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     Robert A. Heinlein. Starship troopers

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  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Robert A.Heinlein. 1959
  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

     CHAPTER 1

                Come on, you apes! You wanta live forever?
                -- Unknown platoon sergeant, 1918

     I  always get  the  shakes  before a  drop. I've had the injections, of
course, and  hypnotic  preparation,  and it stands  to reason  that  I can't
really  be afraid. The ship's  psychiatrist has checked  my  brain waves and
asked me  silly  questions while I was asleep and he tells me that it  isn't
fear,  it isn't anything important --  it's just  like  the trembling of  an
eager race horse in the starting gate.
     I couldn't say about that; I've never been a race  horse. But  the fact
is: I'm scared silly, every time.
     At D-minus-thirty, after we had mustered in the drop room of the Rodger
Young, our  platoon  leader  inspected  us.  He  wasn't  our regular platoon
leader,  because Lieutenant Rasczak had bought  it on our last  drop; he was
really  the  platoon  sergeant, Career Ship's  Sergeant  Jelal.  Jelly was a
Finno-Turk from Iskander around Proxima --  a swarthy little man who  looked
like a clerk, but I've seen him tackle two berserk privates so big he had to
reach  up to grab them, crack their heads together like coconuts, step  back
out of the way while they fell.
     Off  duty he wasn't  bad  -- for  a sergeant. You  could  even call him
"Jelly" to his face. Not recruits,  of  course, but anybody who had made  at
least one combat drop.
     But right now he  was on  duty.  We had all each  inspected  our combat
equipment (look, it's your  own neck -- see?), the  acting  platoon sergeant
had gone over us carefully after  he mustered us, and now Jelly went over us
again, his face  mean, his eyes  missing nothing.  He stopped by  the man in
front of  me,  pressed  the  button  on  his belt that gave readings  on his
physicals. "Fall out!"
     "But, Sarge, it's just a cold. The Surgeon said -- "
     Jelly  interrupted. "  `But  Sarge!'  "  he snapped. "The Surgeon ain't
making no drop -- and neither are you, with a  degree and a half  of  fever.
You think I got time to chat with you, just before a drop? Fall out!"
     Jenkins left us, looking sad and mad -- and I felt bad, too. Because of
the Lieutenant buying it,  last drop, and people moving up, I  was assistant
section leader,  second section, this  drop, and now  I  was going to have a
hole in my section and no way to fill it.  That's not good; it means  a  man
can run into something sticky, call for help and have nobody to help him.
     Jelly  didn't downcheck anybody else. Presently he stepped out in front
of us, looked  us over and shook his head sadly. "What  a  gang of apes!" he
growled. "Maybe  if you'd all buy it this  drop, they  could  start over and
build the kind of outfit the Lieutenant expected you to be. But probably not
-- with the sort of  recruits  we get  these days." He suddenly straightened
up, shouted, "I just want to remind you apes that each and every one  of you
has cost the gov'ment,  counting weapons, armor,  ammo, instrumentation, and
training,  everything, including  the way you overeat  -- has  cost,  on the
hoof,  better'n  half  a million. Add in the  thirty cents you  are actually
worth and that runs to quite a sum." He glared at  us. "So bring it back! We
can spare you, but we can't spare that  fancy  suit  you're wearing. I don't
want any heroes in this outfit; the Lieutenant wouldn't  like it.  You got a
job to do, you go down, you do it, you keep  your ears open for recall,  you
show up for retrieval on the bounce and by the numbers. Get me?"
     He  glared again.  "You're supposed to know  the  plan. But some of you
ain't got any minds to hypnotize so I'll sketch it out. You'll be dropped in
two skirmish lines, calculated two-thousand-yard intervals. Get your bearing
on me as soon as you hit, get your bearing and distance on your squad mates,
both sides, while you take cover. You've wasted ten seconds  already, so you
smash-and-destroy whatever's at hand  until the flankers hit dirt." (He  was
talking  about  me -- as  assistant section leader I was  going  to be  left
flanker, with nobody at my elbow. I began to tremble.)
     "Once  they  hit  --  straighten out  those  lines! --  equalize  those
intervals! Drop what you're doing and do it! Twelve seconds. Then advance by
leapfrog,  odd and  even, assistant  section leaders minding the  count  and
guiding the envelopment." He looked at me. "If you've done this  properly --
which  I  doubt -- the flanks will make  contact as recall sounds  . . .  at
which time, home you go. Any questions?"
     There weren't any; there never were. He went on, "One more word -- This
is  just  a  raid,  not a battle.  It's  a  demonstration  of firepower  and
frightfulness.  Our mission is to  let the enemy  know  that we  could  have
destroyed their city  -- but didn't -- but that they aren't safe even though
we  refrain  from  total bombing. You'll take no prisoners. You'll kill only
when you can't help it. But the entire area we hit is to be smashed. I don't
want  to see any of you loafers back aboard here with unexpended  bombs. Get
me?" He glanced at  the time. "Rasczak's Roughnecks have got a reputation to
uphold. The Lieutenant told me before he bought it to tell you  that he will
always have his eye on you every minute . . . and that he expects your names
to shine!"
     Jelly glanced  over at Sergeant Migliaccio, first section leader. "Five
minutes for  the Padre," he stated. Some  of the  boys dropped out of ranks,
went over and knelt in front of Migliaccio, and not necessarily those of his
creed, either  -- Moslems, Christians, Gnostics, Jews, whoever wanted a word
with him before a drop, he was  there. I've heard tell that there used to be
military  outfits  whose chaplains did not  fight alongside the others,  but
I've never been able to see how that could work.  I mean, how can a chaplain
bless anything he's  not willing  to do himself? In any case, in  the Mobile
Infantry, everybody drops and everybody fights chaplain and cook and the Old
Man's writer. Once we went down the tube there  wouldn't be a Roughneck left
aboard -- except Jenkins, of course, and that not his fault.
     I didn't go over. I was always afraid somebody would see me shake  if I
did, and, anyhow, the  Padre  could bless me just as  handily from where  he
was. But he came over to me as the last  stragglers stood up and pressed his
helmet against mine to speak privately. "Johnnie," he said quietly, "this is
your first drop as a non-com."
     "Yeah." I wasn't  really a  non-com, any more than Jelly was really  an
officer.
     "Just  this, Johnnie. Don't buy a farm. You know your job; do  it. Just
do it. Don't try to win a medal."
     "Uh, thanks, Padre. I shan't."
     He added something gently in a language I don't  know, patted me on the
shoulder, and  hurried back to his section. Jelly called out,  "Tenn .  .  .
shut!" and we all snapped to.
     "Platoon!"
     "Section!" Migliaccio and Johnson echoed.
     "By sections-port and starboard-prepare for drop!"
     "Section! Man your capsules! Move!"
     "Squad!" --  I had to wait  while  squads  four and  five manned  their
capsules  and moved on down the firing tube before my capsule showed  up  on
the port track and I could climb into it. I wondered if those old-timers got
the shakes as they  climbed into the Trojan Horse? Or was  it just me? Jelly
checked each man as he was sealed  in and he sealed me in himself. As he did
so,  he  leaned toward me and said,  "Don't goof off,  Johnnie. This is just
like a drill."
     The top closed  on me and I was alone. "Just like  a drill," he says! I
began to shake uncontrollably.
     Then,  in  my  earphones, I  heard Jelly  from  the  center-line  tube:
"Bridge! Rasczak's Roughnecks . . . ready for drop!"
     "Seventeen seconds, Lieutenant!" I  heard the  ship captain's  cheerful
contralto replying -- and  resented  her calling Jelly  "Lieutenant." To  be
sure, our lieutenant was dead and maybe Jelly would get his commission . . .
but we were still "Rasczak's Roughnecks."
     She added, "Good luck, boys!"
     "Thanks, Captain."
     "Brace yourselves! Five seconds."
     I was strapped all over-belly, forehead, shins. But I  shook worse than
ever.
     It's  better after  you unload. Until  you do, you sit  there  in total
darkness,  wrapped  like a  mummy against the accelerations, barely able  to
breathe -- and knowing that there is just nitrogen around you in the capsule
even if you could get your helmet open, which you can't -- and knowing  that
the capsule is surrounded by the firing tube anyhow and if the ship gets hit
before they  fire  you,  you  haven't got a prayer,  you'll just  die there,
unable to move, helpless. It's that endless wait in the dark that causes the
shakes -- thinking that they've forgotten you . . . the ship has been hulled
and  stayed in orbit,  dead, and  soon you'll  buy  it, too, unable to move,
choking. Or it's a crash orbit and  you'll buy  it  that way,  if  you don't
roast on the way down.
     Then the ship's braking program  hit us  and I  stopped  shaking. Eight
gees, I would say, or maybe ten. When a female pilot handles a ship there is
nothing  comfortable about  it; you're  going to  have bruises  every  place
you're strapped. Yes, yes, I know they make better pilots than men do; their
reactions are faster and they can tolerate more gee. They can get in faster,
get out faster, and thereby improve  everybody's  chances,  yours as well as
theirs. But that still doesn't make it fun  to be slammed against your spine
at ten times your proper weight.
     But  I must admit that Captain Deladrier knows her trade. There was  no
fiddling  around once the  Rodger Young stopped braking. At once I heard her
snap,  "Center-line  tube . .  .  fire!" and there were two recoil bumps  as
Jelly and his acting platoon sergeant unloaded -- and immediately: "Port and
starboard tubes -- automatic fire!" and the rest of us started to unload.
     Bump! and  your capsule jerks ahead one  place  -- bump! and  it  jerks
again, precisely  like cartridges  feeding into  the chamber of an old-style
automatic weapon. Well, that's just what we  were . . . only the barrels  of
the gun were twin launching  tubes built  into a spaceship troop carrier and
each cartridge was a capsule big enough (just barely) to hold an infantryman
with all field equipment.
     Bump! -- I was used to number three spot, out early; now I was Tail-End
Charlie, last out after three  squads. It makes  a tedious wait, even with a
capsule  being fired every  second;  I tried to  count  the bumps  --  bump!
(twelve) bump!  (thirteen)  bump! (fourteen -- with an odd sound to  it, the
empty one Jenkins should have been in) bump! --
     And clang! -- it's  my turn as my capsule slams into the firing chamber
-- then WHAMBO!  the explosion hits  with a  force that makes  the Captain's
braking maneuver feel like a love tap.
     Then suddenly nothing.
     Nothing at all.  No sound, no pressure, no weight. Floating in darkness
.  .  .  free fall, maybe thirty  miles up, above the effective  atmosphere,
falling weightlessly toward the surface  of a planet you've  never seen. But
I'm not shaking now; it's the wait  beforehand that wears. Once  you unload,
you can't get hurt  -- because if anything goes wrong it will happen so fast
that you'll buy it without noticing that you're dead, hardly.
     Almost  at once I felt the capsule twist  and sway, then steady down so
that my weight was on my back . . . weight that built up quickly until I was
at  my  full weight (0.87  gee,  we had  been  told) for that planet  as the
capsule reached terminal velocity for the thin upper atmosphere. A pilot who
is a real artist (and the Captain was) will approach and  brake so that your
launching speed as  you shoot out of the tube  places you just dead in space
relative to the rotational speed of the planet at that latitude. The  loaded
capsules are  heavy;  they  punch through the high, thin winds  of the upper
atmosphere without being blown too  far out of position -- but just the same
a  platoon is bound to disperse  on the way down,  lose some of  the perfect
formation  in which it unloads. A sloppy pilot  can  make this  still worse,
scatter  a strike group over  so much terrain  that it can't make rendezvous
for  retrieval,  much less carry  out its  mission. An infantryman can fight
only if  somebody else delivers him to  his  zone; in a way I suppose pilots
are just as essential as we are.
     I could tell from the gentle way my capsule entered the atmosphere that
the Captain had laid us down  with as near  zero lateral vector as you could
ask for.  I felt happy -- not only a tight formation when we hit and no time
wasted, but also a pilot who puts you down properly is a pilot who is  smart
and precise on retrieval.
     The  outer  shell  burned away  and  sloughed  off  -- unevenly, for  I
tumbled. Then  the rest of it went  and  I straightened  out. The turbulence
brakes of  the  second shell bit in and the  ride  got rough . . . and still
rougher as they burned off one at a time and the second shell began to go to
pieces. One of the things that helps  a capsule trooper to live long  enough
to  draw  a  pension is that the skins peeling off his capsule not only slow
him down, they also fill the sky over the target area with so much junk that
radar picks up reflections from dozens of targets for each man in the  drop,
any one of which could be a man, or a bomb, or anything. It's enough to give
a ballistic computer nervous breakdowns -- and does.
     To add to the fun your ship lays a series of dummy  eggs in the seconds
immediately following your  drop, dummies that will fall faster because they
don't slough. They get under you, explode,  throw out "window," even operate
as  transponders,  rocket sideways,  and  do  other  things to  add  to  the
confusion of your reception committee on the ground.
     In the meantime your ship is locked firmly on the directional beacon of
your platoon leader, ignoring the radar "noise" it has created and following
you in, computing your impact for future use.
     When the second shell was gone, the third shell automatically opened my
first ribbon chute. It didn't last long but it wasn't expected to; one good,
hard  jerk at several gee  and it went  its way and I went mine. The  second
chute lasted a  little bit longer  and the third chute lasted quite a while;
it began to  be rather  too  warm inside the capsule and I started  thinking
about landing.
     The third shell  peeled  off when its last chute was gone and now I had
nothing around  me but my suit armor and a plastic egg. I was still strapped
inside it,  unable to move; it  was time to decide how and where I was going
to ground.  Without moving my  arms (I couldn't) I thumbed the  switch for a
proximity reading and read it when it flashed on in the instrument reflector
inside my helmet in front of my forehead.
     A mile  and eight-tenths -- A  little closer than I  liked,  especially
without company. The inner egg had  reached steady speed, no more help to be
gained  by  staying inside  it, and its skin  temperature  indicated that it
would not open  automatically for a while  yet -- so I flipped a switch with
my other thumb and got rid of it.
     The first charge cut  all  the straps;  the second  charge exploded the
plastic egg  away  from me  in eight separate pieces  -- and I was outdoors,
sitting on air, and could see! Better still, the eight discarded pieces were
metal-coated  (except  for  the  small bit  I  had  taken proximity  reading
through) and would give back the  same  reflection as an  armored  man.  Any
radar viewer, alive or cybernetic, would now have a sad  time sorting me out
from the junk nearest  me, not to mention  the thousands  of other bits  and
pieces  for  miles  on  each side,  above,  and below  me. Part of  a mobile
infantryman's training  is  to let him  see, from the ground and both by eye
and  by radar,  just how confusing a drop is to the forces  on the ground --
because you feel awful naked up there. It is easy to panic and either open a
chute too soon  and become a sitting duck  (do ducks really sit?  --  if so,
why?) or fail to open it and break your ankles, likewise backbone and skull.
     So I  stretched, getting the kinks  out,  and looked around . .  . then
doubled up  again and  straightened out in a swan dive face down and  took a
good  look. It  was night down there,  as planned, but infrared snoopers let
you size up  terrain quite well after you  are used to them. The  river that
cut  diagonally through  the city  was almost  below me  and coming up fast,
shining out clearly with  a higher temperature than the  land. I didn't care
which side of it I landed on but I didn't  want to land in it; it would slow
me down.
     I noticed a dash off to the right at about my altitude; some unfriendly
native down below had burned what was probably a piece of my egg. So I fired
my first  chute at once, intending if possible to jerk  myself right off his
screen  as he followed the targets down in closing range.  I braced for  the
shock, rode it, then floated down for  about twenty seconds before unloading
the chute -- not wishing to call attention to myself in still another way by
not falling at  the speed of the other stuff around me. It must have worked;
I wasn't burned.
     About six hundred feet  up I shot the  second  chute .  .  .  saw  very
quickly that I was being carried over into the river, found that I was going
to pass about a hundred feet up over a flat-roofed warehouse or some such by
the river . . . blew the  chute free and came in for a good enough if rather
bouncy landing on  the roof by means of the suit's jump jets. I was scanning
for Sergeant Jelal's beacon as I hit.
     And  found that I  was on the  wrong side  of the  river; Jelly's  star
showed up on  the compass ring inside my helmet far south of where it should
have  been  --  I was too far north. I trotted toward the river  side of the
roof as I  took a  range  and bearing on the squad leader next to  me, found
that he was  over a  mile out of position,  called, "Ace! dress  your line,"
tossed a bomb behind me as  I stepped off the building and across the river.
Ace answered as I could have  expected -- Ace should have had my spot but he
didn't want to give up his squad; nevertheless he didn't fancy taking orders
from me.
     The warehouse went up behind me and the blast hit me while I was  still
over the river, instead  of being shielded by the buildings on  the far side
as I should have been.  It darn near  tumbled my gyros and I came  close  to
tumbling myself.  I  had set that bomb for fifteen seconds . . . or had I? I
suddenly realized that I had let myself get excited, the worst thing you can
do once you're on the ground. "Just like a drill," that was the way, just as
Jelly had  warned me.  Take your time and do  it  right,  even  if  it takes
another half second.
     As  I hit I took another reading on Ace and  told him again to  realign
his squad. He didn't answer but he was already doing  it.  I let it ride. As
long as Ace did his job, I could afford to swallow his surliness -- for now.
But  back aboard ship (if  Jelly kept me  on as assistant section leader) we
would eventually have to pick a quiet spot and find out who was boss. He was
a career corporal and I was just a term lance acting as corporal, but he was
under me and you can't afford to take any lip under those circumstances. Not
permanently.
     But I didn't have time then to think about  it; while I was jumping the
river I had spotted a  juicy  target and I wanted  to get it before somebody
else noticed it -- a lovely  big group of what looked like public  buildings
on  a hill. Temples, maybe  . .  . or a palace. They were miles outside  the
area we were sweeping, but one rule  of a smash & run is  to expend at least
half your ammo  outside your sweep area; that way the enemy is kept confused
as to where you actually are  -- that  and keep moving,  do everything fast.
You're always heavily outnumbered; surprise and speed are what saves you.
     I was  already loading my rocket launcher  while I was checking  on Ace
and telling him for  the second time to straighten up. Jelly's voice reached
me  right  on top of that on the all-hands circuit: "Platoon!  By  leapfrog!
Forward!"
     My boss, Sergeant Johnson, echoed, "By leapfrog! Odd numbers! Advance!"
     That left  me  with  nothing to worry about for  twenty seconds,  so  I
jumped up on  the  building nearest me, raised the launcher to  my shoulder,
found the target and pulled the  first trigger to let the rocket have a look
at its target -- pulled the second trigger and kissed  it on its way, jumped
back to  the ground.  "Second section, even  numbers!" I  called  out  . . .
waited for the count in my mind and ordered, "Advance!"
     And did so myself, hopping over the next row of buildings, and, while I
was in the air, fanning the first row by the river front with a hand flamer.
They seemed to be wood construction and it looked like  time to start a good
fire  -- with luck, some  of  those warehouses would house oil  products, or
even explosives. As I hit, the Y-rack on my  shoulders launched two small H.
E. bombs a couple of hundred yards each way  to my right and left flanks but
I  never  saw  what  they  did  as  just  then  my first rocket hit  -- that
unmistakable (if you've ever seen one) brilliance of an atomic explosion. It
was just  a peewee, of  course,  less than two  kilotons nominal yield, with
tamper  and implosion squeeze to produce  results  from a less-than-critical
mass -- but then who wants  to  be bunk mates with a  cosmic catastrophe? It
was enough  to clean off  that  hilltop and make everybody in the  city take
shelter against fallout.  Better still, any of the local yokels who happened
to  be outdoors and looking that way wouldn't be seeing anything else  for a
couple of hours  -- meaning me. The dash  hadn't  dazzled  me, nor would  it
dazzle any of us;  our  face bowls are heavily leaded, we wear snoopers over
our  eyes  -- and we're trained to duck and take it  on the armor  if we  do
happen to be looking the wrong way.
     So I merely blinked hard --  opened my  eyes  and stared  straight at a
local citizen just coming out of  an opening in the building ahead of me. He
looked at me, I  looked  at  him,  and he  started to raise  something --  a
weapon, I suppose -- as Jelly called out, "Odd numbers! Advance!"
     I didn't  have time to fool  with him; I was a good five hundred  yards
short of where I should have been by then. I still had the hand flamer in my
left hand; I toasted him and jumped over the building he had been coming out
of,  as I started to  count. A hand flamer is  primarily for incendiary work
but it is  a  good  defensive anti-personnel  weapon in tight  quarters; you
don't have to aim it much.
     Between excitement and anxiety  to catch  up  I jumped too high and too
wide. It's always a  temptation to get the most out of your jump gear -- but
don't do it! It leaves you hanging in the air for seconds, a big fat target.
The way to advance is to  skim  over each building as you come to it, barely
clearing it, and taking  full advantage of  cover while you're  down  -- and
never  stay in one place more than  a second or two, never give them time to
target in on you. Be somewhere else, anywhere. Keep moving.
     This one I goofed -- too much for one row of buildings,  too little for
the row beyond it; I found myself coming down on a roof. But not a nice flat
one  where I  might  have  tarried  three  seconds to  launch another peewee
A-rocket; this roof  was a  jungle  of  pipes  and  stanchions  and assorted
ironmongery -- a factory maybe, or some sort of chemical  works. No place to
land. Worse still, half a  dozen natives were up  there.  These geezers  are
humanoid,  eight or nine feet tall, much  skinnier  than  we are  and with a
higher body temperature; they don't wear any clothes and they stand out in a
set of snoopers like a  neon  sign. They look still funnier in daylight with
your bare eyes but I  would  rather  fight them than the arachnids --  those
Bugs make me queezy.
     If these laddies  were up  there thirty seconds earlier when my  rocket
hit, then they  couldn't see me, or anything. But  I couldn't be certain and
didn't want to tangle with them in any  case; it wasn't that kind of a raid.
So I  jumped again  while I  was  still in the  air, scattering a handful of
ten-second fire pills to keep them busy, grounded, jumped again at once, and
called out, "Second section! Even numbers! . . . Advance!" and kept right on
going to close the gap, while trying to spot, every time I jumped, something
worth expending a  rocket on. I had three more of the little A-rockets and I
certainly didn't intend to take any back with me. But I had had pounded into
me that you must get your money's worth with  atomic weapons -- it was  only
the second time that I had been allowed to carry them.
     Right now I was  trying to  spot their waterworks; a  direct  hit on it
could make the whole city  uninhabitable, force them to evacuate it  without
directly killing  anyone -- just the sort of nuisance  we had been sent down
to commit. It should -- according  to the  map we had studied under hypnosis
-- be about three miles upstream from where I was.
     But I couldn't see  it; my  jumps didn't take me high enough,  maybe. I
was tempted to go higher but I remembered what Migliaccio had said about not
trying for  a  medal, and  stuck  to doctrine.  I set the Y-rack launcher on
automatic and let it lob  a couple  of  little bombs every time I hit. I set
fire  to things  more or less at  random in between, and  tried to  find the
waterworks, or some other worth-while target.
     Well, there was something up there at the proper range -- waterworks or
whatever, it was big. So I hopped on  top  of the  tallest building near me,
took  a bead on it, and let fly. As I bounced down I heard Jelly:  "Johnnie!
Red! Start bending in the flanks."
     I  acknowledged and  heard Red acknowledge  and switched my  beacon  to
blinker so that  Red could pick me out for certain, took a range and bearing
on his blinker while I  called out, "Second Section!  Curve  in and envelop!
Squad leaders acknowledge!"
     Fourth and  Fifth squads answered,  "Wilco"; Ace said,  "We're  already
doin' it -- pick up your feet."
     Red's beacon showed the right flank to be almost ahead of me and a good
fifteen miles away. Golly! Ace was right; I would have to pick up my feet or
I would never close the gap in time -- and me with a couple of hundredweight
of ammo and sundry nastiness still on me that I just had to find time to use
up.  We had landed in  a V formation, with Jelly at the bottom of  the V and
Red and  myself at the ends of  the two arms; now we  had to close it into a
circle around the retrieval rendezvous . . . which meant that Red and I each
had to cover  more  ground than  the  others and still do  our full share of
damage.
     At  least  the  leapfrog  advance  was  over  with once we  started  to
encircle; I could quit counting and concentrate on speed. It was getting  to
be less healthy to be anywhere, even  moving fast. We  had started with  the
enormous  advantage of  surprise, reached  the ground without being hit  (at
least  I  hoped nobody had been hit coming  in),  and had been  rampaging in
among them in a  fashion  that let us  fire at will without fear  of hitting
each  other while they stood  a  big  chance of hitting their own  people in
shooting at  us --  if they could  find  us to shoot  at,  at  all. (I'm  no
games-theory expert but I doubt if any computer could have analyzed what  we
were doing in time to predict where we would be next.)
     Nevertheless   the  home   defenses  were   beginning  to  fight  back,
co-ordinated or not. I  took a couple of near misses  with explosives, close
enough to rattle my teeth even inside armor and once  I was brushed by  some
sort  of  beam  that  made my hair stand on end and half paralyzed  me for a
moment  -- as if I had hit my funny bone,  but all over. If  the suit hadn't
already been told to jump, I guess I wouldn't have got out of there.
     Things like  that make  you  pause to  wonder  why  you  ever  took  up
soldiering -- only I  was  too  busy to pause  for anything.  Twice, jumping
blind  over buildings, I landed right in the middle  of  a  group of them --
jumped at once while fanning wildly around me with the hand flamer.
     Spurred on this way, I closed about half of my  share of the gap, maybe
four miles, in minimum time but without doing  much more than casual damage.
My  Y-rack had gone empty two jumps back; finding myself alone  in sort of a
courtyard  I stopped to put my reserve H.E. bombs  into  it while I  took  a
bearing on  Ace -- found that  I was far  enough  out in  front of the flank
squad to think about expending my last two A-rockets. I jumped to the top of
the tallest building in the neighborhood.
     It was getting light enough to see;  I flipped the snoopers up onto  my
forehead and made a fast scan with bare eyes, looking for anything behind us
worth shooting at, anything at all; I had no time to be choosy.
     There was something on the  horizon in the direction of their spaceport
--  administration & control, maybe, or possibly even a starship. Almost  in
line  and about half  as far away was an enormous structure which I couldn't
identify even that loosely. The range to the spaceport was extreme but I let
the rocket see it, said, "Go find it, baby!" and twisted its tail -- slapped
the last one in, sent it toward the nearer target, and jumped.
     That building took a  direct hit just as I left it. Either a skinny had
judged (correctly) that  it was worth one  of their buildings to try for one
of us, or one  of my own  mates was  getting mighty careless with fireworks.
Either way, I didn't want to jump from that spot, even a  skimmer; I decided
to go through the next couple of buildings instead of over. So I grabbed the
heavy flamer off my back as I hit and dipped the snoopers down over my eyes,
tackled a wall in front of me with a knife beam at full power. A section  of
wall fell away and I charged in. And backed out even faster.
     I didn't know what  it was I had cracked open. A congregation in church
-- a skinny flophouse -- maybe even their defense headquarters. All  I  knew
was that it was a very big  room filled with more skinnies than I  wanted to
see in my whole life.
     Probably not a church, for  somebody took a shot at me as I popped back
out just a slug that bounced off my armor, made my  ears ring, and staggered
me  without hurting me. But it reminded  me that I  wasn't supposed to leave
without giving  them a souvenir of my visit. I grabbed the first thing on my
belt and lobbed it  in -- and heard it start to squawk. As they keep telling
you in Basic,  doing something constructive at once is better  than figuring
out the best thing to do hours later.
     By  sheer chance I  had done  the right thing. This was a special bomb,
one each issued to us  for this mission with instructions to use them  if we
found ways to make them effective. The squawking  I heard as I threw  it was
the bomb  shouting in skinny  talk (free  translation): "I'm a thirty-second
bomb!  I'm  a thirty-second bomb! Twenty-nine!  .  .  .  twenty-eight! . . .
twenty-seven! -- "
     It was  supposed to  frazzle  their nerves. Maybe it  did; it certainly
frazzled mine. Kinder  to shoot a  man. I didn't wait for the  countdown;  I
jumped, while I wondered whether they would find enough doors and windows to
swarm out in time.
     I got a bearing on Red's blinker at the top of the jump and one  on Ace
as I grounded. I was falling behind again -- time to hurry.
     But three minutes later we had  closed the  gap; I had  Red on  my left
flank a half mile away.  He reported  it  to Jelly. We heard Jelly's relaxed
growl  to the entire platoon: "Circle is closed, but the beacon is not  down
yet. Move forward slowly and mill around,  make a little more trouble -- but
mind the lad on each side of  you; don't make trouble for him.  Good job, so
far -- don't spoil it. Platoon! By sections . . . Muster!"
     It looked like a good job to me, too; much of the city was burning and,
although it was almost full light now, it was hard to tell whether bare eyes
were better than snoopers, the smoke was so thick.
     Johnson, our section leader, sounded off: "Second section, call off!"
     I echoed,  "Squads four,  five, and  six  -- call off  and report!" The
assortment  of safe circuits we had available in  the  new model comm  units
certainly speeded things up; Jelly  could talk to anybody or to  his section
leaders; a section leader could call his whole section, or his non-coms; and
the  platoon could muster twice as fast,  when seconds matter. I listened to
the fourth squad call  off while I inventoried my  remaining  firepower  and
lobbed one bomb toward a skinny who poked his head around a  corner. He left
and so did I -- "Mill around," the boss man had said.
     The fourth squad bumbled the call off until the squad leader remembered
to fill in with Jenkins' number; the fifth  squad clicked off like an abacus
and I began to feel good .  . . when the call off  stopped after number four
in Ace's squad. I called out, "Ace, where's Dizzy?"
     "Shut up," he said. "Number six! Call off!"
     "Six!" Smith answered.
     "Seven !"
     "Sixth squad,  Flores missing," Ace completed it. "Squad leader out for
pickup."
     "One man absent," I reported to Johnson. "Flores, squad six."
     "Missing or dead?"
     "I don't know.  Squad leader and  assistant section leader dropping out
for pickup."
     "Johnnie, you let Ace take it."
     But I didn't hear  him, so I didn't answer. I heard him report to Jelly
and  I heard Jelly cuss.  Now look, I wasn't bucking for a medal -- it's the
assistant  section leader's business to  make  pickup; he's the  chaser, the
last man in, expendable. The squad leaders have other work to do. As  you've
no  doubt gathered  by now  the assistant section  leader isn't necessary as
long as the section leader is alive.
     Right that moment I was feeling unusually  expendable, almost expended,
because  I  was hearing the sweetest sound in the universe,  the beacon  the
retrieval boat would land on,  sounding our  recall. The  beacon is a  robot
rocket, fired ahead  of the retrieval boat, just a  spike that buries itself
in the ground  and starts  broadcasting  that welcome,  welcome  music.  The
retrieval boat homes  in on it automatically three minutes later and you had
better be on hand, because the bus can't wait and there won't be another one
along.
     But you don't walk  away  on  another  cap trooper, not while there's a
chance he's still alive -- not in Rasczak's Roughnecks. Not in any outfit of
the Mobile Infantry. You try to make pickup.
     I heard Jelly order: "Heads  up,  lads! Close  to retrieval  circle and
interdict! On the bounce!"
     And I heard the beacon's sweet voice: " -- to the everlasting glory  of
the infantry,  shines  the  name, shines the  name of Rodger Young!"  and  I
wanted to head for it so bad I could taste it.
     Instead  I  was  headed the other  way,  closing on  Ace's  beacon  and
expending what  I had  left of  bombs and fire pills and anything  else that
would weigh me down. "Ace! You got his beacon?"
     "Yes. Go back, Useless!"
     "I've got you by eye now. Where is he?"
     "Right ahead of me, maybe quarter mile. Scram! He's my man ."
     I didn't answer; I simply cut left oblique  to reach Ace about where he
said Dizzy was.
     And  found Ace standing over him, a couple of  skinnies flamed down and
more running away. I lit beside him. "Let's get him  out of his armor -- the
boat'll be down any second!"
     "He's too bad hurt!"
     I looked and saw that  it was true  -- there was actually a hole in his
armor and blood  coming out. And I was stumped. To make a wounded pickup you
get him out of his armor . . . then you  simply pick him  up in your arms --
no trouble  in a  powered  suit -- and bounce away  from there.  A bare  man
weighs less than the ammo and stuff you've expended. "What'll we do?"
     "We carry  him,"  Ace said  grimly. "Grab  ahold the  left side of  his
belt."  He grabbed the  right side, we manhandled Flores to  his feet. "Lock
on! Now . . . by the numbers, stand by to jump -- one -- two!"
     We jumped. Not  far, not  well. One man alone couldn't have gotten  him
off the ground; an armored suit is  too heavy. But split  it between two men
and it can be done.
     We jumped -- and we jumped -- and again, and again, with Ace calling it
and  both of us  steadying and  catching Dizzy  on each grounding. His gyros
seemed to be out.
     We heard the beacon cut off as the retrieval boat landed on it -- I saw
it land . . . and it was too far  away. We heard the acting platoon sergeant
call out: "In succession, prepare to embark!"
     And Jelly called out, "Belay that order!"
     We broke at last into  the open and saw the boat standing  on its tail,
heard the  ululation of its take-off warning -- saw the platoon still on the
ground around  it, in interdiction circle, crouching behind the  shield they
had formed.
     Heard Jelly shout, "In succession, man the boat -- move!"
     And  we  were still too  far away! I could see them  peel  off from the
first squad, swarm into the boat as the interdiction circle tightened.
     And a single figure broke out of the circle, came toward us at  a speed
possible only to a command suit.
     Jelly caught us while we were in  the air, grabbed Flores by his Y-rack
and helped us lift.
     Three jumps got us to the boat. Everybody else  was inside but the door
was still open.  We  got him in and closed it while the boat  pilot screamed
that  we had made  her miss rendezvous and  now we  had all bought it! Jelly
paid no attention to her; we laid Flores down and lay down  beside  him.  As
the  blast hit  us  Jelly was  saying to  himself, "All present, Lieutenant.
Three men hurt -- but all present!"
     I'll say this for Captain Deladrier: they don't make any better pilots.
A rendezvous, boat  to ship  in orbit, is precisely calculated. I don't know
how, but it is, and you don't change it. You can't.
     Only she did. She saw in her scope that the boat had failed to blast on
time; she braked back, picked up speed  again -- and matched and took us in,
just by eye  and touch, no time to compute it. If the Almighty ever needs an
assistant to keep the stars in their courses, I know where he can look.
     Flores died on the way up.

     CHAPTER 2

     It scared me so, I hooked it off,
     Nor stopped as I remember,
     Nor turned about till I got home,
     Locked up in mother's chamber.
     Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
     Yankee Doodle dandy,
     Mind the music and the step,
     And with the girls be handy.

     I never really intended to join up.
     And  certainly not the  infantry!  Why, I would rather have  taken  ten
lashes in the public square and have my father tell me that I was a disgrace
to a proud name.
     Oh,  I had  mentioned  to  my  father,  late  in my senior year in high
school,  that  I  was thinking over  the idea  of  volunteering for  Federal
Service. I suppose every kid does, when his
     eighteenth birthday heaves into sight --  and mine was due the  week  I
graduated.  Of course most of them just think about it,  toy with the idea a
little,  then  go do  something else  --  go  to  college, or get  a job, or
something. I suppose it would  have been  that way with me . .  . if my best
chum had not, with dead seriousness, planned to join up.
     Carl  and I  had  done everything  together in high school --  eyed the
girls  together,  double-dated together,  been on the  debate team together,
pushed electrons  together  in his  home lab.  I wasn't  much  on electronic
theory myself, but I'm  a neat hand  with a soldering gun; Carl supplied the
skull sweat and I carried out  his instructions. It was fun; anything we did
together was  fun. Carl's folks didn't have anything like  the money that my
father had,  but  it didn't matter  between us. When  my father bought  me a
Rolls copter  for  my  fourteenth birthday, it was Carl's  as much as it was
mine; contrariwise, his basement lab was mine.
     So when Carl told me that he was not going straight on with school, but
serve a term  first, it gave me to pause. He really meant it; he  seemed  to
think that it was natural and right and obvious.
     So I told him I was joining up, too.
     He gave me an odd look. "Your old man won't let you."
     "Huh? How can he stop me?" And of course he couldn't, not legally. It's
the first  completely free  choice anybody gets (and maybe his last); when a
boy,  or a  girl, reaches  his  or her  eighteenth birthday, he or  she  can
volunteer and nobody else has any say in the matter.
     "You'll find out." Carl changed the subject.
     So I took it up with my father, tentatively, edging into it sideways.
     He put down his newspaper and cigar and stared at me. "Son, are you out
of your mind?"
     I muttered that I didn't think so.
     "Well, it certainly sounds like it." He  sighed. "Still . . . I  should
have  been  expecting it; it's a predictable stage in a boy's growing  up. I
remember when  you  learned to walk and weren't a baby any longer -- frankly
you were a little hellion for quite a while. You broke one of  your mother's
Ming vases  -- on purpose,  I'm  quite sure .  . . but you were too young to
know that  it was  valuable, so all you got was having your hand spatted.  I
recall the day you swiped one of my cigars,  and how sick  it made you. Your
mother  and I carefully avoided noticing  that you couldn't  eat dinner that
night and I've never mentioned it to you until now --  boys have to try such
things and discover  for themselves that men's  vices  are not for  them. We
watched when you turned the  corner on adolescence and started noticing that
girls were different -- and wonderful."
     He sighed again. "All normal stages. And the last one, right at the end
of adolescence, is when  a boy decides to join up and wear a pretty uniform.
Or decides that  he is in love, love such as no man ever experienced before,
and that he just has to  get married right away. Or both." He smiled grimly.
"With me it was both. But I got over each of them in time not to make a fool
of myself and ruin my life."
     "But,  Father, I wouldn't ruin my life.  Just a term of  service -- not
career."
     "Let's table  that, shall we? Listen, and let me tell you what you  are
going to do -- because you  want to.  In the  first  place this  family  has
stayed out  of  politics and cultivated its own garden  for  over  a hundred
years -- I see no reason for  you to break that  fine record. I suppose it's
the influence of that  fellow at your  high school -- what's  his name?  You
know the one I mean."
     He meant our instructor in  History and Moral  Philosophy -- a veteran,
naturally. "Mr. Dubois."
     "Hmmph,  a silly name -- it suits him. Foreigner, no doubt. It ought to
be against the  law to use the  schools as undercover recruiting stations. I
think I'm going  to write a pretty  sharp letter about  it -- a taxpayer has
some rights!"
     "But, Father, he doesn't do that at all! He -- " I stopped, not knowing
how to describe it. Mr. Dubois had a snotty, superior manner; he acted as if
none of us  was  really good enough to  volunteer for service. I didn't like
him. "Uh, if anything, he discourages it."
     "Hmmph!  Do you know how to lead a pig?  Never mind. When you graduate,
you're going to study business at Harvard;  you know  that. After that,  you
will go on to the  Sorbonne and you'll travel a bit along with it, meet some
of  our distributors, find out how business  is done  elsewhere. Then you'll
come  home and go  to work. You'll start  with the  usual menial job,  stock
clerk  or something,  just  for form's sake -- but  you'll  be an  executive
before  you can catch  your breath, because I'm not getting  any younger and
the quicker you can pick up the load, the better. As soon as you're able and
willing,  you'll  be boss. There! How does that strike you as  a program? As
compared with wasting two years of your life?"
     I didn't say anything. None of it was news to me; I'd thought about it.
Father  stood up  and  put a hand on my shoulder. "Son, don't think I  don't
sympathize with you; I do. But look at the real facts. If there were  a war,
I'll be the  first  to cheer  you on  --  and to  put  the business on a war
footing.  But there  isn't, and praise God there never will be again.  We've
outgrown  wars. This planet  is now  peaceful  and  happy and we  enjoy good
enough relations  with  other planets. So what  is this  so  called `Federal
Service'?  Parasitism,  pure  and  simple.  A  functionless  organ,  utterly
obsolete,  living on the  taxpayers. A decidedly  expensive way for inferior
people who otherwise  would be  unemployed to live  at public expense  for a
term of  years, then  give themselves airs for the rest  of their  lives. Is
that what you want to do?"
     "Carl isn't inferior!"
     "Sorry. No, he's a fine boy .  . . but misguided." He frowned, and then
smiled. "Son, I had intended  to  keep something as a surprise for you --  a
graduation present. But I'm going  to tell you now so  that you can put this
nonsense out  of your mind more easily.  Not  that I  am afraid  of what you
might  do; I  have confidence in your basic  good sense, even at your tender
years. But you are troubled. I know -- and this will clear it away.  Can you
guess what it is?"
     "Uh, no."
     He grinned. "A vacation trip to Mars."
     I must have looked stunned. "Golly, Father, I had no idea -- "
     "I  meant  to  surprise you  and I see  I did. I know how you kids feel
about travel, though it beats me what anyone sees in it after the first time
out. But this is a good time for you to do it --  by yourself; did I mention
that? -- and get it out  of your system . . . because you'll be hard-pressed
to get in even a week on  Luna once  you  take up your responsibilities." He
picked up his paper.  "No, don't thank me. Just  run along and let me finish
my  paper  -- I've got  some gentlemen  coming  in  this  evening,  shortly.
Business."
     I  ran along. I guess he thought that settled it  . . . and I suppose I
did, too. Mars! And  on  my own! But  I didn't tell Carl  about it;  I had a
sneaking  suspicion that he would regard it as a bribe. Well, maybe  it was.
Instead I simply  told him that  my  father  and I seemed to  have different
ideas about it.
     "Yeah," he answered, "so does mine. But it's my life."
     I thought about it during the last session  of our class in History and
Moral Philosophy. H. &  M.  P.  was  different  from  other courses in  that
everybody had to take it but nobody had to pass it  --  and Mr. Dubois never
seemed to care whether he got through to  us or not. He would  just point at
you with the stump of his left arm (he never bothered with names) and snap a
question. Then the argument would start.
     But on  the  last day he  seemed  to be trying to find  out what we had
learned.  One girl  told him  bluntly: "My mother  says that violence  never
settles anything."
     "So?" Mr. Dubois looked at  her bleakly. "I'm sure  the city fathers of
Carthage would be glad to know that. Why  doesn't  your mother tell them so?
Or why don't you?"
     They  had tangled before  --  since you  couldn't flunk the course,  it
wasn't necessary  to keep Mr. Dubois buttered up.  She said shrilly, "You're
making fun of me! Everybody knows that Carthage was destroyed!"
     "You seemed to be unaware of it,"  he  said grimly. "Since you  do know
it,  wouldn't  you  say that violence  had  settled  their  destinies rather
thoroughly? However, I was not making fun of  you  personally; I was heaping
scorn  on an inexcusably  silly idea  -- a  practice I  shall always follow.
Anyone who  clings to  the historically untrue  -- and thoroughly immoral --
doctrine that `violence never settles anything' I would advise to conjure up
the ghosts of Napoleon  Bonaparte and of the Duke of Wellington and let them
debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the
Dodo, the Great  Auk, and the  Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked  force, has
settled more issues  in history than has any other factor, and the  contrary
opinion is wishful thinking  at its  worst.  Breeds that  forget this  basic
truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedoms."
     He  sighed.  "Another  year,  another  class  --  and, for me,  another
failure. One can lead  a child to knowledge but one cannot make  him think."
Suddenly he pointed his stump at me. "You. What is the moral difference,  if
any, between the soldier and the civilian?"
     "The  difference," I  answered carefully, "lies in the field  of  civic
virtue. A soldier accepts personal responsibility for the safety of the body
politic of which he is a member,  defending  it,  if need be, with his life.
The civilian does not."
     "The  exact  words  of the  book,"  he  said  scornfully. "But  do  you
understand it? Do you believe it?"
     "Uh, I don't know, sir."
     "Of course you don't! I doubt if any of you here would recognize `civic
virtue' if it came  up  and barked in  your  face!" He glanced at his watch.
"And that is  all, a final all. Perhaps we  shall meet again  under  happier
circumstances. Dismissed."
     Graduation right after that and  three days later my birthday, followed
in less than a week by Carl's birthday -- and I still hadn't told Carl  that
I  wasn't joining up. I'm sure he assumed  that  I would not, but  we didn't
discuss it out loud  -- embarrassing. I  simply arranged to meet him the day
after his birthday and we went down to the recruiting office together.
     On the steps  of the Federal  Building we ran into Carmencita Ibanez, a
classmate of ours and one of the nice things  about being a member of a race
with two sexes.  Carmen  wasn't my girl  -- she  wasn't  anybody's girl; she
never made two dates in a row with  the same  boy and treated all of us with
equal sweetness  and rather impersonally. But I knew her pretty well, as she
often came over and used our swimming pool, because it was Olympic length --
sometimes with one  boy, sometimes with  another. Or alone,  as Mother urged
her to -- Mother considered her "a good influence." For once she was right.
     She saw us and waited, dimpling. "Hi, fellows!"
     "Hello, Ochee Chyornya," I answered. "What brings you here?"
     "Can't you guess? Today is my birthday."
     "Huh? Happy returns!"
     "So I'm joining up."
     "Oh . .  ." I think Carl was as surprised as  I was. But Carmencita was
like that. She never gossiped and she kept her own  affairs to herself.  "No
foolin'?" I added, brilliantly.
     "Why should I be fooling? I'm going to be a spaceship pilot -- at least
I'm going to try for it."
     "No reason why  you shouldn't make it," Carl said quickly. He was right
-- I know now  just  how right  he was. Carmen  was  small and neat, perfect
health and perfect reflexes --  she could make  a competitive diving routine
look  easy -- and she was quick at mathematics. Me, I tapered off with a "C"
in algebra  and a  "B" in business  arithmetic; she took  all  the  math our
school offered and a tutored advance course on  the side.  But it had  never
occurred to me to wonder why. Fact was, little Carmen was so ornamental that
you just never thought about her being useful.
     "We -- Uh, I," said Carl, "am here to join up, too."
     "And me," I agreed. "Both of  us."  No, I hadn't made any decision;  my
mouth was leading its own life.
     "Oh, wonderful!"
     "And I'm going to buck for space pilot, too," I added firmly.
     She didn't laugh. She  answered very seriously, "Oh, how grand! Perhaps
in training we'll run into each other. I hope."
     "Collision courses?" asked Carl. "That's a no-good way to pilot."
     "Don't be silly, Carl.  On the ground, of course. Are you going to be a
pilot, too?"
     "Me?"  Carl answered. "I'm no truck driver. You know me -- Starside R &
D, if they'll have me. Electronics."
     " `Truck driver' indeed! I hope they stick you out on Pluto and let you
freeze. No, I don't -- good luck! Let's go in, shall we?"
     The recruiting  station was inside  a railing in the rotunda.  A  fleet
sergeant sat at a desk there, in dress uniform, gaudy as a circus. His chest
was loaded with ribbons I couldn't read. But his right  arm was off so short
that his tunic had been tailored without any sleeve  at all . . . and,  when
you came up to the rail, you could see that he had no legs.
     It didn't seem to bother him. Carl said, "Good  morning. I want to join
up."
     "Me, too," I added.
     He ignored us.  He managed to bow while  sitting down  and said,  "Good
morning, young lady. What can I do for you?"
     "I want to join up, too."
     He smiled. "Good girl! If you'll  just scoot up to room 201 and ask for
Major Rojas, she'll take care of you." He looked her up and down. "Pilot?"
     "If possible."
     "You look like one. Well, see Miss Rojas."
     She left, with thanks  to him and a see-you-later to  us; he turned his
attention to us,  sized us up with a total  absence  of  the pleasure he had
shown in little Carmen. "So?" he said. "For what? Labor battalions?"
     "Oh, no!" I said. "I'm going to be a pilot."
     He stared at me and simply turned his eyes away. "You?"
     "I'm  interested  in  the Research and Development  Corps,"  Carl  said
soberly, "especially electronics. I understand the chances are pretty good."
     "They are if you can  cut it," the Fleet Sergeant said grimly, "and not
if you don't have  what it  takes, both  in preparation  and  ability. Look,
boys, have you any idea why they have me out here in front?"
     I didn't understand him. Carl said, "Why?"
     "Because the government  doesn't care one  bucket of swill  whether you
join  or  not! Because it  has become stylish, with some people  -- too many
people -- to serve a term and earn a franchise and  be able to wear a ribbon
in  your  lapel which says that you're a  vet'ran  . . . whether you've ever
seen combat or not. But if you want to serve and I can't talk you out of it,
then we have  to take you, because that's your constitutional right. It says
that everybody, male or female, shall have his born right to pay his service
and assume  full citizenship but  the  facts are that we  are  getting  hard
pushed  to  find  things  for  all the volunteers  to  do that  aren't  just
glorified K. P. You  can't all be real military men; we don't need that many
and most of  the volunteers  aren't number-one soldier material  anyhow. Got
any idea what it takes to make a soldier?"
     "No," I admitted.
     "Most people think that  all it takes  is two hands and  two feet and a
stupid mind.  Maybe so, for cannon fodder. Possibly that was all that Julius
Caesar  required. But a private  soldier today  is  a  specialist  so highly
skilled  that he  would  rate `master' in  any other trade; we can't  afford
stupid  ones. So for those who insist  on serving their term --  but haven't
got what we want and must  have  -- we've had to  think  up a whole  list of
dirty, nasty, dangerous jobs that  will either run `em home with their tails
between their legs  and their terms uncompleted  .  . . or at the very least
make them remember  for the  rest of  their lives that their  citizenship is
valuable  to them because they've paid a high price  for it. Take that young
lady who was here -- wants to  be a pilot. I hope she  makes  it; we  always
need good pilots, not enough of `em. Maybe she will.
     But if  she misses, she may wind up in Antarctica,  her pretty eyes red
from never  seeing anything but artificial light and  her  knuckles callused
from hard, dirty work."
     I wanted to tell him that the  least  Carmencita could get was computer
programmer for the sky watch; she really  was a  whiz  at math. But  he  was
talking.
     "So they put me  out here  to discourage you boys.  Look  at  this." He
shoved his chair around to make sure that we could see that he was  legless.
"Let's  assume that  you don't wind up digging  tunnels on Luna  or  playing
human guinea pig  for new diseases through sheer lack of talent;  suppose we
do make a fighting man out of you. Take a look at me -- this is what you may
buy . . . if you don't buy the whole farm and cause your folks to receive  a
`deeply regret'  telegram. Which  is more  likely, because  these  days,  in
training or in combat, there aren't many wounded. If you buy it at all, they
likely throw in a coffin -- I'm the rare exception; I was lucky . . . though
maybe you wouldn't call it luck."
     He paused, then added, "So why don't you boys go home, go  to  college,
and then go  be chemists or insurance brokers or whatever? A term of service
isn't a kiddie camp; it's either real military service, rough  and dangerous
even  in peacetime  . . .  or a most  unreasonable facsimile  thereof. Not a
vacation. Not a romantic adventure. Well?"
     Carl said, "I'm here to join up."
     "Me, too."
     "You realize that you aren't allowed to pick your service?"
     Carl said, "I thought we could state our preferences?"
     "Certainly. And that's  the  last  choice  you'll make until the end of
your term. The placement  officer pays  attention to your choice, too. First
thing he does is to check whether  there's any  demand for left-handed glass
blowers this week -- that being what you think would  make you happy. Having
reluctantly conceded that there is a need for your choice -- probably at the
bottom  of  the  Pacific  --  he  then tests  you  for  innate  ability  and
preparation.  About once  in  twenty  times  he  is  forced  to  admit  that
everything  matches  and you get  the job . . .  until  some practical joker
gives  you dispatch orders to do  something very  different. But  the  other
nineteen times he  turns  you down and decides that  you are  just what they
have  been needing  to  field-test  survival  equipment on Titan."  He added
meditatively, "It's chilly on Titan. And it's amazing how often experimental
equipment  fails  to  work.  Have  to  have  real  field  tests,  though  --
laboratories just never get all the answers."
     "I can qualify for electronics," Carl said firmly, "if there  are  jobs
open in it."
     "So? And how about you, bub?"
     I hesitated -- and suddenly realized  that, if I didn't take a swing at
it,  I would wonder all my life whether I was  anything but the boss's  son.
"I'm going to chance it."
     "Well,  you can't say I didn't try.  Got your birth  certificates  with
you? And let's see your I. D.'s."
     Ten minutes later, still not sworn  in,  we were on the top floor being
prodded  and poked and fluoroscoped. I decided  that  the idea of a physical
examination is that, if you aren't ill, then they do their darnedest to make
you ill. If the attempt fails, you're in.
     I asked one of  the doctors what percentage of the victims flunked  the
physical.  He looked startled. "Why, we never fail  anyone.  The law doesn't
permit us to."
     "Huh? I  mean,  Excuse  me, Doctor?  Then  what's  the  point  of  this
goose-flesh parade?"
     "Why, the  purpose  is," he answered, hauling off and hitting me in the
knee with a hammer (I kicked him,  but  not hard),  "to find out what duties
you are physically able to perform. But if you came in here in a wheel chair
and blind  in both eyes and  were silly enough to insist on  enrolling, they
would  find  something  silly  enough  to  match.  Counting  the fuzz  on  a
caterpillar  by  touch, maybe.  The only way  you can  fail is by having the
psychiatrists decide that you are not able to understand the oath."
     "Oh. Uh  . . . Doctor, were you already a doctor when you joined up? Or
did they decide you ought to be a doctor and send you to school?"
     "Me?"  He  seemed  shocked.  "Youngster,  do I  look that silly? I'm  a
civilian employee."
     "Oh. Sorry, sir."
     "No  offense.  But military service is for ants.  Believe me. I see `em
go, I see `em come back -- when they do come  back. I see what it's done  to
them. And  for what? A purely nominal political privilege  that pays not one
centavo and that most of them aren't competent to use wisely anyhow.  Now if
they  would let medical men run things --  but never  mind  that; you  might
think I was  talking treason, free speech  or not. But, youngster, if you've
got savvy enough to  count ten, you'll back out while  you still  can. Here,
take  these  papers back to the recruiting  sergeant -- and  remember what I
said."
     I went  back to the rotunda. Carl was already there. The Fleet Sergeant
looked over  my  papers  and said  glumly, "Apparently  you both  are almost
insufferably healthy-except for holes in the head. One moment, while  I  get
some witnesses." He punched a button and two female clerks came out, one old
battle-ax, one kind of cute.
     He pointed to  our physical examination forms,  our birth certificates,
and  our  I. D.'s  said  formally: "I  invite  and  require  you,  each  and
severally,  to  examine  these  exhibits,  determine  what they  are  and to
determine, each independently, what relation, if any, each document bears to
these two men standing here in your presence."
     They treated it as  a dull routine, which I'm sure it was; nevertheless
they scrutinized every document, they took our fingerprints -- again! -- and
the cute one put a jeweler's loupe in her eye and compared prints from birth
to now. She did the same with signatures. I began to doubt if I was myself.
     The Fleet  Sergeant added, "Did  you find exhibits  relating  to  their
present competence to take the oath of enrollment? If so, what?"
     "We found," the  older one said, "appended to  each record off physical
examination a duly certified conclusion by an authorized and delegated board
of psychiatrists stating that each of them is mentally competent to take the
oath and  that  neither one is  under  the influence of alcohol,  narcotics,
other disabling drugs, nor of hypnosis."
     "Very good." He turned to us, "Repeat after me -- "
     "I, being of legal age, of my own free will -- "
     " `I,'  " we each echoed, " `being of legal age, of my own free will --
' "
     " -- without coercion, promise, or inducement of any sort, after having
been duly advised and warned of the meaning and consequences of this oath --
"
     " -- do now enroll in the Federal  Service of the Terran Federation for
a term of not less than two years and as much longer as may be  required  by
the needs of the Service -- "
     (I gulped a little over that part. I had always thought of  a "term" as
two  years, even  though I knew better,  because  that's the way people talk
about it. Why, we were signing up for life.)
     "I  swear  to  uphold and defend  the  Constitution  of  the Federation
against  all  its enemies  on or  off  Terra,  to  protect  and  defend  the
Constitutional liberties and privileges of all citizens and lawful residents
of the Federation, its associated states and territories, to perform,  on or
off  Terra, such duties of any lawful  nature  as may  be assigned  to me by
lawful direct or delegated authority -- "
     " --  and  to  obey all lawful orders of the  Commander-in-Chief of the
Terran Service and of all officers or delegated persons placed over me -- "
     " -- and to  require  such obedience from all members of the Service or
other persons or non-human beings lawfully placed under my orders -- "
     " -- and, on being honorably  discharged  at the completion of  my full
term of active service or upon being placed on inactive retired status after
having completed such full term, to carry out all duties and obligations and
to  enjoy all privileges of Federation citizenship including but not limited
to the duty, obligation  and privilege of exercising sovereign franchise for
the  rest of  my  natural life unless stripped of honor by verdict,  finally
sustained, of court of my sovereign peers."
     (Whew!) Mr.  Dubois had analyzed the Service oath for us in History and
Moral Philosophy and had made us study it phrase by phrase --  but you don't
really feel the  size  of the thing until it comes rolling  over you, all in
one ungainly piece, as heavy and unstoppable as Juggernaut's carriage.
     At least it made me  realize that I was no  longer  a civilian, with my
shirttail out  and nothing on my mind. I didn't  know  yet what I was, but I
knew what I wasn't.
     "So help me God!" we both ended and Carl crossed himself and so did the
cute one.
     After that there were more signatures and fingerprints, all five of us,
and flat colorgraphs of Carl and me were snapped then and there and embossed
into our papers. The Fleet Sergeant finally looked  up. "Why, it's `way past
the break for lunch. Time for chow, lads."
     I swallowed hard. Uh...Sergeant?"
     "Eh? Speak up."
     "Could I flash my folks from here? Tell them what I -- Tell them how it
came out?"
     "We can do better than that."
     "Sir?"
     "You go  on forty-eight hours leave now."  He grinned  coldly.  "Do you
know what happens if you don't come back?"
     "Uh . . . court-martial?"
     "Not a  thing. Not a blessed thing. Except that your papers get marked,
Term not completed satisfactorily, and you never, never, never get  a second
chance.  This  is  our cooling-off period,  during which  we  shake out  the
overgrown babies who didn't  really mean  it and should never have taken the
oath. It saves the government money and it  saves a power of grief for  such
kids  and their parents -- the neighbors needn't guess. You  don't even have
to tell your parents." He shoved his  chair away from his desk. "So I'll see
you at noon day after tomorrow. If I see you. Fetch your personal effects."
     It was a crumby leave.  Father stormed at me, then quit speaking to me;
Mother took to her bed. When I finally left, an  hour earlier than I had to,
nobody saw me off but the morning cook and the houseboys.
     I stopped  in  front of  the recruiting sergeant's desk, thought  about
saluting and  decided  I didn't know  how. He looked up. "Oh. Here  are your
papers. Take them up to room 201; they'll  start you through the mill. Knock
and walk in."
     Two days later I knew I was not going to be a pilot. Some of the things
the examiners  wrote about me were: insufficient  intuitive grasp of spatial
relationships  .  . .  insufficient  mathematical  talent  . .  .  deficient
mathematical preparation . . . reaction time  adequate .  . . eyesight good.
I'm glad they put in those last  two; I  was beginning to feel that counting
on my fingers was my speed.
     The placement officer let me list my lesser preferences, in  order, and
I caught four more days  of the wildest aptitude tests I've ever heard of. I
mean to  say, what do they  find out when a  stenographer jumps on her chair
and screams, "Snakes!" There  was no snake, just a harmless piece of plastic
hose.
     The  written and oral tests  were mostly just as silly, but they seemed
happy with them, so I  took them. The thing I did most carefully was to list
my  preferences. Naturally I listed all  of the Space Navy jobs (other  than
pilot)  at  the top; whether I  went as power-room technician or as  cook, I
knew
     that I preferred any Navy job to any Army job -- I wanted to travel.
     Next I listed Intelligence  -- a spy  gets around, too,  and I  figured
that it couldn't possibly be dull. (I was wrong, but never mind.) After that
came  a  long list:  psychological  warfare,  chemical  warfare,  biological
warfare,  combat  ecology  (I  didn't  know  what  it  was, but  it  sounded
interesting), logistics corps (a simple mistake; I had studied logic for the
debate  team  and  "logistics"  turns  out  to  have  two entirely  separate
meanings), and a dozen others. Clear at the  bottom, with some hesitation, I
put K-9 Corps, and Infantry.
     I didn't  bother to list  the  various  non-combatant  auxiliary  corps
because, if I wasn't  picked  for a combat corps, I didn't care whether they
used me as an experimental animal or sent me as a laborer in the Terranizing
of Venus -- either one was a booby prize.
     Mr. Weiss, the placement officer, sent for me a week after I  was sworn
in. He was actually a retired psychological-warfare major,  on  active  duty
for  procurement, but  he wore  mufti and  insisted  on  being  called  just
"Mister"  and  you could relax and take it easy with him. He  had my list of
preferences and the reports on all my tests and I saw that he was holding my
high  school  transcript  -- which pleased  me, for I had done all  right in
school; I had stood high  enough without standing so high as to be marked as
a greasy grind, having never flunked any courses and dropped only one, and I
had been rather a  big man  around  school otherwise: swimming  team, debate
team, track squad, class treasurer,  silver  medal  in  the annual  literary
contest,  chairman  of   the  homecoming  committee,  stuff  like   that.  A
well-rounded record and it's all down in the transcript.
     He looked up as I came  in, said,  "Sit down, Johnnie," and looked back
at the transcript, then put it down. "You like dogs?"
     "Huh? Yes, sir"
     "How well do you like them? Did your dog sleep on your bed? By the way,
where is your dog now?"
     "Why, I don't happen to have a dog just at  present. But  when I did --
well, no, he  didn't sleep on my bed. You  see, Mother didn't allow dogs  in
the house."
     "But didn't you sneak him in?"
     "Uh   --    "   I    thought    of   trying   to    explain    Mother's
not-angry-but-terribly-terribly-hurt routine when  you tried to buck her  on
something she had her mind made up about. But I gave up. "No, sir."
     "Mmm . . . have you ever seen a neodog?"
     "Uh, once, sir. They exhibited one at the Macarthur Theater  two  years
ago. But the S. P. C. A. made trouble for them."
     "Let me tell you how it is with a K-9  team. A neodog is not just a dog
that talks."
     "I couldn't understand that neo at the Macarthur. Do they really talk?"
     "They talk. You simply have to train your  ear  to their  accent. Their
mouths can't shape `b,' `m,' `p,' or `v' and you  have to get used to  their
equivalents  -- something like  the  handicap of  a split  palate  but  with
different letters.  No matter, their speech is as clear as any human speech.
But a neodog is not a  talking  dog;  he is  not  a dog  at  all, he  is  an
artificially mutated  symbiote derived  from  dog  stock.  A neo,  a trained
Caleb, is about six times as  bright as a dog, say about as intelligent as a
human moron -- except that the comparison is not fair to the neo; a moron is
a defective, whereas a neo is a stable genius in his own line of work."
     Mr. Weiss scowled. "Provided, that is, that he has his symbiote. That's
the  rub. Mmm . . . you're too young ever  to have been  married  but you've
seen marriage, your own parents at least. Can you imagine being married to a
Caleb?"
     "Huh? No. No, I can't."
     "The emotional  relationship between the dog-man and  the man-dog in  a
K-9  team  is  a  great deal  closer and  much  more  important than  is the
emotional relationship in most  marriages. If the master is  killed, we kill
the neodog -- at once! It is all that we can do for the poor  thing. A mercy
killing. If  the neodog is killed . .  . well,  we can't kill  the  man even
though it  would  be  the  simplest solution. Instead  we restrain  him  and
hospitalize him and slowly  put him back together." He picked up a pen, made
a mark. "I don't think we can  risk assigning a boy to K-9 who didn't outwit
his  mother  to  have his  dog sleep  with him. So let's  consider something
else."
     It was not  until then that I realized that I must have already flunked
every choice on my list above  K-9 Corps -- and  now I had just flunked  it,
too. I  was so startled  that  I  almost missed his next remark. Major Weiss
said meditatively,  with  no expression  and  as  if  he  were talking about
someone else, long  dead and far away: "I was once  half of a K-9 team. When
my Caleb became a casualty, they  kept me under sedation for six weeks, then
rehabilitated me for other work. Johnnie, these courses you've taken --  why
didn't you study something useful?"
     "Sir?"
     "Too late now.  Forget  it. Mmm . . .  your  instructor in History  and
Moral Philosophy seems to think well of you."
     "He does?" I was surprised. "What did he say?"
     Weiss  smiled. "He says that  you are not  stupid,  merely ignorant and
prejudiced by your environment. From him that is high praise -- I know him."
     It didn't sound like praise to me! That stuck-up stiff-necked old --
     "And," Weiss went on, "a boy  who  gets a `C-minus' in Appreciation  of
Television   can't   be  all   bad.  I  think   we'll  accept  Mr.   Dubois'
recommendation. How would you like to be an infantryman?"
     I  came out  of  the Federal  Building  feeling subdued yet  not really
unhappy. At least I was a soldier; I had papers in my pocket to prove it.  I
hadn't been classed as too dumb and useless for anything but make-work.
     It  was a few minutes after the end of the working day and the building
was empty save for a skeleton night staff and a few stragglers. I ran into a
man in  the  rotunda who was just leaving; his  face  looked familiar but  I
couldn't place him.
     But he caught my  eye  and  recognized me. "Evening!"  he said briskly.
"You haven't shipped out yet?"
     And then I recognized him -- the  Fleet Sergeant who had sworn us in. I
guess my  chin dropped; this man was in civilian clothes, was walking around
on two legs and had two arms. "Uh, good evening, Sergeant," I mumbled.
     He understood my  expression  perfectly,  glanced down  at  himself and
smiled easily.  "Relax, lad.  I  don't have  to put on my horror  show after
working hours -- and I don't. You haven't been placed yet?"
     "I just got my orders."
     "For what?"
     "Mobile Infantry."
     His face broke in a big grin of delight and he shoved out his hand. "My
outfit!  Shake, son! We'll make a man of you -- or  kill you  trying.  Maybe
both."
     "It's a good choice?" I said doubtfully.
     " `A  good  choice'? Son,  it's the only choice. The Mobile Infantry is
the  Army. All the  others are  either  button  pushers or professors, along
merely to hand us  the saw; we do the work." He shook hands again and added,
"Drop me a card -- `Fleet Sergeant  Ho, Federal Building,' that'll reach me.
Good luck! And he was off, shoulders back, heels clicking, head up.
     I looked at my hand. The hand he had offered me was the one that wasn't
there  -- his right  hand. Yet  it had felt  like flesh and had  shaken mine
firmly. I had read about these powered prosthetics, but it is startling when
you first run across them.
     I went back  to the  hotel  where  recruits were  temporarily  billeted
during  placement -- we didn't even have uniforms yet, just plain  coveralls
we wore during the day and our own clothes  after  hours. I went to  my room
and started  packing, as  I was shipping out early in the morning -- packing
to  send  stuff  home, I mean; Weiss  had cautioned  me  not  to  take along
anything but  family  photographs and possibly  a  musical instrument  if  I
played one (which I didn't). Carl had shipped out three days earlier, having
gotten the R & D assignment he wanted. I  was just as glad, as he would have
been just too confounded understanding about the billet I had drawn.  Little
Carmen  had  shipped   out,  too,   with  the  rank   of   cadet  midshipman
(probationary)  -- she was going to be a pilot, all right,  if she could cut
it . . . and I suspected that she could.
     My temporary  roomie came in while I was packing. "Got your orders?" he
asked.
     "Yup."
     "What?"
     "Mobile Infantry."
     "The  Infantry?  Oh, you poor  stupid clown! I  feel  sorry  for you, I
really do."
     I straightened up and said  angrily,  "Shut up! The Mobile Infantry  is
the best outfit in  the  Army --  it is  the Army! The rest of you jerks are
just along to hand us the saw -- we do the work."
     He laughed. "You'll find out!"
     "You want a mouthful of knuckles?"

