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Achilles's Heel

Supreme Interstellar Marshal John von Eckberg Lindt knocked the ash off the end of his cigar onto the floor of Supreme Headquarters, and shifted his powerful body into a more comfortable position in the padded swivel chair.

Across the room, from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, lights winked and relays clicked as Combat Forces Master Integration Computer changed the dispositions of the Fleet to counter the latest Wij-Wij probe. At the foot of the enormous bulk of Combat Forces Master Integration Computer was a cot. On the cot lay a man, with one hand trailing on the floor. This man was James Edison Martell, recognized as the greatest pragmatic scientist since his namesake, Thomas. In the hand of James Edison Martell was a somewhat battered silver flask, from the cap of which a clear brownish liquid leaked out to stain the floor.

Supreme Interstellar Marshal von Eckberg Lindt was considering the philosophical implications of Martell, the computer behind him, and the flask, when the Immediate Action buzzer sounded on his desk.

Lindt put his feet on the floor, and glanced alertly at the desk top. A hole opened up, and a sheaf of papers jumped out. Lindt picked up the first sheet, noted that it was an Allocation of Supply order, signed it and set it aside. The rest of the papers were lists of promotions, demotions, classifications, transfers, appointments, adjudications and evaluations. Lindt glanced rapidly through them and signed all but the demotions and strategic evaluations. He stacked the signed papers neatly and set them on a faintly outlined square on the desk. The desk top opened and the paper vanished like laundry down a chute. Lindt gave his attention to the strategic evaluations:

OSD 6: All Sectors Overall situation at present critical. Density of stellar systems under enemy (Wij-Wij) control great, enabling high order of productive capacity. Adaptive Wij-Wij physiology apparently enables use of most planets in their systems. Though impossible to verify this, as no Wij-Wij prisoners have yet been taken alive. Nevertheless examination of enemy dead reveals complex nervous structures whose function appears to be internal adjustment to the external environment. For whatever reason, Wij-Wij military productive capacity has increased at a violent pace since our initial armed clash, and is expected to surpass human productive capacity in the near future.

Estimates of enemy psychology indicate brittle superiority feelings underlain by dread of unknown origin, coupled with severe strain due apparently to adaptive stresses on unlike planets; together with these seem to be feelings of inferiority, due to superior tactical and strategical handling of human fleet and resources. There may also be a lack of psychological adjustment to "emptiness" of spaces occupied by humans. In any case, there is clearly an indisposition to send any but very heavy forces into these regions of space.

The expected enemy action is a violent single thrust with all forces united in one massive fleet.

The planned human counteraction is: Resistance to the last possible moment at selected points and belts in line of attack. Leapfrog withdrawal to new strong points and belts in line of enemy penetration. Pinching counterattacks against sides and rear of enemy penetration. Simultaneous counterattacks directed toward vital enemy communications centers in the region of the star, alpha-Primorus.

The anticipated result of the action is uncertain.

In summary, the Wij-Wij enemy appears to be acting under some powerful compulsion, possibly the dread of a supposed innate human superiority. Whatever the cause, study of captured armaments and observed enemy military activity clearly indicates a rapid increase in military strength and its underlying productive capacity. Coupled with the fanatical Wij-Wij hostility, this strength is expected to be used in one single-minded deadly thrust whose outcome cannot be predicted.


Lindt frowned thoughtfully, reread this paper, signed it, and dropped it down the waiting hole in the desk top. He picked up the list of demotions, read down them, snorted suddenly and crossed one off. On the back of the sheet, Lindt wrote:

"Re: BVIII Decision 0-624. The girls on the planet mentioned—I say this from personal experience—heave mats over electrified guard fences to get into fortified camps; they dig tunnels under roboticized guard lanes; when the wind is right they drop into camp on specially built one-woman kites. The crime mentioned is, on this planet, no more likely than murder committed by pushing a suicide long after he jumped. The officer's punishment is reduced to a fine of one dollar. He is not to be demoted; he is to be reassigned. J. V. Lindt, S. I. M., Comgen B."

Lindt read through the rest of the list, made a few notes, dropped the papers down the hole, which snapped shut, and put his feet back up on the desk. He tossed his cigar stub on the floor, and watched as a long low thing like a miniature alligator on wheels slid into the room, scooped up the cigar and ash, gave Martell's leaking bottle a quick wipe, and vanished through a low hole in the opposite wall.

