Sosnitsky lay on his side in a cot made out of backpack fabric and tree limbs. He blinked twice in succession every two or three seconds, and his face was pale and damp. Mirsky kneeled beside him and Sosnitsky took his hand. The general's grip was still surprisingly strong.

"My own bones have become shrapnel, Comrade Commander," he said. "I understand neither 'Lev' nor 'Nev' made it down." He grimaced, or grinned—it was difficult to tell which—then coughed. "I am about to confer a dubious honor on you, Colonel Mirsky. We need a division commander. The only other colonel left alive is Vielgorsky, and I do not want a political officer in command of our troops. I am giving you a very big field promotion, Comrade, one that may not be approved back on Earth. But then, if what we hear is correct, on Earth nobody cares now. I have witnesses—Belozersky here is one, and I will confirm the promotion by radio to other battalion commanders before I die. So I must work fast. You are now a Lieutenant General. I give you my insignia." He passed the stars to Mirsky with his right hand, face strained by the pain. "There might be trouble with. . . others in line. But these are my wishes. I trust you, General Mirsky. If what our squadron commander says is true—and it does not seem impossible—then you must negotiate. We may be the last Russians. . . . Everyone else burns. In fire." He coughed again. "Until then, you hold your ground. But who am I to tell you what to do? You're a General now. Please tell Belozersky to bring the radio."

Belozersky passed with an angry look that had something else in it—a kind of pleading. He doesn't know how to treat me yet, Mirsky thought. The general made the announcement to his surviving staff. Belozersky gently informed him that the bore-hole transponders were inoperative, but he insisted on radioing the message anyway.

"The Americans know now that we will have a leader," he said. Minutes later, he lapsed into coma.

It took Mirsky some time to accept what had happened. He thought it best to continue as he had before, so he returned to the foundation and conferred with Garabedian.

Despite setting his deadline, Mirsky did not order any action at the end of the hour. He knew it would be suicide. He had had some vague hope of the heavy-lifter's suddenly coming through and beginning to drop, but the hope was gone now, and with it any real ambition to continue.

Major General Sosnitsky was, of course, correct.

From the very beginning it had been an extremely risky gamble. If what the enemy said was true (and surely the squadron commander Pletnev would not lie to his own men just to save his skin)—if that was all true, no victory was possible.