     CHAPTER 3

     He shall rule them with a rod of iron.
     -- Revelations II:25

     I did Basic at Camp Arthur Currie on the  northern prairies, along with
a  couple  of  thousand other victims -- and  I do mean  "Camp," as the only
permanent buildings there  were  to shelter  equipment.  We slept and ate in
tents; we lived outdoors -- if  you  call  that "living," which I didn't, at
the time. I was used to a warm climate; it seemed to me that the  North Pole
was just five miles north  of camp and getting closer. Ice Age returning, no
doubt.
     But exercise  will keep you warm  and they saw to it that we got plenty
of that.
     The first morning we were there they woke us  up before daybreak. I had
had trouble adjusting to the change in time zones and it seemed to me that I
had  just  got to sleep; I couldn't believe that  anyone seriously  intended
that I should get up in the middle of the night.
     But  they did mean it. A speaker somewhere was blaring  out a  military
march, fit to wake the dead, and a hairy nuisance who had come charging down
the company street yelling, "Everybody out! Show a leg! On the bounce!" came
     marauding back  again  just as  I had pulled the  covers over my  head,
tipped over my cot and dumped me on the cold hard ground.
     It was an impersonal attention; he didn't even wait to see if I hit.
     Ten  minutes later, dressed in  trousers, undershirt, and shoes, I  was
lined up with the others  in  ragged ranks for  setting-up exercises just as
the   Sun  looked  over   the  eastern   horizon.   Facing  us  was   a  big
broad-shouldered, mean-looking man,  dressed just as we were --  except that
while I looked and felt like a poor job of  embalming, his  chin was  shaved
blue, his trousers were  sharply creased, you  could have used his shoes for
mirrors, and his manner was alert, wide-awake, relaxed, and rested. You  got
the  impression that  he  never  needed to sleep  --  just ten-thousand-mile
checkups and dust him off occasionally.
     He bellowed, "C'pnee! Atten . . .  shut!  I am  Career  Ship's Sergeant
Zim, your company commander. When you speak to  me, you will salute and say,
`Sir' -- you  will salute and `sir' anyone who carries an instructor's baton
-- " He  was carrying a  swagger cane and now made  a quick reverse moulinet
with  it to show what  he meant by an instructor's baton;  I had noticed men
carrying them when we had arrived the night  before and  had intended to get
one myself  --  they looked smart. Now I  changed  my mind. " --  because we
don't  have  enough  officers around here for you  to  practice  on.  You'll
practice on us. Who sneezed?"
     No answer --
     "WHO SNEEZED?"
     "I did," a voice answered.
     " `I did' what?"
     "I sneezed."
     " `I sneezed,' SIR!"
     "I sneezed, sir. I'm cold, sir."
     "Oho!" Zim strode up to the  man who had sneezed, shoved the ferrule of
the swagger cane an inch under his nose and demanded, "Name?"
     "Jenkins . . . sir."
     "Jenkins . . ." Zim repeated as if the word  were somehow  distasteful,
even  shameful. "I suppose some night on patrol you're going to  sneeze just
because you've got a runny nose. Eh?"
     "I hope not, sir."
     "So  do I.  But you're cold. Hmm . . . we'll fix that." He pointed with
his stick. "See that armory  over there?" I looked and could see nothing but
prairie except for one building that seemed to be almost on the skyline.
     "Fall out. Run around it. Run, I said. Fast! Bronski! Pace him."
     "Right, Sarge." One of the  five or six other  baton carriers  took out
after Jenkins, caught  up  with  him easily, cracked him across the tight of
his pants with the baton. Zim turned back to the rest of us, still shivering
at attention. He  walked up  and  down, looked  us over, and seemed  awfully
unhappy. At  last  he stepped out in front of us, shook  his head, and said,
apparently to himself but  he had a  voice that carried: "To think that this
had to happen to me!"
     He looked at us. "You apes -- No, not `apes'; you don't rate that much.
You  pitiful mob of sickly monkeys .  . . you sunken-chested, slack-bellied,
drooling refugees  from  apron strings. In my whole life I  never saw such a
disgraceful huddle of momma's spoiled little darlings in -- you, there! Suck
up the gut! Eyes front! I'm talking to you!"
     I pulled in my belly, even though I was  not sure he  had addressed me.
He went on and on and I began to forget my goose flesh in hearing him storm.
He  never  once  repeated  himself  and he  never  used  either profanity or
obscenity. (I
     learned later that he saved  those  for very special  occasions,  which
this  wasn't.) But  he described  our shortcomings, physical, mental, moral,
and genetic, in great and insulting detail.
     But somehow I was not insulted; I became greatly interested in studying
his command of language. I wished that we had had him on our debate team.
     At last he stopped and seemed about to cry. "I can't stand it," he said
bitterly.  "I've just got  to work some of it  off -- I  had a better set of
wooden soldiers  when  I was six ALL  RIGHT! Is  there any one of you jungle
lice who thinks he can whip me? Is there a man in the crowd? Speak up !"
     There  was a short  silence  to  which I contributed. I didn't have any
doubt at all that he could whip me; I was convinced.
     I  heard a voice far down the line, the tall end. "Ah reckon ah can . .
. suh."
     Zim  looked happy.  "Good!  Step out  here where  I  can see  you." The
recruit did  so and he was impressive, at  least  three inches  taller  than
Sergeant Zim and broader across the shoulders. "What's your name, soldier?"
     "Breckinridge, suh -- and ah weigh two hundred and ten pounds an' theah
ain't any of it `slack-bellied.' "
     "Any particular way you'd like to fight?"
     "Suh, you jus' pick youah own method of dyin'. Ah'm not fussy."
     "Okay, no rules. Start whenever you like." Zim tossed his baton aside.
     It  started  -- and it  was over.  The big recruit  was sitting on  the
ground, holding his left wrist in his right hand. He didn't say anything.
     Zim bent over him. "Broken?"
     "Reckon it might he . . . suh."
     "I'm sorry.  You hurried me a little. Do you know where  the dispensary
is? Never mind -- Jones! Take Breckinridge over to the  dispensary." As they
left Zim slapped him  on the right shoulder and said quietly,  "Let's try it
again in a month or so. I'll show you what happened."  I think it  was meant
to  be  a private remark but  they were standing about six  feet in front of
where I was slowly freezing solid.
     Zim stepped  back  and  called  out,  "Okay, we've got one man  in this
company,  at least. I feel better. Do  we have another one?  Do we have  two
more? Any  two  of  you  scrofulous toads think you can stand  up to me?" He
looked back and  forth  along our  ranks. "Chicken-livered, spineless -- oh,
oh! Yes? Step out."
     Two men  who had been side  by side in  ranks stepped  out together;  I
suppose they had arranged it in whispers right there, but they also were far
down the tall end, so  I didn't hear. Zim smiled  at them. "Names,  for your
next of kin, please."
     "Heinrich."
     "Heinrich what?"
     "Heinrich, sir. Bitte." He spoke rapidly to the other recruit and added
politely, "He doesn't speak much Standard English yet, sir."
     "Meyer, mein Herr," the second man supplied.
     "That's okay,  lots of `em don't speak much of it when they get here --
I  didn't  myself.  Tell  Meyer  not  to  worry, he'll pick it  up.  But  he
understands what we are going to do?"
     "Jawohl," agreed Meyer.
     "Certainly,  sir.  He  understands  Standard, he  just can't  speak  it
fluently."
     "All right. Where did you two pick up those face scars? Heidelberg?"
     "Nein -- no, sir. Ko:nigsberg."
     "Same thing." Zim had picked up  his baton after fighting Breekinridge;
he  twirled  it  and  asked, "Perhaps you would each like  to borrow one  of
these?"
     "It would not be fair to you, sir," Heinrich  answered carefully. "Bare
hands, if you please."
     "Suit yourself. Though I might fool you. Ko:nigsberg, eh? Rules?"
     "How can there be rules, sir, with three?"
     "An interesting point. Well,  let's agree  that if eyes  are gouged out
they must be handed  back when it's over. And tell your Korpsbruder that I'm
ready now. Start when  you like." Zim tossed his baton away; someone  caught
it.
     "You joke, sir. We will not gouge eyes."
     "No eye gouging, agreed. `Fire when ready, Gridley.' "
     "Please?"
     "Come on and fight! Or get back into ranks!"
     Now I am  not sure  that I  saw it happen this way;  I may have learned
part of it  later, in training. But  here is what I think  happened: The two
moved  out  on  each side  of  our company  commander  until  they  had  him
completely flanked but well out of contact. From this  position  there is  a
choice of four  basic  moves for  the  man  working  alone,  moves that take
advantage of his  own  mobility and of the superior co-ordination of one man
as  compared with  two -- Sergeant Zim says (correctly)  that any  group  is
weaker than a man alone unless they are perfectly  trained to work together.
For example, Zim could  have feinted at  one of them,  bounced  fast  to the
other with a disabler, such as a broken kneecap then  finished off the first
at his leisure.
     Instead he let them attack.  Meyer  came at him fast, intending to body
check  and knock  him to the ground, I  think, while  Heinrich would  follow
through from above, maybe with his  boots.  That's the way  it  appeared  to
start.
     And here's what I think I saw. Meyer never  reached him with  that body
check. Sergeant Zim whirled to face him,
     while kicking out and getting Heinrich in the belly  --  and then Meyer
was  sailing  through  the air, his lunge helped  along with a hearty assist
from Zim.
     But all I am sure of is that the  fight started and then there were two
German boys sleeping peacefully, almost end  to end, one face  down and  one
face  up, and Zim was standing over them,  not even breathing hard. "Jones,"
he said. "No,  Jones left, didn't he? Mahmud!  Let's have  the water bucket,
then stick them back into their sockets. Who's got my toothpick?"
     A few moments later the two were conscious, wet, and back in ranks. Zim
looked  at us and  inquired gently, "Anybody else?  Or shall we get on  with
setting-up exercises?"
     I didn't  expect anybody  else and I doubt if he did.  But from down on
the  left flank,  where the shorties hung out,  a boy stepped out of  ranks,
came  front and center. Zim looked down at him. "Just you? Or do you want to
pick a partner?"
     "Just myself, sir."
     "As you say. Name?"
     "Shujumi, sir."
     Zim's eyes widened. "Any relation to Colonel Shujumi?"
     "I have the honor to be his son, sir."
     "Ah so! Well! Black Belt?"
     "No, sir. Not yet."
     "I'm  glad  you qualified  that. Well,  Shujumi,  are  we going  to use
contest rules, or shall I send for the ambulance?"
     "As you wish, sir. But I think, if I  may be permitted an opinion, that
contest rules would be more prudent."
     "I  don't know just  how you mean that, but  I  agree." Zim  tossed his
badge  of  authority aside, then, so help  me,  they backed off, faced  each
other, and bowed.
     After  that  they circled  around each other in  a half  crouch, making
tentative passes with their hands, and looking like a couple of roosters.
     Suddenly they touched -- and the little chap was down on the ground and
Sergeant Zim was flying through the air over his  head. But  he  didn't land
with the dull, breath-paralyzing thud that Meyer had; he lit rolling and was
on his feet as fast as Shujumi was and facing him. "Banzai!" Zim  yelled and
grinned.
     "Arigato," Shujumi answered and grinned back.
     They touched  again almost without a  pause and I thought  the Sergeant
was going to  fly again.  He didn't;  he slithered straight in, there was  a
confusion of  arms  and legs and when the motion slowed down  you could  see
that Zim was tucking Shujumi's left foot in his right ear -- a poor fit.
     Shujumi slapped the ground with a free hand; Zim let  him up  at  once.
They again bowed to each other.
     "Another fall, sir?"
     "Sorry. We've got work to  do. Some other  time, eh? For fun .  . . and
honor. Perhaps I should have told you; your honorable father trained me."
     "So I had already surmised, sir. Another time it is."
     Zim slapped him hard on the shoulder. "Back in ranks, soldier. C'pnee!"
     Then, for twenty minutes, we went through calisthenics that left me  as
dripping  hot as I had been shivering cold. Zim led it himself, doing it all
with us and shouting the count. He hadn't  been mussed that I could  see; he
wasn't breathing hard as we  finished. He never led the exercises after that
morning (we never saw him again before breakfast; rank hath its privileges),
but he did that morning, and when it was over and we were all bushed, he led
us at a trot to the mess tent, shouting at us the whole way to  "Step it up!
On the bounce! You're dragging your tails!"
     We  always trotted everywhere  at Camp Arthur Currie. I never  did find
out who Currie was, but he must have been a trackman.
     Breckinridge was already in the mess tent, with a cast on his wrist but
thumb  and  fingers  showing. I  heard  him  say,  "Naw,  just  a greenstick
fractchuh -- ah've played a whole quahtuh  with wuss. But you wait  -- ah'll
fix him."
     I had  my doubts.  Shujumi, maybe -- but  not  that  big ape. He simply
didn't know  when he was outclassed. I disliked  Zim from the first moment I
laid eyes on him. But he had style.
     Breakfast was all right -- all the meals were all right; there was none
of that nonsense some boarding schools have of making your life miserable at
the  table. If you  wanted to slump  down and shovel it in  with both hands,
nobody bothered you  -- which  was good, as meals were  practically the only
time somebody wasn't riding you. The menu for breakfast wasn't anything like
what I had been used to  at home and the civilians that waited on us slapped
the food around in a fashion that would have made Mother grow pale and leave
for her room -- but it was hot and it was plentiful and the cooking was okay
if plain. I ate about four times what I normally do and washed it down  with
mug after mug of coffee with cream and lots of sugar -- I would have eaten a
shark without stopping to skin him.
     Jenkins showed up with Corporal Bronski behind him as I was starting on
seconds. They stopped  for a moment at  a table where Zim was  eating alone,
then  Jenkins  slumped  onto  a  vacant  stool  by  mine. He  looked  mighty
seedy-pale, exhausted, and his  breath rasping.  I said,  "Here, let me pour
you some coffee."
     He shook his head.
     "You better eat," I  insisted. "Some scrambled eggs --  they'll go down
easily."
     "Can't eat.  Oh, that dirty, dirty so-and-so." He began cussing out Zim
in a low, almost expressionless monotone. "All I  asked him was to let me go
lie down and skip breakfast. Bronski  wouldn't let me -- said I  had  to see
the  company  commander. So I  did and I told him I was sick, I told him. He
just felt  my cheek and  counted my  pulse and  told  me sick call  was nine
o'clock. Wouldn't let me go back to my tent. Oh, that rat! I'll catch him on
a dark night, I will."
     I spooned out some  eggs for him anyway and poured coffee. Presently he
began  to  eat. Sergeant Zim got  up to leave  while most  of us  were still
eating, and stopped by our table. "Jenkins."
     "Uh? Yes, sir."
     "At oh-nine-hundred muster for sick call and see the doctor."
     Jenkins' jaw  muscles twitched. He answered  slowly, "I don't  need any
pills -- sir. I'll get by."
     "Oh-nine-hundred. That's an order." He left.
     Jenkins  started his  monotonous  chant  again. Finally he slowed down,
took a bite  of eggs and said somewhat more loudly, "I  can't help wondering
what  kind of a mother produced that.  I'd just like to have  a look at her,
that's all. Did he ever have a mother?"
     It was  a  rhetorical question but  it got answered. At the head of our
table, several  stools  away, was  one  of the instructor-corporals.  He had
finished eating  and was smoking  and picking his teeth, simultaneously;  he
had evidently been listening. "Jenkins -- "
     "Uh -- sir?"
     "Don't you know about sergeants?"
     "Well . . . I'm learning."
     "They don't have mothers. Just ask any trained private."  He blew smoke
toward us. "They reproduce by fission . . . like all bacteria."

     CHAPTER 4

And the LORD said unto Gideon, The people that are with thee  are too many .
.  . Now therefore  go  to,  proclaim in the  ears  of  the people,  saying,
Whosoever  is fearful and afraid, let him return . . . And there returned of
the people twenty and two thousand; and there remained ten thousand. And the
LORD said unto Gideon, The people are yet too many; bring them down unto the
water, and  I will try them for  thee there . .  .  so  he brought  down the
people unto the water: and the LORD said unto Gideon, Every one that lappeth
of  the water with his tongue,  as  a  dog lappeth,  him  shalt thou set  by
himself; likewise everyone that boweth down upon his knees to drink. And the
number of them that  drank, putting their hand  to their  mouth,  were three
hundred men . . .
     And  the LORD said unto Gideon, By the three hundred .  . . will I save
you . . . let all the other people go . . .
     -- Judges VII:2-7
     Two weeks  after we got there they took our cots  away from us. That is
to say that  we had the dubious pleasure of folding them, carrying them four
miles, and stowing them in a warehouse. By then it didn't matter; the ground
seemed  much warmer  and quite soft --  especially when the alert sounded in
the middle of the night  and we  had to scramble out and play soldier. Which
it  did about three times a week. But I could get back to sleep after one of
those mock exercises at once;  I had learned to sleep any place, any time --
sitting up, standing up, even marching  in ranks.  Why, I  could  even sleep
through evening parade standing at attention,  enjoy the music without being
waked by it -- and wake instantly at the command to pass in review. I made a
very  important  discovery at  Camp  Currie.  Happiness consists  in getting
enough  sleep.  Just that,  nothing more.  All  the wealthy,  unhappy people
you've ever met  take  sleeping pills; Mobile Infantrymen don't  need  them.
Give a cap trooper  a bunk and time to sack out in it and he's as happy as a
worm in an apple -- asleep.
     Theoretically you were given eight full hours of sack  time every night
and about an  hour and a half after evening chow  for your  own use.  But in
fact your night sack  time  was subject  to alerts, to night duty, to  field
marches,  and  to  acts  of God and  the whims of  those over  you, and your
evenings, if  not ruined by awkward squad or extra duty  for minor offenses,
were  likely to be  taken  up  by  shining  shoes, doing  laundry,  swapping
haircuts (some of us got to  be pretty fair barbers but a clean sweep like a
billiard  ball  was acceptable and anybody  can do that) -- not to mention a
thousand  other chores having to do with equipment,  person, and the demands
of  sergeants. For example  we learned  to  answer morning roll  call  with:
"Bathed!" meaning you had taken at least one bath since last reveille. A man
might  lie about it  and get away with  it (I did, a couple of times) but at
least one in  our company who pulled that  dodge in the  face  of convincing
evidence that he was not recently bathed got scrubbed with stiff brushes and
floor soap by  his  squad mates while  a corporal-instructor  chaperoned and
made helpful suggestions.
     But if you didn't have more urgent things to do after supper, you could
write  a  letter,  loaf,  gossip,  discuss  the  myriad   mental  and  moral
shortcomings of sergeants and,  dearest of all, talk about the female of the
species  (we  became  convinced  that  there  were no  such  creatures, just
mythology created by inflamed imaginations one boy in our company claimed to
have seen a girl, over at regimental headquarters; he was unanimously judged
a liar and a braggart).  Or you could  play  cards. I learned, the hard way,
not to draw to an inside straight and I've never done it  since. In  fact  I
haven't played cards since.
     Or, if you actually did have twenty minutes of your very own, you could
sleep.  This was  a choice very  highly thought of;  we were always  several
weeks minus on sleep.
     I may have given  the impression that boot  camp  was  made harder than
necessary. This is not correct.
     It was made as hard as possible and on purpose.
     It was the firm opinion of every recruit  that this was sheer meanness,
calculated sadism, fiendish delight of witless morons in making other people
suffer.
     It was not. It was too scheduled, too intellectual, too efficiently and
impersonally organized to be cruelty for the sick  pleasure of  cruelty;  it
was  planned like surgery for  purposes  as  unimpassioned  as  those  of  a
surgeon.  Oh, I admit that some of the instructors may have enjoyed it but I
don't know that  they  did -- and  I  do  know (now) that the psych officers
tried  to weed  out  any bullies  in selecting instructors. They  looked for
skilled and dedicated  craftsmen to follow the art of making things as tough
as possible for a recruit;  a bully  is too  stupid, himself too emotionally
involved, and  too  likely  to  grow tired of his  fun and slack off, to  be
efficient.
     Still, there may have been bullies among them. But I've heard that some
surgeons  (and  not necessarily bad ones) enjoy  the  cutting and the  blood
which accompanies the humane art of surgery.
     That's what it was:  surgery. Its immediate purpose was to get rid  of,
run right out of the outfit, those recruits who were too soft or too babyish
ever to make Mobile Infantrymen. It accomplished that, in droves. (They darn
near ran me out.) Our company shrank to platoon size in the first six weeks.
Some of them were  dropped without prejudice and allowed, if they wished, to
sweat out their terms in the non-combatant  services; others got Bad Conduct
Discharges, or Unsatisfactory Performance Discharges, or Medical Discharges.
     Usually you didn't know why a man left unless you saw him  leave and he
volunteered the information.  But some of them  got  fed up, said so loudly,
and  resigned,   forfeiting  forever   their  chances  of  franchise.  Some,
especially  the  older  men,  simply couldn't stand the  pace physically  no
matter  how  hard  they  tried.  I  remember one,  a  nice  old geezer named
Carruthers, must have been thirty-five; they carried him away in a stretcher
while he was still shouting feebly that it wasn't fair! -- and that he would
be back.
     It was sort of sad, because we liked Carruthers and he did try -- so we
looked the other way and figured we would never see him again, that he was a
cinch  for a  medical  discharge and  civilian  clothes. Only I did see  him
again,  long after.  He  had  refused discharge (you don't have to  accept a
medical) and wound up as third  cook in a troop transport.  He remembered me
and wanted to talk old times, as proud of being an alumnus of Camp Currie as
Father is of his  Harvard accent -- he felt that he was a  little bit better
than the ordinary Navy man. Well, maybe he was.
     But,  much  more important than the purpose  of carving  away  the  fat
quickly and  saving the government the  training costs  of those  who  would
never  cut  it,  was the prime purpose  of making  as  sure  as was  humanly
possible that no cap trooper ever  climbed into  a capsule for a combat drop
unless he was prepared for it -- fit, resolute, disciplined, and skilled. If
he is not, it's not fair to the Federation,  it's certainly not  fair to his
teammates, and worst of all it's not fair to him.
     But was boot camp more cruelly hard than was necessary?
     All  I can say to that is this: The next time I have to  make a  combat
drop,  I want the  men on my flanks to be  graduates  of  Camp Currie or its
Siberian equivalent. Otherwise I'll refuse to enter the capsule.
     But I certainly  thought it was a bunch of  crumby, vicious nonsense at
the time. Little things -- When we were there a week, we were issued undress
maroons for parade to supplement  the  fatigues we had been wearing.  (Dress
and full-dress uniforms came much later.) I took my tunic  back to the issue
shed  and complained to the supply sergeant.  Since he  was  only  a  supply
sergeant and rather  fatherly  in manner I thought of him as a semi-civilian
-- I didn't know how,  as of  then, to read  the ribbons  on his  chest or I
wouldn't have  dared  speak to him. "Sergeant, this  tunic is  too large. My
company commander says it fits like a tent."
     He looked at the garment, didn't touch it. "Really?"
     "Yeah. I want one that fits."
     He  still didn't stir. "Let me wise you up, sonny boy.  There  are just
two sizes in this army -- too large and too small."
     "But my company commander -- "
     "No doubt."
     "But what am I going to do?"
     "Oh, it's a choice you want! Well, I've got that in stock -- new issue,
just today. Mmm  . . . tell you what I'll do. Here's a needle and  I'll even
give you a spool of thread. You won't need a pair of scissors; a razor blade
is better. Now you tight `em plenty across the hips but leave cloth to loose
`em again across the shoulders; you'll need it later."
     Sergeant Zim's only comment  on my tailoring  was: "You can  do  better
than that. Two hours extra duty."
     So I did better than that by next parade.
     Those first  six  weeks were all hardening up and hazing,  with lots of
parade drill and  lots of route march. Eventually,  as files dropped out and
went home or  elsewhere, we reached the point  where we could do fifty miles
in ten hours on the level --  which is good mileage for a good horse in case
you've  never used  your legs. We rested, not by stopping,  but by  changing
pace, slow march,  quick  march, and trot. Sometimes we  went  out  the full
distance,  bivouacked  and ate field  rations, slept  in  sleeping  bags and
marched back the next day.
     One day we started  out on an ordinary day's march, no  bed bags on our
shoulders, no rations. When we didn't stop for lunch, I wasn't surprised, as
I had already learned to sneak sugar and hard bread and such out of the mess
tent and conceal it about  my person, but when we kept on marching away from
camp in the  afternoon I began to wonder. But I had learned not to ask silly
questions.
     We  halted   shortly   before  dark,   three  companies,  now  somewhat
abbreviated. We  formed a battalion parade  and  marched through it, without
music, guards were mounted, and  we were dismissed. I immediately  looked up
Corporal-Instructor Bronski because he was a little easier to deal with than
the others . .  .  and because I felt a certain amount of  responsibility; I
happened to be, at the  time, a recruit-corporal myself. These boot chevrons
didn't  mean much  -- mostly the privilege of being  chewed out for whatever
your squad did as well as for what you did yourself -- and they could vanish
as  quickly  as they appeared. Zim had tried out all of  the  older  men  as
temporary non-coms first and I had inherited a brassard  with chevrons on it
a couple of  days  before when our  squad leader  had folded up  and gone to
hospital.
     I  said, "Corporal  Bronski,  what's the straight  word?  When is  chow
call?"
     He  grinned at me.  "I've got a couple of crackers  on me. Want  me  to
split `em with you?"
     "Huh? Oh, no, sir. Thank you." (I had considerably  more than  a couple
of crackers; I was learning.) "No chow call?"
     "They  didn't  tell  me  either,  sonny. But  I don't  see any  copters
approaching. Now  if I was you, I'd round up my squad and figure things out.
Maybe one of you can hit a jack rabbit with a rock."
     "Yes, sir.  But  -- Well, are we staying  here all night? We don't have
our bedrolls."
     His eye brows shot up. "No bedrolls? Well, I do declare!"  He seemed to
think it over. "Mmm . . . ever see sheep huddle together in a snowstorm?"
     "Uh, no, sir."
     "Try it. They don't freeze, maybe you won't. Or,  if you don't care for
company, you might  walk around all night. Nobody'll bother  you, as long as
you stay inside the posted guards.  You won't freeze if  you keep moving. Of
course you may be a little tired tomorrow." He grinned again.
     I saluted and went  back  to  my squad. We divvied up, share  and share
alike --  and I came out with  less food than I had started;  some  of those
idiots either hadn't sneaked out anything to eat, or had  eaten all they had
while we marched. But a few crackers and a couple of prunes will do a lot to
quiet your stomach's sounding alert.
     The  sheep trick  works, too;  our whole section,  three squads, did it
together.  I don't recommend  it as a  way to  sleep; you are either  in the
outer  layer, frozen on one side and trying to worm your way  inside, or you
are inside, fairly warm but with everybody else  trying to shove his elbows,
feet,  and halitosis on you. You migrate from one condition to the other all
night long  in  sort of a Brownian movement, never quite waking up and never
really sound asleep. All this makes a night about a hundred years long.
     We  turned out at  dawn to the familiar shout of: "Up you come!  On the
bounce!"  encouraged by  instructors' batons  applied  smartly on fundaments
sticking out of the piles . . . and then we did setting-up exercises. I felt
like a corpse and didn't see how I could touch my toes. But I did, though it
hurt, and twenty minutes later when we hit the trail  I merely felt elderly.
Sergeant  Zim  wasn't even mussed and somehow  the scoundrel had managed  to
shave.
     The  Sun warmed our  backs as we marched  and Zim  started  us singing,
oldies  at first, like  "Le Regiment de Sambre  et Meuse" and "Caissons" and
"Halls of Montezuma" and then our own "Cap Trooper's Polka" which  moves you
into quickstep and pulls you on into a trot.  Sergeant Zim couldn't  carry a
tune in a sack; all  he had was a loud voice. But  Breckinridge had a  sure,
strong  lead  and could  hold  the rest of us in the teeth of Zim's terrible
false notes. We all felt cocky and covered with spines.
     But  we didn't feel cocky fifty miles later. It had been  a long night;
it was  an endless day  --  and  Zim chewed us out for the  way we looked on
parade  and several boots got gigged for failing to  shave in the nine whole
minutes between the time we fell out after the march and fell back in  again
for parade. Several  recruits  resigned that evening and I  thought about it
but didn't  because I had those  silly boot  chevrons and hadn't been busted
yet.
     That night there was a two-hour alert.
     But eventually I learned to appreciate the homey luxury of two or three
dozen warm bodies to snuggle up to, because  twelve weeks later they  dumped
me down raw naked in a  primitive area of the  Canadian Rockies and I had to
make my way forty miles through mountains. I  made it -- and hated the  Army
every inch of the way.
     I  wasn't in too  bad shape when  I  checked  in, though. A  couple  of
rabbits had failed to stay as alert as I was, so I didn't go entirely hungry
. .  . nor  entirely naked; I had a nice warm thick coat  of rabbit fat  and
dirt on my body and moccasins on my  feet -- the  rabbits having no  further
use for their skins.  It's amazing what you can do  with a flake of  rock if
you have  to -- I guess our  cave-man ancestors weren't such  dummies  as we
usually think.
     The others made it, too, those who  were still around to try and didn't
resign rather  than take the  test -- all except two  boys who died  trying.
Then we all went back  into the mountains and spent  thirteen  days  finding
them,  working  with  copters  overhead  to  direct  us  and  all  the  best
communication  gear to help us and our  instructors in powered command suits
to supervise  and  to  check rumors -- because the Mobile  Infantry  doesn't
abandon its own while there is any thin shred of hope.
     Then  we buried them with full honors to the strains of "This  Land  Is
Ours" and with the posthumous rank of PFC, the first of our boot regiment to
go that  high --  because a cap trooper isn't  necessarily expected  to stay
alive (dying is part  of his trade) . . . but they  care a lot about how you
die. It has to be heads up, on the bounce, and still trying.
     Breckinridge  was  one of  them; the other  was  an Aussie boy I didn't
know. They weren't the first to die in training; they weren't the last.

     CHAPTER 5

     He's bound to be guilty `r he
     wouldn't be here!
     Starboard gun . . . FIRE!