Lindt settled in the chair, moved his feet around to a more comfortable position, then stripped the wrapper off another cigar, lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke. He looked across the room at the clicking, clacking, flashing monster which was theoretically a member of his staff, and spat a fleck of cigar leaf onto the floor.

What, he asked himself, gave the Wij-Wij their fanatical drive? He thought back to the first time he had heard of this problem, and saw in memory the strong build and rugged features of the Operations Chief, General Vernon Hauser, as Hauser reset the glossy wall-sized display and rapped a pointer against a portion of the display thick with stars.

"We first ran into them," said Hauser, "when we hit this region. We had no doubt we had the Outs on the run, and we thought there was a good chance we could finish them. Instead, a counterattack threw us back in disorder. But heavy reserves were on hand, and we put them in to crush the Out counterattack. The enemy committed reinforcements that at once renewed his attack. It was then that we discovered we were fighting a new enemy. The Outs had withdrawn—'fled' would be more accurate—in this direction. We had no reason to think this was anything but Out territory. But a close-quarters fight on an asteroid showed that this was a different race entirely."

Lindt said, "But, to a degree, the Outs can alter their physiology."

"Which fooled us for a while. But if you'll picture a thing like an upright man-sized caterpillar, you'll have some idea of the difference. We tried to communicate with their high command, but couldn't get a message across. We still don't understand them. And we've had no prisoners to question. We have yet to take one single individual alive. Their psychology is a total mystery to us, though there are guesses."

Lindt studied the display, the shiny surface of which reflected the image of both men, their insignia of rank identical, but Hauser's uniform bearing also the small glittering star of the General Staff. Lindt glanced at the display thoughtfully. Hauser held out the control box, "Here. The sooner you understand what we're up against, the better."

Lindt adjusted the display, to enlarge the enemy regions. "When they counterattacked, what did you do?"

Hauser said, "We withdrew, since obviously we were fighting the wrong people. They continued to attack, regardless."

Lindt studied the display. "Is this accurate?"

"Location of the star systems is very accurate. The faint violet border that shows the limit of alien control of the star systems is as accurate as we've been able to make it. But bear in mind, we thought the Outs owned this region just a little while ago."

"It's like a citadel planted in someone else's territory."

"At the very least, it's a damned distraction. We don't want to fight these people. But we can't get loose from them. If it were not for this, we could almost certainly force the Outs to give up. Our production and tactics have reached the point—thanks to the absence of their sabotage—where we outclass them. But this complication puts everything in doubt. To top it all off, the Wij-Wij have their damned weapon—we don't know how it works—what you hear is a kind of noise—Wij-Wij-Wij is what it sounds like, and if you can't get away from it, it knocks you senseless. A crew or garrison subjected to this is useless. The ship or fortification has to be operated by computer control, and even that takes special shielding."

Lindt said thoughtfully, "All this is news to me."

Hauser nodded. "Security clamp-down. We are not eager to spread the information. We could do with fewer varieties of aliens, all watching and figuring their own advantage. If they get the idea we're in a mess, they'll try to get some use out of it."

"Is there coordination between the Outs and these—what do you call them? Wij-Wij?"

"Right, Wij-Wij. As far as we can tell, they're separate."

"That's something, at least."

"What it means is, we have two separate wars on our hands. The Outs, we want to finish. These other people, we merely want to keep at bay, till we settle with the Outs. Then we make peace if we can; if not, we'll have to fight them, asinine as it seems. We want you, Jack, to deal with this unappetizing mess."

"I was afraid that was coming."

"You don't know the half of it. There is a theory that this Wij-Wij apparatus that knocks people unconscious is a mind-reading device and gathers intelligence. If so, we need to provide confusing information."

Hauser added thoughtfully, "Your job so far has been to watch our back, keep the aliens on the far side of our territory from getting too restless. An unusually independent command, requiring flexibility, originality, and daring. We want you now to do the same against this actively hostile enemy, keeping him off our neck so we can deal with the Outs undistracted—unless someone else should deal himself in, that is. What do you say?"
"Vern, you're the Opchief. You only need to give the order."

"I'm happier with willing associates."

"It's an interesting proposition, all right. But with an active opposition, I'll need more troops. This can't be all bluff."

