“ he shouted in outraged anger, raising his gun to finish the job.
“Not I!” the lieutenant moaned, recognizing Bill at last.
“The laundry officer is gone, flushed down the drain! This is I, your friendly local pastor, bringing you the blessings of Ahura Mazdah, my son, and have you been reading the Avesta every day before going to sleep…” “Bah!” Bill snarled. He couldn't shoot him now, and he walked over to the third wounded man.
“Hello Bill… “ a weak voice said. “I guess the old reflexes are slowing down… I can't blame you for shooting me, I should have hit the dirt like the others…” “You're damn right you should have,” Bill said looking down at the familiar, loathed, tusked face. “You're dying, Deathwish, you've bought it.” “I know,” Deathwish said, and coughed. His eyes were closed.
“Wrap this line in a circle,” Bill shouted. “I want the medic up here.” The chain of prisoners curved around, and they watched as the medic examined the casualties.
“A bandage on the looie's arm takes care of him,” he said. “Just superficial burns. But the big guy with the fangs has bought it.” “Can you keep him alive?” Bill asked.
“For awhile, no telling how long.” “Keep him alive.” Bill looked around at the circle of prisoners. “Any way to get those neck irons off?” he asked.
“Not without the keys,” a burly infantry sergeant answered, “and the lizards never brought them. We'll have to wear them until we get back. How come you risked your neck saving us?” he asked suspiciously.
“Who wanted to save you?” Bill sneered. “I was hungry and I figured that must be food you were carrying.” “Yeah, it is,” the sergeant said, looking relieved. “I can understand now why you took the chance.” Bill broke open a can of rations and stuffed his face.
Chapter 5
The dead man was cut from his position in the line, and the two men, one in front and one in back of the wounded Deathwish, wanted to do the same with him.
Bill reasoned with them, explained the only human thing to do was to carry their buddy, and they agreed with him when he threatened to burn their legs off if they didn't. While the chained men were eating, Bill cut two flexible poles and made a stretcher by slipping three donated uniform jackets over them. He gave the captured rifles to the burly sergeant and the most likely looking combat veterans, keeping one for himself.
“Any chance of getting back?” Bill asked the sergeant, who was carefully wiping the moisture from his gun.
“Maybe. We can backtrack the way we come, easy enough to follow the trail after everyone dragged through. Keep an eye peeled for Venians, get them before they can spread the word about us. When we get in earshot of the fighting we try and find a quiet area-then break through. A fifty-fifty chance.” “Those are better odds for all-of us than they were about an hour ago.” “You're telling me, But they get worse the longer we hang around here.” “Let's get moving.” Following the track was even easier than Bill had thought, and by early afternoon they heard the first signs of firing, a dim rumble in the distance.
The only Venian they had seen had been instantly killed. Bill halted the march.
“Eat as much as you want, then dump the food,” he said.
“Pass that on. We'll be moving fast soon.” He went to see how Deathwish was getting on.
“Badly-” Deathwish gasped, his face white as -paper. “This is it, Bill… I know it… I've terrorized my last recruit… stood on my last pay line.
… had my last shortarm… so long-Bill… you're a good buddy…
taking care of me like this…” “Glad you think so, Deathwish, and maybe you'd like to do me a favor.” He dug in the dying man's pockets until he found his noncom's notebook, then opened it and scrawled on one of the blank pages. “How would you like to sign this, just for old time's sake-Deathwish?” The big jaw lay slack, the evil red eyes open and staring.
“The dirty bowb's gone and died on me,” Bill said disgustedly. After pondering for a moment he dribbled some ink from the pen onto the ball of Deathwish's thumb and pressed it to the paper to make a print.
“Medic!” he shouted, and the line of men curled around so the medic could come back. “How does he look to you?” “Dead as a herring,” the corpsman said after his professional examination.
“Just before he died he left me his tusks in. his will, written right down here, see? These are real vat-grown tusks and cost a lot. Can they be transplanted?” “Sure, as long as you get them cut out and deep froze inside the next twelve hours.” “No problem with that, we'll just carry the body back with us.” He stared hard at the two stretcher bearers and fingered his gun, and they had no complaints.
“Get that lieutenant up here.” “Chaplain,” Bill said, holding out the sheet from the notebook, “I would like an officer's signature on this. Just before he died this trooper here dictated his will, but was too weak to sign it, so he put his thumbprint on it. Now you write below it that you saw him thumbprint it and it is all affirm and legallike, then sign your name.” “But-I couldn't do that, my son. I did not see the deceased print the will and Glmmpf…” He said Glmmpf because Bill had poked the barrel of the atomic pistol into his mouth and was rotating it, his finger quivering on the trigger.
“Shoot,” the infantry sergeant said, and three of the men who could see what was going on were clapping. Bill slowly withdrew the pistol.
“I shall be happy to help,” the chaplain said, grabbing for the pen.
Bill read the document, grunted in satisfaction, then went over and squatted down next to the medic. “You from the hospital?” he asked.