     Shooting's too good for `im, kick
     the louse out!
     Port gun . . . FIRE!
     -- Ancient chanty used to
     time saluting guns
     But that was after we had left  Camp  Currie and  a lot had happened in
between.  Combat  training, mostly -- combat  drill and combat exercises and
combat maneuvers,  using  everything  from  bare hands  to simulated nuclear
weapons.  I hadn't known there  were so many different ways  to fight. Hands
and feet to start with -- and if you think those aren't weapons you  haven't
seen Sergeant Zim and  Captain Frankel, our battalion commander, demonstrate
la  savate, or had little  Shujumi  work you over with just his hands and  a
toothy grin  -- Zim made Shujumi an instructor  for that purpose at once and
required us to take his orders, although we didn't  have  to salute  him and
say "sir."
     As our ranks  thinned down  Zim quit bothering with formations himself,
except  parade,  and  spent  more  and  more  time  in personal instruction,
supplementing the  corporal-instructors.  He was sudden  death with anything
but  he  loved knives,  and made and balanced his own,  instead of using the
perfectly good  general-issue ones. He  mellowed quite a bit as  a  personal
teacher, too, becoming merely unbearable instead of downright disgusting  --
he could be quite patient with silly questions.
     Once,  during one  of the two-minute  rest periods  that were scattered
sparsely  through  each  day's  work, one  of the  boys --  a kid  named Ted
Hendrick  --  asked, "Sergeant? I guess this knife throwing is fun . . . but
why do we have to learn it? What possible use is it?"
     "Well," answered Zim, "suppose all  you have is a knife? Or  maybe  not
even a knife? What  do you do? Just say your prayers and die? Or wade in and
make him buy it anyhow? Son, this is real -- it's not a checker game you can
concede if you find yourself too far behind."
     "But that's just what I mean, sir. Suppose you aren't armed  at all? Or
just one of these toadstickers, say? And the man you're up  against  has all
sorts of  dangerous weapons? There's  nothing you can do  about it; he's got
you licked on showdown."
     Zim said almost gently, "You've got it all wrong, son. There's  no such
thing as a `dangerous weapon.' "
     "Huh? Sir?"
     "There  are no  dangerous weapons;  there are only dangerous men. We're
trying to teach you to be dangerous -- to the enemy. Dangerous even  without
a knife. Deadly as long as you still have one hand or one foot and are still
alive. If you don't  know what  I mean, go  read `Horatius at the Bridge' or
`The Death of the Bon Homme Richard'; they're both in the  Camp library. But
take the case you first mentioned; I'm you and all you have is a knife. That
target  behind me  --  the one  you've been missing,  number three  --  is a
sentry,  armed  with everything but an H-bomb. You've  got to get him . .  .
quietly, at  once,  and  without  letting  him call for  help."  Zim  turned
slightly -- thunk! -- a knife he hadn't  even had  in his hand was quivering
in the center of target  number three. "You see? Best to carry two knives --
but get him you must, even barehanded."
     "Uh -- "
     "Something still troubling you? Speak up. That's what  I'm here for, to
answer your questions."
     "Uh, yes, sir. You  said the sentry didn't have any H-bomb. But he does
have an H-bomb; that's  just the point. Well, at least we have, if we're the
sentry . . . and any sentry we're up against is  likely to have them, too. I
don't mean the sentry, I mean the side he's on."
     "I understood you."
     "Well . . . you see, sir? If we can  use an H-bomb -- and, as you said,
it's no  checker game; it's real, it's war  and nobody  is fooling around --
isn't  it  sort  of ridiculous  to go crawling around in the weeds, throwing
knives and maybe getting yourself killed . . . and even losing the war . . .
when you've  got a real weapon you can  use to  win?  What's the  point in a
whole lot  of  men  risking  their  lives  with  obsolete weapons  when  one
professor type can do so much more just by pushing a button?"
     Zim  didn't answer at once, which wasn't like him at  all. Then he said
softly, "Are you happy in the Infantry, Hendrick? You can resign, you know."
Hendrick muttered something; Zim said, "Speak up!"
     "I'm not itching to resign, sir. I'm going to sweat out my term."
     "I  see. Well, the  question you asked  is one that  a  sergeant  isn't
really qualified to answer .  . . and one that you shouldn't  ask me. You're
supposed to know  the  answer before you join  up.  Or you should. Did  your
school have a course in History and Moral Philosophy?"
     "What? Sure -- yes, sir."
     "Then you've heard the answer. But I'll give you my  own  -- unofficial
-- views on it. If you wanted  to teach a  baby a lesson, would you  cut its
head off?"
     "Why . . . no, sir!"
     "Of  course not. You'd paddle it. There can be  circumstances when it's
just as foolish to hit an enemy city with an H-bomb as it would  be to spank
a baby with an ax. War is not violence  and killing, pure and simple; war is
controlled violence, for  a purpose.  The purpose of war  is to support your
government's decisions by force. The purpose is never to kill the enemy just
to be  killing  him . . . but to make him do what you  want him  to  do. Not
killing  . .  .  but controlled and  purposeful violence.  But it's not your
business or  mine  to  decide the purpose  or  the  control.  It's  never  a
soldier's  business to  decide when or where  or how -- or why -- he fights;
that belongs to the statesmen and the generals. The statesmen decide why and
how  much;  the generals take it from  there and  tell us where and when and
how.  We  supply the violence; other  people  -- `older and wiser heads,' as
they  say --  supply the control.  Which is as it should be. That's the best
answer I can give  you. If it doesn't satisfy you, I'll get you a chit to go
talk to  the regimental commander. If he  can't convince you -- then go home
and be  a  civilian! Because in that case you  will  certainly never  make a
soldier."
     Zim bounced  to  his feet.  "I  think  you've  kept me  talking just to
goldbrick. Up you come, soldiers! On the bounce! Man stations, on target  --
Hendrick, you first. This time  I want you to throw that knife south of you.
South, get it? Not  north. That target is due south of you  and I  want that
knife to go in a general southerly direction, at least. I know you won't hit
the target but see if you can't scare it a little. Don't slice your ear off,
don't  let go of it and  cut somebody behind you -- just keep what tiny mind
you have fixed on the idea of `south'! Ready on target! Let fly!"
     Hendrick missed it again.
     We trained  with sticks and we trained  with wire (lots of nasty things
you can improvise with a piece of wire) and we learned what can be done with
really  modern weapons and how  to do it and how to service and maintain the
equipment -- simulated  nuclear  weapons and  infantry  rockets  and various
sorts  of  gas and poison and incendiary and demolition.  As  well as  other
things maybe best not discussed. But we learned a lot of "obsolete" weapons,
too. Bayonets on dummy guns for example, and guns that weren't dummies, too,
but were almost identical with  the infantry rifle  of  the  XXth century --
much like the  sporting  rifles used in hunting game, except  that  we fired
nothing  but  solid  slugs, alloyjacketed lead bullets,  both at targets  on
measured ranges and at surprise targets on booby-trapped skirmish runs. This
was supposed to prepare us to learn to use any aimed weapon  and to train us
to be on the bounce, alert, ready for anything. Well. I suppose it did.  I'm
pretty sure it did.
     We used  these rifles  in field exercises to simulate a lot of deadlier
and nastier aimed weapons, too. We  used a lot of simulation; we  had to. An
"explosive" bomb  or grenade, against materiel or  personnel, would  explode
just enough to put  out a lot of black smoke; another sort of gave off a gas
that would  make you sneeze  and  weep that told  you that  you were dead or
paralyzed . .  .  and was nasty enough to make  you  careful about  anti-gas
precautions, to say nothing of the chewing out you got if you were caught by
it.
     We got still less  sleep;  more than  half the exercises  were  held at
night, with snoopers and radar and audio gear and such.
     The rifles used to  simulate  aimed  weapons  were  loaded with  blanks
except one  in five  hundred  rounds at random,  which was  a  real  bullet.
Dangerous?  Yes  and  no.  It's  dangerous  just to be  alive .  .  . and  a
nonexplosive  bullet probably won't kill you unless it hits  you in the head
or the  heart and maybe not then.  What that one-in-five-hundred "for  real"
did was to give us a deep  interest  in taking cover, especially as we  knew
that some of the rifles were being fired by instructors who were crack shots
and actually trying their best to hit you -- if the round happened not to be
a blank. They assured  us that they would not intentionally shoot a  man  in
the head . . . but accidents do happen.
     This  friendly  assurance  wasn't  very reassuring.  That  500th bullet
turned  tedious  exercises into large-scale Russian roulette; you stop being
bored the very first time you hear a slug go wheet! past your ear before you
hear the crack of the rifle.
     But we did slack down anyhow and word came down from the top that if we
didn't get on the bounce, the incidence of real ones would be changed to one
in  a hundred . . . and if that didn't work, to  one in fifty.  I don't know
whether a change was made  or  not -- no way to  tell  -- but I do  know  we
tightened up again, because a boy in the next company got creased across his
buttocks  with a live one, producing an amazing scar and a lot of half-witty
comments and a renewed interest by all hands  in taking cover. We laughed at
this kid for getting shot where he did .  .  . but we all knew it could have
been his head or our own heads.
     The instructors who were not firing rifles did not take cover. They put
on white shirts and walked around upright with their silly canes, apparently
calmly  certain  that  even a  recruit  would  not  intentionally  shoot  an
instructor  -- which  may have been  overconfidence  on the part of  some of
them. Still,  the chances were five  hundred  to one  that even a shot aimed
with murderous  intent would  not be  live  and the  safety factor increased
still higher because the recruit probably couldn't shoot that well anyhow. A
rifle is not an easy weapon;  it's got no target-seeking qualities at all --
I  understand  that even back in  the days when wars were fought and decided
with  just such rifles  it  used  to  take  several  thousand fired shots to
average killing one  man. This seems impossible  but  the military histories
agree that it  is true  --  apparently  most shots weren't  really aimed but
simply acted to force the enemy to keep his head down and interfere with his
shooting.
     In any case we had  no instructors wounded or killed by rifle  fire. No
trainees were  killed,  either,  by rifle bullets; the  deaths were all from
other weapons or things -- some  of which could turn around and bite you  if
you didn't do things by the book. Well, one boy did manage to break his neck
taking cover too enthusiastically when they first started shooting at him --
but no bullet touched him.
     However,  by a  chain reaction, this matter of rifle bullets and taking
cover  brought me to my lowest ebb  at Camp Currie. In the first place I had
been busted out of my boot chevrons, not over what  I did but over something
one of my squad  did when I wasn't even around .  . .  which I  pointed out.
Bronski told me to button my lip. So I went to see Zim  about it. He told me
coldly that I was  responsible  for what  my men  did, regardless . . .  and
tacked on six  hours of extra duty besides busting me  for having  spoken to
him about it without Bronski's permission. Then I got a letter that upset me
a lot; my mother finally wrote to me. Then I sprained a shoulder in my first
drill with powered  armor (they've  got  those practice suits rigged so that
the instructor can cause casualties in the suit at will, by radio control; I
got dumped and hurt my shoulder) and this put me on light duty with too much
time  to  think at a time when I had many reasons, it  seemed to me, to feel
sorry for myself.
     Because of  "light  duty"  I  was orderly  that day  in  the  battalion
commander's  office. I was eager at first, for I had never been there before
and  wanted  to make a good impression. I  discovered that  Captain  Frankel
didn't want zeal; he wanted me to  sit still,  say  nothing, and not  bother
him. This left me time to  sympathize with  myself, for  I didn't dare go to
sleep.
     Then suddenly, shortly after lunch, I wasn't a bit sleepy; Sergeant Zim
came  in, followed  by three  men. Zim was smart and neat  as usual but  the
expression on his face made him look like Death on a pale horse and he had a
mark on his right eye that looked as if it might be shaping up into a shiner
--  which was impossible,  of  course.  Of the other  three, the  one in the
middle  was Ted  Hendrick. He was dirty -- well,  the company had been on  a
field exercise; they don't scrub  those prairies and you spend a lot of your
time snuggling up  to the dirt. But his lip was split and there was blood on
his chin and on his shirt and his cap was missing. He looked wild-eyed.
     The men on  each side of him were boots. They each had rifles; Hendrick
did not. One of them was from my squad, a kid named Leivy. He seemed excited
and pleased, and slipped me a wink when nobody was looking.
     Captain Frankel looked surprised. "What is this, Sergeant?"
     Zim stood frozen straight and spoke as if he were reciting something by
rote.  "Sir,  H  Company  Commander  reports  to  the  Battalion  Commander.
Discipline.  Article nine-one-oh-seven. Disregard  of tactical  command  and
doctrine,  the  team  being  in simulated combat.  Article  nine-one-two-oh.
Disobedience of orders, same conditions."
     Captain Frankel looked puzzled. "You are bringing this to me, Sergeant?
Officially?"
     I don't see how a man can manage to look as  embarrassed  as Zim looked
and still have no expression of any sort in  his face or voice. "Sir. If the
Captain pleases.  The man  refused administrative discipline. He insisted on
seeing the Battalion Commander."
     "I see. A  bedroll lawyer. Well, I still don't understand it, Sergeant,
but  technically  that's his privilege. What was  the tactical  command  and
doctrine?"
     "A `freeze,' sir." I glanced at Hendrick, thinking: Oh, oh, he's  going
to catch it. In a "freeze" you hit dirt, taking any cover you can, fast, and
then freeze don't move at all, not  even  twitch an eyebrow, until released.
Or you can freeze when you're already in  cover. They tell stories about men
who had  been hit while in freeze . . . and had died slowly but without ever
making a sound or a move.
     Frankel's brows shot up. "Second part?"
     "Same thing,  sir. After breaking freeze,  failing to return to  it  on
being so ordered."
     Captain Frankel looked grim. "Name?"
     Zim    answered.    "Hendrick,   T.    C.,    sir.   Recruit    Private
R-P-seven-nine-six-oh-nine-two-four."
     "Very well. Hendrick,  you  are deprived of  all  privileges for thirty
days and restricted to  your tent when not on duty or at meals, subject only
to sanitary  necessities.  You will  serve three  hours extra duty  each day
under the Corporal of the Guard, one hour to be served just before taps, one
hour  just  before reveille, one hour at the time of the noonday meal and in
place  of it. Your evening meal will be bread and water -- as much bread  as
you can eat. You will serve ten hours extra duty each Sunday, the time to be
adjusted to permit you to attend divine services if you so elect."
     (I thought: Oh my! He threw the book.)
     Captain Frankel went on: "Hendrick, the only reason you are getting off
so lightly is that I am not permitted to give you any more than that without
convening  a court-martial  . . . and I don't want to  spoil your  company's
record. Dismissed." He  dropped his eyes back to the papers on his desk, the
incident already forgotten --
     -- and Hendrick yelled, "You didn't hear my side of it!"
     The Captain looked up. "Oh. Sorry. You have a side?"
     "You darn right I do! Sergeant Zim's got it in for me! He's been riding
me, riding me, riding me, all day long from the time I got here! He -- "
     "That's his job," the Captain said coldly. "Do you deny the two charges
against you?"
     "No, but -- He didn't tell you I was lying on an anthill!"
     Frankel  looked  disgusted.  "Oh. So you  would get yourself killed and
perhaps your teammates as well because of a few little ants?"
     "Not `just a few' -- there were hundreds of `em. Stingers."
     "So?  Young  man,  let  me  put  you  straight. Had it been a  nest  of
rattlesnakes  you would  still  have been expected  --  and required  --  to
freeze."  Frankel paused.  "Have you  anything  at all  to say  in your  own
defense?"
     Hendrick's mouth was open. "I certainly do! He hit me! He laid hands on
me! The  whole bunch  of `em  are  always strutting around with those  silly
batons, whackin'  you across the fanny,  punchin' you between  the shoulders
and tellin' you  to  brace up and  I put up with  it. But he hit me with his
hands -- he knocked me down to  the ground and yelled, `Freeze!  you  stupid
jackass!' How about that?"
     Captain Frankel looked down at his hands, looked up  again at Hendrick.
"Young man, you are under a misapprehension very common among civilians. You
think that your superior officers  are not permitted to `lay hands  on you,'
as you  put  it.  Under purely social  conditions, that is true -- say if we
happened to run  across  each other in  a theater or a shop, I would have no
more right, as long as you treated me with  the respect due my rank, to slap
your  face than  you have to  slap mine.  But in line  of duty  the rule  is
entirely different -- "
     The  Captain swung around  in his chair and pointed  at some loose-leaf
books.  "There are  the  laws  under  which you live. You  can  search every
article  in those books, every  court-martial case  which has  arisen  under
them,  and you will  not find one word which  says,  or  implies,  that your
superior officer  may not `lay  hands  on you'  or strike  you in any  other
manner in line of duty. Hendrick, I could break your jaw .  . . and I simply
would be responsible  to  my own  superior officers as  to  the  appropriate
necessity of the act. But I would not be responsible to you. I could do more
than  that.  There   are  circumstances  under  which  a  superior  officer,
commissioned or not, is  not  only permitted but required to kill an officer
or a man under him,  without delay and perhaps without warning  -- and,  far
from being punished, be commended. To put a stop to pusillanimous conduct in
the face of the enemy, for example."
     The Captain tapped on his desk. "Now  about those batons  -- They  have
two uses. First,  they mark  the men in authority. Second, we expect them to
be used on  you, to touch you  up  and keep  you  on the bounce.  You  can't
possibly  be  hurt with one, not the way they are used; at most they sting a
little.  But  they save thousands  of words. Say you don't  turn  out on the
bounce  at  reveille. No  doubt the  duty  corporal could  wheedle  you, say
`pretty please  with sugar on it,'  inquire if  you'd like  breakfast in bed
this morning -- if we could spare one career corporal just to nursemaid you.
We  can't, so he  gives your bedroll a  whack and trots  on  down  the line,
applying  the spur where needed. Of course he could simply kick  you,  which
would be just as legal and nearly as effective. But the general in charge of
training and discipline thinks  that it is more dignified, both for the duty
corporal  and for you, to  snap a  late sleeper  out  of  his fog  with  the
impersonal  rod of authority. And so do I. Not that it matters what you or I
think about it; this is the way we do it."
     Captain Frankel  sighed.  "Hendrick, I have  explained these matters to
you because it  is useless to punish a man unless he knows why  he is  being
punished. You've been a bad  boy --  I say `boy' because you quite evidently
aren't a man yet, although  we'll keep trying -- a  surprisingly bad  boy in
view of the  stage of your training. Nothing you  have said is  any defense,
nor even any mitigation; you don't seem to know the score nor have any  idea
of  your  duty  as  a soldier.  So  tell me in your own words  why you  feel
mistreated;  I  want  to  get  you straightened  out.  There might  even  be
something in  your favor,  though I  confess that  I  cannot imagine what it
could be."
     I  had sneaked  a  look or two at Hendrick's face while the Captain was
chewing  him out -- somehow his  quiet, mild words were  a worse chewing-out
than  any  Zim had  ever  given  us.  Hendrick's  expression  had  gone from
indignation to blank astonishment to sullenness.
     "Speak up!" Frankel added sharply.
     "Uh .  . . well, we  were ordered to freeze and I  hit the  dirt and  I
found I was on this anthill. So I got to my knees, to move over a  couple of
feet, and I was hit from behind and knocked flat and he yelled  at me -- and
I bounced up and popped him one and he -- "
     "STOP!" Captain  Frankel was  out of his  chair and stand  -- ten  feet
tall, though he's hardly taller than I am. He stared at Hendrick.
     "You . . . struck . . . your . . . company commander?"
     "Huh?  I said so. But he  hit me first. From behind, I didn't even  see
him. I don't take that off of anybody. I popped him and then he hit me again
and then -- "
     "Silence!"
     Hendrick  stopped. Then  he  added,  "I just  want out  of  this  lousy
outfit."
     "I think  we  can accommodate you," Frankel  said icily.  "And quickly,
too."
     "Just gimme a piece of paper, I'm resigning."
     "One moment. Sergeant Zim."
     "Yes, sir." Zim hadn't said a word for a long time. He just stood, eyes
front and rigid as a statue, nothing moving but his twitching jaw muscles. I
looked at  him now  and  saw  that it certainly  was  a  shiner  -- a beaut.
Hendrick must have  caught him just right. But he hadn't said anything about
it and Captain Frankel hadn't asked -- maybe he had just assumed Zim had run
into a door and would explain it if he felt like it, later.
     "Have  the  pertinent  articles  been  published  to  your company,  as
required?"
     "Yes, sir. Published and logged, every Sunday morning"
     "I know they have. I asked simply for the record."
     Just before church  call every Sunday they  lined us up and  read aloud
the disciplinary  articles  out of the Laws and  Regulations of the Military
Forces. They  were posted  on  the bulletin board,  too, outside the orderly
tent. Nobody paid them much mind --  it was just  another  drill;  you could
stand still  and  sleep through it. About the only thing  we noticed, if  we
noticed anything, was  what we called "the thirty-one ways to  crash  land."
After all,  the instructors  see to  it that you soak up all the regulations
you need to know, through your skin.  The "crash landings"  were  a worn-out
joke,  like "reveille oil" and "tent jacks" . . . they  were the  thirty-one
capital offenses.  Now and  then somebody boasted, or accused somebody else,
of having  found  a thirty-second way -- always  something preposterous  and
usually obscene.
     "Striking a Superior Officer -- !"
     It  suddenly  wasn't amusing any longer.  Popping  Zim? Hang a  man for
that? Why, almost everybody in the company had taken a swing at Sergeant Zim
and  some  of  us had even  landed  .  . .  when  he  was  instructing us in
hand-to-hand combat. He would  take us on  after the other  instructors  had
worked us over and we were beginning to feel cocky and pretty good  at it --
then he would put  the polish on. Why, shucks, I  once saw Shujumi knock him
unconscious. Bronski threw water on him and Zim got up and grinned and shook
hands -- and threw Shujumi right over the horizon.
     Captain Frankel  looked around, motioned at me. "You. Flash  regimental
headquarters."
     I did it, all thumbs, stepped back when an  officer's face came on  and
let the Captain take the call. "Adjutant," the face said.
     Frankel  said crisply,  "Second Battalion Commander's  respects to  the
Regimental Commander. I request and require an officer to sit as a court."
     The face said, "When do you need him, Ian?"
     "As quickly as you can get him here."
     "Right away. I'm pretty sure Jake is in his HQ. Article and name?"
     Captain Frankel identified Hendrick  and  quoted an article number. The
face in the screen whistled and looked grim. "On the bounce, Ian. If I can't
get Jake, I'll be over myself -- just as soon as I tell the Old Man."
     Captain Frankel turned to Zim. "This escort -- are they witnesses?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "Did his section leader see it?"
     Zim barely hesitated. "I think so, sir."
     "Get him. Anybody out that way in a powered suit?"
     "Yes, sir."
     Zim  used the phone while Frankel said to Hendrick, "What  witnesses do
you wish to call in your defense?"
     "Huh? I don't need any witnesses, he knows what he  did! Just hand me a
piece of paper -- I'm getting out of here."
     "All in good time."
     In  very fast time,  it  seemed to me.  Less than  five  minutes  later
Corporal Jones  came bouncing up in a command suit, carrying Corporal Mahmud
in his arms. He dropped  Mahmud and bounced away just as Lieutenant Spieksma
came in. He said, "Afternoon, Cap'n. Accused and witnesses here?"
     "All set. Take it, Jake."
     "Recorder on?"
     "It is now."
     "Very well. Hendrick, step  forward."  Hendrick did so, looking puzzled
and  as  if  his nerve  was  beginning  to  crack. Lieutenant  Spieksma said
briskly:  "Field Court-Martial,  convened by  order of  Major F.  X. Malloy,
commanding Third Training Regiment, Camp Arthur  Currie, under General Order
Number  Four,  issued  by  the Commanding General,  Training  and Discipline
Command, pursuant to the Laws and Regulations of the Military Forces, Terran
Federation. Remanding officer:  Captain Ian Frankel, M. I., assigned to  and
commanding Second Battalion,  Third Regiment. The Court: Lieutenant  Jacques
Spieksma, M. I., assigned to and commanding First Battalion, Third Regiment.
Accused: Hendrick,  Theodore C.,  Recruit Private  RP7960924. Article  9080.
Charge: Striking his superior officer, the Terran Federation then being in a
state of emergency."
     The thing  that got me was how  fast it  went. I  found myself suddenly
appointed an  "officer of the  court" and directed to "remove" the witnesses
and have  them ready. I didn't know how I  would "remove" Sergeant Zim if he
didn't feel like it, but he gathered Mahmud and  the two boots up by eye and
they all went outside, out of earshot. Zim separated himself from the others
and simply waited; Mahmud sat down on the ground and rolled  a  cigarette --
which  he had to put out; he was the  first one called. In less  than twenty
minutes  all three of them had testified, all  telling  much the  same story
Hendrick had. Zim wasn't called at all.
     Lieutenant Spieksma said to Hendrick, "Do you wish to cross-examine the
witnesses? The Court will assist you, if you so wish."
     "No."
     "Stand at attention and say `sir' when you address the Court."
     "No, sir." He added, "I want a lawyer."
     "The Law does not  permit counsel in field  courts-martial. Do you wish
to testify in  your own defense? You are not required to do so and, in  view
of the evidence thus  far,  the Court will take  no  judicial notice  if you
choose not to do so. But you are warned that any testimony that you give may
be used against you and that you will be subject to cross-examination."
     Hendrick shrugged. "I haven't anything to say.  What good would  it  do
me?"
     "The Court repeats: Will you testify in your own defense?"
     "Uh, no, sir."
     "The  Court must demand of you one  technical question. Was the article
under which you are charged published to you before  the time of the alleged
offense of which you stand accused? You may answer yes, or no, or stand mute
-- but you  are responsible for your answer under Article 9167 which relates
to perjury."
     The accused stood mute.
     "Very  well, the Court will reread  the  article of the charge aloud to
you  and again ask you  that  question. `Article  9080:  Any person  in  the
Military Forces who strikes or assaults, or attempts to strike or assault --
"
     "Oh,  I suppose they did. They  read a  lot of that stuff, every Sunday
morning -- a whole long list of things you couldn't do."
     "Was or was not that particular article read to you?"
     "Uh . . . yes, sir. It was."
     "Very  well. Having  declined to testify, do you have any  statement to
make in mitigation or extenuation?"
     "Sir?"
     "Do  you want  to  tell the  Court anything about  it? Any circumstance
which  you  think  might  possibly  affect  the  evidence already  given? Or
anything  which might  lessen the alleged offense? Such things as being ill,
or under drugs or medication. You are not  under oath at this point; you may
say anything at all  which you think may help you. What the  Court is trying
to find out  is  this: Does anything  about  this matter strike you as being
unfair? If so, why?"
     "Huh?  Of course it is! Everything about it is unfair! He hit me first!
You heard `em! -- he hit me first!"
     "Anything more?"
     "Huh? No, sir. Isn't that enough?"
     "The  trial is  completed.  Recruit Private Theodore C. Hendrick, stand
forth!" Lieutenant  Spieksma had been standing  at attention the whole time;
now Captain Frankel stood up. The place suddenly felt chilly.
     "Private Hendrick, you are found guilty as charged."
     My stomach did a flip-flop. They  were going to do it to him . . . they
were  going  to do  the "Danny  Deever"  to Ted  Hendrick. And  I  had eaten
breakfast beside him just this morning.
     "The  Court sentences  you," he  went on,  while I  felt  sick, "to ten
lashes and Bad Conduct Discharge."
     Hendrick gulped. "I want to resign!"
     "The Court will not permit you to resign. The Court wishes to  add that
your punishment is light simply because this Court possesses no jurisdiction
to assign greater punishment. The authority  which remanded you specified  a
field court-martial -- why it so chose,  this Court will not speculate.  But
had you been remanded for general court-martial, it  seems certain  that the
evidence before this Court would have caused a general court to sentence you
to hang  by the  neck until  dead. You are very lucky -- and  the  remanding
authority has been most merciful." Lieutenant Spieksma paused, then went on,
"The sentence will be carried out at the earliest  hour after  the convening
authority has reviewed and approved the record, if it does so approve. Court
is adjourned. Remove and confine him."
     The last was addressed to me, but I didn't actually have to do anything
about it,  other than phone the guard  tent and then get  a receipt for  him
when they took him away.
     At afternoon sick call Captain Frankel took me  off orderly and sent me
to see the  doctor, who sent me back to duty. I got back  to my company just
in time to  dress and fall in for parade --  and  to get gigged  by  Zim for
"spots on  uniform." Well, he had  a bigger spot over  one  eye but I didn't
mention it.
     Somebody had set up a big post in the parade ground just  back of where
the  adjutant stood. When  it  came time to  publish the orders,  instead of
"routine  order  of  the day" or  other  trivia,  they published  Hendrick's
court-martial.
     Then  they marched him  out, between two armed guards, with  his  hands
cuffed together in front of him.
     I had never  seen  a flogging. Back home, while they do it in public of
course, they do it back of the  Federal Building -- and  Father had given me
strict orders  to stay away from there. I tried disobeying him on it once. .
. but it was postponed and I never tried to see one again.
     Once is too many.
     The guards lifted his arms and hooked the manacles over a big hook high
up on  the post. Then they took his shirt off and it turned  out that it was
fixed  so that  it could come  off  and he  didn't  have  an undershirt. The
adjutant said crisply, "Carry out the sentence of the Court."
     A corporal-instructor  from some other battalion stepped  forward  with
the whip. The Sergeant of the Guard made the count.
     It's a  slow count, five seconds  between each  one and  it seems  much
longer. Ted didn't let out a peep until the third, then he sobbed.
     The next  thing I  knew  I was staring up at Corporal  Bronski.  He was
slapping me and looking intently at me. He stopped and asked, "Okay now? All
right, back in ranks. On the bounce; we're about to pass in  review." We did
so and marched back  to  our company areas.  I  didn't  eat  much dinner but
neither did a lot of them.
     Nobody  said a word  to me  about  fainting. I found out  later  that I
wasn't the only one -- a couple of dozen of us had passed out.

     CHAPTER 6

     What we obtain too cheap, we
     esteem too lightly . . . it would be
     strange indeed if so celestial an
     article as FREEDOM should not be
     highly rated.
     -- Thomas Paine

     It was the night after Hendrick was kicked out that I reached my lowest
slump  at Camp Currie. I couldn't sleep -- and you have to have been through
boot camp to understand just how  far down a recruit has to sink before that
can  happen.  But I  hadn't  had  any real  exercise  all  day  so  I wasn't
physically tired,  and my shoulder still hurt  even though I had been marked
"duty," and  I had that letter  from my mother preying on my mind, and every
time I closed my eyes I would hear that crack! and see Ted slump against the
whipping post.
     I wasn't fretted about losing my boot chevrons. That no longer mattered
at all because I was  ready to  resign, determined to. If it hadn't been the
middle of the night and no pen and paper  handy, I  would have done so right
then.
     Ted had made a  bad mistake, one that lasted all of  half a second. And
it  really had been just a mistake, too,  because, while he hated the outfit
(who liked it?), he had  been  trying to sweat it out and win his franchise;
he meant to go into politics -- he talked  a lot about how,  when he got his
citizenship, "There will be some changes made -- you wait and see."
     Well,  he would never be in public office now;  he had taken his finger
off his number for a single instant and he was through.
     If it could  happen to him, it  could  happen to me. Suppose I slipped?
Next day or next week? Not even allowed to resign . . . but drummed out with
my back striped.
     Time to admit that I was wrong  and Father was  right,  time to put  in
that little piece of paper and slink home and  tell Father  that I was ready
to go to Harvard and then go to work in the business --  if  he  would still
let me. Time to see  Sergeant Zim, first thing  in the morning, and tell him
that  I had had  it. But not until morning, because you  don't wake Sergeant
Zim except for something  you're certain that he will class as  an emergency
-- believe me, you don't! Not Sergeant Zim.
     Sergeant Zim --
     He worried  me as  much as Ted's  case did. After the court-martial was
over  and  Ted had been taken  away,  he  stayed behind and  said to Captain
Frankel, "May I speak with the Battalion Commander, sir?"
     "Certainly. I  was intending to ask you to stay  behind for a word. Sit
down."
     Zim flicked his eyes  my way and the Captain looked at me  and I didn't
have to be told to get out; I faded. There  was nobody in  the outer office,
just a  couple  of  civilian  clerks. I didn't dare  go  outside because the
Captain might want me; I found a chair back of a row of files and sat down.
     I could hear them talking, through the partition I had my head against.
BHQ  was  a  building  rather   than  a  tent,  since  it  housed  permanent
communication  and  recording  equipment,  but  it  was   a  "minimum  field
building,"  a shack;  the  inner  partitions weren't much.  I  doubt if  the
civilians could hear as they each were  wearing transcriber  phones and were
bent over typers -- besides, they didn't matter. I didn't mean to eavesdrop.
Uh, well, maybe I did.
     Zim said: "Sir, I request transfer to a combat team."
     Frankel answered: "I can't  hear you, Charlie. My tin ear is  bothering
me again."
     Zim: "I'm quite serious, sir. This isn't my sort of duty."
     Frankel said testily, "Quit bellyaching your  troubles to me, Sergeant.
At  least wait  until we've disposed  of duty  matters.  What  in  the world
happened?"
     Zim said stiffly, "Captain, that boy doesn't rate ten lashes."
     Frankel  answered, "Of course he doesn't. You know who goofed -- and so
do I."
     "Yes, sir. I know."
     "Well? You know even better than I do that  these kids are wild animals
at this stage. You know when it's safe to turn your back on them and when it
isn't.  You  know  the  doctrine  and  the  standing  orders  about  article
nine-oh-eight-oh  -- you  must never  give  them a chance to violate it.  Of
course  some of  them are going to try it -- if they weren't aggressive they
wouldn't be material for the M. I. They're docile in ranks; it's safe enough
to turn  your back when they're eating,  or  sleeping,  or sitting  on their
tails  and  being  lectured.  But  get them  out in the  field  in a  combat
exercise, or anything  that gets them keyed  up and full  of adrenaline, and
they're  as explosive  as a hatful of mercury fulminate. You know that,  all
you instructors  know  that; you're  trained --  trained  to  watch  for it,
trained to snuff it out before it happens. Explain to me how it was possible
for an untrained recruit to hang a mouse on  your eye?  He should never have
laid a  hand  on you; you should  have knocked him cold when you saw what he
was up to. So why weren't you on the bounce? Are you slowing down?"
     "I don't know," Zim answered slowly. "I guess I must be."
     "Hmm! If true, a combat team  is the last place for  you.  But it's not
true. Or wasn't true the last time you and I worked out together, three days
ago. So what slipped?"
     Zim was slow in  answering. "I think I had him tagged in my mind as one
of the safe ones."
     "There are no such."
     "Yes,  sir. But he was so earnest, so  doggedly  determined to sweat it
out -- he didn't have any aptitude but he kept on trying -- that I must have
done that,  subconsciously."  Zim  was  silent, then added, "I guess it  was
because I liked him."
     Frankel snorted. "An instructor can't afford to like a man."
     "I know it, sir. But I do. They're a nice bunch  of kids. We've  dumped
all the real twerps by  now -- Hendrick's only shortcoming, aside from being
clumsy, was that he thought he knew all the  answers. I didn't mind  that; I
knew it all at that age myself. The twerps have gone home and those that are
left are eager, anxious to please, and on  the bounce -- as cute as a litter
of collie pups. A lot of them will make soldiers."
     "So that was  the soft spot. You liked him . . .  so you failed to clip
him in time. So he winds up with a court and the whip and a B. C. D. Sweet."
     Zim said earnestly, "I  wish  to heaven there were some way for  me  to
take that flogging myself, sir."
     "You'd have to take your  turn, I  outrank you. What  do you think I've
been  wishing the  past hour?  What do  you  think  I was afraid of from the
moment I saw you come  in here sporting a shiner?  I did my best to brush it
off with administrative punishment  and  the  young fool wouldn't  let  well
enough alone. But I never thought he would be crazy enough to blurt out that
he had hung one on you --  he's stupid; you should have eased him out of the
outfit  weeks  ago  .  . .  instead  of nursing  him along until he got into
trouble. But blurt it out he did,  to me, in front  of witnesses, forcing me
to take of official notice of it -- and that licked us. No way to get it off
the  record, no way to avoid a court .  . . just go through the whole dreary
mess  and take our medicine, and  wind up with  one more  civilian who'll be
against us the rest of his days. Because  he has to  be flogged; neither you
nor I can  take  it  for him, even  though  the fault was  ours. Because the
regiment  has  to see what happens when  nine-oh-eight-oh  is violated.  Our
fault . . . but his lumps."
     "My fault,  Captain.  That's why I want  to be transferred.  Uh, sir, I
think it's best for the outfit."
     "You do, eh?  But  I  decide  what's  best for  my  battalion, not you,
Sergeant.  Charlie,  who  do you think pulled your name  out of the hat? And
why? Think  back  twelve  years. You  were  a corporal, remember? Where were
you?"
     "Here,  as you know quite  well,  Captain.  Right  here  on  this  same
godforsaken prairie -- and I wish I had never come back to it!"
     "Don't  we  all.  But it happens to be the most important  and the most
delicate work in the Army -- turning unspanked young cubs into soldiers. Who
was the worst unspanked young cub in your section?"
     "Mmm . . ." Zim answered slowly. "I wouldn't go so far  as to  say  you
were the worst, Captain."
     "You  wouldn't,  eh?  But  you'd  have to think  hard to  name  another
candidate. I hated your guts, `Corporal' Zim."
     Zim  sounded surprised, and a  little hurt. "You did, Captain? I didn't
hate you -- I rather liked you."
     "So? Well, `hate' is the other luxury  an instructor can never  afford.
We must not hate them, we must not like them; we must teach them. But if you
liked me then  -- mmm, it seemed to me that you  had  very strange  ways  of
showing  it. Do you still  like me?  Don't answer that; I don't care whether
you  do  or not -- or, rather, I don't want to  know, whichever it is. Never
mind; I despised you then and I used to dream about ways to get you. But you
were  always  on  the  bounce  and  never  gave   me   a  chance  to  buy  a
nine-oh-eight-oh court of my own. So here I am, thanks to you. Now to handle
your request: You  used to have  one order that you gave to me over and over
again  when  I  was a  boot.  I  got  so that  I loathed it almost more than
anything else you did or said. Do you remember it? I do and now I'll give it
back to you: `Soldier, shut up and soldier!' "
     "Yes, sir."
     "Don't  go  yet. This weary  mess isn't all loss; any regiment of boots
needs a stern lesson in the  meaning  of  nine-oh-eight-oh, as we both know.
They haven't yet learned to think,  they won't read, and they  rarely listen
-- but they can see . . . and  young Hendrick's  misfortune may save  one of
his mates, some day, from  swinging by the neck until he's dead, dead, dead.
But  I'm  sorry  the  object  lesson had to  come from  my battalion  and  I
certainly  don't intend to let  this battalion supply another one.  You  get
your  instructors together and warn them.  For about twenty-four hours those
kids will be in  a state of shock. Then they'll  turn sullen and the tension
will build. Along about  Thursday or Friday  some boy  who is about to flunk
out anyhow  will  start thinking  over the  fact that Hendrick didn't get so
very much, not even the number of  lashes for drunken driving . . . and he's
going to  start brooding that it might be worth it,  to take a swing at  the
instructor he hates worst. Sergeant -- that blow must never land! Understand
me?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "I  want them to be  eight times as cautious  as they have been. I want
them to keep their distance, I want them to have  eyes in the backs of their
heads. I want them to be as alert as a mouse at  a  cat show. Bronski -- you
have a special word with Bronski; he has a tendency to fraternize."
     "I'll straighten Bronski out, sir."
     "See that you do. Because when  the next kid starts  swinging, it's got
to be stop-punched -- not muffed, like  today. The boy has got to be knocked
cold and the  instructor must  do so without  ever  being touched himself or
I'll damned well break him for incompetence. Let them know that. They've got
to teach those kids that it's not merely expensive but impossible to violate
nine-oh-eight-oh  . . . that even trying it  wins  a short  nap, a bucket of
water in the face, and a very sore jaw -- and nothing else."
     "Yes, sir. It'll be done."
     "It had better be done. I will not only break the instructor who slips,
I  will personally take him `way out on the prairie and give him lumps . . .
because I will not have another  one of  my boys strung up  to that whipping
post through sloppiness on the part of his teachers. Dismissed."
     "Yes, sir. Good afternoon, Captain."
     "What's good about it? Charlie -- "
     "Yes, sir?"
     "If  you're not too busy  this evening, why  don't  you bring your soft
shoes and your pads over to officers' row and we'll go waltzing Matilda? Say
about eight o'clock."
     "Yes, sir."
     "That's not an order, that's an invitation.  If  you really are slowing
down, maybe I'll be able to kick your shoulder blades off."
     "Uh, would the Captain care to put a small bet on it?"
     "Huh? With me  sitting here at this desk getting swivel-chair spread? I
will not! Not unless you agree to fight with one foot in a bucket of cement.
Seriously, Charlie,  we've  had a miserable day  and  it's going to be worse
before  it gets better. If you  and  I work up a good  sweat and swap a  few
lumps, maybe we'll  be able to sleep tonight despite all of mother's  little
darlings."
     "I'll be  there, Captain. Don't eat  too much dinner -- I need  to work
off a couple of matters myself."
     "I'm not  going to dinner; I'm  going  to sit right here and  sweat out
this  quarterly report .  . .  which the Regimental  Commander is graciously
pleased to see right after his dinner . . . and which somebody whose name  I
won't mention has put me two hours behind on. So I may be a few minutes late
for our waltz. Go `way now, Charlie, and don't bother me. See you later."
     Sergeant Zim left so abruptly that I barely  had time  to lean over and
tie my shoe and thereby be out of  sight behind the file  cases as he passed
through the  outer office. Captain  Frankel was already shouting,  "Orderly!
Orderly! ORDERLY! -- do I have to call you  three times?  What's  your name?
Put yourself  down  for an hour's  extra duty,  full kit.  Find the  company
commanders of E, F, and G, my compliments  and I'll be pleased to  see  them
before  parade.  Then bounce  over  to  my tent  and fetch me  a clean dress
uniform, cap,  side  arms, shoes, ribbons -- no  medals. Lay  it out for  me
here. Then make afternoon sick call -- if you can scratch with  that arm, as
I've seen you doing, your shoulder  can't be too  sore. You've  got thirteen
minutes until sick call on the bounce, soldier!"
     I made  it . .  .  by catching two of them in the senior instructors --
showers (an orderly can go anywhere) and  the third at his desk;  the orders
you get aren't impossible, they merely  seem so because they nearly  are.  I
was  laying out Captain Frankel's uniform  for parade as  sick call sounded.
Without  looking up he growled, "Belay that extra duty. Dismissed." So I got
home  just  in  time to  catch  extra  duty  for  "Uniform,  Untidy  in, Two
Particulars" and see the sickening end of Ted Hendrick's time in the M. I.
     So I had  plenty to think about as I lay awake that night. I had  known
that Sergeant Zim worked hard, but it had never occurred to me that he could
possibly be other  than completely and  smugly  self-satisfied with  what he
did. He looked so smug, so self-assured, so at peace with the world and with
himself.
     The idea  that  this invincible robot could  feel  that  he had failed,
could  feel so deeply  and  personally disgraced that he wanted to run away,
hide his  face among strangers, and offer the excuse that his leaving  would
be "best for the outfit," shook me up as much, and in a way even more,  than
seeing Ted flogged.
     To have Captain Frankel agree with him -- as to the  seriousness of the
failure, I mean -- and  then rub  his nose in it, chew him out. Well! I mean
really.  Sergeants don't get chewed out; sergeants do the  chewing. A law of
nature.
     But I had to admit that what Sergeant Zim had taken, and swallowed, was
so  completely  humiliating  and  withering as to make  the worst I had ever
heard  or  overhead from a sergeant sound  like  a  love song.  And  yet the
Captain hadn't even raised his voice.
     The whole incident was so preposterously unlikely that I was never even
tempted to mention it to anyone else.
     And  Captain Frankel himself -- Officers we didn't see very often. They
showed up for evening parade,  sauntering over at the last moment and  doing
nothing  that  would  work up a sweat;  they  inspected once a week,  making
private  comments to sergeants,  comments that  invariably meant  grief  for
somebody else, not them; and they decided each week what company had won the
honor  of guarding the regimental  colors.  Aside from  that, they popped up
occasionally  on  surprise  inspections,  creased, immaculate,  remote,  and
smelling faintly of cologne -- and went away again.
     Oh,  one or  more of them did always accompany us  on route marches and
twice Captain  Frankel had demonstrated  his  virtuosity  at la savate.  But
officers  didn't  work,  not real  work,  and  they had  no worries  because
sergeants were under them, not over them.
     But  it appeared that Captain Frankel worked so  hard that  he  skipped
meals, was kept so busy with something  or other that he  complained of lack
of exercise and would waste his own free time just to work up a sweat.
     As for worries, he had honestly seemed to be  even  more  upset at what
had happened  to Hendrick than Zim had  been.  And  yet he hadn't even known
Hendrick by sight; he had been forced to ask his name.
     I had an unsettling  feeling that I had  been completely mistaken as to
the very nature of the world I was in, as if every part of  it was something
wildly  different from what it  appeared to be -- like discovering that your
own mother isn't  anyone you've ever seen before, but a stranger in a rubber
mask.
     But I was sure of one thing: I didn't even want to find out what the M.
I. really  was. If it was so tough that  even  the gods-that-be -- sergeants
and officers --  were  made unhappy by  it, it  was certainly  too tough for
Johnnie!  How could you keep from  making mistakes in an outfit  you  didn't
understand? I didn't want to swing by my neck till I was dead, dead, dead! I
didn't even want to risk  being flogged .  . . even though the doctor stands
by to make certain that it  doesn't do you any  permanent injury. Nobody  in
our family  had ever  been flogged  (except paddlings in school, of  course,
which isn't at all the same thing). There were no criminals in our family on
either  side,  none  who had  even been accused  of  crime.  We were a proud
family; the only thing we lacked was citizenship and Father regarded that as
no real honor, a vain and useless thing. But if I were flogged -- Well, he'd
probably have a stroke.
     And yet Hendrick hadn't done anything that I hadn't thought about doing
a  thousand  times.  Why  hadn't  I?  Timid,  I guess.  I  knew  that  those
instructors,  any one  of  them,  could beat the tar  out  of  me, so I  had
buttoned my lip and hadn't tried it. No guts, Johnnie. At least Ted Hendrick
had had guts. I didn't have . . . and a man with no guts has no business  in
the Army in the first place.
     Besides that, Captain Frankel  hadn't even  considered  it to  be Ted's
fault.  Even if I didn't  buy a 9080, through lack of guts, what day would I
do something other than a 9080 something not my fault -- and wind up slumped
against the  whipping post  anyhow? Time to  get  out, Johnnie, while you're
still ahead.
     My mother's  letter simply confirmed  my decision.  I had been  able to
harden my  heart  to my parents as long as they were refusing me -- but when
they softened, I couldn't  stand it.  Or when Mother softened, at least. She
had written:

     -- but I am afraid I must tell you that your father will still not
     permit your name to be mentioned. But, dearest, that is his way of
     grieving, since he cannot cry. You must understand, my darling
     baby, that he loves you more than life itself -- more than he does
     me -- and that you have hurt him very deeply. He tells the world
     that you are a grown man, capable of making your own decisions, and
     that he is proud of you. But that is his own pride speaking, the
     bitter hurt of a proud man who has been wounded deep in his heart
     by the one he loves best. You must understand, Juanito, that he
     does not speak of you and has not written to you because he cannot
     -- not yet, not till his grief becomes bearable. When it has, I
     will know it, and then I will intercede for you -- and we will all
     be together again.
     Myself? How could anything her baby boy does anger his mother? You
     can hurt me, but you cannot make me love you the less. Wherever you
     are, whatever you choose to do, you are always my little boy who
     bangs his knee and comes running to my lap for comfort. My lap has
     shrunk, or perhaps you have grown (though I have never believed
     it), but nonetheless it will always be waiting, when you need it.
     Little boys never get over needing their mother's laps -- do they,
     darling? I hope not. I hope that you will write and tell me so.
     But I must add that, in view of the terribly long time that you
     have not written, it is probably best (until I let you know
     otherwise) for you to write to me care of your Aunt Eleanora. She
     will pass it on to me at once -- and without causing any more
     upset. You understand?
     A thousand kisses to my baby,
                YOUR MOTHER
I understood, all right -- and if Father could not cry, I could. I did.
     And at last I got  to sleep . . . and was awakened at once by an alert.
We bounced out to the bombing range, the  whole regiment, and ran  through a
simulated  exercise,  without  ammo.  We  were  wearing  full unarmored  kit
otherwise, including  ear-plug  receivers,  and we had no more than extended
when the word came to freeze.
     We held that freeze for at least an hour --  and  I  mean  we held  it,
barely breathing. A mouse tiptoeing past would have sounded noisy. Something
did go past and ran right over me,  a coyote I think. I  never  twitched. We
got awfully  cold holding  that freeze, but I didn't care; I knew it  was my
last.
     I didn't even hear reveille  the next morning; for  the  first  time in
weeks  I  had to be whacked  out of  my  sack and barely made  formation for
morning jerks.  There  was  no  point  in trying  to resign before breakfast
anyhow,  since I  had  to  see Zim as  the  first  step.  But  he  wasn't at
breakfast. I  did ask Bronski's permission to  see  the C. C.  and  he said,
"Sure. Help yourself," and didn't ask me why.
     But you can't see a man who isn't there. We started a route march after
breakfast and I still hadn't laid eyes on  him. It was an out-and-back, with
lunch fetched  out to us by copter -- an unexpected luxury, since failure to
issue field rations before marching usually meant practice starvation except
for whatever you had cached . . . and I hadn't; too much on my mind.
     Sergeant  Zim came  out with the rations and he held mail call  in  the
field -- which was not an  unexpected luxury. I'll say this for  the M.  I.;
they might chop off  your  food,  water,  sleep, or  anything else,  without
warning,  but  they  never  held up  a  person's mail  a minute  longer than
circumstances required. That was yours, and they got it to you by  the first
transportation available and you could read it at your  earliest break, even
on maneuvers. This hadn't been too important for me, as (aside from a couple
of letters from Carl) I hadn't had anything but junk mail until Mother wrote
to me.
     I didn't even  gather around  when  Zim handed it out; I figured now on
not  speaking  to  him until we got in -- no  point in  giving him reason to
notice  me  until we  were actually  in  reach  of  headquarters.  So  I was
surprised when he called my name and held  up a  letter. I  bounced over and
took it.
     And  was surprised  again  -- it  was  from Mr. Dubois,  my high school
instructor in History and Moral Philosophy.  I would  sooner have expected a
letter from Santa Claus
     Then,  when  I read it, it still seemed like a mistake. I  had to check
the address and the return address to convince myself that he had written it
and had meant it for me.
                  MY DEAR BOY,
     I would have written to you much sooner to express my delight and
     my pride in learning that you had not only volunteered to serve but
     also had chosen my own service. But not to express surprise it is
     what I expected of you except, possibly, the additional and very
     personal bonus that you chose the M. I. This is the sort of
     consummation, which does not happen too often, that nevertheless
     makes all of a teacher's efforts worth while. We necessarily sift a
     great many pebbles, much sand, for each nugget -- but the nuggets
     are the reward.
     By now the reason I did not write at once is obvious to you. Many
     young men, not necessarily through any reprehensible fault, are
     dropped during recruit training. I have waited (I have kept in
     touch through my own connections) until you had `sweated it out'
     past the hump (how well we all know that hump!) and were certain,
     barring accidents or illness, of completing your training and your
     term.
     You are now going through the hardest part of your service -- not
     the hardest physically (though physical hardship will never trouble
     you again; you now have its measure), but the hardest spiritually .
     . . the deep, soul-turning readjustments and re-evaluations
     necessary to metamorphize a potential citizen into one in being.
     Or, rather I should say: you have already gone through the hardest
     part, despite all the tribulations you still have ahead of you and
     all the hurdles, each higher than the last, which you still must
     clear. But it is that "hump" that counts -- and, knowing you, lad,
     I know that I have waited long enough to be sure that you are past
     your "hump" or you would be home now.
     When you reached that spiritual mountaintop you felt something, a
     new something. Perhaps you haven't words for it (I know I didn't,
     when I was a boot). So perhaps you will permit an older comrade to
     lend you the words, since it often helps to have discrete words.
     Simply this: The noblest fate that a man can endure is to place his
     own mortal body between his loved home and the war's desolation.
     The words are not mine, of course, as you will recognize. Basic
     truths cannot change and once a man of insight expresses one of
     them it is never necessary, no matter how much the world changes,
     to reformulate them. This is an immutable, true everywhere,
     throughout all time, for all men and all nations.
     Let me hear from you, please, if you can spare an old man some of
     your precious sack time to write an occasional letter. And if you
     should happen to run across any of my former mates, give them my
     warmest greetings.
     Good luck, trooper! You've made me proud.
     JEAN V. DUBOIS
     Lt.-Col., M. I., rtd.
The  signature was as amazing as the letter  itself. Old  Sour Mouth a short
colonel?  Why, our regimental  commander  was  only a major.  Mr. Dubois had
never used any sort of rank  around school. We  had supposed (if we  thought
about it at all) that he must have been a corporal or some such who had been
let out when he lost his hand and had been fixed up with a soft job teaching
a course that didn't have to be passed, or  even taught  -- just audited. Of
course we had known that he was a veteran since History and Moral Philosophy
must  be taught by  a citizen. But  an  M.  I.? He didn't look  it.  Prissy,
faintly scornful, a dancing-master type -- not one of us apes.
     But that was the way he had signed himself.
     I spent the  whole long  hike back to camp thinking  about that amazing
letter.  It didn't  sound  in the least  like  anything he  had ever said in
class. Oh, I don't mean it contradicted anything he had told us in class; it
was just entirely different in  tone. Since when does a short colonel call a
recruit private "comrade"?
     When he was plain "Mr. Dubois"  and I was one  of the kids who  had  to
take his  course he hardly seemed to see  me -- except  once when he  got me
sore by implying that I  had too much money and not enough sense. (So my old
man could have bought the school and given it to me for Christmas -- is that
a crime? It was none of his business.)
     He had  been droning along about "value,"  comparing the Marxist theory
with the orthodox "use" theory. Mr. Dubois had said, "Of course, the Marxian
definition  of value is  ridiculous.  All the work one cares to add will not
turn a mud pie into  an  apple tart; it remains  a mud pie,  value  zero. By
corollary, unskillful work can easily subtract value; an untalented cook can
turn  wholesome dough and  fresh  green apples,  valuable  already, into  an
inedible  mess, value zero. Conversely, a  great  chef can fashion of  those
same materials a confection of  greater value than a commonplace apple tart,
with no more effort than an ordinary cook uses to prepare an ordinary sweet.
     "These kitchen illustrations  demolish the Marxian  theory  of value --
the fallacy from which the entire  magnificent fraud of communism derives --
and to illustrate the  truth of the  common-sense definition as  measured in
terms of use."
     Dubois had waved his stump at us. "Nevertheless -- wake up, back there!
-- nevertheless  the disheveled old mystic of Das Kapital, turgid, tortured,
confused, and  neurotic,  unscientific, illogical, this  pompous  fraud Karl
Marx, nevertheless had a glimmering of  a  very important  truth.  If he had
possessed  an analytical mind,  he might have  formulated the first adequate
definition of  value . . . and this  planet  might have  been saved  endless
grief.
     "Or might not," he added. "You!"
     I had sat up with a jerk.
     "If you can't listen, perhaps you can tell the class whether `value' is
a relative, or an absolute?"
     I had been listening; I just didn't see any reason  not  to listen with
eyes closed and spine relaxed. But his question caught me out; I hadn't read
that day's assignment. "An absolute," I answered, guessing.
     "Wrong,"  he  said coldly.  " `Value' has  no  meaning  other  than  in
relation  to  living beings.  The  value of  a thing is always relative to a
particular person, is completely personal and different in quantity for each
living human  -- `market value'  is a fiction,  merely a rough guess  at the
average of personal values, all of which must be quantitatively different or
trade would be  impossible." (I had wondered what  Father would have said if
he  had  heard  "market  value" called  a  "fiction" --  snort  in  disgust,
probably.)
     "This very personal relationship, `value,' has two factors for a  human
being: first, what he can do with a thing,  its use to him . . . and second,
what he must do  to get  it, its  cost to him.  There is  an  old song which
asserts  that `the best  things  in life are free.' Not true! Utterly false!
This was the tragic fallacy which  brought on the decadence and collapse  of
the  democracies of the twentieth  century; those noble  experiments  failed
because  the people had been  led to believe that they could simply vote for
whatever they wanted . . . and get it,  without toil, without sweat, without
tears.
     "Nothing  of  value is free. Even the breath  of life is  purchased  at
birth only through gasping effort and pain." He had been still looking at me
and added, "If you boys and girls had to sweat for your toys the way a newly
born  baby has  to struggle  to live  you would be  happier .  . .  and much
richer. As it  is, with some of you, I pity the poverty of your wealth. You!
I've just awarded you the prize for the hundred-meter dash. Does it make you
happy?"
     "Uh, I suppose it would."
     "No  dodging, please. You have  the  prize -- here, I'll write  it out:
`Grand  prize for the  championship,  one  hundred-meter sprint.' "  He  had
actually come  back to my seat and pinned it  on  my chest. "There! Are  you
happy? You value it -- or don't you?"
     I was  sore. First that dirty crack about  rich kids -- a typical sneer
of those who  haven't  got it --  and now  this  farce.  I ripped it off and
chucked it at him.
     Mr. Dubois had looked surprised. "It doesn't make you happy?"
     "You know darn well I placed fourth!"
     "Exactly! The prize for first  place is worthless  to you . . . because
you haven't  earned  it. But  you  enjoy  a  modest satisfaction in  placing
fourth;  you  earned  it.  I  trust that  some  of  the  somnambulists  here
understood this little morality play. I fancy  that the poet  who wrote that
song  meant to  imply that the  best things in life must be  purchased other
than with money -- which is true -- just as the literal meaning of his words
is false. The best things in life are beyond money; their price is agony and
sweat and devotion . . . and the price demanded for the most precious of all
things in life is life itself -- ultimate cost for perfect value."
     I mulled over things I had heard Mr.  Dubois -- Colonel Dubois --  say,
as  well  as  his extraordinary letter, while  we went  swinging back toward
camp.  Then I stopped  thinking  because the  band  dropped  back  near  our
position  in  column   and  we   sang   for  a  while,  a  French  group  --
"Marseillaise," of course, and "Madelon" and "Sons of Toil  and Danger," and
then "Legion Etrangere" and "Mademoiselle from Armentieres."
     It's nice to have the band  play;  it picks you right up when your tail
is  dragging  the prairie. We hadn't had  anything but canned music at first
and  that only  for parade and  calls. But the  powers-that-be had found out
early  who  could play and  who  couldn't;  instruments were provided and  a
regimental band was organized, all our own -- even the director and the drum
major were boots.
     It didn't mean they got out of anything. Oh no! It just meant they were
allowed and encouraged  to do it on their own time, practicing evenings  and
Sundays and such -- and that they got to strut and countermarch and show off
at parade  instead of being in ranks with their  platoons. A  lot  of things
that we did were run that way. Our chaplain, for example, was a boot. He was
older than most of us  and had been ordained in some obscure  little sect  I
had never heard  of. But he  put a lot of passion into his preaching whether
his  theology was orthodox or  not (don't ask me) and he was certainly in  a
position to  understand the problems of a recruit. And the  singing was fun.
Besides, there was  nowhere  else to go  on Sunday  morning  between morning
police and lunch.
     The band suffered  a  lot of attrition but somehow they  always kept it
going. The camp owned four sets of pipes and some Scottish uniforms, donated
by Lochiel of Cameron whose son had been killed there in training -- and one
of us boots  turned out to be a piper; he had learned it in the Scottish Boy
Scouts. Pretty soon we had four pipers,  maybe not good but loud. Pipes seem
very  odd when you first hear them, and a tyro practicing can set your teeth
on edge -- it sounds and looks as if he had a cat under his arm, its tail in
his mouth, and biting it.
     But they grow on you. The first time our pipers kicked their heels  out
in front of the band, skirling away at  "Alamein Dead," my hair stood  up so
straight it lifted my cap. It gets you -- makes tears.
     We couldn't take a parade band out on route  march, of course,  because
no special allowances were made for the  band. Tubas  and bass drums  had to
stay behind  because  a  boy  in  the band  had to carry full kit,  same  as
everybody, and  could only manage an instrument small  enough to add  to his
load. But the M. I. has band instruments which I don't  believe anybody else
has, such as a  little box  hardly  bigger than  a harmonica,  an electronic
gadget which does an amazing job of faking a big horn and is played the same
way.  Comes band call  when  you  are  headed for the horizon, each bandsman
sheds his kit without  stopping, his squadmates split it up, and he trots to
the column position of the color company and starts blasting.
     It helps.
     The band drifted aft,  almost out of  earshot,  and we  stopped singing
because your own singing drowns out the beat when it's too far away.
     I suddenly realized I felt good.
     I  tried to think why I did. Because we would  be in after  a couple of
hours and I could resign?
     No. When I had decided to resign, it  had indeed given me a  measure of
peace, quieted down my  awful jitters and let me  go to sleep. But  this was
something else -- and no reason for it, that I could see.
     Then I knew. I had passed my hump!
     I was over the "hump" that Colonel Dubois had written about. I actually
walked over it and started down, swinging easily. The prairie  through there
was flat as  a griddle cake, but  just the same I had  been plodding wearily
uphill all the way out and about  halfway  back.  Then, at some  point  -- I
think it was while  we were singing -- I had passed  the hump and it was all
downhill. My kit felt lighter and I was no longer worried.
     When we  got in, I didn't speak to Sergeant Zim; I no longer needed to.
Instead he spoke to me, motioned me to him as we fell out.
     "Yes, sir?"
     "This is a personal question .  . . so don't answer it  unless you feel
like  it!" He stopped, and I  wondered if he  suspected that I had overheard
his chewing-out, and shivered.
     "At mail call today," he said, "you  got a letter.  I noticed -- purely
by accident, none of  my business -- the name on  the return address. It's a
fairly common name,  some places, but  -- this is the personal question  you
need not  answer -- by any chance does the person who wrote that letter have
his left hand off at the wrist?"
     I guess my chin dropped. "How did you know? Sir?"
     "I was nearby when it happened. It is Colonel Dubois? Right?"
     "Yes,  sir." I  added, "He was my high school instructor in History and
Moral Philosophy."
     I think  that  was  the only time  I ever impressed  Sergeant Zim, even
faintly.  His  eyebrows  went  up an eighth of  an inch and his eyes widened
slightly.  "So? You were  extraordinarily  fortunate." He  added, "When  you
answer his letter -- if you don't mind -- you might say that Ship's Sergeant
Zim sends his respects."
     "Yes, sir. Oh . . . I think maybe he sent you a message, sir."
     "What?"
     "Uh, I'm not certain." I took out the letter, read just: " `  -- if you
should  happen to run across any  of  my former mates, give them my  warmest
greetings.' Is that for you, sir?"
     Zim pondered it, his eyes looking through me, somewhere else. "Eh? Yes,
it is. For me among others. Thanks very much." Then suddenly it was over and
he said  briskly, "Nine minutes to parade. And you still have  to shower and
change. On the bounce, soldier."