"We'll give you the forces you'll need. This sector is, as I said, heavily computerized. Since we got the damned saboteur out of the system, incidentally, we've found it possible to make much more progress in computerization. As there is a real risk that this present enemy, who makes long-range penetration attacks as a regular thing, may get some of our documents, or in one way or another get information dangerous to us, we are planting misleading information at the very beginning. The computers are to be programmed as if your sector is a much larger part of human territory. Your rank will be accordingly higher. We will use more automatized spacecraft to increase the size and striking power of your command."

Lindt frowned. "What's the rank?"

Hauser looked uneasy. "We—ah—are making you a Supreme Interstellar Marshal. The same pay and allowances as full general, of course."

Lindt laughed. "With that title, you could forget the pay."

"It fits with an overall set-up designed to confuse the enemy. But the rank is real enough. Within your sector, you have complete control. Just keep these damned inchworms off our backs. We don't want to have to think about them while we settle with the Outs. We believe you can handle this better than any of the rest of us."

* * *

Lindt now remembered the words of praise, and ached with the urge to rap the Wij-Wij where past experience told them they were safe. But he restrained himself. He had tried that once before. He had got a resounding victory. At the same time, supply schedules were unstrung from here to the Border, the Wij-Wij redoubled their efforts, and he ended up right where he'd started. Lindt glowered at Combat Forces Master Integration Computer, sucked on his cigar, and began going over the problem again.

The computer meanwhile clicked, murmured, chortled, and twinkled.

On the cot at its foot, James Edison Martell rolled over and put the bottle in his mouth.

The alligator-shaped robot slid through the wall and wiped up the brownish stain.

Inside the wall, a bimetallic spring adjusted slightly to keep the temperature at a cozy seventy degrees.

Supreme Interstellar Marshall John von Eckberg Lindt fell asleep and dropped his cigar.

The alligator-shaped robot snapped it up.

Martell groaned.

Combat Forces Master Integration Computer droned competently, clicked, hummed and flashed securely. Its drone climbed to a roar, subsided to a tremor, rose to thunder—its lights bright like the eyes of a maniac, then dim with the exhausted flicker of a weary invalid. The walls of the room flared in the glare of the overhead lamps, grew dim in their dying glow, then blazed again to dazzling brilliance.

Lindt landed on his feet. For an instant he knew neither who he was nor what the scene around him meant. Then he heard it.


Lindt sprang for the locker, yanked out a chute suit and threw it to Martell. Lindt climbed into one himself, pulled the fastening strings tight, and glanced at the computer. Useless. With the current varying wildly from instant to instant, the computer was no more fitted to live than a man in a vacuum without a suit.

Lindt glanced at Martell. "Hurry up and follow me."

"Where to?"

"Chute. Turn left in the hallway."


Lindt trotted out the door and into the hall. Wij-wij-wij-wij-wij-wij-wij

He dove through an oblong black hole, felt the leathery surface of his suit catch and slide, then catch. He shoved back hard with his hands. The chute dipped and he dropped fast on the oiled slide.


The wind blew back hard on his face. Thick layers of rock and metallic ore fled upwards past him. The next time the sensation came it was milder.


The slide dropped him fast, curved gently, hissing against the hot surface of his suit. Then he was sinking into thick, deep foamy layers, air bubbles trapped in thin plastic. The bubbles burst as he sank, down and down, slower and slower, to come up angrily, his reflexes eager to trigger the counter-punch, his muscles aching for the word—


He went out into a lighted hallway, the yellow glow of oil lamps varying slightly, lighter and darker, as the Wij-Wij attack hit the gravity compensator and changed the lamp draft even at this depth.


Lindt stumbled. Everything seemed to go dark. He almost fell, then sprinted down the hallway. Ahead the corridor narrowed, the ceiling coming low. A sign read:



Lindt strode around a corner, into the suddenly bright glare of steady electric lights. He shrugged out of his suit. Martell stumbled into the room behind him.

"Boy," said Martell, pulling off his suit, "they've got that thing directional now. They nearly put me out on the way down that hall."

Lindt grunted. He was looking the room over, noting that it was, as it should be, a duplicate of the room above. Only it was too close a duplicate. Down here, the duplicate Command Forces Master Integration Computer was supposed to run from its own shielded supply, receiving reports micro-angled through sub-space to the huge manifold in the next room. But the gigantic face of the computer was silent and unlit.

