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Thousands of mercenaries killed, with all that means in indemnities; millions upon million in expensive military equipment, most of which we've had to hire and will have to recompensate for. Can you imagine the value of our stock after Stonewall Cogswell has finished with us?
Don't you realize what you're doing, so far as the buffs are concerned? Those two half-trained pilots behind have you on the run." Joe growled, "And twenty thousands lads down below are depending on me to report on Altshuler's horse." "But you can't win, anyway. You can't get your message to Cogswell!" Joe shot him a wolfish grin. "Wanta bet? Ever heard of a crash landing, Freddy? Hang on!"
"... Whose most recent act of sheer military genius and derringdo combined resulted in his all but single-handed winning of the fracas between Continental Hovercraft and Vacuum Tube Transport, and thus inflicting defeat upon none other than Marshal Stonewall Cogswell for the first time in more than a decade."
"The second day of the fracas, and nobody really knows where old Cogswell is, or what he plans to do. And here comes the captain with his secret plan." Joe looked at him. He said, evenly, "Yes, sir." The Baron's face had gone dark, as much in anger at his son, as with the upstart cavalry captain. He began to growl ominously, "Captain Mauser, rejoin your command and obey your orders."
Joe was surprised enough to say, "Why not, sir?" Old pro mercenaries seldom concerned themselves as to the issues or principles involved in a fracas. They chose their side by more mundane considerations. Marshal Cogswell looked at him testily. "Sit down, Joe. You're not on my staff, as yet, at least. Zen take the formality!" When Joe had accepted the chair, he growled again.
And several batteries of artillery." He swung the glasses in a wider scope and the whistle turned into a hiss of comprehension. "They're doing a complete circle of the reservation. They're going to hit the Baron from the direction of Phoenicia." Marshal Stonewall Cogswell directed his old fashioned telescope in the direction his chief of staff indicated. "What is it?" he grunted.
Purely luck. On top of skill, determination, experience and courage, you had to have luck in the Military Category to get anywhere. This time Joe was going to manufacture his own. A voice said, "Ah, Captain Mauser." Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. In automatic reflex, he began to come to the salute but then caught himself. He said stiffly, "My compliments, Marshal Cogswell."
"Jed, can you bring that thing down?" The other had been viewing the craft through field binoculars, his face as shocked as the rest of them. Now he faced his chief, and lowered the glasses, shaking his head. "Not with the artillery of pre-1900. No, sir." "What can you do?" Cogswell barked. The artillery man was shaking his head. "We could mount some Maxim guns on wagon wheels, or something.
Cogswell in a thunderstorm, through vacillating and harassing convictions about the Half Way Covenant, through doubt of God, of salvation, of heaven, of eternite, particularly distressing suspicions about the reality of hell and the personality of the Devil, to the stage of deep melancholy which was shown in its highest type in "Handkerchief Moody," who preached and prayed and always appeared in public with a handkerchief over his face, and gave to Hawthorne the inspiration for his story of "The Black Veil."
"Everything go all right?" the little man said anxiously. "I don't know," Joe said. "I still couldn't tell them the story. Old Cogswell is as quick as a coyote. We pull this little caper today, and he'll be ready to meet it tomorrow." He looked at the two-place sailplane which sat on the tarmac. "Everything all set?" "Far as I know," Max said. He looked at the motorless aircraft.
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