“Where and who for?” asked Arnot as he reached over and took possession of the bottle.
“To Canopus 4. What was that lizard’s name anyway, Worsel?”
Arnot thought for a moment. “No, Worsel that was flying croc from out Valentia way who we conned out of his lens. Whutzle was our boy’s name, Thwilbert Whutzle. But why send flowers?”
Panzel gave a nasty chuckle. “When I unloaded the whortle, I cleaned out the private stock he had tucked away in the ship’s larder.”
“So?”
Panzel snickered again. “You know what he’s been eating for the last six weeks?”
The other shook his head.
“Squiggles!”
Just then there was an imperious knock at the door and before they could answer it, it swung open and an imposing figure in the uniform of the Galactic Guard stalked in. He spoke briefly and then left, leaving behind him two broken promoters.
“How was I to know that whortle was a dangerous narcotic?”
“Save your breath,” growled Arnot, “We’ve got to move fast if we’re going to salvage anything out of this mess.”
“But they’re going to burn our whortle. What’ll we do about all those hungry spudgets?”
“Find something else they’ll eat, stupid. Now let’s get to work!”
They obtained one of the first spudgets to be hatched and anxiously tried every type of food they could think of. The little dragon would nibble lackadaisically at what was put before it, sob softly, and then promptly throw up. In the meantime sales of their main competitor, SNERPSIES, spurted ahead as grim faced small boys labored over Bild-a-Bomb kits in attics and basements. Thing were at their worst when they got a sudden emergency call from outer space.
“It isn’t for myself,” said Thwilbert apologetically, his voice almost inaudible because of the distance the beam had to cover, “but my spudget. He hatched a week ago and he’s hungry. In fact we’re both hungry. You didn’t leave us any whortle.”
“Cut him off,” growled Arnot to his partner. “We got enough troubles without spending the day yakking with an undersized lizard at five univs a minute. Tell him to break out the SQUIGGLES. That’ll put them both out of their misery.”
“We did,” wailed the distant voice, “but my spudget…”
Arnot jumped up and shoved his partner away from the com set. “Hold it,” he shouted. “Did you say you were feeding your spudget SQUIGGLES?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t like them very well, and for the last couple of days…”
“He will eat them, though?”
“Yes, but…”
With a howl of glee Arnot broke the connection. “Let’s get going, pal,” he shouted to his partner. “This time we’ll really clean up.”
This time they really did. The automatic factory worked round the clock due to the unexpectedly hearty appetites displayed by the spudgets who, in spite of a certain amount of initial gagging, once the word was passed soon regained their normal tunefulness and plumpness on a steady diet of SQUIGGLES. Arnot and Panzel took one good look at their rapidly expanding bank account and promptly took off for a two-week swing around the plushier of the pleasure satellites. They returned just in time to find their newly acquired secretary emptying her desk with a determined expression on her face.
“I quit!” she said angrily. “I ain’t going to work in no zoo. That pet of yours has gone through fifty boxes of SQUIGGLES in the last twenty-four hours.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Panzel anxiously.
Without a word she went over to the closet where the corporation’s demonstration spudget was kept, and dramatically threw open the door. Instead of a twitter of welcome from a tiny glittering dragon, a five hundred pound lizard came wandering into the room, croaked affectionately, and tried to climb into Panzel’s lap.
“And that ain’t all,” said the secretary as she started toward the door. “Its voice is changing. All morning it’s been trying to sing bass.” She shuddered, “Me, I don’t want to be around when it finally gets its full growth.”
After the door slammed there was a long moment of silence and Panzel slowly reached for his desk com.
“The spudget,” said the tinny voice from Central Information, “sometimes known as the dwarf huxle, is a small herbivorous reptile…”
“I know all that,” interrupted Panzel in a shaking voice. “What I want to know is why it’s called the dwarf huxle. The one I’ve got is up to five hundred pounds and it’s still growing.”