"What," said Lindt, "is wrong with that computer?"

Martell scowled, stepped to the face of the computer and glanced at a dial. He threw a switch over and back.

"Current supply is O.K." he said. He stared at the face of the big machine, glanced at Lindt. "How bad is the situation?"

"Very bad," said Lindt. "Orders issue from this place direct to seven sectors of the B shell. We're expecting an all-out attack any time. The attack will probably be simple and massive. Our reply is so complex that it has to be perfectly coordinated or we'll get ground up piece-meal."

Martell grunted, and went behind the computer. There were sounds of metal sliding on metal.

Lindt became aware of the continuing silence in the room. Unless this local surprise attack was worse than he'd thought, his staff should be here now. He stepped over to the communications screen and set it to receive only. He dialed Weapons Evaluation. The screen flickered, and showed three men slumped at desks. Beside one of the desks was a creature something like a giant furry inchworm. Lindt stiffened, switched the scene to Supply. A pile of men lay one on top of the other near the doorway. He switched to Monitor, selected Corridor I, and saw a file of giant inchworms with packs on the middles of the backs, carrying T-shaped weapons. Each of them seemed to be watching and aiming in a different direction. Their stance and hasty bobbing walk gave them a look of terrific urgency.

Lindt switched from corridor to corridor, finding some empty, but most containing at least a few of the inchwormlike creatures on guard.

From behind the computer, Martell's voice brought a muffled string of oaths. Lindt looked up. Martell came around the corner carrying something like a drawer from a file cabinet. He held it up for Lindt to see.

"Look at the label," said Martell. "Read it."


"It's supposed to be, 'P-06-XLVPT-201J—12LVBXb,'" said Martell.

Lindt glanced back at the screen, stepped aside and pulled a lever set into the wall nearby. A very light detonation made the room tremble. "What of that?" he said. "Because it's VBXc, it won't work?""

"No," said Martell. "Because it's VBXc it won't work right. The b is the standard model. The c is supposed to be for a larger experimental computer. Somewhere some man or supply machine slipped up. Since this component is replaced every three months, every military computer in the system probably has a c in it. The effect isn't to stop the computer. The effect is inaccuracy."

"In that case," said Lindt, "why won't this one work?"

"Internal cutout," said Martell. "This computer and the one upstairs have the same design, receive the same information. All the computers are connected by direct cable or through subspace manifolds. They all come to the same conclusions. This sudden raid is obviously something unexpected, at variance with the calculated possibilities. When anything at variance with the calculated possibilities arises, the computer has to run an internal check. A special circuit is cut in, a complex many-stage problem with known data and known answers is fed to the computer circuits and simultaneously to the memory banks. The results are compared, and if there's any variation whatever, the computer knows it is inaccurate. Then it checks itself circuit-by-circuit till it finds the trouble. The defective assembly pops out and the computer won't operate till the check finally gives the right answers for known problems."

"This happens to all the computers?"

"All. They're all connected together. The communications lag through subspace is insignificant."

"Who thought of this?" asked Lindt abruptly. "A human, or another computer?"

"I thought of it," said Martell. "And I pushed it through despite engineers who thought they had the Perfect Machine."

"Then," said Lindt, "every Combat Forces Master Integration Computer in the system is out of action?"

Martell nodded. "And will be, till that circuit is replaced."

The communications screen buzzed. Lindt snapped it on. A tense group of oversize furry inchworms was there, clearly trying to see. Lindt let them squint in vain. He glanced at their weapons, which were T-shaped, the same fore and aft, like two revolvers with a common grip. One muzzle aimed toward Lindt's screen, and the other toward the Wij-Wij using it. The creatures had four fingers, two around the grip and one on each trigger. Lindt stared at this arrangement, then looked up.

"Herro," came a flat even mechanical voice, sounding l's and r's the same. "Herro, cerrs remaining of superbeing rogicar. Your prexus dying is. You we detected. Resistance hoperess is. Actions you predictabre. Come harrway six surface to. We you harm cannot. You we onry information want. Since resist hoperess is, no choice you. Come harrway six surface to. Now."

Lindt frowned at Martell. "That computer has apparently done every thing so according to the odds they think we're perfectly logical."