     CHAPTER 7

     The young recruit is silly -- `e
     thinks o' suicide.
     `E's lost `is gutter-devil; `e `asin't
     got `is pride;
     But day by day they kicks `im,
     which `elps `im on a bit,
     Till `e finds `isself one mornin'
     with a full an' proper kit.
     Gettin' clear o' dirtiness, gettin'
     done with mess,
     Gettin' shut o' doin' things
     rather-more-or-less.
     -- Rudyard Kipling
I'm not going to talk much more about my boot training. Mostly it was simply
work, but I was squared away -- enough said.
     But I do want to mention a little about powered suits, partly because I
was fascinated by  them and also because  that was what led me into trouble.
No complaints -- I rated what I got.
     An M. I. lives by his suit the way  a K-9 man lives by and with  and on
his doggie partner. Powered armor is one-half  the reason we call  ourselves
"mobile  infantry" instead  of just "infantry."  (The  other  half  are  the
spaceships  that  drop us and the capsules  we drop in.) Our suits  give  us
better eyes, better ears, stronger backs (to carry heavier weapons and  more
ammo),  better  legs, more  intelligence  ("intelligence"  in  the  military
meaning; a man in a suit can be  just  as stupid as anybody else only he had
better not be), more firepower, greater endurance, less vulnerability.
     A suit isn't a space suit -- although it can serve  as one. It  is  not
primarily armor -- although the Knights  of the Round Table were not armored
as well as we are. It isn't a tank -- but a single M.  I. private could take
on a squadron of  those things and knock  them off unassisted if anybody was
silly enough to put tanks against M. I. A suit is not a ship but it can fly,
a little on the other hand neither spaceships nor atmosphere craft can fight
against a man in a suit except  by saturation bombing of the  area  he is in
(like burning down a house to get  one flea!). Contrariwise we  can do  many
things that no ship -- air, submersible, or space -- can do.
     "There  are  a  dozen  different  ways  of  delivering  destruction  in
impersonal  wholesale,  via ships  and  missiles  of one  sort  or  another,
catastrophes so widespread, so  unselective, that  the war is  over  because
that nation or planet has ceased to exist. What we do is entirely different.
We make  war as personal as  a  punch  in  the nose.  We can  be  selective,
applying precisely the required amount of pressure at the specified point at
a designated time  -- we've never been told  to go down and  kill or capture
all left-handed  redheads in a particular area, but  if they tell us  to, we
can. We will.
     We are  the boys who  go  to a  particular  place,  at H-hour, occupy a
designated terrain,  stand on  it, dig the enemy  out  of their holes, force
them then  and there  to  surrender  or die. We're the bloody  infantry, the
doughboy, the duckfoot, the foot  soldier  who  goes where the  enemy is and
takes him  on in person. We've been doing  it, with changes in  weapons  but
very little change in our trade, at least since the time five thousand years
ago when the  foot sloggers of Sargon the Great forced the Sumerians to  cry
"Uncle!"
     Maybe they'll be  able to do without  us someday. Maybe some mad genius
with myopia, a  bulging forehead, and a cybernetic mind will devise a weapon
that can go down a hole, pick out the opposition, and force it  to surrender
or  die  --  without  killing  that  gang  of  your own people  they've  got
imprisoned down  there. I wouldn't know;  I'm not  a genius, I'm an M. I. In
the meantime, until they build a machine to replace us,  my mates can handle
that job and I might be some help on it, too.
     Maybe someday they'll  get everything nice and tidy and we'll have that
thing we sing about, when "we ain't a-gonna study war no more." Maybe. Maybe
the  same  day the leopard will take off his spots and get a job as a Jersey
cow,  too.  But  again,   I  wouldn't  know;  I  am  not   a  professor   of
cosmo-politics; I'm an M. I. When the government sends me, I go. In between,
I catch a lot of sack time.
     But, while  they have not yet built  a  machine to replace us,  they've
surely thought up some honeys to help us. The suit, in particular.
     No need to  describe what it looks like, since it has been  pictured so
often.  Suited  up,  you   look  like   a  big  steel  gorilla,  armed  with
gorilla-sized weapons. (This  may be  why  a  sergeant  generally opens  his
remarks  with "You  apes -- "  However,  it seems more likely  that Caesar's
sergeants used the same honorific.)
     But the  suits are considerably stronger than a gorilla. If an M. I. in
a suit swapped hugs with a gorilla, the gorilla would be dead,  crushed; the
M. I. and the suit wouldn't be mussed.
     The "muscles," the  pseudo-musculature, get all the  publicity but it's
the control of all that power which merits it. The real genius in the design
is that you don't have to  control the  suit; you  just wear  it, like  your
clothes, like  skin. Any sort of ship you have to learn to pilot; it takes a
long time, a new  full set of reflexes,  a different  and  artificial way of
thinking. Even riding  a  bicycle  demands an acquired skill, very different
from  walking,  whereas  a  spaceship oh, brother!  I won't live  that long.
Spaceships are for acrobats who are also mathematicians.
     But a suit you just wear.
     Two  thousand pounds of it,  maybe, in full  kit -- yet the  very first
time you are fitted into one you can immediately walk, run, jump,  lie down,
pick up an egg without  breaking  it (that takes  a trifle  of practice, but
anything improves with practice), dance  a jig (if you can dance a jig, that
is, without a suit) -- and jump right over the house next door and come down
to a feather landing.
     The secret lies in negative feedback and amplification.
     Don't  ask  me  to  sketch  the  circuitry  of a  suit;  I can't. But I
understand that  some very  good concert violinists  can't build  a  violin,
either. I can do field maintenance and field repairs and check off the three
hundred and forty-seven items from "cold" to ready to wear, and that's all a
dumb M. I. is expected to do. But if  my suit gets really sick,  I call  the
doctor -- a doctor of science (electromechanical engineering) who is a staff
Naval officer, usually a lieutenant (read "captain"  for  our ranks), and is
part of  the ship's company of  the troop transport -- or who is reluctantly
assigned   to    a   regimental    headquarters    at    Camp    Currie,   a
fate-worse-than-death to a Navy man.
     But  if  you really  are interested  in  the  prints  and  stereos  and
schematics of a suit's physiology, you can find most of it, the unclassified
part, in any  fairly  large public  library. For  the  small  amount that is
classified  you must look up a reliable enemy  agent  --  "reliable" I  say,
because spies are a tricky lot; he's likely to sell you the parts  you could
get free from the public library.
     But here is how it works, minus the diagrams. The inside of the suit is
a  mass of  pressure receptors, hundreds  of them. You push with the heel of
your hand; the  suit  feels  it,  amplifies it, pushes with  you to take the
pressure off  the receptors  that gave the order to push.  That's confusing,
but negative feedback is always a confusing idea the first time, even though
your  body  has been doing it ever  since  you quit kicking  helplessly as a
baby.  Young children  are  still  learning it;  that's why they are clumsy.
Adolescents and adults do it without knowing they ever learned it  --  and a
man with Parkinson's disease has damaged his circuits for it.
     The suit has feedback which  causes  it to match any motion  you  make,
exactly -- but with great force.
     Controlled force .  . . force  controlled without your having to  think
about it. You  jump, that heavy suit jumps, but higher than you can  jump in
your skin. Jump really  hard and the suit's jets cut in, amplifying what the
suit's leg "muscles" did, giving you a three-jet shove, the axis of pressure
of which  passes through your  center of mass. So you jump  over  that house
next door. Which makes  you come down as fast as you went up . . . which the
suit notes through your  proximity & closing gear  (a sort  of simple-minded
radar resembling a proximity fuse) and therefore cuts in the jets again just
the right amount to  cushion your landing without your having to think about
it.
     And that is the beauty of a powered suit: you don't have to think about
it. You don't have to drive it, fly  it, conn it, operate  it; you just wear
it and it takes its orders directly from your muscles and  does for you what
your muscles are trying  to do. This leaves you with your whole mind free to
handle  your weapons and notice what is going on around  you .  . . which is
supremely important to an infantryman who wants to die in bed. If you load a
mud foot down with  a lot  of gadgets that he  has to watch, somebody  a lot
more simply equipped -- say with a stone  ax --  will  sneak up and bash his
head in while he is trying to read a vernier.
     Your "eyes" and your "ears" are rigged  to  help you without cluttering
up your  attention, too.  Say you have three  audio  circuits,  common  in a
marauder suit. The  frequency control to maintain tactical security  is very
complex,  at least  two frequencies  for each  circuit  both  of  which  are
necessary for any signal at all and each of  which wobbles under the control
of a cesium  clock timed to a micromicrosecond with the other end -- but all
this is no problem  of yours. You  want circuit A to your squad leader,  you
bite down once -- for circuit B,  bite down twice -- and  so on. The mike is
taped  to  your throat, the  plugs are in your ears and can't be jarred out;
just talk. Besides  that, outside mikes on each side of your helmet give you
binaural  hearing for  your immediate surroundings just as if your head were
bare -- or you  can  suppress  any noisy  neighbors and  not miss  what your
platoon leader is saying simply by turning your head.
     Since  your  head is the  one  part of  your body not involved  in  the
pressure receptors controlling the suit's muscles, you use your head -- your
jaw  muscles, your  chin, your neck -- to  switch things for you and thereby
leave your hands free to fight. A chin plate handles all visual displays the
way the jaw switch handles  the audios. All displays are  thrown on a mirror
in front of your forehead from where the work is actually going on above and
back of your head. All this  helmet gear makes you look like a hydrocephalic
gorilla but,  with luck, the enemy won't live  long enough to be offended by
your appearance,  and  it is a very  convenient  arrangement; you  can  flip
through  your several types  of radar displays quicker than you  can  change
channels to avoid a commercial -- catch a range & bearing, locate your boss,
check your flank men, whatever.
     If  you toss  your head like a  horse bothered by a fly, your  infrared
snoopers go up on your forehead -- toss it again, they come down. If you let
go of your rocket launcher, the suit snaps it back until you need  it again.
No point in  discussing water nipples, air supply,  gyros, etc. -- the point
to all the arrangements is the same: to leave you free to follow your trade,
slaughter.
     Of course these things do require practice  and  you do practice  until
picking the right circuit is as automatic as brushing your teeth, and so on.
But simply wearing the suit,  moving in it, requires almost no practice. You
practice jumping because, while you do  it with a completely natural motion,
you jump higher, faster, farther,  and stay up longer. The  last alone calls
for a  new orientation; those seconds  in the air can be used -- seconds are
jewels beyond price in combat. While off the ground in a jump, you can get a
range & bearing,  pick  a  target, talk  &  receive, fire a  weapon, reload,
decide to jump again without landing and  override your automatics to cut in
the jets again. You can do all of these things in one bounce, with practice.
     But, in general, powered armor doesn't require practice; it simply does
it for you, just the way  you were doing it, only better. All but one  thing
-- you can't scratch where it itches. If I ever find a suit that will let me
scratch between my shoulder blades, I'll marry it.
     There  are  three  main  types of M. I. armor:  marauder,  command, and
scout. Scout  suits are  very  fast and  very long-range, but lightly armed.
Command suits are  heavy on go juice  and  jump juice, are fast and can jump
high; they have three times as much comm & radar  gear as other suits, and a
dead-reckoning tracker, inertial. Marauders are for those guys in ranks with
the sleepy look -- the executioners.
     As I may  have said, I fell in love  with powered armor, even though my
first crack at it gave me a strained shoulder.  Any day  thereafter  that my
section  was allowed  to practice  in suits was a  big day for me. The day I
goofed I had simulated sergeant's chevrons as a simulated section leader and
was armed with simulated A-bomb rockets to use in simulated darkness against
a  simulated enemy. That was the trouble everything was simulated -- but you
are required to behave as if it is all real.
     We were retreating -- "advancing toward the rear," I mean -- and one of
the  instructors cut the power on one of my men by radio control, making him
a helpless casualty. Per M. I. doctrine,  I ordered the  pickup, felt rather
cocky that I had managed to get the  order out before my number two cut  out
to do  it anyhow, turned to do the next thing I had to  do, which was to lay
down a simulated atomic ruckus  to discourage the simulated enemy overtaking
us.
     Our flank was  swinging; I was supposed to fire it sort  of  diagonally
but with the required  spacing to protect my own  men from blast while still
putting it in close enough to trouble the bandits. On the bounce, of course.
The movement over  the terrain and the  problem  itself  had  been discussed
ahead of  time; we were still  green -- the only variations  supposed to  be
left in were casualties.
     Doctrine required me to locate exactly, by radar beacon, my own men who
could be  affected  by the blast. But this all had to  be  done  fast and  I
wasn't too sharp at reading those little  radar displays  anyhow. I  cheated
just  a  touch -- flipped  my  snoopers up and  looked, bare  eyes  in broad
daylight. I left plenty of room. Shucks, I could see  the only man affected,
half a mile away,  and all I  had  was  just  a  little  bitty H. E. rocket,
intended  to make a  lot  of smoke and not much else. So I picked a  spot by
eye, took the rocket launcher and let fly.
     Then I bounced away, feeling smug -- no seconds lost.
     And had my power cut  in the air. This doesn't hurt you; it's a delayed
action, executed by  your landing.  I grounded and there I stuck, squatting,
held upright  by gyros but  unable to  move. You do not repeat not move when
surrounded by a ton of metal with your power dead.
     Instead I  cussed to myself -- I hadn't thought that they would make me
a casualty  when I was supposed to be leading the problem. Shucks and  other
comments.
     I should have known  that Sergeant  Zim would be monitoring the section
leader.
     He  bounced  over to me, spoke to  me privately on the face to face. He
suggested that I might be able to  get a job sweeping floors since I was too
stupid, clumsy, and careless to handle  dirty  dishes. He  discussed my past
and probable future and several  other  things that  I did not want  to hear
about. He ended  by saying tonelessly, "How would  you  like to have Colonel
Dubois see what you've done?"
     Then he left me. I waited there, crouched over, for two hours until the
drill was  over. The  suit, which had been feather-light,  real seven-league
boots, felt like an Iron Maiden. At last he returned for me, restored power,
and we bounced together at top speed to BHQ.
     Captain Frankel said less but it cut more.
     Then he  paused and added in that flat voice officers use  when quoting
regulations:  "You may demand trial by court-martial if such be your choice.
How say you?"
     I gulped and said, "No, sir!" Until that moment I hadn't fully realized
just how much trouble I was in.
     Captain Frankel  seemed  to relax slightly. "Then we'll  see  what  the
Regimental Commander has to  say. Sergeant, escort the  prisoner." We walked
rapidly over to RHQ and for the first  time I  met the  Regimental Commander
face to face -- and by then I was sure that I was going to catch a  court no
matter what. But I  remembered sharply  how Ted Hendrick  had talked himself
into one; I said nothing.
     Major Malloy said a  total of five words to me. After hearing  Sergeant
Zim, he said three of them: "Is that correct?"
     I said, "Yes, sir," which ended my part of it.
     Major  Malloy said, to Captain Frankel:  "Is there any  possibility  of
salvaging this man?"
     Captain Frankel answered, "I believe so, sir."
     Major Malloy said, "Then we'll try  administrative  punishment," turned
to me and said:
     "Five lashes."
     Well, they certainly didn't keep me dangling. Fifteen minutes later the
doctor had  completed checking my  heart  and the Sergeant  of the Guard was
outfitting me with  that special shirt which comes off without  having to be
pulled over the  hands -- zippered from the neck down the arms. Assembly for
parade had just sounded. I  was feeling detached, unreal .  . . which I have
learned is one way of being  scared right out of  your senses. The nightmare
hallucination --
     Zim came into the guard tent just  as the call ended. He glanced at the
Sergeant of the Guard  -- Corporal Jones  -- and Jones went out. Zim stepped
up  to me, slipped something into my hand. "Bite on that," he  said quietly.
"It helps. I know."
     It  was a rubber  mouthpiece such  as we used to  avoid broken teeth in
hand-to-hand combat  drill.  Zim  left.  I  put it in  my  mouth. Then  they
handcuffed me and marched me out.
     The order read: "  -- in simulated combat, gross negligence which would
in  action  have  caused  the death of a teammate." Then  they peeled off my
shirt and strung me up.
     Now here is a very odd thing: A flogging isn't as hard to take as it is
to watch. I don't mean it's a picnic. It hurts worse than anything else I've
ever had happen  to me,  and the waits between  strokes  are worse than  the
strokes themselves. But the mouthpiece did help and the only  yelp I let out
never got past it.
     Here's  the second odd  thing: Nobody ever mentioned it to me, not even
other boots.  So  far as I  could see,  Zim and  the instructors  treated me
exactly the same afterwards as they had before. From the  instant the doctor
painted the marks  and told  me to go back  to  duty it was  all done  with,
completely. I even managed to eat a little at dinner that  night and pretend
to take part in the jawing at the table.
     Another thing  about administrative punishment:  There is  no permanent
black mark. Those records are destroyed at the end of boot  training and you
start clean. The only record is one where it counts most.
     You don't forget it.

     CHAPTER 8

     Train up a child in the way he
     should go; and when he is old he
     will not depart from it.
-- Proverbs XXII:6
     There were other floggings but darn few. Hendrick was  the  only man in
our  regiment to be  flogged by sentence  of  court-martial; the others were
administrative punishment, like mine,  and for lashes it was necessary to go
all the way up to the Regimental Commander -- which a  subordinate commander
finds distasteful, to put  it faintly. Even then, Major Malloy was much more
likely to  kick  the  man out,  "Undesirable Discharge,"  than  to have  the
whipping  post erected. In  a way, an administrative flogging is the mildest
sort  of a compliment; it means that  your superiors  think that there  is a
faint possibility  that you just might have the character eventually to make
a soldier and a citizen, unlikely as it seems at the moment.
     I was  the only  one to get the maximum administrative punishment; none
of the others got more than three lashes. Nobody else came as close as I did
to  putting  on civilian clothes  but still squeaked  by. This  is a  social
distinction of sorts. I don't recommend it.
     But  we had another case, much worse than mine  or Ted Hendrick's --  a
really sick-making one. Once they erected gallows.
     Now, look, get this straight. This case didn't really have anything  to
do  with  the Army.  The crime  didn't take  place  at  Camp  Currie and the
placement officer who accepted this boy for M. I. should turn in his suit.
     He  deserted,  only two days after we arrived at Currie. Ridiculous, of
course,  but  nothing about  the  case  made sense --  why didn't he resign?
Desertion, naturally, is one of the "thirty-one crash landings" but the Army
doesn't  invoke  the  death   penalty  for  it  unless   there  are  special
circumstances,  such as "in the face of  the enemy" or  something else  that
turns it from a highly informal way of  resigning  into something that can't
be ignored.
     The Army  makes no effort to find deserters  and bring them  back. This
makes the hardest kind of sense. We're  all volunteers;  we're M. I. because
we want to be,  we're proud to be M.  I. and the M.  I. is proud of us. If a
man  doesn't  feel that  way  about it, from  his callused feet to his hairy
ears, I don't  want him on my flank when trouble starts. If I buy a piece of
it, I want  men  around me who will pick me up because they're M. I. and I'm
M.  I.  and  my skin  means as  much to  them as their own. I don't want any
ersatz  soldiers, dragging their tails and ducking  out when the party  gets
rough.  It's  a whole lot safer to have  a blank file on your flank than  to
have an alleged soldier who is nursing the "conscript" syndrome. So if  they
run, let `em run; it's a waste of time and money to fetch them back.
     Of course most of them do come  back,  though it may take them years --
in which  case the Army tiredly lets them have their fifty lashes instead of
hanging them, and turns them loose. I suppose it must wear on a man's nerves
to  be  a fugitive  when everybody  else is either  a  citizen  or  a  legal
resident, even when the police aren't  trying to  find him. "The wicked flee
when no  man pursueth." The temptation to turn yourself in, take your lumps,
and breathe easily again must get to be overpowering.
     But  this  boy  didn't turn himself in. He  was  gone four months and I
doubt  if his own company remembered him, since he had been with them only a
couple of  days; he was probably just a name without a face, the "Dillinger,
N. L." who had to be reported, day after day, as absent without leave on the
morning muster.
     Then he killed a baby girl.
     He was tried  and  convicted by a local  tribunal  but  identity  check
showed that  he  was  an undischarged  soldier;  the  Department had  to  be
notified  and our commanding general at once intervened. He was  returned to
us, since military law and jurisdiction take precedence over civil code.
     Why did the general bother? Why didn't he let the local sheriff  do the
job?
     In order to "teach us a lesson"?
     Not at  all. I'm quite sure that our general did not think that any  of
his boys needed to be nauseated in order not to kill any baby girls.  By now
I believe that he would have spared us the sight -- had it been possible.
     We did learn a lesson, though nobody mentioned it at the time and it is
one that takes a long time to sink in until it becomes second nature:
     The M. I. take care of their own -- no matter what.
     Dillinger belonged to us, he  was  still  on our rolls. Even  though we
didn't want him, even though we should never have had him,  even  though  we
would have been  happy to disclaim  him, he was a member of our regiment. We
couldn't brush him off and let a sheriff a thousand miles away handle it. If
it has to be  done, a man --  a real man --  shoots his own  dog himself; he
doesn't hire a proxy who may bungle it.
     The regimental records said that Dillinger was ours, so taking care  of
him was our duty.
     That evening  we marched to the parade  grounds  at  slow  march, sixty
beats to  the minute (hard to keep step,  when  you're used to a hundred and
forty), while the band  played "Dirge for the Unmourned." Then Dillinger was
marched out,  dressed in M. I. full  dress just  as we were,  and  the  band
played  "Danny Deever" while they stripped off every trace of insignia, even
buttons and  cap, leaving him in a maroon  and light blue  suit that was  no
longer a uniform. The drums held a sustained roll and it was all over.
     We passed in review  and on home  at a fast trot I  don't think anybody
fainted and I  don't  think anybody quite got sick, even though  most  of us
didn't eat  much dinner that night and I've never  heard  the  mess tent  so
quiet. But, grisly as it was (it was  the first time I had seen death, first
time  for most of us), it was not the shock that Ted Hendrick's flogging was
-- I  mean, you couldn't put  yourself in Dillinger's place; you didn't have
any feeling of:  "It  could have been me." Not counting the technical matter
of  desertion, Dillinger had committed at least  four capital crimes; if his
victim had lived, he still would have danced Danny Deever for any one of the
other three -- kidnapping, demand of ransom, criminal neglect, etc.
     I had no sympathy for him and  still haven't.  That  old saw about  "To
understand all is to forgive all" is  a lot  of tripe. Some things, the more
you understand the more you loathe them. My sympathy is reserved for Barbara
Anne Enthwaite whom I had never seen,  and for her  parents, who would never
again see their little girl.
     As the band put  away their  instruments  that  night we started thirty
days of mourning  for Barbara and of disgrace for us, with our colors draped
in black, no music at parade,  no  singing on route  march. Only once  did I
hear anybody complain and another boot  promptly asked him how he would like
a full set of lumps? Certainly, it hadn't been our fault -- but our business
was to guard little girls, not kill them. Our  regiment had been dishonored;
we had to clean it. We were disgraced and we felt disgraced.
     That  night I tried  to figure  out how such things could be  kept from
happening. Of course, they hardly ever do nowadays -- but even once  is `way
too many. I never did  reach an answer that satisfied me. This Dillinger  --
he looked like anybody else, and his behavior and record  couldn't have been
too  odd  or he would never have  reached  Camp Currie in the first place. I
suppose he was one of those pathological personalities you read  about -- no
way to spot them.
     Well, if  there  was no way to  keep  it from happening once, there was
only one sure way to keep it from happening twice. Which we had used.
     If Dillinger had understood what he was doing (which seemed incredible)
then he got what was coming to him . .  . except that it seemed a shame that
he hadn't suffered  as  much as  had little Barbara Anne  --  he practically
hadn't suffered at all.
     But suppose, as seemed  more likely, that he was  so crazy  that he had
never been aware that he was doing anything wrong? What then?
     Well, we shoot mad dogs, don't we?
     Yes, but being crazy that way is a sickness --
     I couldn't see but  two possibilities.  Either he couldn't be made well
-- in which case he was  better dead for  his own sake and for the safety of
others -- or he could  be treated and made sane. In which case (it seemed to
me) if he ever  became sane enough  for civilized  society . . . and thought
over what he had done while he was  "sick" -- what could be left for him but
suicide? How could he live with himself?
     And suppose he escaped before  he  was  cured  and did  the  same thing
again? And maybe again? How do you explain that to bereaved parents? In view
of his record?
     I couldn't see but one answer.
     I found myself mulling over  a  discussion in our class in  History and
Moral  Philosophy. Mr. Dubois was talking  about the disorders that preceded
the  breakup  of the  North  American  republic,  back in the  XXth century.
According to him, there was a time just before they went down the drain when
such crimes as Dillinger's were  as common as dogfights. The  Terror had not
been just in  North America -- Russia and  the British Isles had it, too, as
well as other  places. But  it  reached its  peak  in  North America shortly
before things went to pieces.
     "Law-abiding  people,"  Dubois  had told us,  "hardly  dared  go into a
public park at night. To do so was to risk attack by wolf packs of children,
armed with chains, knives,  homemade guns,  bludgeons .  .  . to  be hurt at
least, robbed most certainly, injured  for  life probably -- or even killed.
This went on for years, right up to the war between the Russo-Anglo-American
Alliance and the Chinese Hegemony. Murder, drug addiction, larceny, assault,
and vandalism were commonplace.  Nor  were parks the  only  places --  these
things  happened  also on the streets in daylight,  on school  grounds, even
inside  school buildings.  But parks  were so notoriously unsafe that honest
people stayed clear of them after dark."
     I had tried to  imagine such things happening in  our schools. I simply
couldn't. Nor in our  parks. A  park was  a place for fun,  not for  getting
hurt. As for getting killed in one  -- "Mr. Dubois, didn't they have police?
Or courts?"
     "They  had  many  more  police  than  we  have. And  more  courts.  All
overworked."
     "I guess I don't get  it." If a  boy in our city had done anything half
that bad . . . well, he and his father would have been flogged side by side.
But such things just didn't happen.
     Mr. Dubois then demanded of me, "Define a `juvenile delinquent.' "
     "Uh, one of those kids -- the ones who used to beat up people."
     "Wrong."
     "Huh? But the book said -- "
     "My apologies. Your textbook does  so  state. But  calling a tail a leg
does  not make the name  fit  `Juvenile delinquent' is  a  contradiction  in
terms,  one which gives a clue to their  problem and their  failure to solve
it. Have you ever raised a puppy?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "Did you housebreak him?"
     "Err . . . yes,  sir.  Eventually." It  was my  slowness  in this  that
caused my mother to rule that dogs must stay out of the house.
     "Ah, yes. When your puppy made mistakes, were you angry?"
     "What? Why, he didn't know any better; he was just a puppy.
     "What did you do?"
     "Why, I scolded him and rubbed his nose in it and paddled him."
     "Surely he could not understand your words?"
     "No, but he could tell I was sore at him!"
     "But you just said that you were not angry."
     Mr. Dubois had an infuriating way of  getting a person mixed  up.  "No,
but I had to make him think I was. He had to learn, didn't he?"
     "Conceded. But, having made  it clear to him  that you disapproved, how
could  you be so cruel as to  spank him as well?  You said  the poor beastie
didn't  know  that  he  was doing  wrong.  Yet  you indicted  pain.  Justify
yourself! Or are you a sadist?"
     I didn't then know what a sadist  was -- but I knew pups. "Mr.  Dubois,
you have  to!  You scold him so that he knows  he's in trouble,  you rub his
nose in  it  so  that he will know what trouble you mean, you  paddle him so
that he darn well won't do it again --  and you have to do it right away! It
doesn't do a  bit of good to punish him later; you'll just confuse him. Even
so, he won't  learn from  one lesson, so  you watch and catch  him again and
paddle  him still harder. Pretty soon he learns. But  it's a waste of breath
just to scold him." Then I added, "I guess you've never raised pups."
     "Many. I'm raising a dachshund  now -- by your  methods. Let's get back
to those juvenile criminals. The most vicious averaged somewhat younger than
you here in this  class  . . . and they often started  their lawless careers
much  younger. Let  us never forget that  puppy.  These children were  often
caught; police  arrested batches  each day. Were  they  scolded? Yes,  often
scathingly. Were their noses rubbed in it? Rarely. News organs and officials
usually kept their names secret -- in many places  the  law  so required for
criminals under eighteen. Were they spanked? Indeed not! Many had never been
spanked even as small children; there was a widespread belief that spanking,
or any punishment involving pain, did a child permanent psychic damage."
     (I had reflected that my father must never have heard of that theory.)
     "Corporal punishment in schools was forbidden by law,"  he had gone on.
"Flogging  was  lawful as  sentence  of court  only  in one small  province,
Delaware, and there only for a  few  crimes and  was rarely  invoked; it was
regarded as `cruel and unusual punishment.' " Dubois had mused aloud, "I  do
not  understand objections to `cruel and  unusual' punishment. While a judge
should be benevolent  in purpose,  his  awards should cause  the criminal to
suffer, else there is no punishment -- and pain is the basic mechanism built
into us  by  millions of years of  evolution  which safeguards us by warning
when something threatens our survival. Why should society refuse to use such
a highly perfected survival mechanism? However,  that period was loaded with
pre-scientific pseudo-psychological nonsense.
     "As for `unusual,' punishment must be unusual or it serves no purpose."
He then pointed his stump at another boy. "What would happen if a puppy were
spanked every hour?"
     "Uh . . . probably drive him crazy!"
     "Probably.  It  certainly will not teach him  anything. How long has it
been since the principal of this school last had to switch a pupil?"
     "Uh, I'm not sure. About two years. The kid that swiped -- "
     "Never mind. Long enough. It means that such  punishment  is so unusual
as to be  significant, to deter,  to instruct. Back to these young criminals
-- They probably were not spanked as babies; they certainly were not flogged
for their crimes. The usual sequence was: for a first offense, a warning  --
a  scolding,  often without  trial.  After  several offenses a  sentence  of
confinement  but  with  sentence  suspended  and  the  youngster  placed  on
probation.  A boy  might be arrested many times and  convicted several times
before  he was punished -- and then  it would  be  merely confinement,  with
others  like him from whom he learned still more criminal habits. If he kept
out of major  trouble while confined,  he could usually  evade most of  even
that mild punishment, be  given probation --  `paroled' in the jargon of the
times.
     "This incredible  sequence  could  go  on  for  years while his  crimes
increased in  frequency and  viciousness,  with no punishment  whatever save
rare dull-but-comfortable confinements. Then suddenly, usually by law on his
eighteenth birthday,  this so-called `juvenile delinquent'  becomes an adult
criminal -- and sometimes wound up  in only  weeks or months in a death cell
awaiting execution for murder. You -- "
     He had singled me out  again. "Suppose  you  merely scolded your puppy,
never  punished  him, let  him go on making messes  in the  house . . .  and
occasionally locked him up  in an outbuilding but soon let him back into the
house with a warning not to do it again. Then one day you notice that  he is
now a grown dog and still  not  housebroken  -- whereupon you whip out a gun
and shoot him dead. Comment, please?"
     "Why . . . that's the craziest way to raise a dog I ever heard of!"
     "I agree. Or a child. Whose fault would it be?"
     "Uh . . . why, mine, I guess."
     "Again I agree. But I'm not guessing."
     "Mr.  Dubois," a girl  blurted  out, "but  why? Why  didn't they  spank
little kids  when they  needed  it and use a good dose of  the  strap on any
older ones who deserved  it  -- the  sort of lesson  they wouldn't forget! I
mean ones who did things really bad. Why not?"
     "I  don't know," he had answered grimly, "except that  the  time-tested
method  of instilling social virtue and respect for law in the minds of  the
young  did not  appeal to  a pre-scientific  pseudo-professional  class  who
called themselves  `social workers'  or  sometimes `child psychologists.' It
was too simple  for them,  apparently, since anybody could do it, using only
the patience  and  firmness needed in training a  puppy.  I  have  sometimes
wondered if they cherished a  vested interest  in  disorder --  but  that is
unlikely;  adults  almost always act  from  conscious `highest  motives'  no
matter what their behavior."
     "But -- good heavens!" the girl answered. "I didn't  like being spanked
any more than any kid  does, but  when I needed it,  my  mama delivered. The
only time I ever got a switching in school I got another one when I got home
and that was years and  years ago. I  don't ever expect  to  be hauled up in
front  of a  judge and sentenced to a flogging; you behave yourself and such
things don't happen. I don't see anything wrong  with our system; it's a lot
better than not  being able to walk outdoors for  fear of  your life -- why,
that's horrible!"
     "I agree.  Young lady, the tragic wrongness  of what those well-meaning
people  did,  contrasted with what they  thought  they were doing, goes very
deep. They had no  scientific theory of morals.  They  did have a theory  of
morals and  they tried  to  live by it (I should not  have sneered  at their
motives)  but  their theory was wrong --  half  of  it fuzzy-headed  wishful
thinking,  half of it rationalized  charlatanry. The more earnest they were,
the farther  it led them astray.  You see, they assumed that Man has a moral
instinct."
     "Sir? But I thought -- But he does! I have."
     "No,  my  dear,  you  have  a  cultivated conscience,  a most carefully
trained one. Man has no moral instinct. He is not born with moral sense. You
were not born with it,  I was  not -- and a puppy has none. We acquire moral
sense, when we do, through training, experience, and hard sweat of the mind.
These unfortunate juvenile criminals were born with none, even as you and I,
and they had no chance to acquire any; their experiences did  not permit it.
What is `moral sense'? It is an elaboration of the  instinct to survive. The
instinct  to  survive  is human  nature  itself,  and  every  aspect of  our
personalities derives  from it.  Anything that  conflicts with the  survival
instinct acts sooner or later to eliminate the individual  and thereby fails
to show up in future generations. This truth is mathematically demonstrable,
everywhere  verifiable;  it  is  the single eternal  imperative  controlling
everything we do."
     "But the instinct to survive," he had gone  on, "can be cultivated into
motivations more subtle and much more complex than the blind, brute  urge of
the individual  to stay alive.  Young lady,  what  you miscalled your `moral
instinct' was  the  instilling in  you  by  your elders  of the  truth  that
survival  can  have stronger  imperatives  than  that  of your own  personal
survival. Survival  of your family, for example. Of  your children, when you
have them. Of your nation, if you struggle that high up the scale. And so on
up. A scientifically verifiable theory  of  morals  must  be  rooted in  the
individual's instinct to  survive -- and nowhere else! -- and must correctly
describe the  hierarchy of survival, note the motivations at each level, and
resolve all conflicts."
     "We have  such  a  theory now; we can solve any  moral problem,  on any
level. Self-interest, love of family, duty to country, responsibility toward
the  human  race -- we  are  even developing an exact ethic  for extra-human
relations. But all  moral problems  can be illustrated by  one misquotation:
`Greater love hath no man  than a  mother cat dying to defend her  kittens.'
Once you  understand the problem facing that cat  and how she solved it, you
will then be ready to  examine  yourself and  learn  how high  up  the moral
ladder you are capable of climbing.
     "These juvenile criminals hit a low level. Born with only the  instinct
for survival, the  highest  morality they achieved was a shaky  loyalty to a
peer group, a street  gang. But the do-gooders attempted to `appeal to their
better  natures,' to  `reach them,' to `spark their moral sense.' Tosh! They
had no `better natures'; experience taught them  that  what they were  doing
was the  way to survive. The puppy never got his spanking; therefore what he
did with pleasure and success must be `moral.'
     "The basis of all morality is duty, a concept with the same relation to
group that self-interest has  to individual.  Nobody  preached duty to these
kids in a way they  could understand  -- that is,  with a spanking.  But the
society they were in told them endlessly about their `rights.' "
     "The results  should have been predictable, since a  human being has no
natural rights of any nature."
     Mr. Dubois had paused. Somebody took  the bait. "Sir? How about  `life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness'?"
     "Ah, yes,  the  `unalienable  rights.'  Each  year someone quotes  that
magnificent poetry. Life?  What `right' to life has a man who is drowning in
the Pacific?  The ocean will  not hearken to his cries. What `right' to life
has a man  who must die if he is to save his children? If he chooses to save
his own life, does he do so as a matter of `right'? If two men are  starving
and cannibalism  is  the  only  alternative to  death, which man's right  is
`unalienable'? And is it `right'? As to liberty,  the heroes who signed that
great document pledged  themselves to buy  liberty with their lives. Liberty
is never  unalienable; it must  be  redeemed regularly  with  the  blood  of
patriots or it always vanishes. Of all the so-called  `natural human rights'
that have ever been invented,  liberty is  least  likely  to be cheap and is
never free of cost.
     "The  third  `right'?  -- the  `pursuit  of  happiness'? It  is  indeed
unalienable but it is not a right; it is simply a universal condition  which
tyrants cannot take away nor patriots restore. Cast me  into a dungeon, burn
me at the stake, crown me king of kings, I can `pursue happiness' as long as
my brain lives -- but neither gods nor  saints,  wise men  nor subtle drugs,
can insure that I will catch it."
     Mr. Dubois then turned to me. "I told you that `juvenile delinquent' is
a contradiction in terms. `Delinquent' means `failing  in duty.' But duty is
an adult virtue -- indeed a juvenile becomes  an  adult when, and only when,
he acquires a knowledge of duty and embraces it as dearer than the self-love
he was born with. There never was, there cannot  be a `juvenile delinquent.'
But  for  every  juvenile  criminal  there  are  always one  or  more  adult
delinquents --  people of mature years who either do not know their duty, or
who, knowing it, fail."
     "And  that was the soft spot  which destroyed  what was in many ways an
admirable  culture.  The  junior  hoodlums  who  roamed their  streets  were
symptoms of a greater sickness; their citizens (all of them counted as such)
glorified their mythology of `rights'  . . . and lost track of their duties.
No nation, so constituted, can endure."
     I wondered how  Colonel Dubois would have  classed  Dillinger. Was he a
juvenile criminal who merited pity even though you had to get rid of him? Or
was he an adult delinquent who deserved nothing but contempt?
     I didn't know, I would never know. The one thing I was sure of was that
he would never again kill any little girls.
     That suited me. I went to sleep.

     CHAPTER 9

     We've got no place in this outfit
     for good losers. We want tough
     hombres who will go in there and
     win!
-- Admiral Jonas Ingram,
            1926
     When we had done all that a mud foot can do in flat  country,  we moved
into some rough mountains to do still rougher things -- the Canadian Rockies
between Good Hope Mountain and Mount Waddington.  Camp Sergeant Spooky Smith
was  much like Camp Currie  (aside from its rugged setting) but it was  much
smaller. Well, the  Third Regiment  was much smaller now, too less than four
hundred  whereas we  had started out with more than  two thousand. H Company
was  now organized as a  single platoon  and  the battalion paraded as if it
were a  company. But we were still  called "H Company" and  Zim was "Company
Commander," not platoon leader.
     What the sweat-down meant, really,  was much more personal instruction;
we had more corporal-instructors than we had squads  and  Sergeant Zim, with
only fifty men  on his  mind instead of  the  two hundred and  sixty he  had
started with, kept his  Argus eyes  on each one of us  all the time --  even
when he wasn't there. At least, if you goofed, it turned out he was standing
right behind you.
     However, the  chewing-out  you got  had almost a friendly quality, in a
horrid sort of way, because we  had changed, too, as well as the regiment --
the  one-in-five  who  was left was  almost a soldier and  Zim  seemed to be
trying to make him into one, instead of running him over the hill.
     We saw a lot more of  Captain Frankel, too; he now  spent  most of  his
time teaching us, instead of behind a desk, and he knew all  of  us by  name
and face and seemed to have a card file in his mind of exactly what progress
each man  had  made  on every  weapon, every piece  of  equipment  -- not to
mention  your extra-duty status,  medical record, and whether you had  had a
letter from home lately.
     He wasn't as severe with  us as Zim was; his words were  milder and  it
took a really  stupid  stunt to take that friendly grin off his face  -- but
don't let  that fool you; there was  beryl armor under the grin. I never did
figure out which one  was the better soldier,  Zim  or Captain Frankel  -- I
mean, if  you  took  away  the  insignia and thought  of them  as  privates.
Unquestionably  they  were  both  better  soldiers  than  any  of the  other
instructors --  but which was best? Zim  did  everything with  precision and
style, as if he were on parade; Captain Frankel did the same thing with dash
and  gusto, as if  it were a game. The  results  were  about the same and it
never turned out to be as easy as Captain Frankel made it look.
     We needed the abundance of instructors. Jumping a suit (as I have said)
was  easy  on flat ground. Well, the  suit jumps just  as high and  just  as
easily in the mountains -- but it makes a lot of difference when you have to
jump  up  a vertical granite wall,  between  two  close-set fir  trees,  and
override your jet control at the last instant. We had three major casualties
in suit practice in broken country, two dead and one medical retirement.
     But that  rock wall is even tougher without a suit,  tackled with lines
and pitons.  I didn't really see what use alpine drill  was to a cap trooper
but I had learned to keep my mouth shut and try to learn what they shoved at
us. I learned it  and it wasn't  too  hard.  If anybody had told  me, a year
earlier,  that  I  could  go  up a solid  chunk  of rock,  as  flat  and  as
perpendicular as a blank wall of a building, using only a hammer, some silly
little steel pins, and a chunk of clothesline,  I would  have laughed in his
face; I'm  a sea-level type. Correction: I  was a sea-level type. There  had
been some changes made.
     Just how  much  I had changed  I  began to  find out.  At Camp Sergeant
Spooky  Smith we had liberty-to go to town,  I  mean.  Oh,  we had "liberty"
after  the first month  at Camp  Currie, too. This meant that,  on a  Sunday
afternoon,  if you weren't in the duty platoon, you could check  out  at the
orderly tent  and walk just as far away  from camp as you wished, bearing in
mind  that you  had  to  be back for evening muster.  But there  was nothing
within walking distance, if you don't count  jack  rabbits --  no  girls, no
theaters, no dance halls, et cetera.
     Nevertheless,  liberty, even  at Camp  Currie, was  no  mean privilege;
sometimes it can be  very important indeed to be able to go so far away that
you can't see  a  tent, a sergeant,  nor  even  the ugly  faces of your best
friends among the boots . .  . not have to be on the  bounce about anything,
have time  to  take  out  your  soul  and look at  it.  You could  lose that
privilege  in several degrees; you could be restricted to camp .  . . or you
could  be  restricted to  your  own  company  street,  which meant that  you
couldn't  go  to  the  library  nor to  what  was  misleadingly  called  the
"recreation" tent (mostly  some Parcheesi sets and similar wild excitements)
. . . or you could be under close restriction, required to stay in your tent
when your presence was not required elsewhere.
     This last sort didn't mean much in itself since it was usually added to
extra duty so  demanding that  you didn't have any time  in  your tent other
than for sleep  anyhow; it was a  decoration added like a cherry on top of a
dish of ice cream to notify  you  and the world that you had pulled not some
everyday goof-off but something unbecoming of a member of the M. I. and were
thereby unfit to associate with other troopers until you had washed away the
stain.
     But  at  Camp Spooky we  could  go into  town  -- duty status,  conduct
status, etc.,  permitting. Shuttles ran to Vancouver  every  Sunday morning,
right after divine  services (which were  moved up  to thirty minutes  after
breakfast)  and  came  back again just  before supper and again  just before
taps. The  instructors  could even spend Saturday night in  town,  or cop  a
three-day pass, duty permitting.
     I had  no more  than stepped out of the shuttle, my first pass,  than I
realized in  part that  I had  changed. Johnnie didn't  fit  in  any longer.
Civilian life, I mean.  It all seemed  amazingly  complex  and  unbelievably
untidy.
     I'm  not  running  down Vancouver.  It's a beautiful  city in a  lovely
setting; the people are charming  and they  are used to having the  M. I. in
town  and  they  make  a trooper welcome. There is  a  social center for  us
downtown, where they have dances for us every week and see to it that junior
hostesses are  on hand to dance with, and senior hostesses to make sure that
a shy boy  (me, to my amazement  --  but  you try a few  months with nothing
female  around but lady  jack rabbits) gets  introduced and has  a partner's
feet to step on.
     But I  didn't go to  the  social center that first pass. Mostly I stood
around and gawked  -- at beautiful buildings, at display windows filled with
all manner of unnecessary things (and not a weapon among them), at all those
people running  around, or even strolling, doing exactly as they pleased and
no two of them dressed alike -- and at girls.
     Especially at girls. I hadn't  realized just how  wonderful  they were.
Look,  I've approved  of girls  from  the time  I  first  noticed  that  the
difference  was more than  just that they  dress  differently. So  far  as I
remember I never did go through that period  boys are supposed to go through
when they know  that girls are different but dislike them; I've always liked
girls.
     But that day I realized that I had long been taking them for granted.
     Girls  are simply wonderful. Just  to stand on a  corner and watch them
going past is delightful. They don't walk.  At least not what we do when  we
walk.  I don't  know  how to  describe it, but  it's much more  complex  and
utterly delightful. They don't move just their feet; everything moves and in
different directions . . . and all of it graceful.
     I might have  been standing there yet if a policeman hadn't come by. He
sized us up and said, "Howdy, boys. Enjoying yourselves?"
     I quickly read the ribbons on his chest and was impressed. "Yes, sir!"
     "You don't have to say `sir' to me. Not much to do here.  Why don't you
go to the hospitality center?" He gave us the address, pointed the direction
and we started that way -- Pat Leivy, "Kitten" Smith, and myself.  He called
after us, "Have a good time, boys . . . and stay  out of trouble." Which was
exactly what Sergeant Zim had said to us as we climbed into the shuttle.
     But we didn't go  there. Pat Leivy had lived in Seattle when  he  was a
small  boy and wanted to take a look at his old home town. He had  money and
offered  to pay our shuttle fares if we would go with him. I didn't mind and
it was all right; shuttles ran every twenty  minutes and our passes were not
restricted to Vancouver. Smith decided to go along, too.
     Seattle wasn't so very different from Vancouver and the girls were just
as plentiful; I enjoyed it. But Seattle wasn't quite as used to having M. I.
around  in  droves  and  we picked  a  poor spot to eat dinner, one where we
weren't quite so welcome a bar-restaurant, down by the docks.
     Now, look, we weren't drinking. Well,  Kitten Smith had  had one repeat
one beer with  his dinner  but he was never anything but  friendly and nice.
That is how he got his name; the first time we had hand-to-hand combat drill
Corporal  Jones  had  said to him disgustedly:  "A kitten  would have hit me
harder than that!" The nickname stuck.
     We were the  only uniforms in  the place; most of  the  other customers
were  merchant  marine sailors --  Seattle handles an awful  lot  of surface
tonnage. I hadn't known it  at the time but merchant sailors don't like  us.
Part of it has to do with the fact that their guilds have tried and tried to
get their trade classed as equivalent to Federal Service, without success --
but I understand that some of it goes way back in history, centuries.
     There were  some young fellows there,  too, about our age the right age
to serve  a term, only they  weren't --  long-haired and sloppy and  kind of
dirty looking. Well,  say about the way I looked, I suppose, before I joined
up.
     Presently we started noticing that at the table behind us, two of these
young  twerps and two merchant sailors  (to  judge by  clothes) were passing
remarks that were intended for us to overhear. I won't try to repeat them.
     We  didn't say anything. Presently,  when the remarks  were  even  more
personal and the  laughs louder and everybody else in the place was  keeping
quiet and listening, Kitten whispered to me, "Let's get out of here."
     I caught Pat Leivy's eye; he nodded. We had no  score to settle; it was
one of those pay-as-you-get-it places. We got up and left.
     They followed us out.
     Pat whispered to me, "Watch it." We kept on walking, didn't look back.
     They charged us.
     I gave my man a side-neck chop as  I pivoted and let him fall past  me,
swung to help  my mates. But it  was over.  Four in,  four down. Kitten  had
handled two of  them  and Pat  had  sort of wrapped the other one  around  a
lamppost from throwing him a little too hard.
     Somebody,  the proprietor I guess, must  have called the police as soon
as we  stood up  to leave, since they  arrived almost at once  while we were
still standing  around wondering what to do with the meat  -- two policemen;
it was that sort of a neighborhood.
     The senior  of them  wanted us  to  prefer charges, but none  of us was
willing -- Zim had told us to "stay out of trouble." Kitten looked blank and
about fifteen years old and said, "I guess they stumbled."
     "So I see," agreed the  police officer  and toed a knife  away from the
outflung hand of my man, put it against the curb and broke the blade. "Well,
you boys had better run along . . . farther uptown."
     We left. I was glad that neither Pat nor Kitten wanted to make anything
of  it. It's a mighty  serious  thing, a civilian assaulting a member of the
Armed Forces, but what the  deuce? -- the books  balanced.  They jumped  us,
they got their lumps. All even.
     But it's a good thing we never go on  pass  armed . . .  and  have been
trained to disable  without killing. Because every  bit  of it  happened  by
reflex. I didn't believe that they would jump us until they already had, and
I didn't do any thinking at all until it was over.
     But that's  how  I  learned for  the first  time  just how  much I  had
changed.
     We walked back to the station and caught a shuttle to Vancouver.
     We started practice drops as soon  as we  moved  to  Camp  Spooky  -- a
platoon at a time, in rotation (a full platoon, that is -- a company), would
shuttle down to  the field north of Walla  Walla,  go aboard,  space, make a
drop, go through an exercise, and home on a beacon. A day's work. With eight
companies that  gave us  not quite  a drop each week, and  then it gave us a
little  more than a drop each  week as  attrition  continued, whereupon  the
drops  got  tougher  --  over  mountains,  into  the arctic  ice,  into  the
Australian  desert, and, before  we graduated,  onto  the face of  the Moon,
where  your  capsule is placed only a hundred  feet  up and  explodes as  it
ejects -- and  you  have to look sharp and land with only your suit (no air,
no parachute) and a bad landing can spill your air and kill you.
     Some of the attrition was from casualties, deaths or injuries, and some
of  it was  just from refusing to  enter the capsule -- which  some did, and
that was that; they weren't even chewed  out; they were  just motioned aside
and that  night they were paid  off. Even a man who  had  made several drops
might get the panic and refuse  . . . and the instructors  were just  gentle
with him, treated him the way you do a friend who is ill and won't get well.
     I  never quite refused to enter  the capsule -- but I certainly learned
about the shakes. I always got them, I was scared silly every  time. I still
am.
     But you're not a cap trooper unless you drop.
     They tell  a  story,  probably not true,  about  a cap trooper who  was
sight-seeing in Paris. He visited  Les Invalides, looked  down at Napoleon's
coffin and said to a French guard there: "Who's he?"
     The Frenchman was properly scandalized. "Monsieur  does not  know? This
is the tomb of Napoleon! Napoleon Bonaparte -- the greatest soldier who ever
lived!"
     The cap trooper thought  about  it. Then he asked,  "So? Where were his
drops?"
     It  is  almost certainly not true, because  there is a big sign outside
there that tells you exactly who Napoleon was. But  that is how cap troopers
feel about it.
     Eventually we graduated.
     I  can see that I've left out almost everything. Not a  word about most
of our weapons, nothing  about the  time we dropped  everything and fought a
forest fire for three days, no mention of the practice alert that was a real
one,  only  we didn't know it until it was over, nor about the day the  cook
tent  blew away -- in  fact  not  any mention of  weather  and, believe  me,
weather is  important to a  doughboy,  rain  and mud especially.  But though
weather is  important while it happens it  seems to me to be pretty dull  to
look back on. You  can take descriptions of most any sort of weather  out of
an almanac and stick them in just anywhere; they'll probably fit.
     The  regiment had  started  with 2009 men; we graduated 187  --  of the
others, fourteen were dead (one executed and his name  struck) and  the rest
resigned, dropped, transferred, medical  discharge, etc. Major Malloy made a
short  speech, we each got  a certificate, we passed in review  for the last
time, and the  regiment was disbanded,  its  colors to  be cased until  they
would  be needed  (three  weeks  later) to tell  another couple  of thousand
civilians that they were an outfit, not a mob.
     I  was a "trained soldier," entitled to put  "TP" in front of my serial
number instead of "RP." Big day.
     The biggest I ever had.