“Its dwarfed size is believed to be due to the absence of an important vitamin complex in its only food, the whortle leaf. This complex has been tentatively identified as K-9, a growth complex essential to reptiles.”
Panzel looked at Arnot and Arnot looked at Panzel and then they both looked at the box of SQUIGGLES The large K-9 printed in red on its front seemed to wink at them.
* * * *
Herman Panzel, former president of the Intergalactic Breakfast Food Corporation, and Reuban Arnot, former executive vice-president and treasurer of the same organization, having just squandered their last deci-univ on a cup of coffee substitute, sat disconsolately in a small dingy cafeteria down by the spaceport of a small dingy planet, half way across the galaxy, waiting for something to happen. Nothing was.
“At least we’re alive,” said Arnot. “They wanted to lynch us.”
“We won’t be for long unless we make some arrangement that involves a meal once in a while,” said Panzel. “Let’s face it, we’re either going to have to go to work or starve, and much as I dislike the former…” His voice trailed off as he spotted a morning news-facsimile abandoned on an adjoining table. He went over and got it. Bringing it back, he spread it open to the Help Wanted section and began to pour through the ads.
“Find something light,” suggested Arnot. “I’ve got a weak back.”
“That isn’t all that’s weak,” snorted the other. “It was your bright idea about those spudget eggs that got us into all this. Now let’s see you get us out.”
“Give me the paper then,” said Arnot and pulled it over to him. There was a moment of silence as he considered and then rejected offer after offer. Suddenly his eyes lit up.
“This is for us!”
“‘Would you like to make 150 univs in just half an hour? T.W. did.’”
“Go ahead,” said Panzel eagerly. “This sounds like what we’ve been looking for.”
Arnot let out a sudden whistle of amazement and then said in a strangled voice, “Thwilbert!”
“What?”
“Look!”
Sure enough, it was Thwilbert, in fact a pair of Thwilberts. Two pictures stood at the head of a quarter page advertisement. One was of a weak emaciated lizard who looked just like the one who had shambled into their office so many months before. It was captioned BEFORE. The other was of a sleek and handsome saurian, scales iridescent instead of a dirty gray, sunken chest now filled out with bulging muscles, and an alert air of vigorous self-confidence instead of the old diffidence. It was captioned AFTER. Above the pictures stretched a banner caption which proclaimed, FROM A 36 POUND WEAKLING TO THE GALAXY’S MOST PERFECTLY DEVELOPED REPTILE. Underneath it continued, “Rejecting old inefficient substitutes, millions of sentient saurians are now demanding…” Arnot’s voice choked off. “Read me the rest,” he said. “All of a sudden I can’t see so good.”
Panzel took the paper and continued
“…millions of sentient saurians are now demanding SQUIGGLES, the wonder food that contains the magic reptilian growth element, K-9. Valuable franchises now open. Send univs to Thwilbert Whutzle, President, Intergalactic Breakfast Food Company, Hun, for complete information.”
There was a long silence and then with a note of almost paternal pride, Herman Panzel said softly, “And he’s making them pay for the privilege of being taken! Arnot, we’re getting old.”
“But he’s not taking them,” said Arnot. “The stuff works.” He hesitated for a mom
ent and then looked back at the advertisement. “Do you think he’d let us in for nothing? One fifty in half an hour sounds mighty good to me.”
“Could be,” said Herman Panzel rising decisively to his feet. “After all, we’re the ones who gave him his start.”
TRAINING DEVICE
The unshaven sergeant slowly surveyed the handful of new replacements and then let loose a stream of tobacco juice that just missed the feet of the blonde boy who stood at the end of the irregular line.
“Well?” he said finally.
Private Hatch stepped hesitantly forward, saluted awkwardly, and held out a manila envelope.
“We were told to report to Lieutenant Cutler, sir.”
The sergeant spat again. “My name’s Black,” he growled. “Sergeant Black. The only one that gets sirred around here is the lieutenant and he ain’t in no position to take any pleasure in it.” He pointed to a bloodstained shelter half-covered with a swarm of buzzing green flies that had something under it. “He got his last night, so I’m running things until headquarters digs up a stray louie somewheres. Four of you go and dig a hole over there and get him underground. He’s getting ripe already.”