Martell was scowling. "Where did they learn to translate with a German accent? And what is that about our 'dying plexus.'"

Lindt squinted. "It sounded more Japanese to me." He glanced at the screen, and switched to the shattered room he and Martel had left during the attack. "As for our 'dying plexus,' I detonated the emergency mine inside the computer upstairs. The Wij-Wij sound as if they think of us as one big creature. You and I and everyone else is a 'cell,' each computer is a 'plexus,' and I suppose our chains of command are 'nerves.'" He frowned again and switched back to the intent group of giant inchworms with their double-ended guns.

"Well," said Martell abruptly, "that tells us something about Wij-Wij. But will we live to use it? Come on. Let's get out of here."

"There's no way," said Lindt. "But can you use this computer to get some information out?"

Martell was walking back to the computer. "We can do better than that," he said. "Stick right with me." He opened a tall panel in the side of the computer and stepped in. "Pull that shut behind you."

Lindt frowned, followed, and found himself in a tall narrow corridor. He pulled the panel shut, and followed Martell.

"Access corridor," said Martell. "We have to be able to get at the inside of this thing somehow. And at these cables overhead."

Martell wound his way expertly among the narrow branching corridors, and Lindt followed closely. The corridor they followed widened, and the overhead cables and wires increased in number. They stepped out into a room where big branching ducts led to a single giant conduit that passed into the wall. "Recognize it?" asked Martell.

"It's out of my line," said Lindt, "but of course it must be the subspace manifold."

"Right." Martell began carefully working at a section of the largest conduit, which was about five feet in diameter. "You know what's in here?" he asked.

Lindt said, "The micro-angle mechanism, whatever that may be."

"Exactly," said Martell. "And now I'll tell you. Wait—" The section of conduit, a rectangular piece about two feet by three, suddenly came loose, and Martell set it down with a grunt and a clang. "Inspection plate," he said. "We usually do the inspecting with a mirror or a stick, or an X ray on the overhead trolley. Some brave souls go in. When I was a brash youth, a friend of mine in Section A used to toss wadded-up messages along the floor of the conduit, and twenty feet away in Sector B III, I would fish them out."

Lindt blinked. "Twenty feet—"

Martel nodded. "Twenty feet. The micro-angle conduit is a tube of normal space twisted around on itself and bent through subspace. 'Micro-angle' refers to the sharp curve of space in the cross-section of the tube."

"Why don't we use these things for supplies, transport of personnel—"

"Too expensive for supplies, and when you get in there, you'll see why we don't use it for personnel," said Martell, stepping back. "You go first. Cling to that big thick cable in the center. Just keep your mind on moving steadily ahead. When you come to a junction, go any way at all. I'll follow right behind you."

Lindt frowned, took hold of the edge of the rectangular inspection opening, put his leg over and got in. The conduit stretched out before him, dimly lighted. Lindt felt uncomfortable but not uneasy. He moved forward, slowly, bent sideways, with an arm on the thick cable.

The awkward part was that of moving ahead through a five-foot pipe with roughly a two-foot cable taking up the center. A little ahead, he noticed that the wall of the tunnel seemed made of a different material. He reached that point.

Gravity went.

Lindt seemed to be falling. Not down. Not up. But in on himself.

His head was shrinking. His limbs spread in all directions like the arms of a starfish. He was collapsing like a balloon with a stone tossed on the center. His legs and hands were enormous.

"Keep moving," said Martell, his voice coming at Lindt from all directions at once, like the rays of the sun going backwards, and not all striking home at the same time.

Lindt pulled on the cable. Tugged and pulled in an automatic motion he remembered from sometime, but that had nothing to do with him now, except that he knew he had to try to do something.

His legs and arms were enormous, long and stretching longer. His body somehow was spread out around his head like a flapjack around a pat of butter. And stretching farther, thin and—


His legs were touching each other, all their feet together. His head in its finite but unbounded size rimmed the edge of eternity.

He kept his hands moving.


His heads were flying apart, his arms around each head like wheel spokes, his long thin bodies pinwheeling out and away from his distant feet. His hands groping along the cable wall around him.


Like a thousand-mile-long cable himself, equipped with a pin-size head and two stubby arms at one end, and tiny feet far out of sight at the other end, he crept like a stretched-out dachshund toward a faraway forgotten goal, past a strange wavy line of demarcation in the wall of the endless tunnel he was in, and—


He was himself.