     CHAPTER 10

     The Tree of Liberty must be re-
     freshed from time to time with the
     blood of patriots . . .
-- Thomas Jefferson,
          1787
     That  is,  I  thought I was  a "trained soldier" until I reported to my
ship. Any law against having a wrong opinion?
     I see that I didn't make any mention of how the Terran Federation moved
from "peace"  to  a "state  of  emergency"  and then on into "war." I didn't
notice it too  closely  myself. When  I enrolled, it was "peace," the normal
condition, at least so people think (who ever expects anything else?). Then,
while I was  at Currie, it became a  "state of emergency" but I still didn't
notice  it,  as  what  Corporal Bronski  thought  about my haircut, uniform,
combat drill,  and kit  was much more important  -- and  what  Sergeant  Zim
thought  about  such  matters  was  overwhelmingly  important.  In any case,
"emergency" is still "peace."
     "Peace"  is  a condition  in which  no civilian pays any  attention  to
military   casualties   which    do   not   achieve   page-one,   lead-story
prominence-unless  that  civilian  is  a  close  relative  of   one  of  the
casualties. But, if there ever was a time in history when "peace" meant that
there  was no fighting going on,  I have been unable  to  find out about it.
When I reported to my first outfit,  "Willie's Wildcats," sometimes known as
Company K, Third  Regiment, First  M. I. Division, and shipped with  them in
the Valley Forge (with that  misleading certificate in  my kit) the fighting
had already been going on for several years.
     The historians can't seem to settle whether to call this one "The Third
Space War" (or the "Fourth"), or  whether "The  First Interstellar War" fits
it  better. We just call it  "The  Bug War" if we call it anything, which we
usually  don't,  and in any case the historians date the  beginning of "war"
after the time I joined my  first outfit and ship. Everything up to then and
still later were "incidents,"  "patrols,"  or "police actions." However, you
are just as dead if you buy a farm in an "incident" as you are if you buy it
in a declared war.
     But, to tell the truth, a soldier doesn't notice a war much more than a
civilian does, except his own  tiny piece of it and that just on the days it
is happening. The rest of the time he is much more concerned with sack time,
the  vagaries of sergeants, and the chances of  wheedling  the cook  between
meals. However,  when Kitten  Smith and Al Jenkins and I joined them at Luna
Base, each of Willie's Wildcats  had made more  than one  combat drop;  they
were soldiers and we were not. We weren't hazed for it -- at least I was not
-- and the sergeants and  corporals were amazingly easy to deal  with  after
the calculated frightfulness of instructors.
     It  took  a little  while  to  discover that  this comparatively gentle
treatment simply meant that we were nobody, hardly worth chewing out,  until
we had proved  in a  drop --  a real drop -- that we might possibly  replace
real Wildcats who had fought and bought it and whose bunks we now occupied.
     Let me tell you  how  green I was. While  the Valley Forg was still  at
Luna Base, I happened to come across my section leader just as he  was about
to hit dirt, all slicked up in dress uniform. He was wearing in his left ear
lobe a rather small earring, a tiny gold  skull  beautifully made  and under
it, in stead of  the conventional crossed bones  of the  ancient Jolly Roger
design, was a whole bundle of little gold bones, almost too small to see.
     Back home, I had always worn earrings and other jewelry when I went out
on a date --  I had some beautiful ear clips, rubies as big as the end of my
little finger which had belonged  to my mother's grandfather. I like jewelry
and had rather resented being required to leave it all behind when I went to
Basic . . . but here was a type of jewelry which was apparently okay to wear
with uniform. My ears weren't pierced -- my mother didn't approve of it, for
boys -- but I could have  the  jeweler mount it on a clip . .  . and I still
had some money left from pay call at graduation and was anxious  to spend it
before it mildewed. "Unh, Sergeant? Where do you get earrings like that one?
Pretty neat."
     He didn't look scornful, he  didn't even smile. He just said, "You like
it?"
     "I  certainly do!" The  plain  raw  gold pointed up  the gold braid and
piping of the uniform  even better than gems would have done. I was thinking
that a pair  would  be still handsomer,  with just crossbones instead of all
that confusion at the bottom. "Does the base PX carry them?"
     "No, the PX here never sells them." He  added,  "At least I don't think
you'll ever be able to buy one here -- I hope.  But I  tell you what -- when
we reach a place where  you can buy one of your own, I'll see to it you know
about it. That's a promise."
     "Uh, thanks!"
     "Don't mention it."
     I saw several  of the tiny skulls  thereafter, some with more  "bones,"
some with fewer; my guess had been correct, this was jewelry  permitted with
uniform, when on pass at least. Then I got my own chance to "buy" one almost
immediately thereafter  and  discovered that  the  prices  were unreasonably
high, for such plain ornaments.
     It was Operation Bughouse, the First Battle of Klendathu in the history
books, soon after  Buenos Aires  was smeared. It  took the loss of B. A.  to
make the groundhogs realize  that anything was going on,  because people who
haven't been out don't really believe in other planets, not down  deep where
it counts. I know I hadn't and I had been space-happy since I was a pup.
     But B. A. really stirred up the civilians and inspired loud  screams to
bring all our forces home, from everywhere  --  orbit them around the planet
practically  shoulder  to shoulder  and interdict the space Terra  occupies.
This is silly, of course; you don't win a war by defense but by attack -- no
"Department of  Defense" ever  won a war; see the histories. But is seems to
be  a  standard civilian reaction to scream for defensive tactics as soon as
they do notice  a war. They  then want  to run  the war -- like  a passenger
trying to grab the controls away from the pilot in an emergency.
     However, nobody  asked my  opinion at the time; I was told. Quite aside
from  the impossibility of dragging the  troops  home in view  of our treaty
obligations and what it would do to the colony planets in the Federation and
to our allies, we were awfully busy  doing something  else, to wit: carrying
the war to the Bugs. I suppose I  noticed the destruction of B. A. much less
than  most civilians did.  We were already a couple  of  parsecs away  under
Cherenkov  drive and the  news didn't reach us until we got it from  another
ship after we came out of drive.
     I remember thinking, "Gosh, that's terrible!" and feeling sorry for the
one  Porteno in the ship. But B.  A. wasn't my home and Terra was a long way
off and I was very busy, as the attack on Klendathu, the Bugs' home  planet,
was mounted  immediately  after that  and  we spent the time  to  rendezvous
strapped  in  our bunks,  doped  and unconscious,  with the internal-gravity
field of the Valley Forge off, to save power and give greater speed.
     The  loss of Buenos Aires did mean a great  deal to  me;  it changed my
life enormously, but this I did not know until many months later.
     When it came time to  drop onto Klendathu, I was assigned to  PFC Dutch
Bamburger as a supernumerary. He managed to conceal his pleasure at the news
and as soon  as the platoon sergeant was  out of earshot, he  said, "Listen,
boot, you stick close behind me  and stay out  of my way. You go slowing  me
down, I break your silly neck."
     I just nodded. I was beginning  to realize that this was not a practice
drop.
     Then I had the shakes for a while and then we were down --
     Operation  Bughouse  should  have  been  called  "Operation  Madhouse."
Everything went wrong. It had been planned as  an all-out  move to bring the
enemy to their  knees, occupy their capital and the key points of their home
planet, and end the war. Instead it darn near lost the war.
     I  am  not criticizing General Diennes. I  don't know whether it's true
that  he  demanded  more  troops and more support and allowed  himself to be
overruled by  the  Sky  Marshal-in-Chief  --  or not.  Nor was it  any of my
business.  Furthermore I doubt if some of the smart second-guessers know all
the facts.
     What I do know is that the General dropped with us and commanded  us on
the ground and, when the situation became impossible,  he personally led the
diversionary  attack that allowed quite  a few of  us  (including me)  to be
retrieved -- and, in so doing, bought his farm. He's  radioactive  debris on
Klendathu and it's much too late to court-martial him, so why talk about it?
     I do have one comment to make to any armchair  strategist who has never
made a drop. Yes,  I  agree that the Bugs' planet possibly could  have  been
plastered  with H-bombs  until  it  was surfaced with radioactive glass. But
would that have won the war? The Bugs  are not like us. The Pseudo-Arachnids
aren't  even like spiders.  They are arthropods  who happen  to  look like a
madman's conception of a giant, intelligent spider, but  their organization,
psychological and economic, is more  like that of ants or termites; they are
communal entities,  the  ultimate  dictatorship  of the  hive. Blasting  the
surface of their planet would have killed soldiers and workers; it would not
have  killed  the  brain caste and the  queens -- I doubt  if anybody can be
certain that even a direct hit with a burrowing H-rocket would kill a queen;
we don't know how far down they are. Nor am I anxious  to find out; none  of
the boys who went down those holes came up again.
     So suppose we did ruin the productive  surface of Klendathu? They still
would  have ships and colonies and other planets, same as we have, and their
HQ  is  still  intact  --  so unless they surrender, the war  isn't over. We
didn't have nova bombs at that  time; we couldn't  crack  Klendathu open. If
they absorbed the punishment and didn't surrender, the war was still on.
     If they can surrender --
     Their  soldiers  can't. Their workers can't fight (and you can waste  a
lot of time and  ammo shooting  up  workers who wouldn't say boo!) and their
soldier caste can't surrender. But don't  make the mistake of thinking  that
the Bugs are just stupid insects because they look the way they do and don't
know how to surrender. Their warriors  are smart, skilled, and aggressive --
smarter than you are, by  the only universal rule, if the  Bug shoots first.
You can burn off one leg, two legs, three legs, and he just keeps on coming;
burn off  four on one side and he topples over -- but keeps on shooting. You
have to spot the nerve case and get it . . . whereupon he will trot right on
past you, shooting at nothing, until he crashes into a wall or something.
     The drop was a shambles from the  start.  Fifty ships were in our piece
of it  and they  were  supposed  to  come  out of Cherenkov  drive and  into
reaction drive so perfectly  co-ordinated that they could hit orbit and drop
us, in formation and where we were  supposed to hit, without even making one
planet circuit to dress up their own formation. I suppose this is difficult.
Shucks, I know it  is. But when it slips, it  leaves the  M. I.  holding the
sack.
     We were lucky  at that, because the Valley Forge and every Navy file in
her bought it before we ever hit the ground. In  that tight, fast  formation
(4.7 miles/sec. orbital speed  is not  a stroll) she collided with the Ypres
and both ships  were destroyed. We  were lucky to get out of  her  tubes  --
those of  us who did get  out,  for she was still firing capsules as she was
rammed. But I wasn't  aware of it; I was  inside my cocoon, headed  for  the
ground. I suppose our company commander knew  that  the ship  had been  lost
(and half his Wildcats with it) since he was  out first  and would know when
he suddenly lost touch, over the command circuit, with the ship's captain.
     But there is no way to ask him, because he wasn't retrieved. All I ever
had was a gradually dawning realization that things were in a mess.
     The  next eighteen  hours were nightmare. I shan't  tell much about  it
because  I don't remember much, just snatches, stop-motion scenes of horror.
I have never liked spiders, poisonous or otherwise; a common house spider in
my bed  can give me  the creeps. Tarantulas  are  simply unthinkable, and  I
can't eat lobster, crab, or anything of that sort. When I got my first sight
of a Bug, my mind jumped right out of my skull and started to yammer. It was
seconds later  that I realized that I had killed it and could stop shooting.
I suppose it was a worker; I doubt if I was in any shape to tackle a warrior
and win.
     But, at that,  I was in  better shape than was the K-9 Corps. They were
to  be dropped  (if  the drop  had gone perfectly) on  the periphery of  our
entire target and  the  neodogs were  supposed  to range outward and provide
tactical intelligence to interdiction squads whose business it was to secure
the periphery. Those Calebs aren't armed, of course, other than their teeth.
A neodog is supposed to hear,  see,  and smell and tell his partner  what he
finds by  radio; all he carries is a radio and a destruction bomb with which
he (or his partner) can blow the dog up in case of bad wounds or capture.
     Those  poor  dogs  didn't wait to be  captured; apparently most of them
suicided  as  soon as they made contact. They felt  the way I  do  about the
Bugs,  only worse.  They  have  neodogs  now  that  are  indoctrinated  from
puppyhood  to observe and evade without blowing their tops at the mere sight
or smell of a Bug. But these weren't.
     But that wasn't all that went wrong. Just name it, it  was fouled up. I
didn't  know what  was  going  on, of course; just stuck close behind Dutch,
trying to shoot or flame anything that moved, dropping a grenade down a hole
when  ever  I saw one. Presently  I got so that I could  kill a Bug  without
wasting ammo or juice, although I did not learn to distinguish between those
that  were harmless and those that  were not.  Only about  one in fifty is a
warrior but  he  makes up for the other forty-nine.  Their personal  weapons
aren't as heavy as ours but they are  lethal just the  same -- they've got a
beam that will penetrate armor  and slice flesh  like  cutting a hard-boiled
egg, and they co operate even better than we do . . . because the brain that
is doing the heavy thinking for a "squad" isn't where you can reach it; it's
down one of the holes.
     Dutch and I stayed lucky for quite a long time, milling around over  an
area about a mile square, corking up holes with bombs, killing what we found
above surface, saving our jets as much as possible for emergencies. The idea
was to secure the entire target and allow  the reinforcements  and the heavy
stuff to come down without important opposition; this  was not a raid,  this
was  a battle  to  establish a  beachhead, stand on it, hold it, and  enable
fresh troops and heavies to capture or pacify the entire planet.
     Only we didn't.
     Our own section was doing all right. It was in the wrong pew and out of
touch  with the  other section -- the platoon leader and sergeant  were dead
and we never re-formed. But we had  staked out a claim, our  special-weapons
squad had set up a strong  point,  and we were ready to turn our real estate
over to fresh troops as soon as they showed up.
     Only they didn't. They dropped in  where  we should have dropped, found
unfriendly  natives and  had their  own  troubles. We  never saw them. So we
stayed  where  we were, soaking up casualties from time to  time and passing
them out ourselves  as  opportunity offered -- while we ran  low on ammo and
jump juice and even power to keep the suits moving. This seemed to go on for
a couple of thousand years.
     Dutch  and  I  were  zipping along close  to  a  wall, headed  for  our
special-weapons squad in answer to a yell for help, when the ground suddenly
opened in front of Dutch, a Bug popped out, and Dutch went down.
     I  flamed  the Bug  and  tossed a  grenade and the hole closed up, then
turned to see what  had happened to  Dutch. He  was down but he didn't  look
hurt. A platoon  sergeant  can  monitor the physicals on  every  man in  his
platoon,  sort out the dead  from those  who merely can't make it unassisted
and must be picked up. But you can do the same thing  manually from switches
right on the belt of a man's suit.
     Dutch didn't  answer when I called  to him.  His body  temperature read
ninety-nine degrees, his respiration, heartbeat, and brain wave read zero --
which looked bad but maybe his suit was dead rather than he himself. Or so I
told myself, forgetting that the temperature indicator would give no reading
if it were  the  suit rather than the man.  Anyhow, I grabbed the can-opener
wrench from my own belt and started to take him out of his suit while trying
to watch all around me.
     Then I heard an allhands call in my helmet that  I never want  to  hear
again.  "Sauve  qui  peut! Home!  Home! Pickup and home! Any  beacon you can
hear. Six minutes! All hands, save  yourselves, pick up your mates. Home  on
any beacon! Sauve qui -- "
     I hurried.
     His head came off as I tried to drag him out  of his suit, so I dropped
him  and  got out of there. On a later drop I would have had sense enough to
salvage his ammo, but I was far  too sluggy to think;  I simply bounced away
from there and tried to rendezvous with the strong point we had been heading
for.
     It was already evacuated and I felt lost . . . lost and  deserted. Then
I heard  recall, not  the recall it should have  been "Yankee Doodle" (if it
had been a  boat from the Valley Forge) -- but "Sugar Bush," a tune I didn't
know. No matter, it was a beacon; I headed for it, using the last of my jump
juice  lavishly -- got  aboard just as  they  were about to  button  up  and
shortly thereafter was  in the Voortrek, in  such a  state of  shock  that I
couldn't remember my serial number.
     I've  heard it  called a  "strategic victory" -- but I  was there and I
claim we took a terrible licking.
     Six weeks later  (and feeling about sixty years older) at Fleet Base on
Sanctuary I  boarded another ground  boat  and reported  for duty to  Ship's
Sergeant Jelal in  the  Rodger Young. I was wearing, in my pierced left  ear
lobe, a broken skull with  one bone. Al Jenkins was with me and was  wearing
one  exactly like it  (Kitten  never  made it out  of  the  tube).  The  few
surviving Wildcats were distributed elsewhere around the  Fleet; we had lost
half  our strength, about, in the collision between the Valley Forge and the
Ypres; that  disastrous mess on the ground had run our casualties up over 80
per  cent and  the powers-that-be decided that  it was impossible to put the
outfit  back together with the survivors -- close it out, put the records in
the  archives,  and  wait  until  the  scars had healed before  reactivating
Company K (Wildcats) with new faces but old traditions.
     Besides, there  were a lot of  empty files  to fill in  other  outfits.
Sergeant  Jelal welcomed  us  warmly, told us that we were  joining  a smart
outfit, "best in the Fleet," in  a taut ship,  and didn't seem to notice our
ear  skulls. Later that day he took us  forward  to meet the Lieutenant, who
smiled rather  shyly  and  gave us a fatherly little talk. I noticed that Al
Jenkins wasn't  wearing  his  gold  skull.  Neither was  I -- because I  had
already noticed that nobody in Rasczak's Roughnecks wore the skulls.
     They  didn't  wear  them because,  in Rasczak's Roughnecks,  it  didn't
matter in  the least how many combat drops you had made, nor which ones; you
were either a Roughneck or you weren't --  and if  you were not, they didn't
care who you were.  Since we had come to them not as recruits  but as combat
veterans,  they gave  us all possible benefit of  doubt and made us  welcome
with no more than that unavoidable trace  of formality  anybody  necessarily
shows to a house guest who is not a member of the family.
     But, less than a week later when we had made one combat drop with them,
we were full fledged Roughnecks,  members of the family, called by our first
names, chewed  out on  occasion without any feeling on  either  side that we
were less than blood brothers thereby, borrowed from  and lent to,  included
in  bull  sessions and privileged  to  express our own silly  opinions  with
complete freedom  --  and have  them slapped down just  as freely.  We  even
called non-coms by  their  first names on any but strictly  duty  occasions.
Sergeant  Jelal was  always on duty, of course,  unless you  ran across  him
dirtside, in  which case he was "Jelly" and went out of his way to behave as
if his lordly rank meant nothing between Roughnecks.
     But the  Lieutenant was always "The Lieutenant" -- never "Mr. Rasczak,"
nor  even "Lieutenant Rasczak." Simply "The Lieutenant," spoken to and of in
the third person. There was no god but the Lieutenant and Sergeant Jelal was
his prophet. Jelly could say "No" in his own person and it might  be subject
to further  argument, at least from junior  sergeants, but if  he said, "The
Lieutenant wouldn't like it," he was speaking ex cathedra and the matter was
dropped  permanently. Nobody  ever tried to check up on  whether or  not the
Lieutenant would or would not like it; the Word had been spoken.
     The Lieutenant was father to  us and  loved us and spoiled us  and  was
nevertheless rather  remote from  us aboard ship -- and even dirtside  . . .
unless we reached dirt via a drop.  But in  a drop  well, you wouldn't think
that an  officer could worry  about  every man  of  a platoon spread  over a
hundred square miles of terrain. But  he can. He can worry himself sick over
each one of them. How he could keep track of us all I can't describe, but in
the midst of a ruckus his voice would  sing  out  over the  command circuit:
"Johnson! Check squad six! Smitty's in trouble," and it was better than even
money that the Lieutenant had noticed it before Smith's squad leader.
     Besides that, you knew with utter and absolute certainty that,  as long
as you  were still alive,  the Lieutenant would not  get  into the retrieval
boat  without you. There have been prisoners taken in the Bug  War, but none
from Rasczak's Roughnecks.
     Jelly  was mother to us and was  close to us and  took care  of us  and
didn't spoil us at all. But  he  didn't report us to the Lieutenant -- there
was never a court-martial  among the Roughnecks and no man was ever flogged.
Jelly  didn't  even  pass out  extra duty very often;  he had  other ways of
paddling us. He could look you  up and  down at  daily inspection and simply
say, "In  the Navy you might look  good. Why don't you transfer?" -- and get
results, it being an article of faith among us that the  Navy  crew  members
slept in their uniforms and never washed below their collar lines.
     But Jelly didn't have to maintain discipline  among privates because he
maintained discipline among his  non-coms and  expected them to do likewise.
My  squad leader, when  I first joined, was "Red"  Greene. After a couple of
drops, when I knew how good it was to be a Roughneck, I  got to feeling  gay
and a bit too big for my clothes -- and talked back to Red. He didn't report
me to Jelly; he just took me  back to the washroom and  gave me a medium set
of lumps,  and we got to be pretty good  friends. In fact, he recommended me
for lance, later on.
     Actually we didn't know whether the crew members slept in their clothes
or not; we kept to our  part  of the  ship  and the Navy men kept to theirs,
because  they were made  to feel unwelcome if they  showed up in our country
other than on duty -- after all, one has social standards one must maintain,
mustn't one? The  Lieutenant had his stateroom in male officers' country,  a
Navy  part of the ship, but we never went there, either, except on duty  and
rarely. We did go  forward for  guard  duty, because the  Rodger Young was a
mixed  ship,  female captain and  pilot officers, some  female Navy ratings;
forward of bulkhead thirty was ladies' country  -- and two  armed M.  I. day
and night stood guard at the one door  cutting  it. (At battle stations that
door, like all other gastight doors, was secured; nobody missed a drop.)
     Officers were  privileged to  go forward of bulkhead thirty on duty and
all officers, including the Lieutenant, ate in a mixed mess just  beyond it.
But  they  didn't tarry  there; they ate  and got out.  Maybe other corvette
transports were run differently, but that was the  way the Rodger Young  was
run -- both the Lieutenant and Captain Deladrier  wanted a taut ship and got
it.
     Nevertheless guard  duty was a privilege. It was a rest to stand beside
that door, arms folded, feet spread, doping off and thinking about nothing .
.  .  but  always warmly aware  that any  moment you  might see  a  feminine
creature even though  you were not  privileged to speak to her other than on
duty. Once I was called  all the way into the Skipper's office and she spoke
to me -- she looked right at me and said, "Take this to the  Chief Engineer,
please."
     My daily shipside job, aside  from  cleaning, was  servicing electronic
equipment under the  close supervision  of  "Padre"  Migliaccio, the section
leader  of  the first section, exactly as  I  used to work under Carl's eye.
Drops  didn't happen  too  often and everybody  worked every  day. If a  man
didn't  have  any  other talent he could always scrub bulkheads; nothing was
ever quite clean enough to  suit Sergeant Jelal. We followed the M. I. rule;
everybody fights,  everybody works.  Our  first cook was Johnson, the second
section's sergeant, a big friendly boy from Georgia (the  one in the western
hemisphere, not the  other one) and a very talented chef. He wheedled pretty
well, too; he liked to eat between meals himself and saw no reason why other
people shouldn't.
     With  the Padre leading one section and the cook leading  the other, we
were well taken care of, body and soul -- but suppose one of them bought it?
Which  one would  you  pick? A nice point that we never  tried to settle but
could always discuss.
     The  Rodger  Young  kept  busy  and we  made  a  number  of drops,  all
different. Every drop has to be different so that they never can  figure out
a  pattern  on  you.  But  no  more  pitched  battles;  we  operated  alone,
patrolling, harrying, and  raiding. The truth was that the Terran Federation
was  not then  able  to  mount  a  large battle; the foul-up  with Operation
Bughouse had  cost  too  many ships,  `way  too  many  trained  men.  It was
necessary to take time to heal up, train more men.
     In the meantime, small  fast ships, among  them  the  Rodger Young  and
other corvette transports, tried to be everywhere at once, keeping the enemy
off balance,  hurting him and running. We suffered casualties and filled our
holes  when  we  returned to Sanctuary for more  capsules. I  still  got the
shakes every drop, but actual drops didn't happen too often nor were we ever
down  long -- and between times there were days and  days  of shipboard life
among the Roughnecks.
     It  was the  happiest period of  my  life  although  I was  never quite
consciously aware of it -- I did my full share  of beefing just as everybody
else did, and enjoyed that, too.
     We weren't really hurt until the Lieutenant bought it.
     I guess that was the worst  time in all  my life. I  was already in bad
shape  for  a personal reason: My mother had been in Buenos Aires  when  the
Bugs smeared it.
     I found out about  it one  time when we  put in  at Sanctuary for  more
capsules and some mail caught up with  us  a note from my Aunt Eleanora, one
that had not  been coded and  sent fast  because she  had failed to mark for
that; the  letter itself came. It was about three bitter lines.  Somehow she
seemed to blame me for my mother's  death. Whether it was my fault because I
was in the Armed Services and should have  therefore  prevented the raid, or
whether  she felt that  my  mother had made a trip to Buenos Aires because I
wasn't home where I should have been, was  not  quite clear; she managed  to
imply both in the same sentence.
     I tore it up and  tried  to walk away  from it.  I thought that both my
parents were dead -- since  Father would never send Mother  on  a  trip that
long by herself.  Aunt  Eleanora  had  not  said  so, but she  wouldn't have
mentioned Father in any case; her devotion was entirely to her sister. I was
almost correct  -- eventually  I learned that  Father had planned to go with
her but something had come up and he stayed  over to settle it, intending to
come along the next day. But Aunt Eleanora did not tell me this.
     A couple of  hours later the Lieutenant sent for me  and asked  me very
gently if I would like to take leave at Sanctuary while the ship went out on
her next patrol -- he pointed out  that I had plenty of  accumulated R&R and
might  as well use some of it.  I don't know how he knew that  I had lost  a
member of  my family, but he obviously did.  I  said  no, thank you,  sir; I
preferred to wait until the outfit all took R&R together.
     I'm glad I did it that way, because  if I hadn't, I wouldn't have  been
along when the Lieutenant bought it . . . and that  would have been just too
much to be borne. It happened very fast and just before  retrieval. A man in
the  third  squad was  wounded, not badly  but  he was  down; the  assistant
section leader moved in  to  pick  up  --  and bought a  small piece  of  it
himself. The  Lieutenant, as usual, was  watching everything at  once  -- no
doubt he had  checked  physicals  on each of them by remote, but we'll never
know. What he  did was  to make  sure that the assistant section leader  was
still alive; then made  pickup on both  of them  himself, one in each arm of
his suit.
     He  threw  them the  last twenty feet and  they  were passed  into  the
retrieval  boat  --  and  with everybody else in,  the  shield gone  and  no
interdiction, was hit and died instantly.
     I  haven't mentioned the  names  of the private  and  of  the assistant
section leader on purpose. The Lieutenant was making pickup  on  all  of us,
with his last breath. Maybe I was the private. It doesn't matter who he was.
What did matter was that our family had had its  head chopped off. The  head
of the family from which we  took our name, the father who  made us  what we
were.
     After the Lieutenant had to leave us Captain Deladrier invited Sergeant
Jelal to  eat forward, with the other heads of departments. But he begged to
be excused. Have you ever seen a widow with  stern character keep her family
together by behaving as if the head of the family had simply stepped out and
would return at any moment? That's what Jelly did. He was just a  touch more
strict with us than ever and if he ever had to say: "The Lieutenant wouldn't
like that,"  it was  almost more than a man could  take. Jelly didn't say it
very often.
     He  left  our  combat team  organization  almost unchanged;  instead of
shifting everybody around, he  moved  the assistant  section leader  of  the
second  section over  into the (nominal) platoon sergeant spot,  leaving his
section  leaders where they  were needed --  with their sections  -- and  he
moved me from lance and assistant  squad  leader into  acting  corporal as a
largely ornamental assistant  section leader. Then he himself  behaved as if
the  Lieutenant were merely out of sight and that he was just passing on the
Lieutenant's orders, as usual.
     It saved us.

     CHAPTER 11

     I have nothing to offer but
     blood, toil, tears, and sweat.
     -- W. Churchill, XXth century
soldier-statesman
     As we came back into the ship after the raid  on the Skinnies-the  raid
in  which Dizzy  Flores  bought  it, Sergeant  Jelal's first drop as platoon
leader -- a ship's gunner  who was tending the boat lock spoke to me: "How'd
it go?"
     "Routine," I answered briefly. I suppose  his remark was friendly but I
was feeling very mixed  up and in no  mood to  talk -- sad over  Dizzy, glad
that we had  made pickup anyhow, mad  that  the pickup had been useless, and
all of it tangled up with that washed-out but happy feeling of being back in
the ship again, able to muster  arms  and legs and note  that  they  are all
present. Besides, how can you talk about a drop to a  man who has never made
one?
     "So?" he answered. "You  guys have got  it soft. Loaf thirty days, work
thirty minutes. Me, I stand a watch in three and turn to."
     "Yeah,  I guess  so," I  agreed and turned away.  "Some of  us are born
lucky."
     "Soldier, you ain't peddlin' vacuum," he said to my back.
     And yet there was  much  truth in what the Navy gunner had said. We cap
troopers are like aviators of the earlier  mechanized wars; a long  and busy
military career could contain  only  a few hours of actual combat facing the
enemy, the rest being: train, get ready, go out -- then come  back, clean up
the mess,  get  ready for another one, and practice, practice, practice,  in
between.  We didn't make another drop for  almost three weeks and  that on a
different  planet around another star -- a Bug colony. Even  with  Cherenkov
drive, stars are far apart.
     In the meantime I got  my  corporal's stripes, nominated by  Jelly  and
confirmed  by  Captain Deladrier in the absence of a commissioned officer of
our  own.  Theoretically  the  rank  would  not be  permanent until approved
against vacancy by the Fleet M. I. repple-depple, but that meant nothing, as
the casualty rate was such  that there were always more vacancies  in the T.
O. than there were warm  bodies to  fill them. I was a corporal  when  Jelly
said I was a corporal; the rest was red tape.
     But  the  gunner was  not  quite correct about  "loafing";  there  were
fifty-three suits  of powered armor to  check, service, and  repair  between
each  drop,  not  to  mention  weapons   and  special  equipment.  Sometimes
Migliaccio would  downcheck a suit,  Jelly would confirm it, and the  ship's
weapons engineer, Lieutenant Farley, would decide  that he couldn't  cure it
short of base facilities -- whereupon a new suit would have to be broken out
of stores and  brought from  "cold" to "hot,"  an exacting process requiring
twenty-six man-hours not counting the time of the man to  whom it was  being
fitted.
     We kept busy.
     But we had fun, too. There  were always several  competitions going on,
from acey-deucy to Honor Squad, and we
     had the  best jazz band  in several cubic  light-years  (well, the only
one, maybe), with Sergeant  Johnson on the trumpet leading  them mellow  and
sweet  for hymns or tearing the  steel  right  off  the  bulkheads,  as  the
occasion  required.  After that masterful (or should it  be  "mistressful"?)
retrieval   rendezvous  without  a  programmed  ballistic,   the   platoon's
metalsmith, PFC Archie Campbell,  made a model  of the Rodger Young for  the
Skipper and  we  all  signed  and  Archie engraved our  signatures on a base
plate: To Hot Pilot Yvette Deladrier, with thanks from Rasczak's Roughnecks,
and we invited her  aft to  eat  with us  and  the  Roughneck Downbeat Combo
played during  dinner and then the junior private presented  it  to her. She
got tears and kissed him -- and kissed Jelly as well and he blushed purple.
     After  I got my chevrons I simply  had to get things straight with Ace,
because Jelly kept  me  on as  assistant section leader. This is not good. A
man ought to fill each spot on his way up; I should have had a turn as squad
leader  instead  of being  bumped from lance  and assistant  squad leader to
corporal and  assistant section leader.  Jelly  knew this, of course,  but I
know  perfectly  well  that he  was trying  to keep  the outfit  as  much as
possible the  way it had  been when the Lieutenant was alive  -- which meant
that he left his squad leaders and section leaders unchanged.
     But it left  me  with  a ticklish  problem; all three of  the corporals
under me  as squad leaders were actually  senior  to me --  but if  Sergeant
Johnson bought it on the next drop, it would not only  lose us a mighty fine
cook, it would  leave me leading the section. There mustn't be any shadow of
doubt when you give an order, not in combat; I had to  clear up any possible
shadow before we dropped again.
     Ace  was  the  problem. He was not  only  senior of the three, he was a
career corporal as well and older than I was. If Ace accepted me, I wouldn't
have any trouble with the other two squads.
     I hadn't  really had any trouble with  him aboard. After we made pickup
on Flores together he had been civil enough. On the other hand we hadn't had
anything  to have  trouble over; our shipside jobs  didn't  put us together,
except at daily  muster and guard mount, which is all cut and dried. But you
can feel it. He was not treating me as somebody he took orders from.
     So I looked him up during off hours. He was lying in  his bunk, reading
a book, Space Rangers against the Galaxy --  a pretty good yarn, except that
I  doubt  if  a  military outfit ever  had so many  adventures  and  so  few
goof-offs. The ship had a good library.
     "Ace. Got to see you."
     He glanced up. "So? I just left the ship, I'm off duty."
     "I've got to see you now. Put your book down."
     "What's so aching urgent? I've got to finish this chapter."
     "Oh,  come  off  it, Ace. If you can't wait, I'll tell you how it comes
out."
     "You do and I'll clobber you."  But he  put the  book down, sat up, and
listened.
     I said, "Ace, about this  matter of the section  organization -- you're
senior to me, you ought to be assistant section leader."
     "Oh, so it's that again!"
     "Yep. I think you and  I ought to go see Johnson  and get him to fix it
up with Jelly."
     "You do, eh?"
     "Yes, I do. That's how it's got to be."
     "So? Look, Shortie, let me put you straight.  I got nothing against you
at  all. Matter of fact, you were on the  bounce that  day we had to pick up
Dizzy;  I'll hand you that. But if you  want a  squad, you  go dig up one of
your own.  Don't go eying mine. Why, my boys wouldn't even peel potatoes for
you."
     "That's your final word?"
     "That's my first, last, and only word."
     I  sighed. "I thought it would be. But I  had  to make sure. Well, that
settles that.  But I've got one other thing on my mind. I happened to notice
that the washroom  needs cleaning . . . and I think maybe you and I ought to
attend to it. So  put  your  book aside  . .  . as Jelly  says, non-coms are
always on duty."
     He didn't  stir  at  once.  He said  quietly,  "You  really think  it's
necessary, Shortie? As I said, I got nothing against you."
     "Looks like."
     "Think you can do it?"
     "I can sure try."
     "Okay. Let's take care of it."
     We went aft to the washroom, chased out a private who was about to take
a shower he didn't really need, and locked the door. Ace said, "You got  any
restrictions in mind, Shortie?"
     "Well . . . I hadn't planned to kill you."
     "Check. And  no broken bones, nothing that would  keep either one of us
out of the next drop -- except maybe by accident, of course. That suit you?"
     "Suits," I agreed. "Uh, I think maybe I'll take my shirt off."
     "Wouldn't want to  get blood on your shirt." He relaxed.  I  started to
peel it off and he let go a kick for my kneecap. No wind up. Flat-footed and
not tense.
     Only my kneecap wasn't there -- I had learned.
     A real fight ordinarily can last only a second or  two, because that is
all the time it takes to kill a man, or knock him out, or disable him to the
point where he can't fight. But  we had agreed to avoid inflicting permanent
damage; this  changes things. We were both young, in top  condition,  highly
trained,  and used  to absorbing  punishment. Ace  was bigger, I was maybe a
touch faster. Under such  conditions the miserable business simply has to go
on until one or the other  is  too beaten down to continue -- unless a fluke
settles  it  sooner. But neither one of us was allowing any flukes;  we were
professionals and wary.
     So  it  did go on, for a long, tedious,  painful time. Details would be
trivial and pointless; besides, I had no time to take notes.
     A long time later I was lying on my back  and Ace was flipping water in
my face. He looked  at me,  then hauled me to  my feet, shoved  me against a
bulkhead, steadied me. "Hit me!"
     "Huh?" I was dazed and seeing double.
     "Johnnie . . . hit me."
     His face was floating in the air in front of me; I zeroed  in on it and
slugged it with all the  force in  my body, hard enough to mash any mosquito
in poor health. His eyes closed and he slumped to the deck and I had to grab
at a stanchion to keep from following him.
     He got slowly up. "Okay, Johnnie," he said, shaking his head, "I've had
my lesson. You won't have any more lip out of me . . . nor out of anybody in
the section. Okay?"
     I nodded and my head hurt.
     "Shake?" he asked.
     We shook on it, and that hurt, too.
     Almost anybody else knew more  about how the war was going than we did,
even  though we were in it. This  was the period, of course, after the  Bugs
had  located  our  home  planet, through the  Skinnies,  and had  raided it,
destroying Buenos Aires and turning "contact troubles" into all-out war, but
before we had built up our forces and before the Skinnies  had changed sides
and  become  our  co-belligerents and  de  facto  allies.  Partly  effective
interdiction  for  Terra had been  set up from Luna (we didn't know it), but
speaking broadly, the Terran Federation was losing the war.
     We  didn't know that,  either.  Nor did we know that strenuous  efforts
were  being  made to subvert the alliance against us and  bring the Skinnies
over to our side; the nearest we came to being  told about that was when  we
got instructions, before the raid in which Flores was killed, to go easy  on
the Skinnies, destroy as much  property  as possible but to kill inhabitants
only when unavoidable.
     What a  man  doesn't know he  can't spill  if he  is captured;  neither
drugs, nor torture, nor brainwash, nor endless lack of sleep can squeeze out
a secret he doesn't possess. So we were told  only what we had  to know  for
tactical purposes.  In the past, armies have been known to  fold up and quit
because the  men  didn't know what  they  were  fighting  for,  or  why, and
therefore  lacked  the will to  fight.  But the  M. I.  does  not have  that
weakness. Each one of us was a volunteer to begin with, each for some reason
or  other -- some good, some bad. But now we fought because we were M. I. We
were professionals, with esprit de corps. We  were Rasczak's Roughnecks, the
best unprintable  outfit in the whole expurgated M. I.; we climbed into  our
capsules because Jelly told us  it was time to do  so  and we fought when we
got down there because that is what Rasczak's Roughnecks do.
     We certainly didn't know that we were losing.
     Those Bugs lay eggs. They not only lay them, they hold them in reserve,
hatch them as needed. If  we  killed a  warrior  --  or a  thousand,  or ten
thousand -- his or their replacements were hatched and on duty almost before
we could get back to base. You can imagine, if you like, some Bug supervisor
of population  flashing a phone to somewhere down inside  and saying,  "Joe,
warm up ten thousand warriors and have `em ready by Wednesday . . . and tell
engineering to activate reserve incubators N, O, P, Q, and R; the  demand is
picking up."
     I don't  say  they did  exactly that, but those  were the results.  But
don't make  the mistake of  thinking  that  they acted purely from instinct,
like  termites or ants; their  actions were  as intelligent as  ours (stupid
races don't build spaceships!) and were much better co ordinated. It takes a
minimum of a year to train a private to fight  and to  mesh his  fighting in
with his mates; a Bug warrior is hatched able to do this.
     Every time  we  killed a thousand  Bugs at a cost of one M. I. it was a
net victory for the Bugs. We were  learning, expensively, just how efficient
a total  communism can be  when  used by a people actually adapted to  it by
evolution; the Bug commissars didn't care  any more about expending soldiers
than we cared  about expending ammo.  Perhaps we could have figured this out
about   the  Bugs  by  noting  the  grief  the  Chinese  Hegemony  gave  the
Russo-Anglo-American  Alliance;  however  the  trouble  with  "lessons  from
history" is that we usually read them best after falling flat on our chins.
     But  we  were learning.  Technical instructions  and  tactical doctrine
orders resulted from  every  brush with  them, spread through the  Fleet. We
learned to tell  the workers from the warriors -- if you had time, you could
tell from the shape of the carapace,  but the quick rule of thumb was: If he
comes at you, he's a warrior; if  he runs, you can turn your back on him. We
learned  not to  waste  ammo even  on  warriors except  in  self-protection;
instead we went  after their lairs. Find a  hole,  drop down it first  a gas
bomb which  explodes  gently a few seconds  later, releasing  an oily liquid
which evaporates as a nerve gas tailored to Bugs (it is harmless  to us) and
which is heavier than air and keeps on going down --  then  you use a second
grenade of H. E. to seal the hole.
     We still didn't know whether we  were  getting deep enough to kill  the
queens  -- but  we did  know that the  Bugs didn't like  these  tactics; our
intelligence through the Skinnies and on back  into  the Bugs themselves was
definite  on  this  point.  Besides,  we  cleaned  their  colony  off  Sheol
completely  this way.  Maybe they managed  to  evacuate the  queens and  the
brains . . . but at least we were learning to hurt them.
     But so far  as the  Roughnecks were concerned,  these gas bombings were
simply another drill, to be done according to orders, by the numbers, and on
the bounce.
     Eventually we had to  go  back to Sanctuary for more capsules. Capsules
are expendable (well, so were we) and when they are gone, you must return to
base, even if the Cherenkov generators could still take you twice around the
Galaxy.  Shortly  before  this  a dispatch came  through breveting  Jelly to
lieutenant, vice Rasczak. Jelly tried to keep it quiet but Captain Deladrier
published it and  then required him to eat forward with the  other officers.
He still spent all the rest of his time aft.
     But we had taken  several drops by then with him as  platoon leader and
the  outfit had gotten used to getting  along  without the Lieutenant  -- it
still hurt but it was routine now. After Jelal was commissioned the word was
slowly  passed around  among us and chewed over that it  was time  for us to
name ourselves for our boss, as with other outfits.
     Johnson was senior and took the word to Jelly; he picked me to go along
with him as moral support. "Yeah?" growled Jelly.
     "Uh, Sarge -- I mean Lieutenant, we've been thinking -- "
     "With what?"
     "Well, the boys have  sort  of  been talking it over and  they think --
well, they say the outfit ought to call itself: `Jelly's Jaguars.' "
     "They do, eh? How many of `em favor that name?"
     "It's unanimous," Johnson said simply.
     "So? Fifty-two ayes .  . . and  one no.  The noes have it." Nobody ever
brought up the subject again.
     Shortly after that we orbited at Sanctuary. I was glad to be  there, as
the ship's internal pseudo-gravity field  had been off for most  of two days
before that, while the Chief Engineer tinkered  with it, leaving us in  free
fall  -- which I  hate. I'll never be a real  spaceman.  Dirt underfoot felt
good. The entire platoon went on ten days' rest & recreation and transferred
to accommodation barracks at the Base.
     I  never  have learned the co-ordinates of Sanctuary,  nor the  name or
catalogue number  of the star  it orbits -- because what you don't know, you
can't  spill;  the  location  is  ultra-top-secret,  known  only  to  ships'
captains, piloting officers, and such . . . and, I understand,  with each of
them  under orders and  hypnotic compulsion to suicide if necessary to avoid
capture. So I don't want to know. With  the possibility that Luna Base might
be taken and Terra herself occupied, the Federation kept as much of its beef
as possible at Sanctuary, so that a disaster back home would not necessarily
mean capitulation.
     But  I  can  tell you  what sort of  a planet it  is.  Like Earth,  but
retarded.
     Literally  retarded,  like  a kid who takes ten years  to learn to wave
bye-bye  and never  does manage to master patty-cake. It is a planet as near
like Earth as two  planets can be, same age according to  the planetologists
and its star is  the  same age  as  the Sun  and the same  type, so say  the
astrophysicists. It has  plenty  of flora and fauna, the same  atmosphere as
Earth, near enough, and much the same weather; it even has a good-sized moon
and Earth's exceptional tides.
     With all these advantages it barely  got away  from  the starting gate.
You see, it's short on  mutations; it does not enjoy Earth's  high level  of
natural radiation.
     Its typical and  most highly developed plant life  is a very  primitive
giant  fern;  its  top  animal  life  is  a  proto-insect  which hasn't even
developed colonies. I am not speaking of transplanted Terran flora and fauna
-- our stuff moves in and brushes the native stuff aside.
     With  its evolutionary progress held  down  almost to zero by  lack  of
radiation and a consequent most unhealthily low mutation rate,  native  life
forms on Sanctuary just haven't had a decent chance to evolve and aren't fit
to compete.  Their gene patterns  remain  fixed for a relatively  long time;
they aren't adaptable -- like being forced to play the same bridge hand over
and over again, for eons, with no hope of getting a better one.
     As long as they just competed  with each other,  this didn't matter too
much -- morons among morons, so to speak. But when types that had evolved on
a planet enjoying high radiation and fierce competition were introduced, the
native stuff was outclassed.
     Now all the above is  perfectly  obvious from high school biology . . .
but the high forehead  from  the research  station  there who was telling me
about this brought up a point I would never have thought of.
     What about the human beings who have colonized Sanctuary?
     Not  transients like me, but the colonists who live there, many of whom
were born  there, and  whose  descendants  will  live  there, even  into the
umpteenth generation -- what about those descendants? It doesn't do a person
any harm not to be radiated; in fact  it's a bit safer  -- leukemia and some
types of  cancer  are  almost  unknown  there.  Besides  that, the  economic
situation  is  at present  all  in  their  favor; when they plant a field of
(Terran) wheat, they  don't even have to clear out the weeds.  Terran  wheat
displaces anything native.
     But the descendants of those colonists won't  evolve. Not much, anyhow.
This chap  told  me that  they  could improve a little through mutation from
other  causes,  from new  blood  added  by  immigration,  and  from  natural
selection among the gene patterns  they already own -- but that  is all very
minor compared with the evolutionary rate on Terra  and on any usual planet.
So what  happens?  Do they stay frozen at their present level while the rest
of the human race moves on past them, until  they are living fossils, as out
of place as a pithecanthropus in a spaceship?
     Or  will they  worry  about  the  fate  of their  descendants and  dose
themselves regularly with X-rays or maybe set off lots of dirty-type nuclear
explosions  each year  to build  up a fallout reservoir in their atmosphere?
(Accepting, of course, the immediate  dangers of radiation to themselves  in
order  to provide a proper  genetic heritage of mutation  for the benefit of
their descendants.)
     This bloke predicted that they would not  do anything.  He  claims that
the human race is too individualistic, too self-centered, to worry that much
about future generations. He says that the genetic impoverishment of distant
generations  through lack of  radiation is something most people are  simply
incapable  of worrying  about.  And of course  it is  a far-distant  threat;
evolution  works  so slowly, even on  Terra,  that the development  of a new
species is a matter of many, many thousands of years.
     I don't know. Shucks, I don't know what I myself will do more than half
the time; how can I predict what a colony of strangers will do? But I'm sure
of this: Sanctuary  is  going  to be fully  settled, either by us or by  the
Bugs. Or  by  somebody. It is a potential utopia,  and, with  desirable real
estate  so  scarce  in this end  of the Galaxy, it will not  be left  in the
possession of primitive life forms that failed to make the grade.
     Already it is a delightful place, better in many  ways for a few days R
& R than is most of Terra. In the second place, while it has an awful lot of
civilians, more than a million, as civilians go  they aren't bad. They  know
there is a war on. Fully half of them are employed either at  the Base or in
war industry;  the rest raise  food and sell it to the Fleet. You might  say
they  have a  vested interest in  war,  but,  whatever  their  reasons, they
respect the uniform and don't resent the wearers
     thereof. Quite the contrary. If an M. I.  walks into a shop there,  the
proprietor  calls  him  "Sir,"  and really seems to mean it, even while he's
trying to sell something worthless at too high a price.
     But in the first place, half of those civilians are female.
     You have to have been out on a long patrol to appreciate this properly.
You need to have looked forward to your day of guard duty, for the privilege
of  standing two  hours out of  each  six with  your spine against  bulkhead
thirty and your ears cocked for just  the sound of a female voice. I suppose
it's  actually  easier in the all-stag ships  . . . but I'll take the Rodger
Young.  It's good to know that the ultimate reason you are fighting actually
exists and that they are not just a figment of the imagination.
     Besides the civilian  wonderful 50 per  cent, about 40  per cent of the
Federal Service people on Sanctuary are female. Add it all up and you've got
the most beautiful scenery in the explored universe.
     Besides these  unsurpassed natural advantages,  a great deal  has  been
done artificially  to keep R &  R from being wasted.  Most  of the civilians
seem to hold two jobs; they've got circles under  their eyes from staying up
all night to make a service man's leave pleasant.  Churchill  Road  from the
Base to the city is lined  both sides  with enterprises intended to separate
painlessly  a man  from money he  really  hasn't any use for  anyhow, to the
pleasant accompaniment of refreshment, entertainment, and music.
     If  you are  able to get past these traps, through having  already been
bled of  all  valuta,  there  are  still other places  in the city almost as
satisfactory (I mean there are girls there,  too) which are provided free by
a grateful populace -- much like the social center in Vancouver,  these are,
but even more welcome.
     Sanctuary, and  especially Espiritu Santo, the city, struck  me as such
an ideal place that I toyed with the notion of asking for my discharge there
when my term was up  after  all, I didn't really care whether my descendants
(if  any)  twenty-five  thousand years  hence had  long green tendrils  like
everybody else, or just the equipment I had been forced to get by with. That
professor  type from the Research Station couldn't frighten me  with that no
radiation scare talk; it seemed to me (from what I could see around me) that
the human race had reached its ultimate peak anyhow.
     No doubt a gentleman wart  hog feels the same way about a lady wart hog
-- but, if so, both of us are very sincere.
     There are other  opportunities for  recreation  there, too. I  remember
with particular pleasure one evening when a table  of  Roughnecks got into a
friendly discussion with a  group  of Navy  men (not  from the Rodger Young)
seated at  the next table. The debate  was spirited, a bit  noisy,  and some
Base  police came in and broke it  up with stun guns just as we were warming
to  our  rebuttal.  Nothing came of  it, except that  we had  to pay for the
furniture -- the Base Commandant  takes  the  position that a man on  R &  R
should be  allowed  a little freedom as long  as  he doesn't pick one of the
"thirty-one crash landings."
     The  accommodation  barracks  are all  right, too  --  not  fancy,  but
comfortable and the chow line works twenty-five hours  a day  with civilians
doing all the work. No  reveille, no taps, you're actually on leave and  you
don't  have to  go  to the barracks  at all. I did,  however,  as  it seemed
downright preposterous to spend money on hotels when there was a clean, soft
sack free  and so many better ways to spend accumulated pay. That extra hour
in  each day was nice, too, as  it meant nine hours solid  and the day still
untouched -- I caught up sack time clear back to Operation Bughouse.
     It  might  as  well  have been  a hotel; Ace and I  had  a  room all to
ourselves  in  visiting non-com  quarters.  One  morning,  when  R  & R  was
regrettably  drawing to  a close,  I was just turning over about local  noon
when Ace shook my bed. "On the bounce, soldier! The Bugs are attacking."
     I told him what to do with the Bugs.
     "Let's hit dirt," he persisted.
     "No dinero." I had had a date the night before with a  chemist (female,
of course, and  charmingly so) from the Research Station. She had known Carl
on  Pluto  and Carl  had  written  to me  to  look  her up if I ever  got to
Sanctuary. She was a slender redhead, with expensive tastes. Apparently Carl
had  intimated to her that I  had more  money than  was good for me, for she
decided that the night before was  just  the  time for her to get acquainted
with the local champagne. I didn't let Carl down by admitting that all I had
was a trooper's honorarium; I bought it for her while I drank what they said
was (but wasn't) fresh pineapple squash.  The  result was that I had to walk
home, afterwards -- the cabs aren't free. Still, it had been worth it. After
all, what is money? -- I'm speaking of Bug money, of course.
     "No ache,"  Ace answered. "I can juice you  -- I got lucky  last night.
Ran into a Navy file who didn't know percentages."
     So I got up and shaved and showered and we hit the chow line for half a
dozen shell  eggs and sundries such as potatoes and ham and hot cakes and so
forth  and then we hit  dirt to get something to eat.  The walk up Churchill
Road  was hot and Ace decided to stop in a cantina.  I went along to  see if
their pineapple squash was real. It wasn't, but it was cold. You can't  have
everything.
     We talked about this and  that and  Ace ordered another round. I  tried
their  strawberry squash -- same deal. Ace stared into his glass, then said,
"Ever thought about greasing for officer?"
     I said, "Huh? Are you crazy?"
     "Nope. Look, Johnnie, this war may run on quite a piece. No matter what
propaganda they put out for the folks at home, you and I know that the  Bugs
aren't  ready  to quit. So why don't  you  plan ahead?  As the  man says, if
you've got to play in the band, it's better to  wave the stick than to carry
the big drum."
     I was  startled  by the turn the  talk had taken, especially from  Ace.
"How about you? Are you planning to buck for a commission?"
     "Me?" he answered. "Check  your  circuits, son  -- you're getting wrong
answers. I've  got  no education and  I'm ten years older than  you are. But
you've  got enough education to  hit  the selection exams for O.  C.  S. and
you've got  the  I. Q. they  like. I guarantee that if you go career, you'll
make sergeant before I do . . . and get picked for O. C. S. the day after."
     "Now I know you're crazy!"
     "You listen to your  pop. I  hate  to tell you  this, but you are  just
stupid and eager and sincere enough to  make the kind of  officer  that  men
love to  follow into some silly predicament. But  me -- well, I'm  a natural
non-com, with the  proper  pessimistic  attitude to offset the enthusiasm of
the likes of  you. Someday I'll  make sergeant . . . and presently I'll have
my twenty years in and retire and get one of the reserved jobs -- cop, maybe
--  and  marry  a nice fat  wife with  the same low tastes I  have, and I'll
follow the sports and fish and go pleasantly to pieces."
     Ace stopped to wet his whistle. "But  you," he went on. "You'll stay in
and  probably make high rank and die gloriously and I'll  read  about it and
say  proudly, `I knew  him when. Why, I used  to  lend him money -- we  were
corporals together.' Well?"
     "I've never thought about it," I said slowly. "I just meant to serve my
term."
     He grinned sourly. "Do you see any term enrollees being paid off today?
You expect to make it on two years?"
     He had a point. As long as the war continued, a "term" didn't end -- at
least not for cap troopers. It was mostly a difference in attitude, at least
for  the  present.  Those  of  us  on   "term"  could  at  least  feel  like
short-timers;  we could talk  about: "When this flea-bitten war  is over." A
career man didn't say that; he wasn't going anywhere, short of retirement or
buying it.
     On the other hand, neither were we.  But  if you went "career" and then
didn't finish twenty .  . . well,  they could  be pretty  sticky about  your
franchise even though they wouldn't keep a man who didn't want to stay.
     "Maybe  not  a  two-year term,"  I  admitted. "But the  war  won't last
forever."
     "It won't?"
     "How can it?"
     "Blessed if  I know. They don't tell me these things. But I know that's
not what is troubling you, Johnnie. You got a girl waiting?"
     "No.  Well, I had," I answered slowly, "but she `Dear-Johned' me." As a
lie, this was no more than a  mild decoration, which I tucked in because Ace
seemed to expect it. Carmen  wasn't my girl and she never waited for anybody
-- but  she  did  address  letters  with  "Dear  Johnnie" on  the infrequent
occasions when she wrote to me.
     Ace  nodded  wisely.  "They'll do  it  every  time. They'd rather marry
civilians and have somebody around to chew out when they feel like it. Never
you mind, son -- you'll find  plenty of them more than willing to marry when
you're retired  . . . and  you'll be better able to handle  one at that age.
Marriage is  a young man's disaster and an old man's comfort." He looked  at
my glass. "It nauseates me to see you drinking that slop."
     "I feel the same way about the stuff you drink," I told him.
     He shrugged. "As I say, it takes all kinds. You think it over."
     "I will."
     Ace  got into a card  game shortly after, and lent  me some money and I
went for a walk; I needed to think.
     Go career? Quite aside from that noise about a  commission, did  I want
to  go career? Why, I had gone through all this to get my  franchise, hadn't
I? -- and if  I went career, I was just  as  far away from  the privilege of
voting as if I had never enrolled . . . because as long as you were still in
uniform  you weren't entitled to vote. Which was the way  it  should be,  of
course why,  if they  let the Roughnecks vote, the idiots might vote not  to
make a drop. Can't have that.
     Nevertheless I had signed up in order to win a vote.
     Or had I?
     Had I ever cared about voting? No, it was the prestige,  the pride, the
status . . . of being a citizen.
     Or was it?
     I  couldn't to  save my life  remember  why I had signed up. Anyhow, it
wasn't the process of voting  that made a citizen -- the Lieutenant had been
a citizen in the truest sense of the word, even though he had not lived long
enough ever to cast a ballot. He had "voted" every time he made a drop.
     And so had I!
     I could hear Colonel Dubois in my mind:  "Citizenship is an attitude, a
state  of mind, an emotional conviction that the whole is  greater  than the
part . . . and that the part should be humbly proud to sacrifice itself that
the whole may live."
     I  still  didn't  know  whether I yearned to place my one-and-only body
"between my loved home and the war's desolation" -- I still  got  the shakes
every drop and that "desolation"  could be pretty desolate. But nevertheless
I knew at  last what Colonel Dubois  had been talking  about. The  M. I. was
mine and I was theirs. If that was what the M. I. did to break the monotony,
then that was  what  I  did.  Patriotism  was  a bit esoteric  for  me,  too
large-scale to see. But the M. I. was my gang, I belonged. They were all the
family I had left; they were the brothers  I had never had, closer than Carl
had ever been. If I left them, I'd be lost.
     So why shouldn't I go career?
     All right,  all right  -- but how about this nonsense of greasing for a
commission?  That was something  else again. I could see  myself putting  in
twenty years and  then  taking  it easy,  the way  Ace  had described,  with
ribbons on my chest and carpet slippers on my feet . . . or evenings down at
the Veterans  Hall, rehashing old times  with others who belonged. But O. C.
S.? I  could hear Al Jenkins, in one of the  bull sessions we had about such
things: "I'm  a private! I'm going  to stay a private! When you're a private
they  don't expect  anything of you.  Who wants to be an officer? Or even  a
sergeant? You're  breathing the same air, aren't  you? Eating the same food.
Going the same places, making the same drops. But no worries."
     Al had a point. What had chevrons ever gotten me? -- aside from lumps.
     Nevertheless I knew I would take sergeant if it was ever offered to me.
You don't refuse,  a  cap trooper doesn't  refuse anything; he steps up  and
takes a swing at it. Commission, too, I supposed.
     Not that it would happen. Who was I  to think that I could ever be what
Lieutenant Rasczak had been?
     My walk  had taken me close to the candidates' school,  though I  don't
believe I intended to come that  way. A company  of cadets were out on their
parade ground,  drilling  at  trot, looking for all the world  like boots in
Basic.  The sun was hot  and it looked not  nearly as  comfortable as a bull
session  in the  drop room of  the  Rodger Young  -- why, I  hadn't  marched
farther than bulkhead thirty since  I had  finished Basic; that  breaking-in
nonsense was past.
     I  watched them a bit, sweating  through their  uniforms;  I heard them
being chewed out -- by sergeants, too.  Old Home Week.  I shook my head  and
walked  away from  there -- went back to the accommodation barracks, over to
the B. O. Q. wing, found Jelly's room.
     He was in it, his feet up on a table and reading a magazine.  I knocked
on the frame of the door. He looked up and growled, "Yeah?"
     "Sarge -- I mean, Lieutenant -- "
     "Spit it out!"
     "Sir, I want to go career."
     He dropped his feet to the desk. "Put up your right hand."
     He  swore me, reached  unto the drawer  of  the table  and  pulled  out
papers.
     He had my papers already made out, waiting for me, ready to sign. And I
hadn't even told Ace. How about that?

