 'casualties' seem to be having a pretty good time over there."

"Mm?" Dar looked up at the group over to the east. Wolmen and soldiers were chatting amicably over tankards. A couple of privates and three warriors wove in and out through the crowd with trays of bottles and cups, dispensing cheer and collecting credits.

He turned back to Sam. "Why not? Gotta fill in the 'dead' time somehow."

"Sure," she agreed. "Why not?"

Suddenly whistles shrilled all over the field, and the frantic runners slowed to a walk, lowering their chalk sticks. Most of them looked pretty disgusted. "Cease!" bellowed one officer "Study war no more!"

echoed a Wolman chief. The combatants began to circulate; a hum of conversation swelled.

"Continual warfare," Sam muttered.

Dar leaned back against the wall and began whistling through his teeth.

Two resplendent figures stepped in from the west-an I.D.E. colonel in full dress uniform and a Wolman in a brightly patterned cloak and elaborate headdress.

"The top-ranking officers," Dar explained. "Also the peace commission."

"Referees?" Sam muttered.

"Come again?" .' "I'd rather not."

Each officer singled out those of his own men who had chalk marks on them, but who hadn't retired to the sidelines. Most of them seemed genuinely surprised to find they'd been marked. A few seemed chagrined.

The officers herded them over to join the beerfest, then barked out orders, and the "casualties" lined up according to side in two ragged lines, still slurping beet The officers walked down each other's line, counting heads, then switched and counted their own lines. Then they met and discussed the situation.

"Me count-urn twenty-nine of mine, and thirty-two of yours."

"Came to the same count, old chap. Wouldn't debate it a bit."

The Wolman grinned, extending a palm. "Pay up."

The I.D.E. colonel sighed, pulled out a pad, and scribbled a voucher The Wolman pocketed it, grinning.

A lieutenant and a minor Wolman stepped up from the battlefield, each holding out a sheaf of papers. The two chief officers took them and shuffled through, muttering to each other, comparing claims.

"That's the lot." The colonel tapped his sheaf into order, squaring it off. "Only this one discrepancy, on top here."

The Wolman nodded. "Me got same."

"Well, let's check it, then. . . . O'Schwarzkopf!"

"Sir!" A corporal stepped forward and came to attention with a click of his heels, managing not to spill his tankard in the process.

"This warrior, urn, 'Xlitplox,' claims he chalked you. Valid?"

"Valid, sit"

"Xlitplox!" the Wolman officer barked.

"Me here." The Wolman stepped forward, sipping.

"O'Schwarzkopf claim-urn him chalk you."

"He do-um." Xlitplox nodded.

"Could be collusion," the colonel noted.

The Wolman shrugged. "What matter? Cancel-urn out, anyhow. Null score."

The colonel nodded. "They want to trade tenners, that's their business. Well!" He tapped the sheaf and saluted the Wolman with them. "I'll have these to the bank directly."

"Me go-um, too." The Wolman caught two tankards from a passing tray and dropped a chit on it. "Drink?"

"Don't mind if I do." The colonel accepted a tankard and lifted it. "To the revolution!"

"Was haell" The Wolman clinked mugs with him. "We rise-urn up; we break-urn and bury-um corrupt colonial government!"

"And we'll destroy the Wolman tyranny! . . . Your health."

"Yours," the Wolman agreed, and they drank.

"What is this?" Sam rounded on Dar. "Who's rebelling against whom?"

"Depends on whom you ask. Makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, each side claims to be the rightful government of the whole planet-so each side also thinks it's staging a revolution."

"That's asinine! Anybody can see the Wolmen are the rightful owners of the planet."

"Why? They didn't evolve here, any more than we soldiers did."

"How do you know?" Sam sneered.

"Because I read a history book. The Wolmen are the descendants of the Tonics,' the last big opposition culture, a hundred years ago. You should hear their music-twenty-four tones. They came out here to get away from technology."

Sam shuddered, then shook her head. "That doesn't really change anything. They were here first."

"Sure, but they think we came in and took oven After all, we've got a government. Their idea of politics is everybody sitting around in a circle and arguing until they can all agree on something."

"Sounds heavenly," Sam murmured, eyes losing focus.

"Maybe, but that still leaves General Shacklar as the only government strong enough to rebel against-at least, the way the Wolmen see it.

And we think they're trying to tell us what to do-so we're revolting, too."

"No argument there." Sam shrugged. "I suppose I shouldn't gripe.

As 'continual wars' go, this is pretty healthy." "Yeah, especially when you think of what it was like my first two years here."

"What? Real war-with sticks and stones?" Dar frowned. "When you tie the stone to the end of the stick, it can kill a man-and it did. I saw a lot of soldiers lying on the ground with their heads bashed in and their blood soaking into the weeds. I saw more with stone-tipped spears and arrows in them. Our casualties were very messy." "So what are dead Wolmen like-pretty?" "I was beginning to think so, back then." Dar grimaced at the memory. "But dead Wolmen were almost antiseptic-just a neat little hole drilled into 'em. Not even any blood- laser wounds are cauterized."

Sam caught at his arm, looking queasy. "All right! That's . . . enough!"

Dar stared down at her. "Sorry. Didn't think I'd been all that vivid."

"I've got a good imagination." Sam pushed against him, righting herself. "How old were you then?"

"Eighteen. Yeah, it made me sick too. Everybody was." "But they couldn't figure out how to stop it?" "Of course not. Then Shacklar was assigned the command."

"What'd he do-talk it to death?" Dar frowned. "How'd you guess?" "I was kidding. You can't stop a war by talking!" Dar shrugged. "Maybe he waved a magic wand. All I knew was that he had the Wolmen talking instead of fighting. How, I don't know-but he finally managed to get them to sign a treaty agreeing to this style of war."

"Would it surprise you to learn the man's just human?" "It's hard to remember sometimes," Dar admitted. "As far as I'm concerned, Shacklar can do no wrong."

"I take it all the rest of the soldiers feel the same way."

Dar nodded. "Make snide comments about the Secretary of the Navy, if you want. Sneer at the General Secretary of the whole Interstellar Dominion Electorates. Maybe even joke about God. But don't you dare say a word against General Shacklar!"

Sam put on a nasty smile and started to say something. Then she thought better of it, her mouth still open. After a second, she closed it.

"I suppose a person could really get into trouble that way here."

"What size trouble would you like? Standard measurements here are two feet wide, six feet long, and six feet down."

"No man should have that kind of power!"

"Power? He doesn't even give orders! He just asks. . . ."

"Yeah, and you soldiers fall all over each other trying to see who can obey first! That's obscene!"

Dar bridled. "Soldiers are supposed to be obscene."

"Sexual stereotype," Sam snapped. "It's absurd."

"Okay-so soldiers should be obscene and not absurd." Dar gave her a wicked grin. "But wouldn't you feel that way about a man who'd saved your life, not to mention your face?"

"My face doesn't need saving, thank you!"