Hanging on to a two-foot thick cable in a five-foot conduit, in a dim light, with his memories coming back thick and strong.

The noise Lindt made brought the technician who let them out of the conduit.

"That," said Martell, "is why we don't use the conduit for personnel transport."

Martell led the way back, with Lindt grimly following. Behind came fifty genuine volunteers, heavily armed, their teeth gritted, and hooked together by a rope. They were coming out of the manifold shaking and cursing just as six big inchworms came in through the inspection corridor.

The nearest volunteer snapped his gun to his shoulder, said "Ahhh," and fired.

The shot hit home.

Lindt, his own gun snapping to his shoulder, saw both the Wij-Wij's fingers contract. Simultaneously, the others jerked in unison, then snapped up their T-shaped weapons.


Lindt was sure he got two himself. But that was not what occupied his mind. He bolted down the corridor, twisted and turned. The corridor narrowed.

Three big inchworms turned to face him. Their T-shaped guns swung up.

Lindt took a flying leap for the nearest one, drove his fist hard into the fur and rubbery flesh beneath. He knocked the gun to the floor. His foot trod and ground on the feet of the Wij-Wij. His hand, seeking, found what he was looking for—a joint. He bent one of the creature's forearms sharply back, and twisted.

A soundless shriek split the air around him.

He grinned like a bulldog with its teeth set in solid flesh, and prepared to hang on till the clock of the universe runs down and stops.

He looked up, his mind still closely attending to the job of grating that forearm, twisting, bending, and almost but not quite snapping.

"What in space—" came a voice.

The two other big inchworms were leaning weakly against the wall, their weapons on the floor and plainly forgotten.

Martell came around a corner, his eyes wide.

"They're all out on their feet," he said, then looked sharply at Lindt. "Oh," he said, "then they're—"

"Telepathic," said Lindt, "fully telepathic. Get out there and tie them up."

The place was secure again, and Lindt had his feet on a new desk.

Martell was sitting on the edge of his cot, grinning. "You're sure they won't commit suicide, or get murdered?"

"How?" said Lindt. "And does a man's finger commit suicide, when someone bends it back? True, at the time the man might want to chop it off to get free, but that's hard to do in that situation. Nobody's likely to get through to these prisoners now unless they try a full fleet action, and as soon as they try that, we'll turn the thumbscrews. Live and let live."

Martell burst out laughing. "And telepathy's supposed to be an advantage."

"It was," said Lindt, "so long as they fought actions where they got killed, not captured. If one got painfully hurt, he pulled the other trigger so the rest could fight on. No wonder they avoided little skirmishes. A man can take a lot when he's part of a tremendous attack. The sharp pains and the impact don't bother him then. It's the steady nagging pain that wears him down. The pain that just gets worse when he tries to get loose. That's what their telepathy does to them, and we've got their collective finger bent back. But it was a help to them before. No wonder they expanded so fast, with that co-ordination. And no wonder they were scared of us. They think of themselves as all one big creature. They must think of us that way, too. But pain and defeat in one sector doesn't stop us or make the whole human race wince and fall back. They must have thought of us as we think of a fanatic who can't be stopped by ordinary fears or pains, who'll lose a limb or take a wound and just keep on coming. No wonder they were frantic and thought they had to do away with us."

Martell nodded and lay back. "I hope we've had an end of that." He glanced at Combat Forces Master Integration Computer, clicking and flashing with a bland assumption of superiority. "Now I have a new viewpoint of that thing, too," he said. "It's mankind's habit-mind, that's all. We can turn it off and do without it, if necessary. We can think of better things. I've got a friend down the conduit in Sector AXIV, who thinks we ought to do away with these integration computers entirely."

"No thanks," said Lindt. "Habit has its limits but it's useful. You need habit and originality both." He took out a cigar and began to peel off the wrapper. "Somehow, you, me, and the computer have to get what's happened across to the Wij-Wij. Making them jump with pain every time they turn a fleet our way is good, but not good enough."

Martell nodded.

Lindt wadded the cigar paper.

The little metal alligator on wheels trundled in, its receptors on the paper, and waited.

Lindt tossed it aside, lit the cigar and sent out a cloud of smoke.

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