     CHAPTER 12

     It is by no means enough that an officer should be capable . . . .
     He should be as well a gentleman of liberal education, refined
     manners, punctilious courtesy, and the nicest sense of personal
     honor . . . . No meritorious act of a subordinate should escape his
     attention, even if the reward be only one word of approval.
     Conversely, he should not be blind to a single fault in any
     subordinate.
     True as may be the political principles for which we are now
     contending . . . the ships themselves must be ruled under a system
     of absolute despotism.
     I trust that I have now made clear to you the tremendous
     responsibilities . . . . We must do the best we can with what we
     have.
     -- John Paul Jones, September 14, 1775;
     excerpts from a letter to the naval committee of
     the N. A. insurrectionists.
The Rodger Young was again returning to Base for replacements, both capsules
and men. Al Jenkins had bought his farm, covering  a pickup and that one had
cost us the  Padre, too.  And  besides  that, I had to  be  replaced.  I was
wearing brand-new  sergeant's chevrons (vice  Migliaccio) but I had  a hunch
that Ace would be wearing them as soon as I was out of the ship -- they were
mostly honorary, I knew; the promotion was  Jelly's way of  giving me a good
send-off as I was detached for O. C. S.
     But it didn't keep me from being proud  of  them. At the Fleet  landing
field I went through  the exit gate with my nose in the air and strode up to
the  quarantine  desk to have my orders  stamped. As this was  being  done I
heard  a polite, respectful voice behind me: "Excuse  me, Sergeant, but that
boat that just came down -- is it from the Rodger -- "
     I turned to see the speaker, flicked my eyes over his sleeves, saw that
it was a small, slightly stoop-shouldered corporal, no doubt one of our --
     "Father!"
     Then the corporal  had his arms around me. "Juan! Juan! Oh,  my  little
Johnnie!"
     I  kissed  him and  hugged him and started to cry. Maybe  that civilian
clerk at  the quarantine desk had never  seen  two non-coms  kiss each other
before. Well,  if I had  noticed him so much as lifting  an eyebrow, I would
have pasted him. But I didn't notice him; I was busy. He had to remind me to
take my orders with me.
     By then we had blown our noses  and  quit  making an open spectacle  of
ourselves. I said,  "Father, let's  find a corner somewhere and sit down and
talk.  I  want  to know . . . well, everything!" I  took  a  deep breath. "I
thought you were dead."
     "No.  Came close to buying  it once or  twice,  maybe. But, Son  .  . .
Sergeant -- I really do have to find out about that landing boat. You see --
"
     "Oh, that. It's from the Rodger Young. I just --
     He looked terribly disappointed. "Then I've  got to bounce, right  now.
I've got  to report in." Then he added eagerly,  "But you'll  be back aboard
soon, won't you, Juanito? Or are you going on R & R?"
     "Uh, no." I thought  fast. Of all the ways  to have things roll! "Look,
Father,  I know the boat schedule. You  can't go aboard for at least an hour
and a bit. That boat is not on a fast retrieve;  she'll make  a minimum-fuel
rendezvous  when the Rog completes this pass -- if the pilot doesn't have to
wait over for the next pass after that; they've got to load first."
     He  said  dubiously, "My orders  read to report at once to the pilot of
the first available ship's boat."
     "Father, Father!  Do you have to be so confounded regulation?  The girl
who's pushing  that heap won't care whether you board the boat now, or  just
as they button up. Anyhow they'll play the ship's  recall over  the speakers
in here ten minutes before boost and announce it. You can't miss it."
     He let me lead him over to an empty  corner.  As we sat  down he added,
"Will you be going up in the same boat, Juan? Or later?"
     "Uh -- " I showed  him my  orders; it  seemed the simplest way to break
the news. Ships that pass in the night, like the Evangeline story -- cripes,
what a way for things to break!
     He  read  them  and got tears  in his eyes and I  said  hastily, "Look,
Father, I'm going to try to come  back -- I wouldn't  want any  other outfit
than  the Roughnecks.  And  with  you  in  them  .  .  .  oh,  I  know  it's
disappointing but -- "
     "It's not disappointment, Juan."
     "Huh?"
     "It's pride. My boy is going to be an officer. My little Johnnie -- Oh,
it's disappointment, too;  I had waited for this day. But I can wait a while
longer."  He  smiled  through his tears. "You've grown, lad. And filled out,
too."
     "Uh, I guess so. But, Father, I'm not an  officer yet and  I might only
be  out of the Rog a  few days. I  mean,  they sometimes bust `em out pretty
fast and -- "
     "Enough of that, young man!"
     "Huh?"
     "You'll make it. Let's have no more talk  of `busting out.'  " Suddenly
he smiled. "That's the first  time I've been able to tell a sergeant to shut
up."
     "Well  .  . .  I'll  certainly try, Father. And if I do make  it,  I'll
certainly put in for the old Rog. But -- " I trailed off.
     "Yes, I know. Your request won't mean anything unless there's a  billet
for you. Never mind. If this hour is all  we have, we'll make the most of it
--  and I'm so  proud  of you  I'm splitting  my seams.  How have you  been,
Johnnie?"
     "Oh, fine, just fine." I was thinking that it wasn't all bad. He  would
be better off in the Roughnecks than in any other outfit. All my friends . .
. they'd take care of him, keep him alive. I'd have to send a gram to Ace --
Father like as not wouldn't even let them know he was related. "Father,  how
long have you been in?"
     "A little over a year."
     "And corporal already!"
     Father smiled grimly. "They're making them fast these days."
     I  didn't have to  ask what  he meant.  Casualties.  There  were always
vacancies in the T.  O.; you  couldn't get  enough  trained soldiers to fill
them. Instead I said, "Uh . . . but, Father, you're -- Well, I mean,  aren't
you sort of old to be soldiering? I mean the Navy, or Logistics, or -- "
     "I wanted the M. I. and I got  it!" he said  emphatically.  "And I'm no
older than many sergeants --  not as old, in fact. Son, the mere fact that I
am twenty-two years older than you are doesn't put me in a  wheel chair. And
age has its advantages, too."
     Well, there  was something  in  that.  I recalled how Sergeant Zim  had
always tried the older men first, when he was dealing out boot chevrons. And
Father would never  have goofed in Basic the way I had -- no lashes for him.
He was probably  spotted as non-com  material before he ever finished Basic.
The Army needs a lot of  really grown-up men in  the middle  grades;  it's a
paternalistic organization.
     I didn't have to ask him why he had wanted M. I., nor why or how he had
wound up in my ship -- I just felt warm about it, more `flattered by it than
any praise he had ever  given me in words. And I didn't want to  ask him why
he  had joined up; I  felt that I knew. Mother. Neither of us  had mentioned
her -- too painful.
     So I changed the subject  abruptly. "Bring me up to date. Tell me where
you've been and what you've done."
     "Well, I trained at Camp San Martin -- "
     "Huh? Not Currie?"
     "New one.  But the  same old lumps, I  understand.  Only they  rush you
through two  months faster, you don't get Sundays off. Then I requested  the
Rodger  Young  --  and  didn't  get it  --  and  wound  up  in  McSlattery's
Volunteers. A good outfit."
     "Yes,  I  know."  They had had a reputation for being rough, tough, and
nasty -- almost as good as the Roughnecks.
     "I should say that it was a good outfit. I made several drops with them
and some of the boys bought it and after a while I got these." He glanced at
his chevrons. "I was a corporal when we dropped on Sheol -- "
     "You were there? So was  I!" With a sudden warm flood of emotion I felt
closer to my father than I ever had before in my life.
     "I  know. At  least I knew your  outfit  was there. I was around  fifty
miles north of you, near as I  can  guess. We  soaked up  that counterattack
when they came boiling up out of the ground like bats out of a cave." Father
shrugged.  "So  when  it was over  I  was  a corporal without an outfit, not
enough of us  left to  make  a healthy cadre. So they  sent me here. I could
have gone with King's Kodiak  Bears, but  I had  a word with  the  placement
sergeant -- and, sure as  sunrise, the Rodger Young came back with  a billet
for a corporal. So here I am."
     "And when did you join up?" I realized  that it was the wrong remark as
soon as I had made it -- but I had to get the subject away from McSlattery's
Volunteers; an orphan from a dead outfit wants to forget it.
     Father said quietly, "Shortly after Buenos Aires."
     "Oh. I see."
     Father didn't say anything for  several moments.  Then he  said softly,
"I'm not sure that you do see, Son."
     "Sir?"
     "Mmm  .  . .  it  will not  be easy to explain. Certainly, losing  your
mother had a great deal to do with it. But I didn't enroll  to avenge her --
even though I had that in mind, too. You had more to do with it -- "
     "Me?"
     "Yes,  you.  Son,  I always understood what you were doing better  than
your mother did -- don't blame her; she never had a chance to know, any more
than a bird can understand swimming. And perhaps I knew why you did it, even
though I beg to doubt that you knew yourself,  at the time. At least half of
my anger  at  you was sheer  resentment  . .  .  that you had  actually done
something that I knew, buried  deep in my heart, I should have done. But you
weren't the  cause of my joining up, either . . . you  merely helped trigger
it and you did control the service I chose."
     He  paused. "I wasn't in good shape  at the  time you  enrolled.  I was
seeing  my hypnotherapist pretty regularly -- you never suspected  that, did
you? --  but we had  gotten no  farther than  a clear recognition that I was
enormously  dissatisfied. After you left, I took it out on you -- but it was
not you, and I knew it and my therapist knew it. I suppose I knew that there
was  real  trouble brewing  earlier  than most;  we were  invited  to bid on
military  components  fully  a  month  before  the state  of  emergency  was
announced. We had converted almost entirely to war production while you were
still in training.
     "I felt better during that period, worked  to death and too busy to see
my  therapist. Then I  became more  troubled than ever." He smiled. "Son, do
you know about civilians?"
     "Well . . . we don't talk the same language. I know that."
     "Clearly  enough put.  Do you remember Madame Ruitman?  I was on a  few
days  leave  after  I finished  Basic and  I went  home. I saw  some  of our
friends,  said good-by -- she among  them. She chattered away and said,  `So
you're really going out? Well, if you reach Faraway, you really must look up
my dear friends the Regatos.' "
     "I told her, as gently as I could, that it seemed  unlikely, since  the
Arachnids had occupied Faraway.
     "It didn't faze her  in the  least. She  said, `Oh, that's all right --
they're civilians!' " Father smiled cynically.
     "Yes, I know."
     "But I'm getting ahead of my story. I told you that I was getting still
more upset. Your mother's death released me for what I had to do . .  . even
though she  and I were closer than most, nevertheless  it set  me free to do
it. I turned the business over to Morales -- "
     "Old man Morales? Can he handle it?"
     "Yes. Because he has to. A lot of us are doing things we didn't know we
could. I gave him a nice chunk of stock -- you know the old saying about the
king that tread the grain -- and the rest I split two ways, in a trust: half
to the Daughters  of Charity, half to you  whenever you want  to go back and
take it. If you do. Never mind. I had at last found  out what was wrong with
me." He stopped, then said very softly, "I had to perform an act of faith. I
had  to  prove to myself that I was a man.  Not  just  a producing-consuming
economic animal . . . but a man."
     At  that  moment, before  I  could answer  anything,  the wall speakers
around us sang: " -- shines the name, shines the name of  Rodger Young!" and
a girl's voice  added, "Personnel for F. C. T. Rodger  Young, stand to boat.
Berth H. Nine minutes."
     Father bounced to his  feet, grabbed his  kit roll.  "That's mine! Take
care of yourself, Son --  and hit  those  exams. Or you'll find you're still
not too big to paddle."
     "I will, Father."
     He embraced me hastily. "See you when we get back!" And he was gone, on
the bounce.
     In  the Commandant's  outer  office I reported to  a fleet sergeant who
looked  remarkably  like  Sergeant Ho, even to lacking  an arm.  However, he
lacked Sergeant Ho's smile as well. I  said,  "Career Sergeant Juan Rico, to
report to the Commandant pursuant to orders."
     He glanced at the clock. "Your boat was down seventy-three minutes ago.
Well?"
     So I told him. He pulled his lip and looked at me  meditatively.  "I've
heard  every excuse in  the  book.  But you've  just added  a new page. Your
father, your own father,  really was reporting to your old  ship just as you
were detached?"
     "The bare truth, Sergeant. You can check it -- Corporal Emilio Rico."
     "We don't check the statements of the `young gentlemen' around here. We
simply cashier them if it ever turns out that they  have not told the truth.
Okay, a boy who wouldn't be late in order to see his old man off wouldn't be
worth much in any case. Forget it."
     "Thanks, Sergeant. Do I report to the Commandant now?"
     "You've reported  to  him." He  made a check  mark  on a list. "Maybe a
month from  now he'll send  for  you along  with a couple  of dozen  others.
Here's your room assignment,  here's a  checkoff list you start with --  and
you can start  by  cutting off those chevrons. But  save them; you  may need
them later. But as of this moment you are `Mister,' not `Sergeant.' "
     "Yes, sir."
     "Don't call me `sir.' I call you `sir.' But you won't like it."
     I am not going to describe Officer Candidates School.  It's like Basic,
but  squared and cubed with books added.  In  the mornings  we  behaved like
privates, doing the  same old things we had done in  Basic and in combat and
being chewed out for the way we did them --  by sergeants. In the afternoons
we were cadets  and "gentlemen," and recited on and were lectured concerning
an  endless  list  of  subjects:  math,  science,  galactography,  xenology,
hypnopedia, logistics,  strategy and tactics,  communications, military law,
terrain  reading, special weapons, psychology of leadership,  anything  from
the  care and feeding  of  privates  to why  Xerxes lost the  big one.  Most
especially how  to  be a one-man catastrophe yourself while keeping track of
fifty other men, nursing them, loving them, leading them, saving them -- but
never babying them. We had beds, which we used all too little; we  had rooms
and  showers and inside  plumbing; and each four  candidates had a  civilian
servant,  to make our beds and  clean our rooms and  shine our shoes and lay
out our uniforms and run errands. This service was not intended as a  luxury
and was not; its purpose was to give the student more time to accomplish the
plainly  impossible by  relieving him  of  things any graduate  of Basic can
already do perfectly.
     Six days shalt thou work and do all thou art able,
     The seventh the same and pound on the cable.
Or the Army version ends: --  and clean  out the stable, which shows you how
many centuries this sort of thing has been  going on. I  wish I  could catch
just one of those civilians who think we loaf and put them through one month
of O. C. S.
     In the evenings and all day  Sundays we  studied until our  eyes burned
and  our ears ached -- then  slept (if we slept) with a  hypnopedic  speaker
droning away under the pillow.
     Our marching songs were  appropriately downbeat: "No Army  for mine, no
Army for mine! I'd rather be behind the plow any old time!" and "Don't wanta
study war  no  more," and  "Don't make my boy a soldier, the  weeping mother
cried," and -- favorite  of all -- the  old classic "Gentlemen Rankers" with
its  chorus about  the Little Lost Sheep: "  --  God ha' pity on such as we.
Baa! Yah! Bah!"
     Yet  somehow I don't remember  being unhappy.  Too busy, I guess. There
was never that psychological  "hump" to get over, the  one everybody hits in
Basic;  there  was simply the  ever-present fear  of  flunking  out. My poor
preparation  in math  bothered  me especially. My  roommate, a colonial from
Hesperus  with the  oddly  appropriate  name of "Angel,"  sat up night after
night, tutoring me.
     Most of the instructors,  especially  the officers, were disabled.  The
only ones I  can remember who had a full complement of arms, legs, eyesight,
hearing, etc., were some of the non-commissioned combat  instructors --  and
not  all of  those. Our coach in  dirty  fighting  sat in a  powered  chair,
wearing a plastic collar, and was completely paralyzed from  the neck  down.
But his tongue wasn't paralyzed, his eye was  photographic, and  the  savage
way in which he could analyze and criticize what he had seen made up for his
minor impediment.
     At  first  I   wondered  why  these  obvious  candidates  for  physical
retirement and  full-pay pension  didn't  take it and go  home.  Then I quit
wondering.
     I guess the high point in my whole cadet course was a visit from Ensign
Ibanez,   she    of   the   dark    eyes,   junior   watch    officer    and
pilot-under-instruction  of  the Corvette  Transport Mannerheim.  Carmencita
showed up, looking incredibly pert  in Navy dress whites and about  the size
of  a paperweight, while my  class was  lined up for evening meal muster  --
walked down the line  and  you  could  hear eyeballs click as  she passed --
walked straight up to the duty officer and asked for me  by name in a clear,
penetrating voice.
     The duty officer,  Captain Chandar, was widely  believed never to  have
smiled at his own mother, but he smiled down at little Carmen, straining his
face out of shape, and admitted my existence . .  . whereupon she waved  her
long black lashes at  him, explained  that her ship  was about  to boost and
could she please take me out to dinner?
     And  I  found myself in  possession of a highly irregular  and  totally
unprecedented  three-hour  pass.  It  may  be  that  the  Navy has developed
hypnosis techniques that they have not  yet  gotten around to passing on  to
the Army. Or her  secret weapon may be older than that and not  usable by M.
I.  In  any case I not  only had a wonderful  time but  my prestige with  my
classmates, none too high until then, climbed to amazing heights.
     It was a glorious evening and well worth flunking two classes the  next
day. It was somewhat dimmed by the fact that we had each heard about Carl --
killed when the Bugs smashed  our  research  station  on  Pluto --  but only
somewhat, as we had each learned to live with such things.
     One thing did startle me. Carmen relaxed and took  off her hat while we
were eating, and her blue-black hair was all  gone. I knew that a lot of the
Navy girls shaved their heads --  after all, it's not practical to take care
of long  hair in a  war ship and, most especially, a pilot can't risk having
her hair  floating around, getting in the  way, in any  free-fall maneuvers.
Shucks, I shaved my own scalp, just for convenience and cleanliness.  But my
mental picture of little Carmen included this mane of thick, wavy hair.
     But, do you know, once you get used to it, it's rather cute. I mean, if
a  girl looks  all right to start  with, she still looks all  right with her
head smooth. And it does serve to set a Navy girl apart from civilian chicks
-- sort  of a lodge pin,  like the gold  skulls for  combat drops.  It  made
Carmen look  distinguished, gave her dignity, and for the first time I fully
realized that she really  was an officer and a  fighting man -- as well as a
very pretty girl.
     I  got back to barracks with stars in  my eyes and whiffing slightly of
perfume. Carmen had kissed me good-by.
     The only O. C. S. classroom course the content of which  I'm even going
to mention was: History and Moral Philosophy.
     I was surprised to find it in the curriculum. H. & M. P. has nothing to
do with combat  and how to lead a platoon; its connection with war (where it
is connected) is  in  why  to  fight --  a  matter already settled  for  any
candidate long before he  reaches O. C. S. An M.  I. fights because he is M.
I.
     I decided that the course  must be a repeat for the benefit of those of
us (maybe  a third) who had never  had it in school. Over 20  per cent of my
cadet class  were not from Terra (a much higher percentage of colonials sign
up to serve than do people  born  on Earth -- sometimes it makes you wonder)
and of  the  three quarters  or  so  from  Terra, some were from  associated
territories  and other  places  where H. & M.  P. might not be taught. So  I
figured it for a cinch  course which would  give me a little rest from tough
courses, the ones with decimal points.
     Wrong again.  Unlike  my high school course, you had to pass it. Not by
examination,  however. The course included examinations and prepared  papers
and  quizzes  and such  --  but  no marks. What  you  had  to  have was  the
instructor's opinion that you were worthy of commission.
     If he gave you a downcheck, a board  sat on you, questioning not merely
whether you  could be an officer but whether you belonged in the Army at any
rank, no matter how  fast  you might  be with weapons -- deciding whether to
give  you extra  instruction .  .  . or just kick  you out and let you  be a
civilian.
     History and Moral Philosophy works like a delayed-action bomb. You wake
up  in the middle of the night and think: Now what did he mean by that? That
had  been true even  with my high school course; I simply hadn't known  what
Colonel Dubois  was talking about.  When I was a kid I thought  it was silly
for the course to be  in the science department. It was nothing like physics
or chemistry; why wasn't it over in the fuzzy studies where it belonged? The
only reason I paid attention was because there were such lovely arguments.
     I had no idea that "Mr." Dubois was trying  to  teach  me why to  fight
until long after I had decided to fight anyhow.
     Well, why  should I  fight? Wasn't it preposterous to expose  my tender
skin to the  violence of unfriendly  strangers? Especially as the pay at any
rank  was  barely spending  money,  the  hours  terrible,  and  the  working
conditions worse? When  I  could be sitting at home  while such matters were
handled by thick-skulled  characters who  enjoyed  such games?  Particularly
when the  strangers against whom I  fought  never  had  done anything  to me
personally until  I showed  up and started kicking over  their tea  wagon --
what sort of nonsense is this?
     Fight because I'm an M. I.? Brother, you're drooling like  Dr. Pavlov's
dogs. Cut it out and start thinking.
     Major Reid, our instructor, was a blind  man with a disconcerting habit
of looking straight at you and calling you by name. We were reviewing events
after the  war  between  the  Russo-Anglo-American Alliance and the  Chinese
Hegemony, 1987 and following. But this was the day that we heard the news of
the destruction  of San Francisco and the San Joaquin  Valley; I  thought he
would give  us  a pep talk.  After all, even a  civilian ought to be able to
figure it out now -- the Bugs or us. Fight or die.
     Major  Reid  didn't  mention  San  Francisco.  He had  one  of us  apes
summarize  the  negotiated  treaty  of  New  Delhi, discuss  how  it ignored
prisoners of war . . . and, by implication, dropped the subject forever; the
armistice became a stalemate and prisoners stayed where they were -- on  one
side; on the other side  they were turned loose  and, during the  Disorders,
made their way home -- or not if they didn't want to.
     Major  Reid's victim summed up the unreleased  prisoners: survivors  of
two divisions of British paratroopers, some thousands of civilians, captured
mostly in  Japan, the Philippines, and Russia and  sentenced for "political"
crimes.
     "Besides that, there were many other military prisoners,"  Major Reid's
victim went on, "captured  during  and before  the war -- there were  rumors
that  some had been captured in an earlier war and never released. The total
of unreleased prisoners was never known. The best estimates place the number
around sixty-five thousand."
     "Why the `best'?"
     "Uh, that's the estimate in the textbook, sir."
     "Please be precise in  your language. Was  the  number greater  or less
than one hundred thousand?"
     "Uh, I don't know, sir."
     "And nobody else knows. Was it greater than one thousand?"
     "Probably, sir. Almost certainly."
     "Utterly certain -- because more  than  that  eventually escaped, found
their ways  home, were tallied by  name. I see you did  not read your lesson
carefully. Mr. Rico!"
     Now I was the victim. "Yes, sir."
     "Are  a thousand  unreleased prisoners  sufficient  reason to start  or
resume a war? Bear in mind that  millions of innocent people may die, almost
certainly will die, if war is started or resumed."
     I didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir! More than enough reason."
     " `More than enough.' Very  well,  is  one  prisoner, unreleased by the
enemy, enough reason to start or resume a war?"
     I hesitated. I knew the M. I. answer -- but I didn't think that was the
one he wanted. He said sharply, "Come, come, Mister! We have  an upper limit
of  one  thousand; I invited you  to consider a lower limit of one. But  you
can't pay  a promissory  note  which reads `somewhere  between one  and  one
thousand pounds'  -- and starting a war is much more serious  than  paying a
trifle of money.  Wouldn't  it  be  criminal  to  endanger  a country -- two
countries in fact  -- to save one man? Especially  as he may not deserve it?
Or  may  die in the meantime?  Thousands of  people get killed every day  in
accidents . . . so why hesitate over one man? Answer! Answer yes,  or answer
no -- you're holding up the class."
     He got my goat. I gave him the cap trooper's answer. "Yes, sir!"
     " `Yes' what?"
     "It  doesn't matter whether  it's a thousand  -- or just one,  sir. You
fight."
     "Aha!  The number  of prisoners  is irrelevant.  Good. Now  prove  your
answer."
     I was stuck. I knew it was the right answer. But I didn't know why.  He
kept  hounding me. "Speak up,  Mr. Rico.  This is an exact science. You have
made a mathematical statement; you must give  proof. Someone may claim  that
you have asserted, by  analogy, that one potato is worth  the same price, no
more, no less, as one thousand potatoes. No?"
     "No, sir!"
     "Why not? Prove it."
     "Men are not potatoes."
     "Good, good, Mr. Rico! I think we have strained your tired brain enough
for one day. Bring to  class tomorrow a written proof, in symbolic logic, of
your  answer to  my original question. I'll give  you a hint. See  reference
seven  in  today's chapter.  Mr. Salomon!  How  did  the  present  political
organization  evolve   out  of   the  Disorders?  And   what  is  its  moral
justification?"
     Sally  stumbled through the first  part. However,  nobody  can describe
accurately how  the  Federation  came about;  it  just grew.  With  national
governments  in collapse at the end  of the XXth century, something  had  to
fill the vacuum, and in many cases it was returned veterans. They had lost a
war, most of them had no jobs,  many were sore as could be over the terms of
the Treaty of  New  Delhi,  especially the P. O. W. foul-up -- and they knew
how to  fight. But it  wasn't revolution; it was more like what  happened in
Russia in 1917 -- the system collapsed; somebody else moved in.
     The first known case, in Aberdeen, Scotland, was typical. Some veterans
got together as vigilantes to stop rioting  and looting, hanged a few people
(including two veterans) and decided not to let anyone but veterans on their
committee. Just arbitrary at first  --  they trusted each  other a bit, they
didn't  trust  anyone else.  What  started as an  emergency  measure  became
constitutional practice . . . in a generation or two.
     Probably those Scottish veterans, since they were  finding it necessary
to hang some veterans,  decided that,  if they had to  do this, they weren't
going     to     let     any    "bleedin',    profiteering,    black-market,
double-time-for-overtime, army-dodging, unprintable" civilians  have any say
about  it. They'd do what they were told, see? -- while us apes straightened
things out!  That's my  guess, because I might feel  the same way . .  . and
historians agree that antagonism between civilians and returned soldiers was
more intense than we can imagine today.
     Sally didn't  tell it  by the book. Finally  Major  Reid cut  him  off.
"Bring a summary to  class tomorrow, three  thousand words. Mr. Salomon, can
you give me a reason -- not historical nor theoretical  but practical -- why
the franchise is today limited to discharged veterans?"
     "Uh, because they are picked men, sir. Smarter."
     "Preposterous!"
     "Sir?"
     "Is the word too long for  you? I  said it was a silly notion.  Service
men are not brighter than civilians. In many cases  civilians are  much more
intelligent. That was the  sliver  of justification underlying the attempted
coup  d'etat  just  before the Treaty of New Delhi, the so-called `Revolt of
the  Scientists': let the  intelligent  elite run  things  and  you'll  have
utopia. It fell flat on  its foolish face of course. Because the  pursuit of
science,  despite its social benefits,  is  itself not a social  virtue; its
practitioners  can  be men so  self-centered  as  to  be  lacking in  social
responsibility. I've given you a hint, Mister; can you pick it up?"
     Sally answered, "Uh, service men are disciplined, sir."
     Major Reid was gentle with him. "Sorry. An  appealing theory not backed
up by facts. You and I are not permitted to vote as long as we remain in the
Service,  nor  is  it  verifiable  that  military  discipline  makes  a  man
self-disciplined once  he  is  out; the crime rate of veterans is  much like
that  of civilians.  And  you have forgotten that in peacetime most veterans
come from non-combatant auxiliary services and  have not  been  subjected to
the full  rigors  of military  discipline;  they  have merely  been harried,
overworked, and endangered -- yet their votes count."
     Major Reid smiled. "Mr.  Salomon, I  handed  you a  trick question. The
practical reason for continuing  our  system is the same  as  the  practical
reason for continuing anything: It works satisfactorily.
     "Nevertheless,  it  is instructive to  observe the  details. Throughout
history  men  have labored to  place the  sovereign  franchise in hands that
would guard it well and  use it  wisely,  for the  benefit of all. An  early
attempt was absolute monarchy, passionately defended as the `divine right of
kings.'
     "Sometimes attempts  were  made to select  a wise  monarch, rather  man
leave  it  up  to  God,  as  when the  Swedes picked  a  Frenchman,  General
Bernadotte, to  rule  them. The  objection  to this is  that the  supply  of
Bernadottes is limited.
     "Historic examples range from absolute monarch to utter anarch; mankind
has tried thousands of ways and  many more have been proposed, some weird in
the  extreme  such  as  the  antlike  communism urged  by  Plato  under  the
misleading title The Republic. But the intent has always been moralistic: to
provide stable and benevolent government.
     "All systems seek to achieve  this by limiting franchise  to  those who
are believed to have the wisdom to  use it  justly. I repeat  `all systems';
even the so-called `unlimited democracies' excluded from franchise  not less
than  one quarter of  their populations by age,  birth, poll  tax,  criminal
record, or other."
     Major  Reid  smiled cynically.  "I have never been able  to  see  how a
thirty-year old moron can vote more wisely than a  fifteen-year-old genius .
. . but that was the  age of the  `divine  right  of the  common man.' Never
mind, they paid for their folly.
     "The sovereign franchise  has been bestowed  by  all sorts of  rules --
place  of  birth,  family of birth,  race,  sex, property,  education,  age,
religion, et cetera. All  these systems  worked and none  of them  well. All
were  regarded  as  tyrannical  by many,  all  eventually  collapsed or were
overthrown.
     "Now here are we with  still another system . . .  and our system works
quite  well. Many complain but  none  rebel;  personal  freedom  for  all is
greatest in history, laws are few, taxes  are  low, living standards  are as
high as productivity permits,  crime  is at its lowest ebb. Why? Not because
our voters are smarter than other people;  we've disposed  of that argument.
Mr. Tammany can you tell us why our system works better than any used by our
ancestors?"
     I don't know where  Clyde  Tammany got his  name; I'd take  him  for  a
Hindu. He answered, "Uh, I'd venture to guess that it's because the electors
are a  small group who know  that the decisions are up to them . . . so they
study the issues."
     "No guessing, please; this is exact  science. And your  guess is wrong.
The ruling  nobles of many another system were a small group  fully aware of
their grave power. Furthermore, our franchised citizens are not everywhere a
small fraction; you know  or  should know  that  the percentage  of citizens
among adults ranges from over eighty per cent on Iskander to less than three
per  cent in some Terran nations yet government is much the same everywhere.
Nor  are the voters picked  men; they  bring no special  wisdom, talent,  or
training  to their sovereign tasks.  So what difference is there between our
voters  and wielders of franchise in the past? We have  had enough  guesses;
I'll state  the obvious: Under our system  every voter and officeholder is a
man who  has demonstrated through voluntary and  difficult service  that  he
places the welfare of the group ahead of personal advantage.
     "And that is the one practical difference."
     "He may  fail in wisdom, he may lapse in civic virtue.  But his average
performance is enormously better than that  of any other  class of rulers in
history."
     Major  Reid  paused  to touch  the  face  of  an  old-fashioned  watch,
"reading" its hands. "The period is almost over and we have yet to determine
the  moral reason  for our  success in governing  ourselves.  Now  continued
success is never a matter  of chance. Bear in mind that this is science, not
wishful  thinking; the universe is what it is, not what we want it to be. To
vote is to wield authority; it is the supreme authority from which all other
authority derives -- such  as mine to make your lives miserable once a  day.
Force, if you will!  -- the franchise  is force, naked and raw, the Power of
the Rods and  the Ax. Whether it is exerted  by  ten men or  by ten billion,
political authority is force."
     "But  this universe consists of paired dualities.  What is the converse
of authority? Mr. Rico."
     He had picked one I could answer. "Responsibility, sir."
     "Applause. Both for practical reasons and for mathematically verifiable
moral  reasons,  authority  and  responsibility  must  be  equal --  else  a
balancing takes place as  surely as current `flows between points of unequal
potential. To permit irresponsible authority  is to sow disaster;  to hold a
man  responsible for  anything he does not control is  to  behave with blind
idiocy. The unlimited  democracies were unstable because their citizens were
not  responsible  for the fashion  in  which they  exerted  their  sovereign
authority . . . other than through the  tragic logic of history. The  unique
`poll tax' that we must pay was unheard of. No attempt was made to determine
whether  a  voter  was  socially  responsible to the extent of his literally
unlimited  authority. If he voted the  impossible, the  disastrous  possible
happened instead  -- and responsibility was then forced on  him  willy-nilly
and destroyed both him and his foundationless temple."
     "Superficially,  our  system  is  only  slightly  different;  we   have
democracy  unlimited  by  race,   color,  creed,  birth,  wealth,   sex,  or
conviction,  and anyone may win sovereign power by a  usually short  and not
too  arduous  term  of service  -- nothing more than a  light workout to our
cave-man ancestors. But that slight difference is one  between a system that
works,  since it  is  constructed  to  match the  facts,  and  one  that  is
inherently unstable.  Since  sovereign  franchise  is the ultimate in  human
authority, we  insure that all who wield  it accept the ultimate  in  social
responsibility --  we require each  person who  wishes to exert control over
the  state to wager his own life  -- and lose it, if need be  -- to save the
life of the  state. The maximum responsibility  a  human can  accept is thus
equated to the ultimate authority a human can exert. Yin  and  yang, perfect
and equal."
     The Major added, "Can anyone define why there has never been revolution
against our system? Despite  the  fact  that every government in history has
had  such?  Despite  the   notorious  fact  that  complaints  are  loud  and
unceasing?"
     One  of  the older  cadets  took  a crack at  it.  "Sir,  revolution is
impossible."
     "Yes. But why?"
     "Because  revolution   --   armed   uprising  --  requires   not   only
dissatisfaction  but aggressiveness.  A  revolutionist has to  be willing to
fight and  die  --  or he's  just a parlor  pink.  If  you  separate out the
aggressive ones and make them the sheep dogs, the sheep  will never give you
trouble."
     "Nicely put!  Analogy is always suspect,  but that one  is close to the
facts. Bring me a mathematical proof tomorrow. Time for one more question --
you ask it and I'll answer. Anyone?"
     "Uh, sir, why not  go -- well, go the limit? Require  everyone to serve
and let everybody vote?"
     "Young man, can you restore my eyesight?"
     "Sir? Why, no, sir!"
     "You would find it much  easier  than to instill moral virtue -- social
responsibility  --  into a person who  doesn't have it, doesn't want it, and
resents having the burden  thrust on him. This is why we make it  so hard to
enroll, so easy to  resign. Social responsibility above the level of family,
or  at  most of tribe,  requires  imagination  -- devotion, loyalty, all the
higher  virtues  -- which a man must develop himself; if  he has them forced
down him,  he will vomit them out. Conscript  armies have  been tried in the
past. Look up in the library the psychiatric report on brainwashed prisoners
in the  so called `Korean War,' circa  1950  -- the Mayer  Report. Bring  an
analysis to class." He touched his watch. "Dismissed."
     Major Reid gave us a busy time.
     But  it  was  interesting.  I  caught  one  of  those  master's  thesis
assignments he chucked around so casually; I had suggested that the Crusades
were different from most wars. I got sawed off and handed this: Required: to
prove  that  war  and  moral   perfection  derive  from   the  same  genetic
inheritance.
     Briefly, thus: All wars arise from population  pressure. (Yes, even the
Crusades, though you have  to  dig  into trade  routes  and birth  rate  and
several other things to prove it.) Morals -- all correct  moral rules derive
from the instinct  to survive; moral behavior is survival behavior above the
individual level -- as in a father who dies to save his  children. But since
population pressure results  from the process of  surviving  through others,
then war, because it results from population pressure, derives from the same
inherited instinct which produces all moral rules suitable for human beings.
     Check of  proof: Is it possible to abolish war by  relieving population
pressure (and thus do  away with the all-too evident evils  of war)  through
constructing a moral code under which population is limited to resources?
     Without debating the usefulness  or morality of  planned parenthood, it
may be verified  by observation that any breed which stops its  own increase
gets crowded out by breeds which expand. Some  human populations  did so, in
Terran history, and other breeds moved in and engulfed them.
     Nevertheless, let's assume that the human race manages to balance birth
and death, just right to fit its own planets, and thereby becomes  peaceful.
What happens?
     Soon (about next Wednesday) the Bugs move in, kill off this breed which
"ain'ta gonna study war  no  more" and the universe forgets  us. Which still
may happen.  Either we spread and wipe out the Bugs, or they spread and wipe
us out --  because both  races are  tough and smart and want the  same  real
estate.
     Do  you know how fast population  pressure could cause  us to fill  the
entire  universe shoulder to shoulder? The answer will astound you, just the
flicker of an eye in terms of the age of our race.
     Try it -- it's a compound-interest expansion.
     But does Man have any "right" to spread through the universe?
     Man is what he is, a wild animal with the will to survive, and (so far)
the ability,  against all competition. Unless one accepts that, anything one
says about morals, war, politics -- you  name  it --  is  nonsense.  Correct
morals  arise  from  knowing  what  Man  is  --  not  what  do  gooders  and
well-meaning old Aunt Nellies would like him to be.
     The  universe will let us know -- later --  whether or not Man  has any
"right" to expand through it.
     In the meantime the M. I. will be in there, on the bounce and swinging,
on the side of our own race.
     Toward the end each of us was shipped out to serve under an experienced
combat  commander.  This  was  a  semifinal  examination,  your  `board-ship
instructor could decide that you didn't have what it takes. You could demand
a board but I never heard of anybody who did; they either  came back with an
upcheck or we never saw them again.
     Some hadn't  failed;  it was just  that  they  were  killed  -- because
assignments were to ships about to go into action.  We were required to keep
kit bags packed -- once at lunch, all the cadet officers of my company  were
tapped; they left without eating and I found myself cadet company commander.
     Like boot  chevrons,  this is an  uncomfortable honor, but in less than
two days my own call came.
     I bounced down to the Commandant's office, kit bag over my shoulder and
feeling grand. I was sick of late hours and  burning eyes and never catching
up,  of looking stupid in class; a few  weeks in  the cheerful company of  a
combat team was just what Johnnie needed!
     I passed some  new cadets, trotting  to class in close  formation, each
with the grim look that every O. C. S. candidate  gets when he realizes that
possibly  he  made a  mistake  in  bucking for officer, and  I found  myself
singing. I shut up when I was within earshot of the office.
     Two others  were there, Cadets Hassan and Byrd. Hassan the Assassin was
the oldest  man in  our class and  looked like something a fisherman had let
out of a bottle, while Birdie wasn't much bigger than a sparrow and about as
intimidating.
     We were  ushered  into the Holy  of Holies. The  Commandant  was in his
wheel chair -- we never saw him out  of  it except  Saturday inspection  and
parade, I guess walking hurt. But that didn't mean you didn't see him -- you
could be working a prob  at the board, turn around and find that wheel chair
behind you, and Colonel Nielssen reading your mistakes.
     He  never  interrupted  --  there was  a standing  order not  to  shout
"Attention!" But it's disconcerting. There seemed to be about six of him.
     The  Commandant  had a  permanent  rank of  fleet  general  (yes,  that
Nielssen); his rank as colonel  was temporary, pending second retirement, to
permit him to be Commandant. I once questioned a  paymaster about  this  and
confirmed what  the regulations seemed to say:  The Commandant  got only the
pay of a colonel -- but  would revert to the  pay of a fleet  general on the
day he decided to retire again.
     Well, as Ace says, it takes all sorts -- I can't  imagine choosing half
pay for the privilege of riding herd on cadets.
     Colonel  Nielssen  looked  up  and  said,  "Morning,  gentlemen.   Make
yourselves  comfortable." I sat  down but wasn't comfortable. He glided over
to a coffee machine, drew four cups, and Hassan helped  him deal them out. I
didn't want coffee but a cadet doesn't refuse the Commandant's hospitality.
     He took a sip. "I have your orders, gentlemen," he announced, "and your
temporary commissions." He went on,  "But I want to be sure  you  understand
your status."
     We  had already been  lectured about this. We were going to be officers
just enough for instruction and testing -- "supernumerary, probationary, and
temporary." Very junior, quite superfluous, on good behavior,  and extremely
temporary; we would revert  to cadet when we got back and could be busted at
any time by the officers examining us.
     We would be  "temporary third  lieutenants"  -- a rank as necessary  as
feet  on a fish,  wedged into the hairline  between fleet sergeants and real
officers. It is as low as you can get  and still be  called an "officer." If
anybody ever saluted a third lieutenant, the light must have been bad.
     "Your commission reads `third lieutenant,' " he  went on, "but your pay
stays the same, you continue to be addressed as `Mister,' the only change in
uniform  is a shoulder pip even  smaller than  cadet insignia. You  continue
under instruction since it has not yet been  settled that you are  fit to be
officers." The Colonel smiled. "So why call you a `third lieutenant'?"
     I had  wondered about that.  Why  this whoopty-do of "commissions" that
weren't real commissions?
     Of course I knew the textbook answer.
     "Mr. Byrd?" the Commandant said.
     "Uh . . . to place us in the line of command, sir."
     "Exactly!"  Colonel glided  to a  T. O.  on one  wall. It was the usual
pyramid, with chain of command defined  all the way down. "Look at this -- "
He pointed to  a  box connected to his own by  a  horizontal  line; it read:
ASSISTANT TO COMMANDANT (Miss Kendrick).
     "Gentlemen,"  he  went  on,  "I would have trouble  running  this place
without Miss Kendrick. Her  head  is a rapid-access file  to everything that
happens  around here." He  touched a control  on his chair and spoke to  the
air.  "Miss Kendrick, what mark did Cadet Byrd receive  in military law last
term?"
     Her answer came back at once: "Ninety-three per cent, Commandant."
     "Thank you." He  continued, "You see? I sign  anything if Miss Kendrick
has initialed it. I would hate to  have  an investigating committee find out
how often she signs my name and I don't even see it. Tell me, Mr. Byrd . . .
if I drop dead, does Miss Kendrick carry on to keep things moving?"
     "Why,  uh -- " Birdie looked puzzled. "I suppose, with routine matters,
she would do what was necess -- "
     "She  wouldn't  do  a  blessed  thing!" the  Colonel  thundered. "Until
Colonel Chauncey told her what  to  do -- his way. She is a very smart woman
and understands what you apparently do  not, namely,  that she is not in the
line of command and has no authority."
     He went on, " `Line  of command' isn't just a phrase; it's as real as a
slap in the face. If  I ordered you to  combat as a cadet the most you could
do would be to  pass  along somebody else's orders. If  your platoon  leader
bought it and you then gave an order to a private  -- a good order, sensible
and wise -- you would be wrong and he would be  just  as wrong if  he obeyed
it.  Because  a cadet  cannot  be in  the line  of  command. A cadet has  no
military existence, no rank, and is not a soldier. He is a student  who will
become  a soldier -- either an officer, or  at his formal rank.  While he is
under Army discipline, he is not in the Army. That is why -- "
     A  zero.  A nought with no rim. If a cadet  wasn't even in the Army  --
"Colonel!"
     "Eh? Speak up, young man. Mr. Rico."
     I had startled myself  but I  had to say it. "But . . . if we aren't in
the Army . . . then we aren't M. I. Sir?"
     He blinked at me. "This worries you?"
     "I,  uh, don't believe I like it much, sir." I didn't like it at all. I
felt naked.
     "I  see."  He didn't  seem  displeased. "You  let  me  worry about  the
space-lawyer aspects of it, son."
     "But -- "
     "That's an order. You are technically not an M. I. But the M. I. hasn't
forgotten you; the M. I. never forgets its own no matter where they  are. If
you are struck dead this instant, you will be  cremated as Second Lieutenant
Juan  Rico,  Mobile  Infantry,  of  -- "  Colonel  Nielssen  stopped.  "Miss
Kendrick, what was Mr. Rico's ship?"
     "The Rodger Young."
     "Thank  you." He added, " -- in and  of TFCT Rodger Young,  assigned to
mobile combat team  Second Platoon of George Company, Third  Regiment, First
Division,  M.  I.  --  the  `Roughnecks,'  "  he  recited with  relish,  not
consulting anything once he had been  reminded of my ship. "A  good  outfit,
Mr. Rico -- proud and nasty. Your Final Orders go back to them for Taps  and
that's the  way your name would read in Memorial Hall. That's why  we always
commission a dead cadet, son -- so we can send him home to his mates."
     I felt a surge of relief  and homesickness and missed a few words. ". .
. lip buttoned  while I  talk, we'll have  you back  in the M. I.  where you
belong. You must  be temporary  officers  for your `prentice  cruise because
there is no room for  dead-heads in  a combat drop. You'll fight -- and take
orders -- and give orders. Legal orders, because  you  will hold rank and be
ordered to serve in that team; that makes any order you give in carrying out
your assigned duties as binding as one signed by the C-in-C.
     "Even more, " the Commandant went on, "once you are in line of command,
you  must  be  ready instantly  to  assume  higher command.  If you are in a
one-platoon team -- quite likely in  the present state of the war -- and you
are assistant platoon leader when your platoon leader buys it . . . then . .
. you . . . are . . . It!"
     He shook his head. "Not `acting platoon leader.' Not a cadet leading  a
drill. Not a  `junior officer under  instruction.' Suddenly you are the  Old
Man, the  Boss, Commanding  Officer  Present  --  and you  discover  with  a
sickening shock that fellow human beings are depending on  you alone to tell
them  what  to do, how  to fight, how to complete  the  mission  and get out
alive. They wait for the sure voice of command -- while seconds trickle away
-- and  it's  up  to you to  be  that voice, make decisions, give the  right
orders . . .  and  not only  the right  ones but in a calm, unworried  tone.
Because  it's  a cinch,  gentlemen,  that  your  team is in  trouble  -- bad
trouble! -- and a strange  voice with panic in it can turn  the best  combat
team in the Galaxy into a leaderless, lawless, fear-crazed mob.
     "The whole merciless  load will land without  warning. You  must act at
once and you'll have only God over you. Don't expect Him to fill in tactical
details; that's your job.  He'll be doing all that a  soldier has a right to
expect  if He  helps you keep the  panic you  are  sure to feel  out of your
voice."
     The  Colonel paused. I  was sobered  and  Birdie  was  looking terribly
serious and awfully young and Hassan was scowling. I wished that I were back
in the drop room of the Rog, with not too  many  chevrons and  an after-chow
bull session in  full  swing. There was a  lot  to  be  said  for the job of
assistant section leader -- when you come right to it, it's a lot easier  to
die than it is to use your head.
     The  Commandant continued:  "That's  the  Moment of  Truth,  gentlemen.
Regrettably there  is no method  known to  military  science to tell a  real
officer from a glib imitation with pips on his shoulders, other than through
ordeal by fire. Real ones come through -- or die gallantly; imitations crack
up.
     "Sometimes, in cracking up, the misfits die. But  the  tragedy lies  in
the  loss  of others . . . good  men, sergeants and corporals  and privates,
whose only lack is fatal bad fortune in finding themselves under the command
of an incompetent.
     "We try  to  avoid  this.  First  is our  unbreakable  rule that  every
candidate must be a trained trooper, blooded under fire, a veteran of combat
drops. No other  army in  history has stuck to this rule, although some came
close.  Most  great military schools  of the past -- Saint Cyr,  West Point,
Sandhurst, Colorado Springs didn't  even pretend to follow it; they accepted
civilian boys, trained them, commissioned them, sent them out with no battle
experience to command men . . . and  sometimes discovered too late that this
smart young `officer' was a fool, a poltroon, or a hysteric.
     "At least  we  have no misfits  of those  sorts. We know  you are  good
soldiers -- brave and skilled, proved in battle else you would not  be here.
We know that your  intelligence and education meet acceptable minimums. With
this  to   start   on,   we   eliminate   as   many  as   possible   of  the
not-quite-competent -- get  them quickly back  in ranks before we spoil good
cap troopers by forcing them beyond their abilities. The course is very hard
-- because what will be expected of you later is still harder.
     "In  time we  have a small group whose  chances look fairly  good.  The
major criterion  left untested is one we cannot test  here; that undefinable
something which  is  the difference between a leader in battle . . . and one
who merely has the earmarks but not the vocation. So we field-test for it.
     "Gentlemen! -- you have reached that point. Are you  ready to  take the
oath?"
     There was  an  instant of  silence,  then Hassan the  Assassin answered
firmly, "Yes, Colonel," and Birdie and I echoed.
     The Colonel frowned. "I have been telling you how  wonderful you are --
physically perfect, mentally alert, trained, disciplined,  blooded. The very
model of the smart young  officer -- " He snorted. "Nonsense! You may become
officers someday.  I hope so . . . we not only hate to waste money and  time
and effort, but  also, and much  more important, I  shiver in my boots every
time  I  send  one of  you  half-baked  not-quite-officers up to the  Fleet,
knowing  what  a Frankensteinian monster  I  may be turning  loose on a good
combat  team. If you understood  what you are up against, you wouldn't be so
all-fired ready to take the oath the second the  question is put to you. You
may  turn it down  and force me to let you go back to your  permanent ranks.
But you don't know.
     "So I'll  try  once more. Mr. Rico! Have you ever thought  how it would
feel to be court-martialed for losing a regiment?"
     I  was  startled  silly.  "Why  --  No,  sir,  I  never  have."  To  be
court-martialed -- for any reason -- is eight times as bad for an officer as
for an enlisted man. Offenses which will get privates kicked out (maybe with
lashes,  possibly  without) rate death  in an officer. Better  never to have
been born!
     "Think about it," he said grimly. "When  I  suggested that your platoon
leader  might be killed, I was by no means  citing  the ultimate in military
disaster.  Mr. Hassan!  What is  the largest number  of command levels  ever
knocked out in a single battle?"
     The Assassin scowled harder than ever. "I'm not sure, sir. Wasn't there
a while during Operation Bughouse  when a  major commanded a brigade, before
the Sove-ki-poo?"
     "There  was and  his name  was  Fredericks. He  got a decoration and  a
promotion. If you go back  to the Second Global War,  you can find a case in
which  a naval  junior officer took  command of a  major ship and  not  only
fought it but sent signals as if  he were admiral.  He  was  vindicated even
though  there were officers senior  to him in line  of command  who were not
even wounded. Special circumstances -- a breakdown  in communications. But I
am thinking of a case in which four levels were wiped out  in six minutes --
as if a platoon leader  were to blink his eyes and find himself commanding a
brigade. Any of you heard of it?"
     Dead silence.
     "Very well. It was one of those bush wars that hared up on the edges of
the  Napoleonic  wars.  This  young officer was the  most junior in  a naval
vessel  -- wet navy,  of course -- wind-powered, in fact. This youngster was
about the age of most of your class and was not commissioned. He carried the
title of temporary third lieutenant' -- note that this  is the title you are
about to carry. He had no combat experience; there were four officers in the
chain of command above him. When the battle started  his  commanding officer
was wounded. The kid picked him up and carried him out of the line of  fire.
That's all -- make pickup on a comrade. But he did it without being  ordered
to leave his post. The other officers all bought it while  he was doing this
and he was tried for `deserting his  post of duty  as commanding  officer in
the presence of the enemy.' Convicted. Cashiered."
     I gasped. "For that? Sir."
     "Why  not?  True,  we  make  pickup.  But  we  do  it  under  different
circumstances from  a wet-navy  battle,  and  by orders  to  the  man making
pickup. But  pickup is  never  an  excuse for breaking  off  battle  in  the
presence of the enemy.  This boy's family  tried for a century and a half to
get his conviction reversed. No luck, of  course. There was doubt about some
circumstances but no doubt that he had left his  post during battle  without
orders. True, he was green as grass -- but  he was lucky  not to be hanged."
Colonel Nielssen fixed me with a cold eye. "Mr. Rico -- could this happen to
you?"
     I gulped. "I hope not, sir."
     "Let me  tell  you  how it could on this very `prentice cruise. Suppose
you  are in a multiple-ship operation,  with  a  full regiment in the  drop.
Officers  drop  first,  of  course.   There   are  advantages  to  this  and
disadvantages, but we do it for reasons of morale; no  trooper ever hits the
ground on a hostile planet without an officer. Assume the Bugs  know this --
and they  may. Suppose they work up some trick to wipe out those who hit the
ground  first . .  .  but not good  enough to wipe out the whole  drop.  Now
suppose, since you are  a supernumerary, you have to take any vacant capsule
instead of being fired with the first wave. Where does that leave you?"
     "Uh, I'm not sure, sir."
     "You have just inherited  command of a regiment. What are you going  to
do? With your command, Mister? Talk fast -- the Bugs won't wait!"
     "Uh .  . ." I caught an  answer right out of the book and parroted  it.
"I'll take command and  act as circumstances permit,  sir, according  to the
tactical situation as I see it."
     "You will, eh?" The Colonel grunted. "And you'll buy a  farm too that's
all  anybody  can do with  a foul-up like  that. But I  hope you'll  go down
swinging -- and shouting orders to somebody, whether they make sense or not.
We don't expect kittens to fight  wildcats and win -- we  merely expect them
to try. All right, stand up. Put up your right hands."
     He  struggled  to  his  feet. Thirty seconds later we were  officers --
"temporary, probationary, and supernumerary."
     I thought he would give us  our  shoulder pips and let us go. We aren't
supposed to buy them -- they're a loan, like the temporary  commission  they
represent. Instead he lounged back and looked almost human.
     "See here,  lads -- I gave you a talk on how rough it's  going to be. I
want you to worry  about  it, doing  it in advance, planning  what steps you
might take against  any  combination  of  bad  news that can come your  way,
keenly  aware that your life belongs to  your men and is not yours to  throw
away in a suicidal reach for glory .  . . and that your life isn't  yours to
save, either, if the situation requires that you  expend  it. I want you  to
worry yourself sick before a drop, so that you  can  be  unruffled  when the
trouble starts.
     "Impossible,  of course. Except for one thing. What is  the only factor
that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone?"
     Nobody answered.
     "Oh, come now!" Colonel Nielssen said scornfully. "You aren't recruits.
Mr. Hassan!"
     "Your leading sergeant, sir," the Assassin said slowly.
     "Obviously.  He's  probably  older than you  are, more drops  under his
belt,  and he certainly  knows his team better  than you do.  Since he isn't
carrying that dreadful, numbing load of top command, he may be thinking more
clearly than you are. Ask his advice. You've got one circuit just for that.
     "It won't decrease his confidence in you; he's used to being consulted.
If  you  don't,  he'll decide you are a fool,  a cocksure know-it-all -- and
he'll be right.
     "But you don't  have to take his advice. Whether  you use his ideas, or
whether they spark  some different plan -- make  your  decision and snap out
orders. The  one  thing -- the only thing! -- that can  strike terror in the
heart of a good platoon sergeant is to find that he's working for a boss who
can't make up his mind.
     "There  never  has been  an outfit in  which officers and men were more
dependent  on each other than they  are in the M. I., and sergeants are  the
glue that holds us together. Never forget it."
     The Commandant whipped his chair around to a  cabinet near his desk. It
contained row on row of pigeonholes, each with a  little  box. He pulled out
one and opened it. "Mr. Hassan -- "
     "Sir?"
     "These  pips  were worn  by Captain  Terence O'Kelly on  his  `prentice
cruise. Does it suit you to wear them?"
     "Sir?" The Assassin's  voice squeaked  and I  thought  the big lunk was
going to break into tears. "Yes, sir!"
     "Come here." Colonel Nielssen  pinned them on, then said, "Wear them as
gallantly as he did . . . but bring them back. Understand me?"
     "Yes, sir. I'll do my best."
     "I'm sure you  will. There's an air  car waiting on  the roof  and your
boat boosts in twenty-eight minutes. Carry out your orders, sir!"
     The  Assassin  saluted  and left; the  Commandant turned and picked out
another box. "Mr. Byrd, are you superstitious?"
     "No, sir."
     "Really? I am, quite.  I take  it you would not object  to wearing pips
which have been worn by five officers, all of whom were killed in action?"
     Birdie barely hesitated. "No, sir."
     "Good. Because these five  officers  accumulated  seventeen  citations,
from the Terran Medal to the Wounded Lion. Come here. The pip with the brown
discoloration must always be worn on your left shoulder -- and don't try  to
buff  it off! Just try not to get the  other one marked in the same fashion.
Unless  necessary, and you'll know when it  is necessary. Here is  a list of
former wearers.  You have thirty  minutes  until your transportation leaves.
Bounce up to Memorial Hall and look up the record of each."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Carry out your orders, sir!"
     He turned to me, looked at my face and said sharply, "Something on your
mind, son? Speak up!"
     "Uh -- " I blurted it out. "Sir, that temporary third lieutenant -- the
one that got cashiered. How could I find out what happened?"
     "Oh. Young  man,  I didn't  mean to  scare the daylights out of  you; I
simply intended  to wake you up. The battle was on one June  1813  old style
between USF Chesapeake  and  HMF  Shannon. Try the  Naval Encyclopedia; your
ship will have it." He turned back to the case of pips and frowned.
     Then he said, "Mr.  Rico, I have a letter from one of your  high school
teachers, a retired officer,  requesting that you be issued the pips he wore
as a third lieutenant. I am sorry to say that I must tell him `No.' "
     "Sir?" I was delighted to hear that  Colonel Dubois was  still  keeping
track of me -- and very disappointed, too.
     "Because I  can't! I issued those pips two  years ago -- and they never
came  back.  Real estate deal. Hmm --  "  He took  a box, looked at me. "You
could start  a new pair.  The metal  isn't important; the  importance of the
request lies in the fact that your teacher wanted you to have them."
     "Whatever you say, sir."
     "Or" -- he cradled the box in  his hand -- "you could wear  these. They
have been worn five times . . .  and the last four  candidates to wear  them
have all failed of commission  --  nothing dishonorable but pesky  bad luck.
Are you willing  to take  a swing at  breaking the  hoodoo?  Turn them  into
goodluck pips instead?"
     I would rather have  petted a shark. But  I answered,  "All right, sir.
I'll take a swing at it."
     "Good." He pinned them on me. "Thank you, Mr. Rico. You see, these were
mine, I wore them first . . . and it would please  me  mightily to have them
brought back to  me with that streak  of bad luck broken, have you go on and
graduate."
     I felt ten feet tall. "I'll try, sir!"
     "I  know you will. You may now carry out your orders, sir. The same air
car will  take  both you and  Byrd. Just  a moment -- Are  your  mathematics
textbooks in your bag?"
     "Sir? No, sir."
     "Get them. The Weightmaster of your ship has been advised of your extra
baggage allowance."
     I saluted and left,  on the bounce.  He  had  me shrunk down to size as
soon as he mentioned math.
     My math books were  on my study desk, tied into a  package with a daily
assignment  sheet tucked  under  the cord.  I gathered the  impression  that
Colonel Nielssen never left anything unplanned -- but everybody knew that.
     Birdie was waiting on the roof by the air car. He glanced  at my  books
and grinned. "Too bad. Well, if we're in the same ship, I'll coach you. What
ship?"
     "Tours."
     "Sorry, I'm for  the Moskva."  We got in, I checked the pilot, saw that
it had  been  pre-set  for the field, closed the door and  the car took off.
Birdie  added, "You could be  worse off. The Assassin took not only his math
books but two other subjects."
     Birdie undoubtedly knew and he had not been showing off when he offered
to coach me; he was a professor type except that his ribbons proved that  he
was a soldier too.
     Instead of studying math Birdie taught it. One period each day he was a
faculty member, the way little Shujumi taught judo at Camp Currie. The M. I.
doesn't  waste anything; we can't  afford to. Birdie had a B.  S. in math on
his  eighteenth  birthday, so  naturally  he  was  assigned  extra  duty  as
instructor -- which didn't keep him from being chewed out at other hours.
     Not  that he  got chewed  out much.  Birdie  had  that  rare  combo  of
brilliant  intellect,  solid education, common sense, and guts, which gets a
cadet marked as a potential  general. We figured he was a cinch to command a
brigade by the time he was thirty, what with the war.
     But my ambitions didn't soar that high. "It  would be  a dirty,  rotten
shame," I  said, "if the Assassin flunked out," while thinking that it would
be a dirty, rotten shame if I flunked out.
     "He won't," Birdie answered cheerfully. "They'll sweat him through  the
rest if they have to  put him in a hypno booth and feed him through a  tube.
Anyhow," he added, "Hassan could flunk out and get promoted for it."
     "Huh?"
     "Didn't you know? The Assassin's permanent rank is first  lieutenant --
field  commission, naturally.  He reverts to it  if he flunks  out. See  the
regs."
     I knew the regs. If I flunked math, I'd revert to buck sergeant,  which
is better than being slapped in the face with  a  wet fish any way you think
about it . . . and I'd thought about it, lying awake nights after busting  a
quiz.
     But this was different. "Hold  it,"  I protested.  "He  gave  up  first
lieutenant,  permanent grade  . .  .  and  has  just  made  temporary  third
lieutenant . . . in order to  become a  second lieutenant? Are you crazy? Or
is he?"
     Birdie grinned. "Just enough to make us both M. I."
     "But -- I don't get it."
     "Sure you do. The Assassin  has no education that he didn't pick  up in
the M. I.  So how  high  can he go? I'm sure he could command a regiment  in
battle  and do a  real  swingin'  job  provided  somebody  else  planned the
operation. But commanding in battle is only  a  fraction  of what an officer
does, especially a senior officer. To direct a war, or even to plan a single
battle  and  mount  the  operation,  you  have  to  have  theory  of  games,
operational analysis, symbolic logic,  pessimistic  synthesis,  and  a dozen
other skull  subjects. You can sweat  them out on your own if you've got the
grounding. But  have them you must, or  you'll  never  get past  captain, or
possibly major. The Assassin knows what he is doing."
     "I suppose so," I said slowly. "Birdie, Colonel Nielssen must know that
Hassan was an officer -- is an officer, really."
     "Huh? Of course."
     "He didn't talk as if he knew. We all got the same lecture."
     "Not quite. Did you notice that when the  Commandant wanted  a question
answered a particular way he always asked the Assassin?"
     I decided it was true. "Birdie, what is your permanent rank?"
     The  car  was just  landing; he paused with  a hand  on  the  latch and
grinned. "PFC -- I don't dare flunk out!"
     I snorted. "You won't. You can't!" I was surprised that he  wasn't even
a corporal, but a kid as smart and well educated as Birdie would go to O. C.
S. just as quickly  as he proved himself in combat . . .  which with the war
on, could be only months after his eighteenth birthday.
     Birdie grinned still wider. "We'll see."
     "You'll graduate. Hassan and I have to worry, but not you."
     "So? Suppose  Miss Kendrick takes a dislike to  me." He opened the door
and looked startled. "Hey! They're sounding my call. So long!"
     "See you, Birdie."
     But I did not see him and he did not graduate.  He was commissioned two
weeks later and his pips  came back with their eighteenth  decoration -- the
Wounded Lion, posthumous.

