Hell's Legionnaire by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

me,
Montrey raised himself up until he could see over the parapet. He took a sight
on a red boulder across the gap.
    â€œIt is in good order,”
said Montrey. “I thank you. Now we have no further need of you. Understand, mon
corporal, that we shoot you not because we do not like you but because it
is irksome to be hampered by a higher rank in our midst. Ivan! You might as
well finish him.” Montrey stepped quickly away and Ivan squinted at me through
the sights.
    I managed a smile.
    â€œWait a minute,
Montrey. Before you are so foolish as to kill me, take another sight at right
angles to the one you just took.”
    He eyed me for several
seconds. Then, feeling that I was doing more than stalling for time, he raised
himself and sighted another boulder. He sank back in a moment, his face blank.
    â€œWhy—why, mon Dieu! This reads almost the same! It must be broken!”
    â€œNo,” I said. “It is
not broken. Perhaps you have heard that iron deflects a compass needle. It so
happens that these mountains are so full of iron ore that it is impossible to
obtain a correct compass reading. You might as well throw that instrument away,
Montrey.”
    â€œBut,” cried Montrey,
“how can you find your way around?”
    I was breathing
easier.
    â€œMontrey, I don’t
think you ever heard of trigonometry. Nor calculus. Nor could you name a single
constellation in the sky.”
    His face was still
blank.
    â€œWhat is a
constellation?”
    â€œA body of stars,” I
replied. “I was once a civil engineer, Montrey. They have to know such things.
That is why I was on Intelligence work the first few months I was in the
Legion. Not spy Intelligence, but mapping service. Because I mapped better than
the officer in charge of the party, he became afraid that I would use my
knowledge against him. He had me transferred to the line companies. Did you hear
what Copain said before he died? Copain was an Intelligence man, also versed in
mapping.”
    Montrey gestured to
Ivan and scuttled back to Copain’s tent. The three men dived in with Montrey.
The canvas shook, fell apart. Angrily they threw back the khaki rags and spread
all of poor Copain’s meager belongings on the ground. With ruthless, lustful
hands they set to work. Equipment was torn to shreds. Even the blanket was
taken from the dead man and ripped apart.
    These men, a few
moments before, had been good soldiers, but now, with the scent of gold in
their nostrils, they had gone mad. Too much privation, bad food, too little
water. It was an old story, that madness.
    In a few moments they
discovered that Copain’s kepi had a double lining. They slit the innermost one
and then Montrey was standing there holding a piece of mapping paper in shaking
hands. Three unshaven faces peered over his shoulders. Ivan wanted to go but he
did not leave the gun.
    Presently, Montrey
came over to me and threw the paper in my lap. “Intelligence, hein ? I see but little
intelligence to that, mon corporal .”
    The sheet was covered
with accurately drawn lines and minute figures. The readings were all in
longitude and latitude, figured down to seconds. To a layman, it was an aimless
jumble, but to a former Intelligence man, it was quite comprehensible. Vividly
so.
    Copain had taken vast
pains with this map. He showed the High Atlas with wriggling, correctly read
contours. He had spotted peaks, estimated their elevation; he had drawn a small
square, marking it with the recognized symbol for stone walls—a series of
circles. It was easy to see that this city lay in a valley between two mountain
ranges.
    Also that a river ran
through the exact center of the town and found its way out of the valley by
means of a deep gorge.
    â€œThere is much
intelligence to this, but it will do none of you any good. Go back to your
tents and get out of this sun. We’ll have another attack tonight.”
    â€œNo you don’t!”
snarled