The replacements shuffled their feet and looked at each other, but nobody made a move toward the bloody bundle that once had been a man.
Black’s voice cracked like a whip. “When I say do something, I want it done now, not tomorrow. You!”—he stabbed a finger at the blond boy—“What’s your name?”
“Hatch, sir… I mean, sergeant.”
“You’re in charge of the burial detail. Take the three men next to you and get that grave dug. And make it deep enough. God knows when we’ll be getting out of this hole, and unless you get him a good three feet under he’s going to stink up the place. The rest of you come with me.”
The four men watched as the sergeant led the rest into a dugout that cut into the side of the steep hill that stood between them and the enemy, and then reluctantly turned to the business at hand. Private Hatch went off by himself and got sick afterward.
* * * *
“I’d like to resign, sir. I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”
“Nonsense, son. After you have a couple of actions under your belt, you won’t mind a bit.”
There was a momentary blaze of light through the side vision port as the great training ship’s orbit took it out of the third planet’s shadow into the incandescent glare of the sun, and then it dimmed as a damping shield slid automatically into place.
“But, sir, he’d be alive now if I hadn’t got scared and made him run.”
The officer shrugged impatiently. “Another week, another month, what difference does it make? After all, we don’t start these wars. As for your losing your head—you obviously have to be censored for it, but I wouldn’t worry about it too much. During your first action anything can happen. It’s how you hold up during your second and third and fourth that’s important.”
“But for those few minutes I was him. I felt what he felt when I made him run away. When the bullet hit, it hit me!”
“So now you know what it feels like. Next time you’ll be more careful. Request for permission to resign denied.”
A soft chime sounded from the wall speaker and then a crisp voice said, “Now hear this. Now hear this. All cadets will report to training stations at 36:82. All cadets will report to training stations at 36:82. That is all.”
As the voice from the speaker died, the officer behind the desk gave a gesture of dismissal.
“All right, Larn, you’ve had your say. Now report to your station and draw yourself a new body. And remember that someday before too long you may be in a spot where you’ll have to use your own. The sooner you learn how to take care of it, the better.”
* * * *
“Replacements,” announced Sergeant Black pontifically, “ain’t worth the powder it takes to blow them to hell. And when they finally learn enough the hard way to be of some use around here, it usually ain’t soon enough.
“Now listen, and listen good. We got that whole damn ridge to hold, and only half enough men to hold it with. Eighteen men got it during the last attack—for replacements for which I get you characters. I got just one word for you and I want you to remember it anytime you get a sudden impulse to make like a hero. You only got one body. When that’s gone, the QM ain’t going to issue you another one. So take care of it and don’t get it full of holes. You ain’t much, but you’re all I got—and God knows when I’ll get any more once you’re gone!”
* * * *
Private Hatch wiggled slowly along the shallow furrow in the hard ground that passed as a communication trench until he reached an emplacement on the crest of the ridge, a natural cleft in the rock that had been banked with sandbags.
“Sergeant Black said I was supposed to relieve you,” he said to a hollow-eyed PFC who squatted listlessly beside the machine gun that poked out through a narrow slit to cover the forward slope. The other gave a tired nod and moved over to give him room.
“Got a cigarette?”
Hatch slid down beside him and handed over a crumpled pack.
“How many did they send up this time?”
“Eleven.”
The PFC let out a low groan. “That means I don’t get out of here for another two weeks anyway. Your first time up?” It was a statement rather than a question but Hatch nodded anyway.
“Fine experience for a young man,” said the PFC with a sour grin. “Builds character.” He took a last drag on the cigarette, aimed carefully, and with a quick flip of his index finger sent it arcing toward the machine-gun slot in the sandbags in front of them. When it went through without touching either side he gave a little grunt of satisfaction, and picking up a small sharp rock, made a scratch on the boulder beside him.