     CHAPTER 13

     Youse guys think this deleted
     outfit is a blankety-blank nursery.
     Well, it ain't! See?
-- Remark attributed to a Hellenic
     corporal before the walls of Troy,
          1194 B. C.
     The Rodger Young carries one platoon and  is crowded; the Tours carries
six --  and is roomy. She has the tubes to drop them  all at once and enough
spare room  to carry  twice that  number and  make a second drop. This would
make  her very crowded, with eating in shifts, hammocks  in  passageways and
drop rooms,  rationed water,  inhale  when your mate exhales,  and  get your
elbow out of my eye! I'm glad they didn't double up while I was in her.
     But she has the  speed and lift to deliver such crowded troops still in
fighting condition to any point  in Federation  space and much of Bug space;
under Cherenkov  drive she cranks Mike 400  or better -- say Sol to Capella,
forty-six lightyears, in under six weeks.
     Of course, a  six-platoon transport is not  big compared with a  battle
wagon  or passenger liner; these things are compromises.  The M.  I. prefers
speedy  little  one-platoon  corvettes  which  give   flexibility  for   any
operation,  while  if it was  left up to the Navy we would have nothing  but
regimental transports. It takes almost as many Navy  files to run a corvette
as it does to  run a monster big  enough for a  regiment -- more maintenance
and housekeeping, of course, but soldiers can do that. After all, those lazy
troopers do nothing but sleep and eat and polish buttons --  do `em  good to
have a little regular work. So says the Navy.
     The real  Navy opinion is even  more extreme: The  Army is obsolete and
should be abolished.
     The Navy doesn't say this officially -- but talk to a Naval officer who
is on R & R and feeling his oats; you'll get an earful. They think  they can
fight  any  war, win it, send  a few of their  own people down  to hold  the
conquered planet until the Diplomatic Corps takes charge.
     I admit that their newest toys can blow any planet right out of the sky
--  I've  never seen  it  but  I  believe  it.  Maybe  I'm  as  obsolete  as
Tyrannosaurus Rex. I don't feel obsolete and us  apes can do things that the
fanciest ship cannot. If the  government doesn't want those things done,  no
doubt they'll tell us.
     Maybe it's just  as well  that  neither the Navy nor the  M. I. has the
final word. A man can't buck for Sky Marshal unless he has commanded  both a
regiment and a capital ship -- go through M. I.  and take his lumps and then
become  a Naval  officer (I think little Birdie had that in mind), or  first
become an astrogator-pilot and follow it with Camp Currie, etc.
     I'll listen respectfully to any man who has done both.
     Like  most transports, the  Tours is  a  mixed ship; the  most  amazing
change  for  me was  to  be  allowed "North of  Thirty." The  bulkhead  that
separates  ladies' country  from  the  rough  characters  who  shave is  not
necessarily No. 30 but, by tradition, it is called "bulkhead thirty" in  any
mixed ship. The wardroom is just  beyond it and the  rest of ladies' country
is farther forward. In the Tours the  wardroom also  served as messroom  for
enlisted women,  who ate just before we did, and it  was partitioned between
meals into a recreation  room for them and a lounge for their officers. Male
officers had a lounge called the cardroom just abaft thirty.
     Besides the obvious fact  that drop & retrieval require the best pilots
(i.e., female), there is very  strong reason why  female  Naval officers are
assigned to transports: It is good for trooper morale.
     Let's skip  M.  I.  traditions for a moment. Can you think of  anything
sillier than letting yourself be fired out of  a spaceship with  nothing but
mayhem and sudden death at the  other end? However, if someone must  do this
idiotic  stunt, do you know of a  surer  way to keep a  man  keyed up to the
point  where he is willing than by keeping him  constantly reminded that the
only good reason why men fight is a living breathing reality?
     In  a mixed  ship, the last thing  a trooper hears before a drop (maybe

the  last  word he ever hears) is a woman's  voice, wishing him luck. If you
don't think this is important, you've probably resigned from the human race.
     The Tours had fifteen Naval officers, eight ladies and seven men; there
were eight M. I. officers including (I am happy to say) myself. I  won't say
"bulkhead thirty" caused me to buck for O. C. S. but the privilege of eating
with the ladies is more incentive than any increase in pay. The  Skipper was
president of the mess, my boss Captain  Blackstone was vice-president -- not
because  of rank; three Naval officers ranked him but as C. O. of the strike
force he was de facto senior to everybody but the Skipper.
     Every meal was formal.  We would wait in  the cardroom  until  the hour
struck, follow Captain  Blackstone in  and  stand  behind  our  chairs;  the
Skipper would come in followed by her ladies and, as she reached the head of
the  table, Captain  Blackstone  would  bow and say, "Madam President .  . .
ladies," and she would answer,  "Mr. Vice . . .  gentlemen,"  and the man on
each lady's right would seat her.
     This ritual established that it  was a social event,  not an  officers'
conference; thereafter ranks or titles were used, except  that junior  Naval
officers and myself alone among the M. l. were  called "Mister" or "Miss" --
with one exception which fooled me.
     My  first  meal aboard  I  heard  Captain  Blackstone  called  "Major,"
although  his shoulder pips  plainly read "captain." I  got straightened out
later. There can't be two  captains  in a Naval vessel so an Army captain is
bumped one rank  socially rather than  commit the unthinkable of calling him
by the title  reserved for the one  and  only monarch. If a Naval captain is
aboard as anything but skipper, he or she is  called "Commodore" even if the
skipper is a lowly lieutenant.
     The M. I. observes this by avoiding  the necessity  in the wardroom and
paying no attention to the silly custom in our own part of the ship.
     Seniority ran  downhill from each end of the table, with the Skipper at
the  head and the strike force C.  O. at the  foot, the junior midshipman at
his  right  and myself at the Skipper's right. I would most happily have sat
by the junior midshipman;  she  was awfully  pretty but  the  arrangement is
planned chaperonage; I never even learned her first name.
     I knew that I, as the lowliest male, sat on the Skipper's  right -- but
I didn't know that I was supposed  to seat her. At my first  meal she waited
and nobody sat down -- until the third assistant engineer jogged my elbow. I
haven't  been   so  embarrassed   since  a  very  unfortunate   incident  in
kindergarten,  even  though  Captain  Jorgenson  acted  as  if  nothing  had
happened.
     When the Skipper  stands up the meal is over. She was pretty good about
this but  once she stayed seated only a few minutes  and Captain  Blackstone
got annoyed. He stood up but called out, "Captain -- "
     She stopped. "Yes, Major?"
     "Will the Captain  please give  orders  that my officers and myself  be
served in the cardroom?"
     She  answered  coldly, "Certainly,  sir." And  we  were.  But no  Naval
officer joined us.
     The following Saturday she exercised her privilege of inspecting the M.
I.  aboard-which  transport  skippers almost never do. However,  she  simply
walked down the ranks  without commenting. She was not really a martinet and
she  had  a nice  smile when she  wasn't  being  stern.  Captain  Blackstone
assigned  Second Lieutenant "Rusty"  Graham to crack the whip  over me about
math; she found  out about it,  somehow, and told Captain Blackstone to have
me report  to  her  office for  one hour after lunch each day, whereupon she
tutored me in math and bawled me out when my "homework" wasn't perfect.
     Our  six  platoons were  two  companies  as a  rump battalion;  Captain
Blackstone commanded Company  D, Blackie's Blackguards, and  also  commanded
the rump  battalion. Our battalion commander by the  T. O., Major Xera,  was
with A and  B  companies in  the Tours' sister  ship Normandy Beach -- maybe
half a  sky  away; he  commanded us  only when the  full  battalion  dropped
together --  except that Cap'n  Blackie routed  certain reports and  letters
through him. Other  matters went directly to  Fleet, Division,  or Base, and
Blackie  had a  truly wizard fleet sergeant to keep such things straight and
to help him handle both a company and a rump battalion in combat.
     Administrative details are not  simple in an  army spread through  many
light-years  in  hundreds of ships. In the  old  Valley Forge, in the Rodger
Young, and now in the Tours I was in the same regiment, the Third ("Pampered
Pets")  Regiment  of the  First ("Polaris")  M.  I. Division. Two battalions
formed  from  available  units  had  been  called the  "Third  Regiment"  in
Operation Bughouse but  I did not  see  "my"  regiment;  all  I  saw was PFC
Bamburger and a lot of Bugs.
     I might be commissioned in the Pampered Pets, grow old and retire in it
-- and never even see my regimental commander. The Roughnecks had  a company
commander but  he  also commanded the  first platoon ("Hornets") in  another
corvette; I didn't  know his name until  I saw it  on my orders to  O. C. S.
There is a legend about a "lost  platoon" that went on R & R as its corvette
was decommissioned. Its company commander  had just been  promoted  and  the
other platoons had been attached  tactically elsewhere. I've  forgotten what
happened to the  platoon's lieutenant but R & R is a routine  time to detach
an officer -- theoretically  after a relief has been sent to understudy him,
but reliefs are always scarce.
     They say  this  platoon  enjoyed  a  local year of the  fleshpots along
Churchill Road before anybody missed them.
     I don't believe it. But it could happen.
     The  chronic  scarcity  of  officers  strongly affected  my  duties  in
Blackie's Blackguards. The M. I. has  the  lowest percentage  of officers in
any army  of record  and  this  factor is  just part of  the M.  I.'s unique
"divisional wedge."  "D. W."  is military jargon but the idea is simple:  If
you have  l0,000 soldiers, how many fight? And how  many just peel potatoes,
drive lorries, count graves, and shuffle papers?
     In the M. I., 10,000 men fight.
     In  the mass  wars  of the  XXth century  it sometimes took  70,000 men
(fact!) to enable 10,000 to fight.
     I admit it takes the Navy to place us where we fight; however, an M. I.
strike force,  even in  a corvette, is at least three times as  large as the
transport's Navy crew.  It also takes civilians  to  supply  and service us;
about 10 per cent of us are on R & R at any time; and a few of the very best
of us are rotated to instruct at boot camps.
     While a few M. I. are  on desk  jobs you will always find that they are
shy an arm or leg, or some such. These are the ones -- the Sergeant Hos  and
the  Colonel  Nielssens  -- who refuse to retire, and  they really  ought to
count twice  since they release able-bodied  M.  I. by  filling  jobs  which
require  fighting  spirit but  not  physical  perfection.  They do work that
civilians can't do or we would hire civilians. Civilians are like beans; you
buy `em as needed for any job which merely requires skill and savvy.
     But you can't buy fighting spirit.
     It's scarce. We use all of it, waste none.  The  M. I. is  the smallest
army  in history for the size of  the population it guards. You can't buy an
M. I., you can't conscript him, you can't coerce him -- you can't even  keep
him if he wants to leave. He can quit thirty seconds before a drop, lose his
nerve and not get into  his capsule, and all that happens is that he is paid
off and can never vote.
     At O. C. S. we studied armies in history that were driven  like  galley
slaves.  But the M. I. is a free man;  all that drives him comes from inside
-- that self-respect  and need for the respect of his mates and his pride in
being one of them called morale, or esprit de corps.
     The root of our  morale is: "Everybody works,  everybody fights." An M.
I. doesn't  pull  strings to get a  soft,  safe job; there aren't any. Oh, a
trooper will get  away  with what  he  can; any private with enough savvy to
mark time to music can think up reasons why he should not clean compartments
or break out stores; this is a soldier's ancient right.
     But all "soft, safe" jobs  are filled  by civilians;  that goldbricking
private  climbs into his  capsule certain that  everybody,  from general  to
private, is doing  it with  him. Light-years away and on a different day, or
maybe an hour or  so later -- -no matter. What does matter is that everybody
drops. This  is why  he  enters  the  capsule, even though  he  may  not  be
conscious of it.
     If we ever deviate from this, the M. I. will go to pieces. All
     that holds us together is an idea-one that binds more strongly
     than steel but its magic power depends on keeping it intact.
     It  is  this "everybody fights" rule that lets the M. I. get by with so
few officers.
     I  know  more  about this  than I want  to, because  I asked  a foolish
question in Military History and got stuck  with  an assignment which forced
me to dig up stuff ranging from De Bello Gallico to Tsing's classic Collapse
of The  Golden  Hegemony. Consider  an ideal M.  I.  division  -- on  paper,
because you won't find  one elsewhere. How  many officers  does  it require?
Never mind units attached from other corps; they may not be present during a
ruckus and  they are not  like  M.  I.  -- the special  talents  attached to
Logistics &  Communications are all ranked  as  officers. If  it will make a
memory man, a telepath, a senser, or a lucky  man  happy  to have me  salute
him, I'm glad  to  oblige; he is  more valuable than I  am and  I  could not
replace him if I lived to be two hundred. Or take the K-9 Corps, which is 50
per cent "officers" but whose other 50 per cent are neodogs.
     None of these is in the line of command, so let's consider only us apes
and what it takes to lead us.
     This  imaginary division  has 10,800 men in 216 platoons,  each  with a
lieutenant.  Three  platoons  to a  company  calls  for  72  captains;  four
companies to  a  battalion  calls for 18 majors or  lieutenant colonels. Six
regiments with  six colonels  can  form two  or three brigades, each  with a
short general, plus a medium-tall general as top boss.
     You wind up with 317 officers out of a total, all ranks, of 11,117.
     There are no blank  files  and every officer commands a  team. Officers
total 3 per cent -- which is what the M. I. does have, but arranged somewhat
differently. In  fact  a good  many platoons are commanded  by sergeants and
many officers  "wear  more  than  one hat" in  order to  fill  some  utterly
necessary staff jobs.
     Even a platoon leader should have "staff" -- his platoon sergeant.
     But he can get  by without one and his sergeant can get by without him.
But a general  must have staff; the  job is too big to carry in his  hat. He
needs a big planning staff  and a small combat staff. Since there are  never
enough  officers, the  team commanders in his flag  transport double as  his
planning staff and are picked from the  M. I.'s best mathematical  logicians
then they drop with their own teams. The general  drops with  a small combat
staff,  plus a small team of the roughest, on-the-bounce troopers  in the M.
I. Their  job is to keep the general from being bothered  by rude  strangers
while he is managing the battle. Sometimes they succeed.
     Besides necessary staff  billets, any team larger than a  platoon ought
to have a deputy commander. But there  are never enough  officers so we make
do with what we've got. To fill each necessary combat billet, one job to one
officer, would call for a 5 per cent ratio  of officers -- but 3 per cent is
all we've got.
     In place of that optimax of 5  per cent that the M. I. never can reach,
many armies in the past commissioned 10 per cent of their number, or even 15
per  cent --  and  sometimes a preposterous 20 per cent! This sounds  like a
fairy tale but it was a  fact, especially during the XXth century. What kind
of an army  has more  "officers"  than corporals?  (And  more non-coms  than
privates!)
     An army organized  to  lose wars  -- if history means anything. An army
that  is  mostly  organization,  red  tape,  and  overhead,  most  of  whose
"soldiers" never fight.
     But what do "officers" do who do not command fighting men?
     Fiddlework,  apparently  --  officers'  club  officer, morale  officer,
athletics  officer,  public  information  officer,  recreation  officer,  PX
officer,   transportation   officer,  legal   officer,  chaplain,  assistant
chaplain,  junior assistant chaplain,  officer-in-charge of anything anybody
can think of, even -- nursery officer!
     In the  M. I., such  things  are extra duty for  combat officers or, if
they  are  real  jobs,  they   are  done  better  and  cheaper  and  without
demoralizing a fighting outfit by hiring civilians. But the situation got so
smelly in  one of the XXth century major powers that real officers, ones who
commanded fighting men, were given special insignia to distinguish them from
the swarms of swivel-chair hussars.
     The scarcity of officers got steadily worse as the war wore on, because
the casualty rate is always highest among officers . . . and the M. I. never
commissions  a man simply  to fill  vacancy.  In  the  long  run, each  boot
regiment must supply  its own share of officers and  the percentage can't be
raised without lowering the standards. The strike force in the  Tours needed
thirteen  officers --  six platoon leaders,  two company commanders and  two
deputies, and a strike force commander staffed by a deputy and an adjutant.
     What it had was six . . . and me.
     Table of Organization
     "Rump Battalion" Strike Force --
     Cpt. Blackstone
     ("first hat")
     Fleet Sergeant

[Image72.gif]

     I would have  been under Lieutenant Silva, but he left for hospital the
day  I reported,  ill with some sort of  twitching awfuls. But this  did not
necessarily mean that I would get his platoon. A  temporary third lieutenant
is  not  considered  an  asset;  Captain  Blackstone  could  place me  under
Lieutenant Bayonne and put a sergeant in charge of his own first platoon, or
even "put on a third hat" and take the platoon himself.
     In fact, he  did both and nevertheless assigned me as platoon leader of
the  first  platoon  of  the  Blackguards.  He  did  this  by borrowing  the
Wolverine's  best  buck  sergeant  to act as his battalion staffer,  then he
placed his  fleet sergeant as platoon sergeant of his first platoon -- a job
two grades below his chevrons. Then Captain Blackstone spelled it out for me
in a head-shrinking lecture: I  would appear on the T. O. as platoon leader,
but Blackie himself and the fleet sergeant would run the platoon.
     As long  as I behaved myself,  I could go through the motions.  I would
even be  allowed to drop as platoon leader -- but  one word from my  platoon
sergeant to my company commander and the jaws of the nutcracker would close.
     It suited me. It was my platoon as long as I could swing it -- and if I
couldn't,  the sooner I was shoved  aside the better for everybody. Besides,
it was  a lot less nerve-racking  to  get a  platoon that way than by sudden
catastrophe in battle.
     I  took my job  very seriously, for it was my platoon -- the T. O. said
so. But I had not yet learned to delegate authority and, for about a week, I
was  around troopers' country much more  than is good for  a  team.  Blackie
called me into his stateroom. "Son, what in Ned do you think you are doing?"
     I answered stiffly  that  I  was  trying to get my  platoon  ready  for
action.
     "So? Well, that's not what you are accomplishing. You are stirring them
like  a nest  of wild bees.  Why the deuce do you think I turned over to you
the best sergeant  in  the  Fleet? If you will  go to  your stateroom,  hang
yourself  on a hook,  and stay there! . . .  until  `Prepare for  Action' is
sounded, he'll hand that platoon over to you tuned like a violin."
     "As the Captain pleases, sir," I agreed glumly.
     "And that's another thing --  I can't  stand an officer who acts like a
confounded kaydet. Forget that silly third-person talk  around me -- save it
for generals and the Skipper.  Quit bracing your shoulders and clicking your
heels. Officers are supposed to look relaxed, son."
     "Yes, sir."
     "And let that be the last time you say  `sir' to me for one solid week.
Same for saluting. Get that grim kaydet  look off your face and hang a smile
on it."
     "Yes, s -- Okay."
     "That's  better.  Lean against the  bulkhead.  Scratch  yourself. Yawn.
Anything but that tin-soldier act."
     I tried .  . . and  grinned sheepishly as  I discovered that breaking a
habit  is  not  easy.  Leaning was harder  work  than standing at attention.
Captain Blackstone studied me.  "Practice  it,"  he said. "An  officer can't
look scared  or  tense;  it's  contagious. Now  tell me,  Johnnie, what your
platoon  needs. Never mind the piddlin' stuff; I'm not interested in whether
a man has the regulation number of socks in his locker."
     I thought rapidly. "Uh . . . do  you happen to know if Lieutenant Silva
intended to put Brumby up for sergeant?"
     "I do happen to know. What's your opinion?"
     "Well . . . the record shows that he has been acting section leader the
past two months. His efficiency marks are good."
     "I asked for your recommendation, Mister."
     "Well, s  --  Sorry. I've never seen him work on the ground, so I can't
have a real opinion; anybody can soldier in the drop room. But the way I see
it, he's  been acting  sergeant too long  to  bust him  back  to  chaser and
promote a squad  leader over him. He ought to get that third chevron  before
we drop or he ought to be transferred when we get back. Sooner, if there's a
chance for a spaceside transfer."
     Blackie grunted. "You're pretty generous  in giving away my Blackguards
-- for a third lieutenant."
     I  turned red. "Just the same, it's a soft spot  in my  platoon. Brumby
ought to be promoted, or transferred.  I don't want him back  in his old job
with somebody promoted over his head; he'd likely turn sour and  I'd have an
even worse  soft spot. If he can't have  another chevron, he ought  to go to
repple-depple  for  cadre. Then  he won't be  humiliated and  he gets a fair
shake to make sergeant in another team -- instead of a dead end here."
     "Really?" Blackie did  not quite sneer. "After  that masterly analysis,
apply  your powers of deduction and tell  me why  Lieutenant Silva failed to
transfer him three weeks ago when we arrived around Sanctuary."
     I had wondered  about that. The time to transfer a man  is the earliest
possible instant after you decide to let him go -- and without warning; it's
better for the  man  and  the  team -- so says the book. I said slowly, "Was
Lieutenant Silva already ill at that time, Captain?"
     "No."
     The  pieces  matched.  "Captain,  I  recommended Brumby  for  immediate
promotion."
     His eyebrows shot up. "A  minute  ago  you were about  to  dump  him as
useless."
     "Uh, not quite.  I said it had to  be one or the other  -- but I didn't
know which. Now I know."
     "Continue."
     "Uh, this assumes that Lieutenant Silva is an efficient officer -- "
     "Hummmph! Mister, for your  information, `Quick' Silva  has an unbroken
string of `Excellent -- Recommended for Promotion' on his Form Thirty-One."
     "But I knew that he was good," I plowed on, "because I inherited a good
platoon. A good officer might not promote a man for oh,  for many reasons --
and still  not put his misgivings in writing. But in  this case, if he could
not recommend him for  sergeant, then he wouldn't keep him with the  team --
so he would get him out of the ship at the first opportunity. But he didn't.
Therefore I know he  intended to promote Brumby." I added,  "But I can't see
why he  didn't push  it through three weeks  ago, so that Brumby could  have
worn his third chevron on R & R."
     Captain  Blackstone grinned.  "That's because you don't credit me  with
being efficient."
     "S -- I beg pardon?"
     "Never mind. You've proved who  killed Cock Robin and I don't  expect a
still-moist  kaydet  to know all the  tricks. But listen and  learn, son. As
long as this war goes on, don't ever promote a man just before you return to
Base."
     "Uh . . . why not, Captain?"
     "You mentioned sending Brumby to Replacement Depot if he was not to  be
promoted. But  that's just  where he would  have gone if we had promoted him
three   weeks  ago.  You  don't  know  how  hungry  that   non-com  desk  at
repple-depple is.  Paw through  the dispatch file  and you'll find  a demand
that we supply  two  sergeants for  cadre.  With  a  platoon  sergeant being
detached  for O.  C.  S.  and  a  buck  sergeant spot  vacant,  I was  under
complement and able to refuse." He grinned savagely. "It's a rough war, son,
and your own people will steal  your  best men if you don't  watch  `em." He
took two sheets of paper out of a drawer. "There -- "
     One was a letter from Silva  to Cap'n Blackie, recommending  Brumby for
sergeant; it was dated over a month ago.
     The other was Brumby's warrant for sergeant dated the day after we left
Sanctuary.
     "That suit you?" he asked.
     "Huh? Oh, yes indeed!"
     "I've been  waiting for you to spot the  weak place  in your team,  and
tell me what had to be done. I'm pleased that you figured it out -- but only
middlin'  pleased because  an experienced officer would have analyzed  it at
once from the T. O. and the service records. Never mind, that's how you gain
experience. Now here's what you do. Write me  a letter like Silva's; date it
yesterday. Tell  your  platoon sergeant to tell Brumby that you have put him
up for a third stripe --  and don't  mention that  Silva did  so. You didn't
know that when you made  the recommendation, so we'll keep it that way. When
I swear Brumby in, I'll let him know that both his officers  recommended him
independently -- which will make him feel good. Okay, anything more?"
     "Uh .  .  . not in organization -- unless Lieutenant Silva  planned  to
promote Naidi, vice Brumby. In which case we could promote  one PFC to lance
. .  . and that  would allow us  to promote four privates  to PFC, including
three  vacancies now existing. I don't know whether it's your policy to keep
the T. O. filled up tight or not?"
     "Might as well,"  Blackie said gently, "as you  and I know that some of
those lads  aren't going  to  have  many  days  in  which to enjoy it.  Just
remember that we don't make a man a PFC until after he has been in combat --
not in Blackie's  Blackguards  we don't.  Figure  it  out  with your platoon
sergeant and  let me know. No hurry . . . any time before  bedtime  tonight.
Now . . . anything else?"
     "Well -- Captain, I'm worried about the suits."
     "So am I. All platoons."
     "I don't know about the other platoons, but with five recruits  to fit,
plus four suits damaged  and exchanged,  and two  more downchecked this past
week and replaced from stores -- well, I don't see how Cunha and Navarre can
warm up that many and run routine tests on forty-one  others and get  it all
done by our calculated date. Even if no trouble develops -- "
     "Trouble always develops."
     "Yes, Captain. But that's two hundred and eighty-six man-hours just for
warm & fit, plus a hundred and twenty-three hours  of routine checks. And it
always takes longer."
     "Well, what do you think can be done? The other platoons will  lend you
help if they finish their own suits ahead of  time. Which I doubt. Don't ask
to borrow help from the Wolverines; we're more likely to lend them help."
     "Uh .  . . Captain,  I don't know what you'll think of this,  since you
told me to stay out of  troopers' country. But when I was a corporal,  I was
assistant to the Ordnance & Armor sergeant."
     "Keep talking."
     "Well, right  at the last I  was the O  &  A sergeant.  But I was  just
standing  in another man's shoes  -- I'm not a finished O &  A mechanic. But
I'm a pretty darn good assistant and if I was allowed to, well, I can either
warm  new suits, or run routine  checks -- and give Cunha and  Navarre  that
much more time for trouble."
     Blackie  leaned  back  and grinned.  "Mister, I have  searched the regs
carefully  . . . and I can't find the one that  says  an officer mustn't get
his hands dirty."  He added, "I  mention that because some `young gentlemen'
who have been  assigned to  me apparently  had read such a  regulation.  All
right, draw some dungarees -- no need to  get your uniform dirty  along with
your hands. Go aft and find your platoon sergeant, tell him about Brumby and
order him to prepare recommendations to close the gaps in the T.  O. in case
I  should decide  to confirm  your recommendation for Brumby. Then  tell him
that you are going to put in all your time on ordnance and armor -- and that
you want him to handle everything else. Tell him that if he has any problems
to look you up in the armory. Don't tell him  you consulted me  -- just give
him orders. Follow me?"
     "Yes, s -- Yes, I do."
     "Okay,  get on  it.  As you pass through the  cardroom,  please give my
compliments to Rusty and tell him to drag his lazy carcass in here."

     For the  next two  weeks I was never so busy -- not even in  boot camp.
Working as an ordnance & armor mech about ten hours a day was not all that I
did. Math, of  course -- and no way to duck it with the Skipper tutoring me.
Meals  -- say an hour and a half a day. Plus the  mechanics of staying alive
-- shaving, showering, putting  buttons in uniforms and trying to chase down
the Navy master-at-arms, get him  to  unlock the  laundry  to  locate  clean
uniforms ten minutes before  inspection. (It is an unwritten law of the Navy
that facilities must always be locked when they are most needed.)
     Guard  mount, parade,  inspections, a  minimum of platoon routine, took
another hour a  day.  But  besides, I  was  "George."  Every  outfit  has  a
"George." He's the most junior officer and has  the extra jobs --  athletics
officer,   mail   censor,  referee   for   competitions,   school   officer,
correspondence courses officer,  prosecutor courts-martial, treasurer of the
welfare  mutual  loan fund,  custodian  of  registered publications,  stores
officer, troopers' mess officer, et cetera ad endless nauseam.
     Rusty Graham had been  "George" until he happily turned it over to  me.
He wasn't so happy when I insisted  on a  sight  inventory on everything for
which I  had  to sign. He suggested  that if I didn't have  sense  enough to
accept a commissioned officer's signed inventory then perhaps a direct order
would change  my tune. So I  got sullen and told  him  to put his  orders in
writing -- with  a  certified copy so  that  I could keep the  original  and
endorse the copy over to the team commander.
     Rusty angrily  backed  down  -- even a second  lieutenant isn't  stupid
enough to put such orders in writing. I wasn't happy either  as Rusty was my
roommate  and was  then  still  my  tutor  in math, but  we  held the  sight
inventory.  I got  chewed  out  by  Lieutenant  Warren  for  being  stupidly
officious  but  he  opened  his  safe  and  let  me  check   his  registered
publications. Captain Blackstone opened  his with no  comment and I couldn't
tell whether he approved of my sight inventory or not.
     Publications were okay but accountable property was not. Poor Rusty! He
had accepted his predecessor's count and  now the count was short -- and the
other officer was not merely gone, he was dead. Rusty spent a restless night
(and so did I!), then went to Blackie and told him the truth.
     Blackie chewed him out, then went over the missing items, found ways to
expend most of them as "lost in combat." It reduced Rusty's  shortages to  a
few days' pay -- but Blackie  had  him keep  the job, thereby postponing the
cash reckoning indefinitely.
     Not  all  "George"  jobs  caused  that  much  headache.  There were  no
courts-martial;  good  combat teams  don't have them.  There  was no mail to
censor as the ship  was  in  Cherenkov  drive.  Same  for welfare loans  for
similar reasons. Athletics I delegated to Brumby; referee was "if and when."
The troopers'  mess was excellent; I initialed menus and sometimes inspected
the galley, i.e., I  scrounged a sandwich  without  getting out of dungarees
when  working late  in  the armory.  Correspondence courses  meant a lot  of
paperwork since quite a few were continuing  their educations, war or no war
-- but I delegated my platoon  sergeant and the records were kept by the PFC
who was his clerk.
     Nevertheless "George" jobs soaked up about two hours every day -- there
were so many.
     You see where this left me -- ten hours O & A, three  hours math, meals
an  hour  and a  half, personal  one  hour, military  fiddlework  one  hour,
"George" two hours, sleep eight hours  total,  twenty-six and  a half hours.
The ship wasn't even  on the twenty-five-hour Sanctuary day; once we left we
went on Greenwich standard and the universal calendar.
     The only slack was in my sleeping time.
     I was sitting  in the cardroom  about one o'clock one morning, plugging
away  at math,  when Captain  Blackstone came in.  I  said,  "Good  evening,
Captain."
     "Morning, you mean. What the deuce ails you, son? Insomnia?"
     "Uh, not exactly."
     He picked up a stack of sheets, remarking, "Can't your sergeant  handle
your paperwork? Oh, I see. Go to bed."
     "But, Captain -- "
     "Sit back down. Johnnie, I've been meaning to talk  to you. I never see
you here  in the cardroom, evenings. I walk  past your room, you're  at your
desk. When your bunkie goes to bed, you move out here. What's the trouble?"
     "Well . . . I just never seem to get caught up."
     "Nobody ever does. How's the work going in the armory?"
     "Pretty well. I think we'll make it."
     "I think so, too. Look, son, you've got to keep a  sense of proportion.
You have two prime  duties. First is to see that your platoon's equipment is
ready  --  you're  doing  that.  You  don't have  to worry about the platoon
itself, I  told you that. The second --  and just as important -- you've got
to be ready to fight. You're muffing that."
     "I'll be ready, Captain."
     "Nonsense  and other comments. You're getting  no  exercise  and losing
sleep. Is that how to train for a drop? When you lead a platoon, son, you've
got to be on the bounce. From here  on you will exercise from sixteen-thirty
to eighteen  hundred each  day. You will be in your  sack with lights out at
twenty-three hundred -- and if you lie awake fifteen minutes two nights in a
row, you will report to the Surgeon for treatment. Orders."
     "Yes,  sir."  I  felt  the  bulkheads  closing  in  on  me  and   added
desperately, "Captain, I  don't see how I can get to  bed by twenty-three --
and still get everything done."
     "Then you  won't. As I said, son, you must have  a sense of proportion.
Tell me how you spend your time."
     So  I  did.  He nodded.  "Just  as I  thought."  He picked up  my  math
"homework," tossed it in front of me. "Take this. Sure, you want to work  on
it. But why work so hard before we go into action?"
     "Well, I thought -- "
     " `Think' is what you didn't do. There are four possibilities, and only
one calls for finishing  these assignments.  First,  you  might  buy a farm.
Second,  you  might  buy  a  small  piece  and be  retired with  an honorary
commission.  Third,  you  might come  through  all  right  . . . but  get  a
downcheck on your Form Thirty-One from  your  examiner, namely me.  Which is
just what  you're aching for at  the present time -- why, son, I  won't even
let you drop if you show up  with eyes red from no sleep and  muscles flabby
from  too much chair parade. The fourth possibility is that you take a  grip
on yourself . . . in which case I might  let you  take a  swing at leading a
platoon.  So  let's assume that you  do and put  on the  finest  show  since
Achilles  slew Hector and  I pass you. In that  case only  -- you'll need to
finish these math assignments. So do them on the trip back.
     "That takes care of that -- I'll tell the Skipper.  The  rest of  those
jobs you are relieved of, right now. On our way home you can spend your time
on math. If we get home. But you'll never get anywhere if you don't learn to
keep first things first. Go to bed!"

     A week later we made rendezvous, coming out of drive and coasting short
of  the  speed  of  light  while  the fleet exchanged  signals. We were sent
Briefing, Battle Plan, our Mission & Orders -- a stack of words as long as a
novel -- and were told not to drop.
     Oh, we  were  to  be  in the  operation but  we  would ride  down  like
gentlemen,  cushioned  in  retrieval  boats.  This we  could do  because the
Federation  already  held  the  surface;  Second,  Third,  and  Fifth  M. I.
Divisions had taken it -- and paid cash.
     The described real estate  didn't  seem worth  the price. Planet  P  is
smaller than Terra, with a  surface gravity of  0.7,  is mostly  arctic-cold
ocean and rock, with lichenous  flora and no  fauna  of interest. Its air is
not breathable  for long, being contaminated with nitrous oxide and too much
ozone. Its  one  continent is about half the  size  of Australia, plus  many
worthless  islands; it would probably require as much terra-forming as Venus
before we could use it.
     However we  were  not  buying real estate  to  live  on; we  went there
because  Bugs were there -- and they were there  on  our  account,  so Staff
thought. Staff told us that Planet P was  an uncompleted advance base (prob.
87+-6 per cent) to be used against us.
     Since the planet was no prize, the routine way  to get rid of this  Bug
base would be for the Navy to stand off at a safe  distance  and render this
ugly spheroid uninhabitable by Man or Bug. But the C-in-C had other ideas.
     The  operation  was  a  raid.  It  sounds  incredible to call a  battle
involving hundreds of ships and thousands of casualties a "raid," especially
as, in  the meantime, the Navy  and a lot of other cap troopers were keeping
things  stirred up  many light-years into Bug space in order  to divert them
from reinforcing Planet P.
     But the C-in-C was not wasting men; this giant raid could determine who
won  the war, whether next  year  or thirty years hence.  We needed to learn
more about Bug  psychology. Must we wipe out every Bug in the Galaxy? Or was
it possible  to  trounce  them  and impose a  peace?  We  did not  know;  we
understood  them  as  little  as  we  understand  termites.  To  learn their
psychology we had  to  communicate  with them, learn their motivations, find
out why  they fought and under what conditions they  would stop; for  these,
the Psychological Warfare Corps needed prisoners.
     Workers  are easy to capture. But  a  Bug worker  is  hardly  more than
animate machinery. Warriors can be  captured by burning off enough  limbs to
make them helpless -- but they  are almost as stupid without  a director  as
workers. From such prisoners our own  professor types had  learned important
matters -- the development of that oily gas that killed them but not us came
from analyzing the biochemistries of workers  and warriors, and  we had  had
other new weapons from such research even in the short time I had been a cap
trooper. But  to discover why Bugs fight we needed to study members of their
brain caste. Also, we hoped to exchange prisoners.
     So far, we had never taken a brain Bug alive. We had either cleaned out
colonies from  the surface, as on Sheol, or (as had too often been the case)
raiders had gone down their holes and not come back. A lot of brave men  had
been lost this way.
     Still more had been lost through retrieval failure. Sometimes a team on
the  ground  had its ship or ships  knocked  out of the sky. What happens to
such a team? Possibly it dies to the last man. More probably it fights until
power  and ammo are gone, then survivors are captured as easily  as  so many
beetles on their backs.
     From our  co  belligerents  the  Skinnies we  knew  that  many  missing
troopers  were alive as  prisoners --  thousands we hoped, hundreds  we were
sure. Intelligence believed that prisoners were  always  taken to Klendathu;
the  Bugs are  as  curious about us  as  we are  about  them  --  a race  of
individuals  able  to  build  cities, starships, armies, may  be  even  more
mysterious to a hive entity than a hive entity is to us.
     As may be, we wanted those prisoners back!
     In  the grim logic of the universe this may be a weakness. Perhaps some
race that never bothers to rescue an individual may exploit this human trait
to wipe us out. The  Skinnies have such a  trait only slightly and the  Bugs
don't seem  to have it at  all --  nobody ever saw  a Bug come to the aid of
another because he  was  wounded;  they cooperate perfectly in fighting  but
units are abandoned the instant they are no longer useful.
     Our behavior  is  different. How often  have  you seen a headline  like
this? -- TWO DIE ATTEMPTING RESCUE OF DROWNING CHILD.  If a man gets lost in
the mountains,  hundreds will search and  often  two or three  searchers are
killed.  But the next time somebody gets lost  just as  many volunteers turn
out.
     Poor arithmetic . . . but very human. It runs through all our folklore,
all human religions, all our literature a  racial  conviction that when  one
human needs rescue, others should not count the price.
     Weakness? It might be the unique strength that wins us a Galaxy.
     Weakness or  strength, Bugs  don't have  it;  there was  no prospect of
trading fighters for fighters.
     But in a hive  polyarchy,  some  castes  are valuable  or  so our Psych
Warfare people hoped.  If we could capture  brain Bugs, alive and undamaged,
we might be able to trade on good terms.
     And suppose we captured a queen!
     What is a queen's  trading value? A  regiment of troopers? Nobody knew,
but Battle Plan ordered us to capture  Bug "royalty," brains and queens,  at
any cost, on the gamble that we could trade them for human beings.
     The third purpose of Operation  Royalty was to  develop methods: how to
go down, how  to  dig  them  out, how to  win with  less than total weapons.
Trooper  for warrior, we could now defeat them above  ground; ship for ship,
our Navy was  better; but, so far, we had had  no luck  when  we tried to go
down their holes.
     If we failed to exchange  prisoners on any terms, then we still had to:
(a) win the war, (b) do so in a way that gave us a fighting chance to rescue
our own people, or  (c) --  might as well admit it -- die  trying and  lose.
Planet  P  was a field  test to determine whether we could learn how to root
them out.
     Briefing was read to every trooper and he heard  it  again in his sleep
during hypno  preparation. So,  while we all knew that Operation Royalty was
laying the groundwork toward eventual rescue of our mates, we also knew that
Planet P held no  human prisoners -- it had never been raided.  So there was
no  reason  to buck  for medals in a wild hope of  being personally in  on a
rescue;  it was just another Bug hunt, but  conducted with massive force and
new techniques.  We  were going to peel that planet like an onion,  until we
knew that every Bug had been dug out.
     The Navy  had  plastered  the  islands and  that unoccupied part of the
continent  until they were  radioactive glaze;  we could tackle Bugs with no
worries about our rear.  The Navy also maintained a ball-of-yarn  patrol  in
tight orbits around the planet, guarding us, escorting transports, keeping a
spy watch on the surface to make sure that Bugs did not break out behind  us
despite that plastering.
     Under the Battle Plan, the orders for Blackie's  Blackguards charged us
with supporting  the prime Mission when ordered or as opportunity presented,
relieving another company  in  a  captured area, protecting  units of  other
corps in that area,  maintaining  contact with M. I. units around us  -- and
smacking down any Bugs that showed their ugly heads.

     So we rode down  in comfort to an unopposed landing. I took  my platoon
out  at  a  powered-armor  trot.  Blackie  went  ahead  to meet  the company
commander he was relieving,  get the  situation and size  up the terrain. He
headed for the horizon like a scared jack rabbit.
     I  had Cunha send his first section's scouts out to locate the  forward
corners of my patrol area and I sent  my platoon sergeant off to my  left to
make  contact with a patrol from the Fifth Regiment. We, the Third Regiment,
had a grid three hundred miles wide and eighty miles deep to hold;  my piece
was  a rectangle  forty miles deep and seventeen  wide in the  extreme  left
flank forward corner. The Wolverines were  behind us, Lieutenant Khoroshen's
platoon on the right and Rusty beyond him.
     Our  First Regiment  had already relieved a Vth  Div. regiment ahead of
us, with a "brick wall"  overlap which placed them on my  corner as well  as
ahead. "Ahead" and "rear," "right flank" and "left," referred to orientation
set up in deadreckoning  tracers in each command suit  to match the  grid of
the Battle Plan. We had no true front, simply an area, and the only fighting
at the  moment  was  going  on  several hundred miles away, to our arbitrary
right and rear.
     Somewhere  off  that way,  probably two  hundred miles,  should be  2nd
platoon, G Co, 2nd Batt, 3rd Reg -- commonly known as "The Roughnecks."
     Or  the  Roughnecks   might  be   forty  light-years   away.   Tactical
organization never  matches the Table of Organization; all  I knew from Plan
was that something called  the "2nd Batt" was on  our right flank beyond the
boys  from the  Normandy  Beach. But that battalion could have been borrowed
from another  division. The  Sky Marshal plays his chess without  consulting
the pieces.
     Anyhow,  I  should  not be thinking  about the Roughnecks;  I had all I
could do as a Blackguard.  My platoon was okay for the moment -- safe as you
can be  on  a hostile planet -- but I had plenty to do before Cunha's  first
squad reached the far corner. I needed to:
     1. Locate the platoon leader who had been holding my area.
     2. Establish corners and identify them to section and squad leaders.
     3. Make  contact  liaison  with eight  platoon leaders on my sides  and
corners, five of whom should already be  in position (those  from  Fifth and
First  Regiments) and three (Khoroshen  of  the Blackguards  and Bayonne and
Sukarno of the Wolverines) who were now moving into position.
     4. Get  my own  boys spread  out to  their  initial points  as fast  as
possible by shortest routes.
     The  last had to  be set up first,  as  the  open column  in  which  we
disembarked  would not do it.  Brumby's last squad needed to  deploy  to the
left  flank;  Cunha's leading squad needed to spread from dead ahead to left
oblique; the other four squads must fan out in between.
     This is a  standard square deployment and we had simulated how to reach
it quickly in the drop room; I called  out: "Cunha!  Brumby!  Time to spread
`em out," using the non-com circuit.
     "Roger sec one!" -- "Roger sec two!"
     "Section leaders take charge . . . and caution each  recruit. You'll be
passing a lot of Cherubs. I don't want `em shot  at by mistake!"  I bit down
for my private circuit and said, "Sarge, you got contact on the left?"
     "Yes, sir. They see me, they see you."
     "Good. I don't see a beacon on our anchor corner -- "
     "Missing."
     "  -- so you coach Cunha  by  D.  R. Same for the  lead scout -- that's
Hughes  --  and have  Hughes  set a new beacon." I wondered why the Third or
Fifth hadn't  replaced  that anchor beacon -- my  forward left  corner where
three regiments came together.
     No use talking. I went on: "D. R. check. You bear two seven five, miles
twelve."
     "Sir, reverse is nine six, miles twelve scant."
     "Close  enough. I  haven't found my opposite number yet, so I'm cutting
out forward at max. Mind the shop."
     "Got `em, Mr. Rico."
     I advanced  at  max  speed  while clicking over  to officers'  circuit:
"Square Black  One,  answer. Black One, Chang's  Cherubs -- do you read  me?
Answer." I wanted to talk with the  leader  of the platoon we were relieving
-- and not for  any  perfunctory I-relieve-you-sir: I wanted the ungarnished
word.
     I didn't like what I had seen.
     Either  the top  brass had  been  optimistic  in believing  that we had
mounted overwhelming force against  a small, not fully developed Bug base --
or the Blackguards had been  awarded the spot where the roof fell in. In the
few moments I had  been out of the boat I had spotted  half a  dozen armored
suits on the ground -- empty I hoped,  dead men  possibly, but `way too many
any way you looked at it.
     Besides that, my tactical radar display showed  a full platoon (my own)
moving into  position  but only a scattering moving back toward retrieval or
still on station. Nor could I see any system to their movements.
     I was responsible for 680 square miles of  hostile terrain and I wanted
very badly to find out all I could before my own  squads were deep  into it.
Battle Plan had ordered a new tactical doctrine which I found dismaying:  Do
not close the Bugs tunnels. Blackie had explained this as if it had been his
own happy thought, but I doubt if he liked it.
     The strategy was simple, and, I guess, logical . . . if we could afford
the losses. Let  the Bugs come  up. Meet them  and kill them on the surface.
Let them keep on coming up. Don't bomb their holes, don't gas their holes --
let them out. After a while -- a day, two days, a week if we really did have
overwhelming force, they would  stop coming  up.  Planning  Staff  estimated
(don't ask me how!) that the Bugs would expend 70 per cent to 90 per cent of
their warriors before they stopped trying to drive us off the surface.
     Then we would start  the unpeeling, killing  surviving warriors  as  we
went  down and trying to capture  "royalty" alive.  We knew what  the  brain
caste looked like; we  had  seen them dead (in photographs) and we knew they
could not  run --  barely  functional legs, bloated bodies that were  mostly
nervous  system. Queens no  human  had  ever seen,  but  Bio War  Corps  had
prepared sketches  of what  they should look like -- obscene monsters larger
than a horse and utterly immobile.
     Besides brains and queens there  might be  other  "royalty"  castes. As
might be -- encourage their warriors to come out and die, then capture alive
anything but warriors and workers.
     A  necessary plan and very pretty, on paper. What it  meant  to  me was
that I had an area 17 x 40 miles which might be  riddled  with unstopped Bug
holes. I wanted co-ordinates on each one.
     If there were too many . . . well, I might accidentally plug a  few and
let  my boys concentrate on watching the rest. A private  in a marauder suit
can cover a lot  of terrain, but he can look at only one thing at a time; he
is not superhuman.
     I bounced several miles  ahead  of the first squad,  still calling  the
Cherub  platoon leader,  varying  it  by  calling  any  Cherub  officer  and
describing the pattern of my transponder beacon (dah-di-dah-dah).
     No answer --
     At last  I got a  reply from  my boss:  "Johnnie! Knock  off the noise.
Answer me on conference circuit."
     So I did, and Blackie told me crisply to quit trying to find the Cherub
leader for Square Black One; there wasn't  one. Oh, there might be a non-com
alive somewhere but the chain of command had broken.
     By the book, somebody always moves up.  But it does happen  if too many
links  are knocked out.  As Colonel Nielssen had once warned  me, in the dim
past . . . almost a month ago.
     Captain Chang had gone into action with three officers besides himself;
there was one left  now (my classmate, Abe  Moise) and Blackie was trying to
find out from him the situation. Abe wasn't much  help.  When  I  joined the
conference and  identified myself, Abe thought I was his battalion commander
and made  a report almost  heartbreakingly precise, especially as it made no
sense at all.
     Blackie interrupted and  told  me  to carry on. "Forget about  a relief
briefing. The situation is whatever you see that it is -- so stir around and
see."
     "Right,  Boss!" I slashed across my own area toward the far corner, the
anchor  corner,  as  fast as I could move, switching circuits  on  my  first
bounce. "Sarge! How about that beacon?"
     "No place  on that corner to  put it, sir. A fresh crater  there, about
scale six."
     I whistled to myself. You could drop the Tours into a size  six crater.
One of  the dodges  the Bugs used on us when we were sparring,  ourselves on
the  surface,  Bugs  underground, was land mines. (They  never seemed to use
missiles, except from ships in space.) If you were near the spot, the ground
shock got you; if you were in the air when one went off, the concussion wave
could tumble your gyros and throw your suit out of control.
     I  had never seen larger than a scale-four crater. The theory was  that
they  didn't  dare  use  too  big  an explosion  because  of damage to their
troglodyte habitats, even if they cofferdammed around it.
     "Place an offset beacon," I told him. "Tell section and squad leaders."
     "I have, sir. Angle one  one oh,  miles one point three. Da-di-dit. You
should be able to read  it, bearing about  three three₧five  from  where you
are." He sounded as calm as a sergeant-instructor at drill and I wondered if
I were letting my voice get shrill.
     I found it in my display, above my left eyebrow -- long and two shorts.
"Okay.  I  see Cunha's  first squad  is nearly  in position. Break  off that
squad, have it patrol  the crater. Equalize the areas -- Brumby will have to
take four more  miles of depth."  I  thought with annoyance  that  each  man
already had to patrol  fourteen square miles; spreading the  butter  so thin
meant seventeen  square miles per man -- and  a Bug  can come  out of a hole
less that five feet wide.
     I added, "How `hot' is that crater?"
     "Amber-red at the edge. I haven't been in it, sir."
     "Stay out  of  it.  I'll  check  it later."  Amber-red  would  kill  an
unprotected  human but  a trooper in armor can take it for quite  a time. If
there was  that much  radiation at the edge, the  bottom  would no doubt fry
your  eyeballs. "Tell Naidi to  pull Malan and Bjork back to amber zone, and
have them  set up ground listeners." Two  of my five recruits were  in  that
first  squad -- and  recruits  are like puppies; they stick their noses into
things.
     "Tell Naidi  that I  am interested in two things: movement  inside  the
crater . . . and noises in the ground around it."  We wouldn't send troopers
out  through a hole so  radioactive that mere exit would kill them. But Bugs
would, if they could reach us that way. "Have Naidi report to me. To you and
me. I mean."
     "Yes, sir." My platoon sergeant added, "May I make a suggestion?"
     "Of course. And don't stop to ask permission next time."
     "Navarre can handle the rest of the first section. Sergeant Cunha could
take  the  squad at  the  crater  and leave  Naidi  free  to  supervise  the
ground-listening watch."
     I  know  what  he was thinking. Naidi, so  newly a corporal that he had
never before had  a squad on the  ground, was hardly  the man to  cover what
looked like the worst danger point  in Square Black One;  he  wanted to pull
Naidi back for the same reasons I had pulled the recruits back.
     I wonder if he knew what  I was thinking? That "nut-cracker"  -- he was
using the suit he had worn as  Blackie's battalion staffer,  he had one more
circuit than I had, a private one to Captain Blackstone.
     Blackie was probably patched in and listening  via  that extra circuit.
Obviously  my platoon  sergeant  did  not agree  with my  disposition of the
platoon.  If I  didn't  take  his advice, the next  thing I  heard might  be
Blackie's  voice  cutting  in:  "Sergeant,  take charge.  Mr.  Rico,  you're
relieved."
     But  -- Confound it, a corporal who  wasn't allowed to  boss  his squad
wasn't a corporal . . .  and a platoon leader who was just a ventriloquist's
dummy for his platoon sergeant was an empty suit!
     I didn't mull this. It  flashed through my head and I answered at once.
"I can't  spare a corporal to baby-sit with  two recruits. Nor a sergeant to
boss four privates and a lance."
     "But -- "
     "Hold it. I want the crater watch relieved every hour. I want our first
patrol sweep made  rapidly.  Squad leaders will check  any hole reported and
get  beacon  bearings so that  section leaders, platoon sergeant and platoon
leader  can  check them as they  reach them. If there aren't too many, we'll
put a watch on each -- I'll decide later."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Second time around, I  want a  slow patrol,  as tight  as possible, to
catch holes  we  miss on the  first sweep. Assistant squad leaders will  use
snoopers on that pass. Squad leaders will get bearings on any troopers -- or
suits -- on the  ground; the Cherubs may have left some live wounded. But no
one  is to stop even to check physicals until I order it. We've got  to know
the Bug situation first."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Suggestions?"
     "Just one," he answered.  "I  think the squad chasers should use  their
snoopers on that first fast pass."
     "Very well, do  it that way." His suggestion  made sense as the surface
air  temperature  was  much  lower  than  the Bugs use in  their  tunnels; a
camouflaged vent hole should show a  plume like a geyser by infrared vision.
I glanced at my display.  "Cunha's  boys are almost  at  limit.  Start  your
parade.'
     "Very well, sir!"
     "Off." I  clicked over to the wide circuit and continued to make tracks
for the crater while I  listened to everybody at once as my platoon sergeant
revised  the pre-plan -- cutting out one squad, heading  it for the  crater,
starting  the rest  of the first section  in a two-squad countermarch  while
keeping the  second section in a rotational  sweep  as pre-planned  but with
four miles increased depth; got the sections moving, dropped them and caught
the  first squad  as  it  converged on the anchor corner crater, gave it its
instructions; cut back to the section leaders in plenty of time to give them
new beacon bearings at which to make their turns.
     He did it with the smart precision of a drum major on parade and he did
it faster  and  in  fewer words than  I  could have done  it. Extended-order
powered-suit drill, with a platoon spread over many miles of countryside, is
much more difficult than the strutting precision of parade -- but  it has to
be exact, or you'll blow the head  off  your mate in action . . .  or, as in
this case, you sweep part of the terrain twice and miss another part.
     But the drillmaster has  only a radar display of his formation; he  can
see with his eyes only those near him. While I listened, I watched it in  my
own display -- glowworms  crawling past my face in precise lines, "crawling"
because even forty miles  an  hour is  a  slow  crawl  when  you  compress a
formation twenty miles across into a display a man can see.
     I listened to everybody at once because  I  wanted to hear the  chatter
inside the squads.
     There wasn't any. Cunha and Brumby gave their secondary commands -- and
shut  up.  The  corporals sang  out  only as  squad changes  were necessary;
section and squad  chasers called out occasional corrections of interval  or
alignment -- and privates said nothing at all.
     I heard the breathing of fifty men like muted sibilance of surf, broken
only by  necessary  orders in  the fewest possible words. Blackie  had  been
right; the platoon had been handed over to me "tuned like a violin."
     They didn't need me!  I  could go home  and my platoon  would get along
just as well.
     Maybe better --
     I wasn't sure I  had been right in refusing to cut  Cunha  out to guard
the crater;  if trouble broke there  and those boys  couldn't be  reached in
time, the  excuse that I had done it "by the book" was worthless. If you get
killed, or let some-
     body else get killed, "by the book" it's just as permanent as any other
way.
     I wondered if the Roughnecks had a spot open for a buck sergeant.

