Sunday, January 9, 2022

The Sixth Column

General Winsdel slammed his fist on the desk. "If only we could discover how those blasted orcs are receiving supplies! I inspected our blockade personally just last week. Just put that there if you don't mind." He tapped the table to indicate to the servant, who of course was a foreigner, where he wanted his biscuits.
"It's the most puzzling problem we face, certainly. We've penned them in, and I hardly think anyone but an orc would want to help another orc. And yet . . ." Marshal Carrow leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "They should be stuck and out of luck. Hm. Stuck, luck, orc. I have it!" He jerked up and startled General Winsdel and the servant both. "Winsdel! What's 'orc' spelled backwards?"
"Cro."
"Now shift it all a letter to the left!"
"What do you mean? Oh, I see. Roc!"
"Rocs are nothing but air orcs! They're getting the supplies through." The marshal slouched. "No, no, that can't be it."
"What's wrong? I thought you really had it there."
"Don't you see? That makes sense in our language, but not in theirs."
"Don't be a, er, what I mean to say is, a man of your experience and knowledge of the world surely knows there's only one language. Foreigners are all just pretending. It's a bit of a joke to them."
"You think so?" Marshal Carrow pondered the matter as he accepted the tea the servant brought in, and General Winsdel did the same. "Now if that's true, our next step has to be . . . has to . . . Winsdel, I suddenly feel . . ."
Both men collapsed, senseless. The servant shook his head. "You ought to have kept your considerable intellects focused on the war, gentlemen." He snapped his fingers to summon a crew of burly foreigners who lifted the two officers and hustled them out of the building. What will become of our heroes?
Finis

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