“I’m getting better,” he said. “That’s thirty-six straight without a miss. Six more and I’ll have the company record. There’s no real competition left, though, with the lieutenant gone. That boy really had a good eye.”
Hatch thought of the thing under the canvas and swallowed with difficulty.
“What happened?”
“Damn if I know,” said the PFC. “Patrol came over last night—nothing special, they were just feeling around—and suddenly for no good reason at all the lieutenant starts to blubber like a baby and takes off over the skyline. They got him before he got twenty yards.”
“I had to help bury him,” said the blond boy. “I got sick.”
“You’ll get used to it,” said the PFC. “Guess I’d better get down and get some chow and a little shut-eye. I’ve got a hunch it may be rough out tonight. You hold the fort. I’ll be back to relieve you about sundown.”
Private Hatch peeped cautiously out through the firing slit at the arid expanse of rocky ground that stretched down in front of him, and then back at the PFC.
“Anything special I should watch for?” he asked uncertainly.
The PFC showed yellowed teeth as he gave a short bark of a laugh. “Yeah, our friends across the way. They start coming you stop ’em. The machine gun jams, you use your carbine. Your carbine jams, you use your teeth. Your teeth jam, you send a letter through channels and requisition a new set.” He laughed again and then slapped the blond boy on the shoulder. “Relax, kid. Nothing ever happens around here until after sundown, and I’ll be back to show you the ropes before then.” With an expert wiggle he slipped into the shallow communication trench, and in a moment was gone.
Hatch found his fingers shaking a bit when he tried to light a cigarette. It didn’t taste right and without thinking he flipped it toward the machine-gun slot. It hit six inches to one side and rolled back to his feet. He sat staring at it for a moment and then picked it up and stuck it back in his mouth.
* * * *
It was a good quarter of a mile back to the training stations and Larn had to run to make it on time. Cadets weren’t allowed to use the grey tubes except during emergencies and this wasn’t
an emergency—it was just the second day of advanced training. The other cadets in his section were already strapped into their transpsych trainers when he got there. Nobody said anything but he could tell from the way they were damping their thoughts that they hadn’t forgotten his fiasco with the Blue lieutenant the day before. His fingers felt thick and clumsy as he slid the shining helmet over his head and adjusted the webbing that held him inert in his elongated cradle.
“Ready?”
He wanted to strip off his harness and run back to the cramped security of his quarters, but he didn’t. Instead he reached out his foot and kicked over the switch that connected the helmet on his head with the disassociaters.
* * * *
The PFC had guessed wrong. For once the enemy didn’t wait for darkness. One minute there was only sun and dust and the shrill chirp of a small bird hidden in a little pile of brush to the left, and the next a shrieking human wall structured itself out of nowhere and came howling up the arid slopes toward the forward positions. If anybody thought of the green kid sitting alone in the observation post, they didn’t have time to do anything about it. The enemy was almost through the left flank and were still coming.
The blond boy did the best he could. Two dozen figures were working their way up the slope toward him. Once his position was taken, heavy machine guns would be mounted in it to sweep the exposed flanks below.
Just a second before the yells had sent him diving to his gun, he had smiled for the first time that day and scratched his name and a single line on a clear spot on the boulder. After three hours of trying he had finally managed to flip a cigarette end through the firing slot. And then, glad in a way that nobody was there to see how scared he was, but wishing at the same time that there was somebody around to tell him what to do, he found himself at the gun, firing quick bursts at the sweaty-faced men who were running up the slope toward him.
He broke the first wave, and then the second, and then, when they started up again, the gun jammed. Closer they came, and closer until he could almost make out individual faces. They were more cautious now. They came in quick rushes, darting forward and hitting the ground to take advantage of every broken bit of shelter. He stood frozen, watching them as they worked their way closer, and then suddenly, without warning, he felt his nerve break and his legs bunch under him for the leap that would take him out of the foxhole and down the back slope to safety.
The First Theodore R. Cogswell Megapack Page 10