     Most of  Square Black One was as flat as the prairie around Camp Currie
and much more barren. For this I was thankful; it gave us our only chance of
spotting a Bug coming up from below and getting him first. We were spread so
widely  that four-mile  intervals between men and about six minutes  between
waves of a fast sweep was as  tight a patrol as  we could manage. This isn't
tight enough; any  one spot would remain free of  observation  for  at least
three or four minutes between patrol waves -- and a lot of Bugs can come out
of a very small hole in three to four minutes.
     Radar can  see  farther than  eye,  of  course,  but it  cannot  see as
accurately.
     In  addition we  did not dare  use anything  but short-range  selective
weapons  -- our own mates were spread around us in all directions. If a  Bug
popped up and you let fly with something lethal, it was certain that not too
far beyond that  Bug was a  cap trooper; this  sharply limits  the range and
force of the frightfulness you dare use. On this operation only officers and
platoon sergeants were armed with rockets and, even so, we did not expect to
use them.  If a  rocket  fails to find  its target, it has a  nasty habit of
continuing to search until it finds one . . . and it cannot tell friend from
foe; a brain that can be stuffed into a small rocket is fairly stupid.
     I would  happily have swapped that area patrol, with thousands of M. I.
around  us, for a simple one-platoon strike in which you know where your own
people are and anything else is an enemy target.
     I  didn't  waste time  moaning; I never  stopped  bouncing  toward that
anchor-corner crater while watching the ground and trying to watch the radar
picture as well. I didn't find any Bug holes but I did jump over a dry wash,
almost  a canyon, which could conceal  quite a  few. I didn't stop to see; I
simply  gave its co ordinates to my  platoon sergeant  and told him to  have
somebody check it.
     That crater was even bigger than I had visualized; the Tours would have
been lost in it. I shifted my radiation counter to directional cascade, took
readings on floor and sides -- red to multiple red right off the scale, very
unhealthy for long  exposure  even to a man in armor; I  estimated its width
and depth by helmet range  finder,  then  prowled around and tried  to  spot
openings leading underground.
     I  did  not  find  any but  I did  run into crater  watches set  out by
adjacent  platoons of the Fifth and  First Regiments, so I arranged to split
up the watch by  sectors such  that the combined watch could  yell for  help
from  all  three platoons, the  patch-in to do this being made through First
Lieutenant  Do Campo of the "Head Hunters" on  our left.  Then  I pulled out
Naidi's lance and half his squad (including the recruits) and sent them back
to platoon, reporting all this to my boss, and to my platoon sergeant.
     "Captain," I told Blackie, "we aren't getting any ground vibrations I'm
going down inside and check for holes. The  readings  show  that I won't get
too much dosage if I -- "
     "Youngster, stay out of that crater."
     "But Captain, I just meant to -- "
     "Shut up. You can't learn anything useful. Stay out."
     "Yes, sir."
     The next nine hours were tedious. We had been preconditioned for  forty
hours of duty (two revolutions of  Planet P) through forced  sleep, elevated
blood sugar  count, and hypno indoctrination,  and of  course the  suits are
self-contained  for personal needs. The suits can't last that long, but each
man  was  carrying  extra power  units  and  super H. P. air  cartridges for
recharging. But a patrol with no action is dull, it is easy to goof off.
     I  did  what I  could think of,  having Cunha and Brumby  take turns as
drill  sergeant  (thus leaving  platoon  sergeant and  leader  free  to rove
around): I gave orders that no sweeps were to repeat in pattern so that each
man  would  always  check  terrain  that was new to him. There  are  endless
patterns to cover a given area, by combining the combinations. Besides that,
I  consulted  my platoon sergeant and announced  bonus  points  toward honor
squad for  first  verified  hole,  first Bug destroyed, etc.  --  boot  camp
tricks, but staying alert means staying alive, so anything to avoid boredom.
     Finally we had a visit from a special unit, three combat engineers in a
utility  air car, escorting a talent --  a spatial senser. Blackie warned me
to expect them. "Protect them and give them what they want."
     "Yes, sir. What will they need?"
     "How should I know? If Major Landry wants you to take off your skin and
dance in your bones, do it!"
     "Yes, sir. Major Landry."
     I relayed the word and set up a bodyguard by sub-areas. Then I met them
as they arrived because I was curious; I had never seen a special talent  at
work. They landed inside  my right flank rear and  got out. Major Landry and
two officers were wearing armor and hand flamers but the talent had no armor
and no weapons -- just an oxygen mask.  He was dressed in a  fatigue uniform
without insignia  and  he seemed  terribly bored  by everything.  I  was not
introduced  to him. He looked like a sixteen-year old  boy . . . until I got
close and saw a network of wrinkles around his weary eyes.
     As he  got out  he took off his  breathing mask.  I was horrified, so I
spoke to Major  Landry, helmet to helmet  without  radio. "Major -- the  air
around here is `hot.' Besides that, we've been warned that -- "
     "Pipe down," said the Major. "He knows it."
     I shut up. The talent strolled a short  distance, turned and pulled his
lower lip. His eyes were closed and he seemed lost in thought.
     He  opened them and said fretfully,  "How can  one be expected to  work
with all those silly people jumping around?"
     Major Landry said crisply, "Ground your platoon."
     I gulped and  started to  argue -- then cut in  the  all-hands circuit:
"First Platoon Blackguards -- ground and freeze!"
     It speaks well for Lieutenant Silva that  all I heard was a double echo
of  my order, as it was repeated  down  to squad. I said, "Major,  can I let
them move around on the ground?"
     "No. And shut up."
     Presently the senser got back in the car, put his mask on. There wasn't
room for  me, but I was allowed  -- ordered,  really  -- to  grab on  and be
towed; we shifted a couple of miles. Again the senser took off his  mask and
walked around. This time he spoke to one  of the other combat engineers, who
kept nodding and sketching on a pad.
     The special-mission  unit landed about  a dozen times in  my area, each
time going through the same apparently pointless routine; then they moved on
into the  Fifth Regiment's grid. Just before they left, the  officer who had
been sketching pulled a sheet out of the bottom of his sketch box and handed
it to me. "Here's your sub map. The wide red band is the only  Bug boulevard
in your  area. It  is nearly a  thousand  feet  down  where it enters but it
climbs steadily toward your left rear and leaves at about minus four hundred
fifty. The light blue net-work joining  it  is a  big Bug  colony;  the only
places where  it comes within a hundred feet  of  the surface I have marked.
You might put some listeners there until  we can get  over  here  and handle
it."
     I stared at it. "Is this map reliable?"
     The engineer officer glanced  at the senser, then said very quietly  to
me, "Of course it is, you idiot! What are you trying to do? Upset him?"
     They  left while I was studying it. The artist-engineer had done double
sketching and the  box had combined them into a  stereo picture of the first
thousand  feet under  the  surface. I  was so bemused by it that I had to be
reminded to  take the platoon out of "freeze" -- then  I withdrew the ground
listeners from the crater,  pulled two men  from each  squad and  gave  them
bearings  from that infernal map to  have them listen along  the Bug highway
and over the town.
     I  reported  it to Blackie.  He cut me off as I started to describe the
Bug  tunnels by co-ordinates. "Major Landry relayed a facsimile  to me. Just
give me co-ordinates of your listening posts."
     I  did  so. He said,  "Not bad,  Johnnie.  But not quite  what I  want,
either.  You've  placed  more  listeners than  you  need over  their  mapped
tunnels. String four of them along that Bug race track, place four more in a
diamond around their  town. That leaves you  four. Place one in the triangle
formed by your right rear corner and the main tunnel; the  other three go in
the larger area on the other side of the tunnel."
     "Yes, sir." I added, "Captain, can we depend on this map?"
     "What's troubling you?"
     "Well . . . it seems like magic. Uh, black magic."
     "Oh. Look, son, I've got a special message from the Sky Marshal to you.
He says to tell you that map is official . . . and that he  will worry about
everything else so that you can give full time to your platoon. Follow me?"
     "Uh, yes, Captain."
     "But the Bugs can burrow mighty fast,  so you give special attention to
the listening  posts outside the area  of the tunnels. Any noise  from those
four outside posts louder than a butterfly's roar is to be reported at once,
regardless of its nature."
     "Yes, sir."
     "When they burrow, it makes a noise like frying bacon -- in case you've
never heard it. Stop your patrol sweeps. Leave one man on visual observation
of the  crater. Let half your platoon sleep  for two hours, while the  other
half pairs off to take turns listening."
     "Yes, sir."
     "You  may see  some  more combat  engineers. Here's the revised plan. A
sapper  company  will  blast  down and cork that main tunnel  where it comes
nearest the surface, either at  your left flank, or beyond in  `Head Hunter'
territory. At the same time another engineer company will do the  same where
that tunnel branches  about  thirty miles off  to  your  right in the  First
Regiment's  bailiwick.  When the corks are in, a long  chunk  of  their main
street and a biggish settlement will be cut off. Meanwhile, the same sort of
thing  will  be going on  a lot of  other  places. Thereafter --  we'll see.
Either the Bugs break through to the  surface and we have a pitched  battle,
or they sit tight and we go down after them, a sector at a time."
     "I see." I  wasn't sure that I did, but I understood my part: rearrange
my listening  posts; let  half my platoon sleep.  Then  a Bug hunt -- on the
surface if we were lucky, underground if we had to.
     "Have your flank make contact with that sapper company when it arrives.
Help `em if they want help."
     "Right, Cap'n," I agreed heartily. Combat engineers are almost as  good
an outfit  as the infantry; it's a pleasure to work  with  them. In  a pinch
they  fight, maybe  not expertly but bravely. Or they  go ahead  with  their
work,  not even lifting their heads, while a battle rages around  them. They
have an unofficial, very cynical and very ancient motto: "First we dig  `em,
then we die  in `em," to supplement  their official  motto: "Can  do!"  Both
mottoes are literal truth.
     "Get on it, son."
     Twelve  listening posts  meant that I could  put a  half  squad at each
post, either a corporal or his lance, plus three privates, then allow two of
each group of  four  to  sleep while  the other  two  took turns  listening.
Navarre and  the other section chaser could watch the crater and sleep, turn
about,  while section sergeants  could take turns in charge of the  platoon.
The redisposition took no more than ten minutes once I had detailed the plan
and given out  bearings  to the  sergeants; nobody  had to move very  far. I
warned everybody to keep eyes open  for  a  company of engineers. As soon as
each section reported its listening posts in operation I clicked to the wide
circuit: "Odd numbers! Lie down, prepare to sleep . . . one . . . two  . . .
three . . . four . . . five -- sleep!"
     A  suit is  not  a  bed, but  it will  do. One  good thing about  hypno
preparation for combat is that, in the unlikely event of a chance to rest, a
man can  be  put  to sleep  instantly by post hypnotic  command triggered by
someone who is not a hypnotist -- and awakened just  as instantly, alert and
ready to fight. It is a life-saver,  because a man  can get  so exhausted In
battle that he  shoots  at things that aren't there  and can't see  what  he
should be fighting.
     But  I had no intention of sleeping.  I  had not been told to and I had
not asked. The very  thought  of  sleeping when  I  knew  that perhaps  many
thousands of  Bugs were  only a few hundred feet away made my  stomach jump.
Maybe  that  senser  was  infallible,  perhaps the  Bugs could not  reach us
without alerting our listening posts.
     Maybe -- But I didn't want to chance it.
     I clicked to my private circuit. "Sarge -- "
     "Yes, sir?"
     "You might as well get a nap. I'll be on watch. Lie down and prepare to
sleep . . . one . . . two -- "
     "Excuse me, sir. I have a suggestion."
     "Yes?"
     "If  I understand the  revised plan, no action is expected for the next
four hours. You could take a nap now, and then -- "
     "Forget it,  Sarge! I  am not going  to  sleep;  I am going to make the
rounds of the listening posts and watch for that sapper company."
     "Very well, sir."
     "I'll check number three while I'm here. You stay there with Brumby and
catch some rest while I -- "
     "Johnnie!"
     I broke off. "Yes, Captain?" Had the Old Man been listening?
     "Are your posts all set?"
     "Yes, Captain, and  my odd numbers are sleeping. I  am about to inspect
each post. Then -- "
     "Let your sergeant do it. I want you to rest."
     "But, Captain -- "
     "Lie down. That's a direct  order. Prepare to sleep . . . one . . . two
. . . three -- Johnnie!"
     "Captain, with your permission, I would like to inspect my posts first.
Then I'll rest, if you say so, but I would rather remain awake. I -- "
     Blackie guffawed in  my ear. "Look, son, you've  slept  for an hour and
ten minutes."
     "Sir?"
     "Check the time." I did so and felt foolish. "You wide awake, son?"
     "Yes, sir. I think so."
     "Things  have  speeded  up. Call  your  odd numbers  and put your  even
numbers to  sleep.  With  luck, they  may  get an hour. So swap `em  around,
inspect your posts, and call me back."
     I did so and started my rounds without a word to my platoon sergeant. I
was  annoyed at both him and  Blackie -- at my  company  commander because I
resented being  put  to  sleep against  my  wishes; and  as  for my  platoon
sergeant, I had  a dirty hunch that it wouldn't have been done if he weren't
the real boss and myself just a figurehead.
     But after I had checked posts number three and  one (no sounds  of  any
sort, both were forward of the Bug area), I cooled down.  After all, blaming
a sergeant, even a  fleet sergeant, for  something a captain did  was silly.
"Sarge-"
     "Yes, Mr. Rico?"
     "Do you want to catch a  nap  with the even  numbers? I'll  wake  you a
minute or two before I wake them."
     He  hesitated slightly. "Sir, I'd like to inspect  the  listening posts
myself."
     "Haven't you already?"
     "No, sir. I've been asleep the past hour."
     "Huh?"
     He sounded embarrassed.  "The Captain required me  to do  so. He placed
Brumby temporarily in charge  and  put me  to  sleep  immediately  after  he
relieved you."
     I started to answer, then laughed  helplessly. "Sarge?  Let's you and I
go off somewhere and go back to sleep. We're wasting our time; Cap'n Blackie
is running this platoon."
     "I have  found, sir,"  he  answered  stiffly, "that  Captain Blackstone
invariably has a reason for anything he does."
     I  nodded  thoughtfully,  forgetting that  I  was  ten  miles  from  my
listener. "Yes. You're right, he always has a reason. Mmm . . . since he had
us both sleep, he must want us both awake and alert now."
     "I think that must be true."
     "Mmm . . . any idea why?"
     He was rather long  in  answering. "Mr. Rico," he said  slowly, "if the
Captain  knew  he  would  tell  us;  I've  never  known  him  to  hold  back
information. But sometimes he does  things  a certain way without being able
to explain  why. The Captain's hunches  --  well,  I've  learned to  respect
them."
     "So? Squad leaders are all even numbers; they're asleep."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Alert the lance of each squad. We won't wake anybody . . . but when we
do, seconds may be important."
     "Right away."
     I  checked  the  remaining  forward post, then  covered  the four posts
bracketing  the  Bug  village, jacking  my  phones  in  parallel  with  each
listener. I had to force myself to listen, because you could hear them, down
there  below,  chittering to each other. I wanted to  run and it was  all  I
could do not to let it show.
     I  wondered if that "special talent" was  simply  a man with incredibly
acute hearing.
     Well, no matter how he  did it, the Bugs  were where he said they were.
Back at O.  C. S. we had  received  demonstrations of  recorded  Bug noises;
these four posts were picking up typical nest noises of a  large Bug town --
that chittering which may be their speech (though why  should  they need  to
talk  if they are all remotely controlled  by the brain caste?), a  rustling
like sticks and dry leaves, a high background whine which is always heard at
a  settlement  and  which  had  to be  machinery --  their  air conditioning
perhaps.
     I  did  not  hear  the  hissing,  crackling noise they make  in cutting
through rock.
     The sounds along the Bug boulevard were unlike the settlement sounds --
a low background  rumble which increased to  a roar every few moments, as if
heavy traffic were passing. I listened at post number five, then got an idea
-- checked it by having the stand-by man at each of the four posts along the
tunnel call out "Mark!" to me each time the roaring got loudest.
     Presently I reported. "Captain -- "
     "Yeah, Johnnie?"
     "The traffic along this Bug race is all moving one way, from  me toward
you.  Speed is  approximately  a hundred and ten miles per hour, a load goes
past about once a minute."
     "Close enough,"  he  agreed.  "I make it one-oh-eight with a headway of
fifty-eight seconds."
     "Oh."  I felt dashed,  and  changed  the subject.  "I haven't seen that
sapper company."
     "You  won't. They picked  a  spot in the middle  rear of `Head  Hunter'
area. Sorry, I should have told you. Anything more?"
     "No,  sir." We clicked off and I felt better. Even Blackie could forget
. .  . and there hadn't been anything wrong with  my idea. I left the tunnel
zone to inspect the listening post to  right and rear of the Bug  area, post
twelve.
     As  with  the others,  there were two men  asleep,  one  listening, one
stand-by. I said to the stand-by, "Getting anythin?"
     "No, sir."
     The  man listening,  one of my five recruits, looked up and  said, "Mr.
Rico, I think this pickup has just gone sour."
     "I'll check it," I said. He moved to let me jack in with him.
     "Frying bacon" so loud you could smell it!
     I hit the all-hands circuit.  "First platoon up! Wake up, call off, and
report!"
     -- And clicked over to officers' circuit. "Captain! Captain Blackstone!
Urgent!"
     "Slow down, Johnnie. Report."
     " `Frying bacon' sounds, sir," I answered,  trying desperately  to keep
my  voice steady. "Post  twelve  at  co-ordinates Easter Nine, Square  Black
One."
     "Easter Nine," he agreed. "Decibels?"
     I  looked hastily at the meter on the pickup. "I  don't  know, Captain.
Off the scale at the max end. It sounds like they're right under my feet!"
     "Good!"  he  applauded -- and I wondered  how he could  feel that  way.
"Best news we've had today! Now listen, son. Get your lads awake -- "
     "They are, sir!"
     "Very well. Pull back  two listeners, have them spot-check  around post
twelve.  Try to  figure where the Bugs are going to break out. And stay away
from that spot! Understand me?"
     "I hear you, sir," I said carefully. "But I do not understand."
     He sighed. "Johnnie, you'll  turn my hair gray yet. Look, son,  we want
them to come out, the  more  the better.  You don't  have  the  firepower to
handle them other than by  blowing up their tunnel as they reach the surface
--  and that is the one thing you  must not do! If they come out in force, a
regiment can't handle them. But that's just what the General wants, and he's
got a brigade  of heavy weapons in orbit, waiting  for it. So you spot  that
breakthrough, fall back, and  keep  it under observation. If  you are  lucky
enough  to have a major breakthrough in your area,  your reconnaissance will
be patched through all the way to the top. So stay lucky and stay alive! Got
it?"
     "Yes, sir. Spot the breakthrough. Fall back and  avoid contact. Observe
and report."
     "Get on it!"
     I pulled back  listeners nine and ten from  the middle stretch of  "Bug
Boulevard" and had them close in on co-ordinates  Easter Nine from right and
left, stopping  every  half mile to  listen for "frying bacon." At  the same
time I lifted post twelve and moved it toward our rear, while checking for a
dying away of the sound.
     In the meantime my platoon  sergeant was regrouping  the platoon in the
forward area between the Bug settlement and the crater -- all but twelve men
who were ground-listening. Since we were under orders not to attack, we both
worried over the prospect of having the platoon spread too widely for mutual
support. So  he  rearranged  them  in a compact line  five  miles long, with
Brumby's section on the left, nearer the Bug settlement. This placed the men
less than three  hundred  yards  apart (almost  shoulder to shoulder for cap
troopers),  and put  nine  of the  men  still on listening  stations  within
support distance of one flank or the other. Only the three listeners working
with me were out of reach of ready help.
     I told Bayonne of the Wolverines and Do Campo of the  Head Hunters that
I was no longer patrolling and why, and I reported our regrouping to Captain
Blackstone.
     He grunted. "Suit yourself. Got a prediction on that breakthrough?"
     "It seems  to center  about Easter Ten, Captain, but it  is hard to pin
down.  The sounds  are very loud in an area about three miles across and  it
seems to get wider. I'm trying  to  circle  it  at an intensity  level  just
barely on scale." I  added, "Could they  be driving a new horizontal  tunnel
just under the surface?"
     He seemed surprised. "That's possible.  I hope not --  we want them  to
come up." He added, "Let me know if the center of noise moves. Check on it."
     "Yes, sir. Captain -- "
     "Huh? Speak up."
     "You told us not to attack when they break out. If they break out. What
are we to do? Are we just spectators?"
     There was a longish  delay, fifteen or twenty  seconds, and he may have
consulted "upstairs."  At last he said, "Mr. Rico, you are not  to attack at
or near Easter Ten. Anywhere else -- the idea is to hunt Bugs."
     "Yes, sir." I agreed happily. "We hunt Bugs."
     "Johnnie!"  he said sharply.  "If you go hunting medals instead of Bugs
--  and I find  out  --  you're going  to  have  a  mighty sad-looking  Form
Thirty-One!"
     "Captain," I said  earnestly, "I don't  ever  want to win a  medal. The
idea is to hunt Bugs."
     "Right. Now quit bothering me."
     I called my  platoon  sergeant, explained the new limits under which we
would work, told him to pass the word along and to make sure that each man's
suit was freshly charged, air and power.
     "We've just finished that, sir.  I suggest that we relieve the men with
you." He named three reliefs.
     This  was reasonable,  as  my  ground listeners  had  had  no  time  to
recharge. But the reliefs he named were all scouts.
     Silently I cussed myself for utter stupidity. A scout's suit is as fast
as  a  command suit, twice the speed  of  a marauder.  I  had been  having a
nagging feeling  of something  left undone,  and  had checked it off to  the
nervousness I always feel around Bugs.
     Now I knew. Here I was, ten miles  away from my platoon with a party of
three men each in a marauder suit. When the Bugs  broke through, I was going
to be  faced with an impossible  decision . . . unless the men with me could
rejoin as  fast as I could. "That's good," I agreed,  "but  I no longer need
three men. Send Hughes, right away. Have  him relieve Nyberg. Use  the other
three scouts to relieve the listening posts farthest forward."
     "Just Hughes?" he said doubtfully.
     "Hughes is enough. I'm going to man one listener  myself. Two of us can
straddle the area; we  know where they are  now." I added, "Get  Hughes down
here on the bounce."
     For the next thirty-seven minutes nothing  happened. Hughes and I swung
back and  forth along the forward and rear  arcs  of the  area around Easter
Ten, listening  five  seconds at a time,  then moving  on. It  was no longer
necessary to seat  the microphone in rock;  it was enough to touch it to the
ground to get the  sound of "frying bacon" strong and clear.  The noise area
expanded but its center did not change.  Once I called Captain Blackstone to
tell  him that the sound had abruptly stopped, and again three minutes later
to tell him it had resumed; otherwise I used the scouts'  circuit and let my
platoon sergeant take care of  the platoon and  the listening posts near the
platoon.
     At the end of this time everything happened at once.

     A voice called out on the scouts' circuit, " `Bacon Fry'! Albert Two!"
     I  clicked  over  and called out, "Captain! `Bacon Fry'  at Albert Two,
Black One!"  -- clicked over  to  liaison with  the platoons surrounding me:
"Liaison flash!  `Bacon  frying' at  Albert  Two, Square Black  One"  -- and
immediately heard  Do Campo reporting:  "  `Frying Bacon'  sounds  at  Adolf
Three, Green Twelve."
     I relayed that  to  Blackie  and cut back  to  my own scouts'  circuit,
heard: "Bugs! Bugs! HELP!"
     "Where?"
     No answer. I clicked over. "Sarge! Who reported Bugs?"
     He rapped back, "Coming up out of their town -- about Bangkok Six."
     "Hit `em!" I clicked over  to Blackie. "Bugs at Bangkok Six, Black  One
-- I am attacking!"
     "I heard you order it," he answered calmly. "How about Easter Ten?"
     "Easter Ten is -- " The ground fell away under me and I was engulfed in
Bugs.
     I didn't know what had happened to me. I wasn't hurt; it was a bit like
falling  into the branches of  a  tree -- but these  branches were alive and
kept jostling  me while my gyros complained and tried to keep me upright.  I
fell ten or fifteen feet, deep enough to be out of the daylight.
     Then a  surge of  living monsters carried me back  up into the light --
and  training  paid  off;  I  landed  on  my  feet,  talking  and  fighting:
"Breakthrough at Easter  Ten --  no, Easter Eleven, where I am now. Big hole
and they're  pouring  up. Hundreds.  More than that." I had a hand flamer in
each hand and was burning them down as I reported.
     "Get out of there, Johnnie!"
     "Wilco!" -- and I started to jump.
     And stopped. Checked  the jump in  time, stopped  flaming,  and  really
looked -- for  I suddenly realized that I ought to  be dead. "Correction," I
said,  looking and  hardly believing.  "Breakthrough  at  Easter Eleven is a
feint. No warriors."
     "Repeat."
     "Easter Eleven,  Black One. Breakthrough here is entirely by workers so
far. No  warriors. I am  surrounded by Bugs and they  are still pouring out,
but  not a one of them is armed and those nearest me all have typical worker
features. I have not been attacked."  I added, "Captain,  do you think  this
could  be just a diversion? With their real  breakthrough to come  somewhere
else?"
     "Could  be,"  he admitted. "Your  report  is patched  through  right to
Division, so let  them do  the thinking. Stir around and check  what  you've
reported. Don't  assume that they are all workers  --  you may find  out the
hard way."
     "Right, Captain." I jumped high and wide, intending to get outside that
mass of harmless but loathsome monsters.
     That  rocky  plain  was   covered  with  crawly  black  shapes  in  all
directions. I overrode my jet controls and increased the jump,  calling out,
"Hughes! Report!"
     "Bugs, Mr. Rico! Zillions of `em! I'm a-burnin' `em down!"
     "Hughes, take a close look at  those Bugs. Any of them  fighting  back?
Aren't they all workers?"
     "Uh -- " I hit the ground  and bounced  again. He went on, "Hey! You're
right, sir! How did you know?"
     "Rejoin your squad, Hughes." I clicked over. "Captain, several thousand
Bugs have  exited near  here from an unestimated number of holes. I have not
been attacked. Repeat, I  have not been  attacked at  all. If there are  any
warriors among them, they  must  be holding their fire and using workers  as
camouflage."
     He did not answer.
     There was an extremely brilliant flash  far off to my left, followed at
once by one just like it but farther away to my right front; automatically I
noted time  and bearings. "Captain Blackstone answer!" At the top of my jump
I tried to pick  out his beacon, but that horizon was cluttered by low hills
in Square Black Two.
     I clicked over and called out, "Sarge! Can you relay to the Captain for
me?"
     At that very instant my platoon sergeant's beacon blinked out.
     I headed on  that bearing as fast as I could  push my suit. I  had  not
been watching my display  closely; my platoon sergeant had the platoon and I
had  been  busy,  first  with ground-listening and, most lately, with  a few
hundred Bugs. I had suppressed all but  the non-com's beacons to allow me to
see better.
     I  studied the  skeleton display,  picked out  Brumby  and Cunha, their
squad leaders and section chasers. "Cunha! Where's the platoon sergeant?"
     "He's reconnoitering a hole, sir."
     "Tell him  I'm  on  my  way,  rejoining." I  shifted  circuits  without
waiting. "First platoon Blackguards to second platoon -- answer!"
     "What do you want?" Lieutenant Khoroshen growled.
     "I can't raise the Captain."
     "You won't, he's out."
     "Dead?"
     "No. But he's lost power -- so he's out."
     "Oh. Then you're company commander?"
     "All right, all right, so what? Do you want help?"
     "Uh . . . no. No, sir."
     "Then  shut up," Khoroshen told  me, "until you do need help. We've got
more than we can handle here."
     "Okay."  I  suddenly found  that  I had more than I could handle. While
reporting  to Khoroshen, I shifted to full display and short range, as I was
almost closed  with my platoon -- and  now I saw my first section  disappear
one by one, Brumby's beacon disappearing first.
     "Cunha! What's happening to the first section?"
     His voice  sounded  strained. "They are following  the platoon sergeant
down."
     If there's anything in the book that covers  this, I don't know what it
is. Had Brumby acted without orders? Or  had he been  given orders I  hadn't
heard?  Look,  the man was already down a Bug hole, out of sight and hearing
-- is this a time to  go  legal? We would sort such things  out tomorrow. If
any of us had a tomorrow --
     "Very well," I said.  "I'm back  now. Report." My last jump  brought me
among them; I saw  a  Bug off to  my  right  and I got  him before I hit. No
worker, this -- it had been firing as it moved.
     "I've  lost  three  men," Cunha  answered, gasping.  "I don't know what
Brumby lost.  They broke out three places at once -- that's when we took the
casualties. But we're mopping them -- "
     A tremendous shock wave slammed  me just as I bounced again, slapped me
sideways. Three  minutes  thirty-seven seconds  -- call it thirty miles. Was
that  our  sappers  "putting   down  their  corks"?  "First  section!  Brace
yourselves for another shock  wave!" I landed sloppily,  almost on  top of a
group of three or four  Bugs. They weren't  dead but  they weren't fighting;
they just  twitched. I donated  them a  grenade and  bounced again. "Hit `em
now!" I called out. "They're groggy. And mind that next -- "
     The second blast hit as I was saying it.  It wasn't as violent. "Cunha!
Call off your section. And everybody stay on the bounce and mop up."
     The call-off was ragged  and slow -- too many missing files as I  could
see from my physicals display. But the mop-up was precise and fast. I ranged
around the  edge  and  got  half a  dozen  Bugs myself -- the  last of  them
suddenly became active just before I flamed it. Why did concussion daze them
more than it did us? Because they were unarmored? Or was it their brain Bug,
somewhere down below, that was dazed?
     The  call-off showed nineteen effectives, plus  two dead, two hurt, and
three out of action through suit failure -- and  two of these latter Navarre
was repairing by vandalizing power units from suits of dead and wounded. The
third  suit  failure was  in radio  & radar  and  could not be  repaired, so
Navarre assigned the man to guard the wounded, the nearest thing  to  pickup
we could manage until we were relieved.
     In the meantime I was inspecting, with Sergeant Cunha, the three places
where the Bugs had broken through from their nest below. Comparison with the
sub map showed, as one could have  guessed,  that they had cut exits  at the
places where their tunnels were closest to the surface.
     One hole had closed;  it was a heap  of loose rock. The  second one did
not show Bug activity; I told Cunha to post a lance and a private there with
orders to kill  single  Bugs, close the hole with a  bomb if they started to
pour out it's all very well for the Sky Marshal to sit up  there  and decide
that holes must not be closed, but I had a situation, not a theory.
     Then  I looked  at  the third hole, the one  that had  swallowed  up my
platoon sergeant and half my platoon.
     Here a Bug corridor came within twenty feet of the surface and they had
simply removed the  roof for about  fifty feet. Where  the  rock  went, what
caused that "frying bacon" noise  while they did  it, I  could not say.  The
rocky roof was  gone and the sides of  the hole were sloped and grooved. The
map  showed  what must have happened; the other two holes came up from small
side tunnels, this tunnel was part of their main labyrinth  -- so  the other
two had been diversions and their main attack had come from here.
     Can those Bugs see through solid rock?
     Nothing  was  in sight  down  that  hole, neither Bug nor human.  Cunha
pointed  out the  direction the second section  had gone. It had been  seven
minutes and forty seconds since the platoon sergeant had gone down, slightly
over  seven  since Brumby had gone  after him.  I peered into  the darkness,
gulped and swallowed my stomach. "Sergeant,  take charge of your section," I
said, trying to make it sound  cheerful. "If you need help,  call Lieutenant
Khoroshen."
     "Orders, sir?"
     "None. Unless  some  come  down from above. I'm going down and find the
second section --  so I may be out of touch for a while." Then I jumped down
into the hole at once, because my nerve was slipping.
     Behind me I heard: "Section!"
     "First squad!" -- "Second squad!" -- "Third squad!"
     "By squads! Follow me!" -- and Cunha jumped down, too.
     It's not nearly so lonely that way.

     I  had Cunha  leave  two men at the hole to cover our rear, one  on the
floor of the  tunnel, one at surface level. Then I  led them down the tunnel
the second section had followed,  moving as fast as possible -- which wasn't
fast as  the roof of the tunnel was right over our  heads. A man can move in
sort of  a skating motion in a powered suit without lifting his feet, but it
is neither easy nor natural; we could have trotted without armor faster.
     Snoopers were  needed at once -- whereupon we confirmed something  that
had been theorized: Bugs see by infrared. That  dark tunnel was well lighted
when seen by snoopers. So far it had no special features, simply glazed rock
walls arching over a smooth, level door.
     We came to a tunnel crossing the one we were in and I stopped  short of
it.  There  are  doctrines  for  how  you  should  dispose  a  strike  force
underground --  but what good are they?  The only certainty was that the man
who had  written  the doctrines had  never himself tried them . . . because,
before Operation Royalty,  nobody had  come back  up to tell what had worked
and what had not.
     One doctrine  called for guarding every intersection such as  this one.
But I had  already used two  men to guard our escape hole;  if I left l0 per
cent of my force at each intersection, mighty soon I would be  ten-percented
to death.
     I decided to  keep us together . . . and decided, too, that none of  us
would be captured. Not by Bugs.  Far better a nice, clean real estate deal .
.  .  and  with that  decision a load was lifted from my mind  and I  was no
longer worried.
     I peered  cautiously into the intersection, looked both ways.  No Bugs.
So I called out over the non-coms' circuit: "Brumby!"
     The result was  startling. You hardly hear  your own voice  when  using
suit radio, as you are shielded from your output. But here, underground in a
network  of smooth  corridors, my output  came  back  to me as if the  whole
complex were one enormous wave guide:
     "BRRRRUMMBY!"
     My ears rang with it.
     And then rang again: "MR. RRRICCCO!"
     "Not so loud,"  I said, trying to talk very softly myself.  "Where  are
you?"
     Brumby answered, not quite so  deafeningly, "Sir,  I  don't know. We're
lost."
     "Well, take it easy. We're coming to get you. You can't be far away. Is
the platoon sergeant with you?"
     "No, sir. We never -- "
     "Hold it." I clicked in my private circuit. "Sarge -- "
     "I read you, sir." His voice sounded calm and he was holding the volume
down. "Brumby and  I  are in radio contact but we have not been able to make
rendezvous."
     "Where are you?"
     He hesitated  slightly.  "Sir, my  advice  is  to make rendezvous  with
Brumby's section -- then return to the surface."
     "Answer my question."
     "Mr. Rico, you could spend a week down here and not find me . . . and I
am not able to move. You must -- "
     "Cut it, Sarge! Are you wounded?"
     "No, sir, but -- "
     "Then why can't you move? Bug trouble?"
     "Lots of it. They can't reach  me now .  . . but I can't come out. So I
think you had better -- "
     "Sarge,  you're  wasting time! I am certain you know exactly what turns
you  took. Now  tell me, while I  look at  the map. And  give  me  a vernier
reading on your D. R. tracer. That's a direct order. Report."
     He did so, precisely and concisely. I switched on my head lamp, flipped
up the snoopers, and followed it on the map. "All right,"  I said presently.
"You're almost directly  under us and two levels  down  -- and  I know  what
turns to take. We'll be there as soon as we pick up the second section. Hang
on." I clicked over. "Brumby -- "
     "Here, sir."
     "When you  came  to the  first tunnel intersection,  did you go  right,
left, or straight ahead?"
     "Straight ahead, sir."
     "Okay. Cunha, bring `em along. Brumby, have you got Bug trouble?"
     "Not now, sir. But that's how we  got lost.  We tangled with a bunch of
them . . . and when it was over, we were turned around."
     I  started to  ask  about casualties, then decided  that bad news could
wait; I wanted to get my platoon together  and  get out of there. A Bug town
with no  Bugs in  sight was somehow  more upsetting  than the  Bugs  we  had
expected to  encounter. Brumby coached us through the next two choices and I
tossed tanglefoot bombs down each corridor we did not use. "Tanglefoot" is a
derivative of the nerve gas we had been using on Bugs in the past -- instead
of killing, it gives any Bug that trots through it  a sort of shaking palsy.
We had  been equipped  with  it  for this one  operation,  and I  would have
swapped a ton  of it  for  a few pounds of the real stuff. Still,  it  might
protect our flanks.
     In one long stretch of tunnel I lost touch with Brumby --  some  oddity
in reflection of  radio waves, I guess,  for I  picked  him  up at the  next
intersection.
     But there he  could not  tell me which way to turn. This was the place,
or near the place, where the Bugs had hit them.
     And here the Bugs hit us.
     I  don't know where they came from.  One  instant everything was quiet.
Then  I heard  the  cry  of "Bugs! Bugs!" from back of  me  in the column, I
turned  -- and  suddenly Bugs  were everywhere. I suspect  that those smooth
walls are not as solid as  they look; that's the only way I  can account for
the way they were suddenly all around us and among us.
     We  couldn't use flamers,  we couldn't use bombs; we were too likely to
hit  each  other.  But the Bugs  didn't  have any  such  compunctions  among
themselves if they could get one of us. But we had hands and we had feet --
     It couldn't have lasted more  than a minute, then  there  were  no more
Bugs,  just broken pieces of  them  on the door  . . . and four cap troopers
down.
     One was Sergeant Brumby, dead. During the ruckus the second section had
rejoined. They had been not far away, sticking together to keep from getting
further lost in  that maze, and  had  heard the fight.  Hearing it, they had
been able to trace it by sound, where they had not been able to locate us by
radio.
     Cunha and I made certain that  our  casualties were actually dead, then
consolidated  the two sections into one of four squads  and down we went  --
and found the Bugs that had our platoon sergeant besieged.
     That fight didn't last any time at all, because he had  warned  me what
to expect.  He had captured a brain  Bug and was using its bloated body as a
shield.  He  could not get out, but they could not attack him without (quite
literally) committing suicide by hitting their own brain.
     We were under no such handicap; we hit them from behind.
     Then I was looking at the horrid thing he was holding and I was feeling
exultant  despite our  losses, when suddenly I  heard close up  that "frying
bacon" noise. A big piece of roof fell on  me and Operation Royalty was over
as far as I was concerned.

     I woke up in bed and thought that I  was  back at O. C. S. and had just
had a  particularly long and complicated  Bug nightmare. But I was not at O.
C. S.; I was in a temporary sickbay  of the transport Argonne, and  I really
had had a platoon of my own for nearly twelve hours.
     But  now  I was just  one more  patient, suffering from  nitrous  oxide
poisoning and overexposure  to radiation through being out of armor for over
an  hour before being retrieved, plus  broken ribs and  a knock  in the head
which had put me out of action.
     It was a  long  time before  I got  everything straight about Operation
Royalty  and  some  of  it  I'll  never know. Why Brumby  took  his  section
underground, for example. Brumby  is dead and Naidi bought the farm next  to
his and I'm  simply glad that they both got  their chevrons and were wearing
them that day on Planet P when nothing went according to plan.
     I did learn, eventually, why my platoon sergeant  decided  to  go  down
into that Bug town.  He had heard  my report  to Captain Blackstone that the
"major breakthrough" was actually a feint, made  with workers  sent up to be
slaughtered. When real warrior Bugs broke out where he was, he had concluded
(correctly and minutes  sooner  than Staff reached the same conclusion) that
the Bugs  were  making a desperation  push,  or they would not expend  their
workers simply to draw our fire.
     He  saw that  their  counterattack  made  from  Bug  town  was  not  in
sufficient force, and concluded that the enemy did not have many reserves --
and decided that, at this one golden moment, one man acting alone might have
a chance of  raiding, finding "royalty" and capturing it. Remember, that was
the  whole purpose of the  operation;  we  had  plenty  of  force simply  to
sterilize  Planet P,  but our  object was to capture royalty  castes  and to
learn how to go down  in. So he tried it,  snatched  that  one moment -- and
succeeded on both counts.
     It  made  it  "mission  accomplished"  for  the  First Platoon  of  the
Blackguards. Not very many other platoons, out of many, many hundreds, could
say that;  no queens were captured (the Bugs killed them first) and only six
brains. None of the six  were ever exchanged, they  didn't live long enough.
But the Psych  Warfare boys did get  live specimens, so I  suppose Operation
Royalty was a success.
     My platoon sergeant got a field commission. I  was not offered one (and
would  not have accepted) -- but I  was not surprised when I learned that he
had  been commissioned. Cap'n Blackie had told  me that I  was  getting "the
best sergeant in the  fleet" and I  had never had any  doubt  that Blackie's
opinion was correct. I had met my platoon sergeant before. I don't think any
other Blackguard knew this -- not  from  me  and certainly  not  from him. I
doubt if Blackie himself knew it. But I had known my platoon  sergeant since
my first day as a boot.
     His name is Zim.

     My part in Operation Royalty did not seem a success to me. I was in the
Argonne more than a month, first as a patient, then as an unattached casual,
before they got around to delivering me and a few dozen others to Sanctuary;
it gave me  too much time  to  think -- mostly about casualties,  and what a
generally  messed-up  job I had made of  my one short time  on the ground as
platoon leader.  I  knew  I  hadn't kept  everything  juggled  the  way  the
Lieutenant used to why, I hadn't even managed to get wounded still swinging;
I had let a chunk of rock fall on me.
     And casualties -- I  didn't know how many there were; I  just knew that
when  I  closed ranks there were only  four  squads where I had started with
six. I didn't  know how many more there might have been before  Zim got them
to the surface, before the Blackguards were relieved and retrieved.
     I  didn't even know whether Captain  Blackstone was still alive (he was
-- in fact he was  back in command about the time I went underground)  and I
had no idea what the procedure was if a candidate was alive and his examiner
was  dead.  But  I felt that my Form Thirty-One  was  sure to make me a buck
sergeant again. It really didn't seem important  that my math  books were in
another ship.
     Nevertheless,  when I  was  let out of bed the first  week I was in the
Argonne, after loafing  and brooding a day I borrowed some books from one of
the junior officers  and got to work. Math is hard work and it occupies your
mind -- and it doesn't hurt to learn all you can of it, no matter what  rank
you are; everything of any importance is founded on mathematics.
     When I finally checked in at O. C. S. and turned in my pips, I  learned
that  I was a cadet again instead of a sergeant. I guess Blackie gave me the
benefit of the doubt.
     My roommate, Angel, was in our room with his feet on the desk -- and in
front  of his feet  was a  package, my math books. He  looked  up and looked
surprised. "Hi, Juan! We thought you had bought it!"
     "Me? The Bugs don't like me that well. When do you go out?"
     "Why,  I've been  out," Angel protested. "Left the  day after  you did,
made three drops and been back a week. What took you so long?"
     "Took the long way home. Spent a month as a passenger."
     "Some people are lucky. What drops did you make?"
     "Didn't make any," I admitted.
     He stared. "Some people have all the luck!"

     Perhaps  Angel was right; eventually I graduated. But he supplied  some
of the luck himself, in patient tutoring. I guess my "luck" has usually been
people -- Angel and Jelly and the Lieutenant and Carl and Lieutenant Colonel
Dubois, yes and my father, and Blackie . . . and Brumby . . . and Ace -- and
always Sergeant Zim. Brevet Captain Zim, now, with permanent  rank of  First
Lieutenant. It wouldn't have been  right for  me  to have wound up senior to
him.
     Bennie Montez, a  classmate of  mine,  and  I were at the Fleet landing
field the day after graduation, waiting to go up to our ships. We were still
such brand-new second lieutenants that being saluted made us  nervous and  I
was  covering it by reading the list of ships in orbit around Sanctuary -- a
list so long that it was clear that something big was stirring, even  though
they hadn't  seen  fit to  mention  it to me.  I felt excited. I had  my two
dearest  wishes,  in  one package -- posted  to my old  outfit and while  my
father was still there, too. And now this, whatever it was, meant that I was
about  to  have  the polish put  on me by  "makee-learnee"  under Lieutenant
Jelal, with some important drop coming up.
     I was so full of it all that I couldn't talk about it, so I studied the
lists.  Whew,  what a lot of  ships! They were posted by types, too many  to
locate otherwise. I  started reading  off the troop  carriers, the only ones
that matter to an M. I.
     There  was  the Mennerheim! Any chance of seeing Carmen? Probably  not,
but I could send a dispatch and find out.
     Big ships --  the  new  Valley Forge and the new  Ypres,  Merathon,  El
Alamein, Iwo, Gallipoli,  Leyte, Marne, Tours, Gettysburg,  Hastings, Alamo,
Waterloo -- all places where mud feet had made their names to shine.
     Little ships,  the  ones named for foot sloggers: Horatius, Alvin York,
Swamp  Fox,  the Rog  herself,  bless her  heart, Colonel  Bowie,  Devereux,
Vercingetorix, Sandino, Aubrey  Cousens, Kamehameha, Audie Murphy, Xenophon,
Aguinaldo --
     I said, "There ought to be one named Magsaysay."
     Bennie said, "What?"
     "Ramon Magsaysay,"  I explained. "Great man, great soldier --  probably
be chief of  psychological warfare if  he  were alive today. Didn't you ever
study any history?"
     "Well,"  admitted  Bennie, "I learned  that  Simon  Bolivar  built  the
Pyramids, licked the Armada, and made the first trip to the Moon."
     "You left out marrying Cleopatra."
     "Oh,  that. Yup. Well, I  guess every country  has  its own version  of
history."
     "I'm sure of it."  I added something to myself and  Bennie  said, "What
did you say?"
     "Sorry, Bernardo. Just an  old saying in my own language. I suppose you
could translate it, more or less, as: `Home is where the heart is.' "
     "But what language was it?"
     "Tagalog. My native language."
     "Don't they talk Standard English where you come from?"
     "Oh, certainly. For business and school and so forth. We  just talk the
old speech around home a little. Traditions. You know."
     "Yeah, I know. My  folks chatter in  Espanol the same way. But where do
you -- " The speaker started playing "Meadowland"; Bennie broke into a grin.
"Got a date with a ship! Watch yourself, fellow! See you."
     "Mind the  Bugs."  I turned back and went on reading ships' names:  Pal
Maleter, Montgomery, Tchaka, Geronimo --
     Then came the sweetest sound in the world: " -- shines the name, shines
the name of Rodger Young!"
     I grabbed my kit  and  hurried.  "Home is where the heart is" -- I  was
going home.

     CHAPTER 14

     Am I my brother's keeper?
-- Genesis IV:9
     How think ye? If a man have
     an hundred sheep, and one of
     them be gone astray, doth he not
     leave the ninety and nine, and goeth
     into the mountains, and seeketh
     that which is gone astray?
-- Matthew XII:12
     How much then is a man better than a sheep?
     -- Matthew XII:12
     In the Name of God, the Beneficent,
     the Merciful . . . whoso saveth
     the life of one, it shall be as if
     he had saved the life of all mankind.
-- The Koran, Surah V, 32
     Each year we gain a little. You have to keep a sense of proportion.
     "Time,  sir."  My  j.   o.  under  instruction,  Candidate  or   "Third
Lieutenant"  Bearpaw,  stood  just  outside  my door.  He looked and sounded
awfully young,  and  was about  as harmless  as  one  of  his  scalp-hunting
ancestors.
     "Right, Jimmie." I was already in  armor.  We walked aft  to  the  drop
room. I said, as  we  went, "One word, Jimmie. Stick with me and keep out of
my way. Have fun and use up your ammo. If by any chance I buy it, you're the
boss  -- but  if  you're  smart,  you'll let your platoon sergeant call  the
signals."
     "Yes, sir."
     As we  came  in,  the  platoon  sergeant  called  them to attention and
saluted.  I returned it, said, "At ease," and started down the first section
while Jimmie looked over the  second. Then I  inspected the second  section,
too,  checking  everything on every man.  My  platoon sergeant  is much more
careful  than I am, so I didn't find anything, I never do. But it makes  the
men feel better if their Old  Man scrutinizes everything -- besides, it's my
job.
     Then I stepped out in the middle. "Another Bug hunt,  boys. This one is
a little different, as you know. Since they still hold prisoners of ours, we
can't use a nova bomb  on Klendathu -- so this time we go down, stand on it,
hold it, take it  away  from  them. The boat  won't be down  to retrieve us;
instead it'll fetch  more ammo and rations.  If you're  taken prisoner, keep
your chin up and  follow the rules -- because you've got  the  whole  outfit
behind you, you've got the whole Federation behind  you; we'll come and  get
you. That's what  the boys from the  Swamp Fox and the Montgomery have  been
depending on.  Those  who are still alive are waiting, knowing that  we will
show up. And here we are. Now we go get `em.
     "Don't forget  that we'll have help all around us,  lots  of help above
us. All  we have to  worry about is our one little  piece, just the  way  we
rehearsed it.
     "One last thing. I had a letter from Captain Jelal just before we left.
He says that  his new legs work fine. But he  also told me to  tell you that
he's got you in mind . . . and he expects your names to shine!
     "And so do I. Five minutes for the Padre."
     I felt myself  beginning to shake. It was  a  relief when I could  call
them to attention again and add: "By sections . . . port and starboard . . .
prepare for drop!"
     I was  all right then while I inspected each man  into  his cocoon down
one  side,  with Jimmie and  the platoon sergeant  taking the other. Then we
buttoned  Jimmie  into  the  No.  3  center-line  capsule. Once his face was
covered up, the shakes really hit me.
     My platoon sergeant put his arm around my armored shoulders. "Just like
a drill, Son."
     "I  know  it, Father." I stopped  shaking at  once.  "It's the waiting,
that's all."
     "I know. Four minutes. Shall we get buttoned up, sir?"
     "Right away, Father." I gave him a quick hug,  let  the Navy  drop crew
seal us in. The shakes  didn't start up again. Shortly I was able to report:
"Bridge! Rico's Roughnecks . . . ready for drop!"
     "Thirty-one seconds,  Lieutenant." She added, "Good  luck,  boys!  This
time we take `em !"
     "Right, Captain."
     "Check. Now some music while you wait?" She switched it on:
     "To the everlasting glory of the Infantry -- "

     HISTORICAL NOTE

     YOUNG,  RODGER W., Private, 148th Infantry, 37th Infantry Division (the
Ohio Buckeyes); born Tiffin, Ohio, 28 April 1918; died  31 July 1943, on the
island New Georgia, Solomons, South Pacific, while single-handedly attacking
and  destroying an enemy  machine-gun pillbox. His  platoon had  been pinned
down by intense  fire  from this pillbox;  Private Young was wounded  in the
first burst.  He crawled toward the pillbox, was  wounded a  second time but
continued  to advance,  firing  his rifle as he  did  so.  He closed  on the
pillbox, attacked and  destroyed it with hand  grenades, but in so doing  he
was wounded a third time and killed.
     His  bold  and gallant action  in the face of overwhelming odds enabled
his  teammates to escape without loss; he was awarded posthumously the Medal
of Honor.

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Last-modified: Fri, 09 Jul 1999