the meeting broke up to adjourn to togo-san's workshop. there was bamboo there in plenty, and young men eager to help the ex-lieutenant of axenites in testing his device. as the week wore on, young kansans appeared from other villages, called by blabrigars and messengers on camelopard-back to join the army that was to make brothers and sisters of the troopers of first regiment.
the blowgun hartford finally established as his field model was some two yards long, made of bamboo bored through the joints and polished smooth within, of a caliber somewhat less than the diameter of a man's little finger. though the bamboo-tube was somewhat flexible, togo-san and his apprentices were able to bind a front sight to the muzzle, allowing somewhat greater accuracy that could be obtained by pointing and hoping.
the dart was about the length of a man's hand. its point was a sliver of bamboo, sharp as steel, entirely sharp enough to penetrate the tough material of a safety-suit if puffed from the blowgun with enough force.
all the craftsmen of the village became arms-makers. they drilled bamboo, polished the bore with abrasive-coated cord, fitted on the sights and tested their blowguns against the targets. hundreds of darts were turned out for practice, and the most perfect were saved for the battlefield itself. the blowgunners began their drill, shooting from a prone position at targets as far as ten yards off, as great a range as amateurs could be expected to shoot with accuracy in the short time these had for practice.
to fire the blowgun, the dart was wrapped in a bit of silk of sunflower-stalk-fluff, so that it would fit tightly into the tube. the puff that sent it on its way had to be sharp and hard. achieving the proper slap of air took more practice even than aiming.
hartford became every day a better horseman, or rather camelopardist. he in fact rejoiced in opportunities to leap-frog into his saddle, fit his feet and legs into the leather gambadoes, and go hailing off into the hills to recruit men and material. he carried with him the radio he'd salvaged from his safety-suit, and could from time to time pick up first regiment transmissions. the bitcher from his suit was useful in training large numbers of recruits on the blowgun range, and would be used when the kansan guerrillas took the field against the troopers. he was picking up the language rapidly, now. he had to use takeko's services as interpreter less and less. her usefulness declined not a bit, though, as the girl became his first lieutenant in charge of details.
the band of expert puff-gunners was joined by a company of scouts. these men and women skulked the hills afoot or astride camelopards, spying out the programs of the regiment. having no radio to maintain contact with yamamura, each scout carried a pair of blabrigars, trained to report to a specific person in its home village when given a selected prompt-word.
yamata-san, the calligrapher, became a cartographer. he drew in jet-black sumi ink the contours of the mountains, greened in the stands of bamboo, drew blue streams and broad brown fields of sunflowers, till at last the map that filled the largest room in yamamura was almost as real as the kansan soil it reflected. walking across this map in his tabi-stockinged feet, hartford and the others of kansas intelligence would move toy troopers, made of wood like kokeshi-dolls, into the positions where the blabrigars reported patrols to be.
the plan of battle of the kansas forces was yawara-do, the gentle way also called judo. they would wait till the enemy made a move they could use, then they'd trip him up by re-directing his own strength.
the move they most wanted the troopers to make was into the ravine that led toward the village of yamamura, the pass under the daibutsu, the huge bronze buddha set there by their ancestors. in that ravine, under the gaze of the lord of boundless light, the kansas forces would either prevail against the invader and make him their brother by darts and sweet reason, or they would all die in the attempt.
the camelopards were stabled, ready as the steeds of any march-patrolling cavalry troop. the dartsmen, and those of the women who'd shown skill in handling the blowgun, were trained and eager. the path through the pass had been memorized in infinite detail by every one of the guerrillas. the squad of sappers responsible for check-mating the troopers had prepared their levers, their blocks and skids. nothing remained now but to coax the enemy into the battlefield of the kansans' choosing.
"take out what's left of the safety-suit," hartford ordered one of his men. "leave it here—" he stabbed a toe at the map they both stood on.
"would it be well for me to leave beside the torn and broken suit signs of a fight?" asked the boy, ito jiro, son of old ito-san, the knife-maker. "if the troopers are angry, they will be careless."
