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Anketam’s grin was hard. “Look, Jac; the invaders have said that they intend to smash our whole society, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”

Jacovik nodded.

“And they want to break up the baronies–take everything away from the Chiefs–force us farmers to give up the security we’ve worked all our lives for. That’s what they’ve said, isn’t it?”

Jacovik nodded again.

“Well, then,” Anketam continued remorselessly, “do you think the Chiefs would give up easily? Are they going to simply smile and shake hands with the invaders and say: ‘Go ahead, take all our property, reduce us to poverty, smash the whole civilization we’ve built up, destroy the security and peace of mind of millions of human beings, and then send your troops in to rule us by martial law.’ Are they going to do that? Are they?”

Jacovik spread his big, hard hands. “I don’t know. I’m not a Chief. I don’t know how their minds work. Do you? Maybe they’ll think surrender would be better than having all of Xedii destroyed inch by inch.”

Anketam shook his head. “Never. The Chiefs will fight to the very end. And they’ll win in the long run because right is on their side. The invaders have no right to change our way of living; they have no right to impose their way of doing things on us. No, Jac–the Chiefs will never give up. They haven’t surrendered yet, and they never will. They’ll win. The invaders will be destroyed.”

Jacovik frowned, completely closing his left eye. “You’ve always been better at thinking things out that I, Ank.” He paused and looked down at his hands again. “I hope you’re right, Ank. I hope you’re right.”

* * * * *

In spite of his personal conviction that he was right, Anketam had to admit that Jacovik had reason for his own opinion. He knew that many of the farmers were uncertain about the ultimate outcome of the war.

Anketam looked around him at the several hundred men who made up the farming force of the barony. His own crew were standing nearby, mixing with Jacovik’s crew and talking in low voices. In the cool winter air, Anketam could still detect the aroma of human bodies, the smell of sweat that always arose when a crowd of people were grouped closely together. And he thought he could detect a faint scent of fear and apprehension in that atmosphere.

Or was that just his imagination, brought on by Jacovik’s pessimism?

He opened his lips to say something to Jacovik, but his words died unborn. The sudden silence in the throng around him, the abrupt cessation of whispering, told him, more definitely than a chorus of trumpets could have done, that The Chief had appeared.

He turned around quickly, to face the Main Gate again.

The Main Gate was no higher than the thorn-bush hedge that it pierced. It was a heavily built, intricately decorated piece of polished goldwood, four feet high and eight feet across, set in a sturdy goldwood frame. The arch above the gate reached a good ten feet, giving The Chief plenty of room to stand.

He was just climbing up to stand on the gate itself as Anketam turned.

Chief Samas was a tall man, lean of face and wide of brow. His smooth-shaven chin was long and angular, and his dark eyes were deeply imbedded beneath heavy, bushy eyebrows.

And he was dressed in clothing cut in a manner that Anketam had never seen before.

He stood there, tall and proud, a half smile on his face. It was several seconds before he spoke. During that time, there was no sound from the assembled farmers.

“Men,” he said at last, “I think that none of you have seen this uniform before. I look odd in it, do I not?”

The men recognized The Chief’s remark as a joke, and a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.