"if only you believed in war, jiro-chan, you'd make a fine warrior," hartford grinned. "do it your way, and hurry back."
jiro placed the bait under the regiment's nose early in the day, and returned to yamamura. it was midday when a blabrigar flew in from one of the scouts posted to watch first regiment's reaction. the bird prated its message into the ear of its receiver. troopers, a band of fifty-odd, were scouring the hills to the west, following the camelopard-hoofprints left by jiro. aiding them in their search was the regiment's veeto-platform, skimming, hovering, pouncing to pick up clues. "they're on the scent," hartford said. he turned again to ito jiro, fleetest of the camelopard-riders. "jiro-chan, lead them a chase that will bring them to the ravine no sooner than the hour of the dog. be very cautious of the flying-thing; it can surprise you."
"hai," jiro said, bowing. "the hour of the dog they will call upon you near the daibutsu." ito-san the knife-maker watched his son run toward the stables, the boy as excited as though he were going to a festival rather than to face alone half a company of full-armed axenites. the blabrigars that would ride out with jiro were trained to report to the father. it would be a long afternoon for the old man, hartford thought.
there was much to do before the scarlet bird came winging in from jiro's shoulder with the message that the trap was sprung. at the hour of the monkey, four hours before the troopers were to be in ambush, the first blabrigar flew in to report to ito-san that the boy's mount was winded, the enemy was drawing nearer the ravine, and that jiro was approaching the point of rendezvous where he would find a fresh camelopard. hartford ordered out two youths to join jiro there in his harassment of the foot-soldiers from regiment.
"it is time we take up our positions," he told his band of dartsmen. "let us go in hope."
kiwa-san, takeko's father, stepped forward to pronounce a benediction upon the little company. "the enlightened one, speaking at rajagriha, spake, saying: 'remember one thing, o beloved disciples, that hatred cannot be silenced by lies but by truth.'"
the irregulars, heads bowed, replied, "namu amida butsu," glory to the amida buddha! hartford, though his training as an axenite trooper had left him as untouched by religions as by microbes, joined the prayer, feeling that a degree of celestial interest in their stratagem would not be unwelcome.
the camelopardists vaulted into their saddles, adjusted their legs in the boot-like gambadoes, and slapped the reins to head their giraffu toward the ravine where the endgame would be played. hartford rode at the head of the band, takeko beside him. the others were dispersed at wide interval, a precaution against the veeto-platform's swooping over the horizon to surprise them en route. as they left yamamura, the women and children of the village were leaving from the other side, together with the men too old to go out with the guerrillas. yamamura was being abandoned until the outcome of battle made itself known.
the canyon that led up the mountain's groin had once been the deep-cut bed of a stream. collapse of over-beetling rock had formed a vault over the stream, which was consequently underground. soil had filtered into the rocks, and bamboo had taken root. in result the lower ravine was a green enfilade hardly wider than a hallway, the walls on either side rising squarely from its floor. well within the pass, set into the left-hand wall as one rode down from yamamura, was a niche very like the tokonoma or honored alcove of a kansan home. in this alcove, some fifty feet from the bottom of the pass, was set the great bronze image of buddha, the daibutsu of kansas.
further down, below the daibutsu-niche, the canyon became irregular. along either side, some ten feet from the floor, were ledges marking the fracture planes along which ancient avalanches had calved. it was from these shelves that the kansans hoped to ambush the men from first regiment. the narrowness of the ravine, and the overhang of willow trees—these growing in clefts of rock, fingering their roots down to the subterranean stream—were enough, hartford prayed, to prevent the veeto-platform's pilot from spotting the kansans lying in wait with their blowguns.
hartford disposed his troops on the shelves, checking to see that each man had a good field of fire and adequate cover. he glanced at the sun, the kansan timepiece. it was between six and eight in the evening, he judged, the hour of the clock. he pressed his ear to the radio-receiver. short-range, the safety-suit radio picked up only occasional orders from axenite officers and non-coms. twice hartford caught the name, "lieutenant felix." he smiled, feeling mixed emotions. felix had been his old platoon sergeant, and they would face each other in an hour or so as enemies. very likely the fifty troopers chasing ito juro and his fellows toward the canyon included men of the terrible third platoon, his old command. hartford checked to see his bitcher worked and waited the arrival of the message-blabrigars with fresh news.