“You can say that again, and if I ever get back into the hospital I ain't never going out of it again. It was just my luck to be out picking up combat casualties when the raid hit.” “I hear that they aren't shipping any wounded out. Just putting them back into shape and sending them back into the line.” “You heard right. This is going to be a hard war to live through.” “But some of them must be wounded too badly to send back into action,” Bill insisted.
“The miracles of modern medicine,” the medic said indistinctly as he worried a cake of dehydrated luncheon meat. “Either you die or you're back in the line in a couple of weeks.” “Maybe a guy gets his arm blown off?” “They got an icebox full of old arms. Sew a new one on and bango, right back into the line.” “What about a foot?” Bill asked, worried.
“That's right-I forgot! They got a foot shortage. So many guys lying around without feet that they're running out of bed space. They were just starting to ship some of them offplanet when I left.” “You got any pain pills?” Bill asked, changing the subject. The medic dug out a white bottle.
“Three of these and you'd laugh while they sawed your head off.” “Give me three.” “If you ever see a guy around what has his foot shot off, you better quick tie something around his leg just over the knee, tight, to cut the blood off.” “Thanks buddy.” “No skin off my nose.” “Let's get moving,” the infantry sergeant said. “The quicker we move the better our chances.” Occasional flares from atomic rifles burned through the foliage overhead, and the thud-thud of heavy weapons shook the mud under their feet. They worked along parallel with the firing until it had died down, then stopped. Bill, the only one not chained in the line, crawled ahead to reconnoiter. The enemy lines seemed to be lightly held and he found a spot that looked the best for a breakthrough. Then, before he returned, he dug the heavy cord from his pocket that he had taken from one of the ration boxes. He tied a tourniquet above his right knee and twisted it tight with a stick, then swallowed the three pills. He stayed behind some heavy shrubs when he called to the others.
“Straight ahead, then sharp right before that clump of frees. Let's go-and FAST!” Bill led the way until the first men could see the lines ahead. Then he called out “What's that?” and ran into the heavy foliage. “Chingers!” he shouted, and sat down with his back to a tree.
He took careful aim with his pistol and blew his right fo
ot off.
“Get moving fast!” he shouted, and heard the crash of the frightened men through the undergrowth. He threw the pistol away, fired at random into the trees a few times, then dragged to his feet. The atomic rifle made a good enough crutch to hobble along on, and he did not have far to go. Two troopers, they must have been new to combat or they would have known better, left the shelter to help him inside.
“Thanks, buddies,” he gasped, and sank to the ground. “War sure is hell.”
Envoy
The martial music echoed from the hillside, bouncing back from the rocky ledges and losing itself in the hushed green shadows under the trees. Around the bend, stamping proudly through the dust, came the little parade led by the magnificent form of a one-robot band. Sunlight gleamed on its golden limbs and twinkled from the brazen instruments it worked with such enthusiasm. A small formation of assorted robots rolled and clattered in its wake, and bringing up the rear was the solitary figure of the grizzle-haired recruiting sergeant, striding along strongly, his rows of medals ajingle. Though the road was smooth the sergeant lurched suddenly, stumbling, and cursed with the rich proficiency of years.
“Halt!” he commanded, and while his little company braked to a stop he leaned against the stone wall that bordered the road and rolled up his right pants leg.
When he whistled one of the robots trundled quickly over and held out a tool box from which the sergeant took a large screwdriver and tightened one of the bolts in the ankle of his artificial foot. Then he squirted a few drops from an oil can onto the joint and rolled the pants leg back down. When he straightened up he noticed that a robomule was pulling a plow down a furrow in the field beyond the fence, while a husky farm lad guided it.
“Beer!” the sergeant barked, then, “ `A Spaceman's Lament. ' “ The one-robot band brought forth the gentle melodies of the old song, and by the time the furrow reached the limits of the field there were two dew-frosted steins of beer resting on the fence.
“That's sure pretty music,” the plowboy said.
“Join me in a beer,” the sergeant said, sprinkling a white powder into it from a packet concealed in his hand.
“Don't mind iffen I do, sure is hotter'n h- out here today.” “Say hell, son, I heard the word before.” “Mamma don't like me to cuss. You sure do have long teeth, mister.” The sergeant twanged a tusk. “A big fellow like you should cuss a bit. If you were a trooper you could say hellor even bowbif you wanted to, all the time.” “I don't think I'd want to say anything like that.” He flushed red under his deep tan. “Thanks for the beer, but I gotta be plowing on now. Mamma said I was to never talk to soldiers.” “Your mamma's right, a dirty, cursing, drinking crew the most of them. Say, would you like to see a picture here of a new model robomule that can run a thousand hours without lubrication?” The sergeant held his hand out behind him, and a robot put a viewer into it.
“Why that sounds nice!” The farm lad raised the viewer to his eyes and looked into it and flushed an even deeper red. “That's no mule, mister, that's a girl and her clothes are…” The sergeant reached out swiftly and pressed a button on the top of the viewer. Something went (hunk inside of it, and the farmer stood rigid and frozen. He did not move or change expression when the sergeant reached out and took the little machine from his paralyzed fingers.
“Take this stylo,” the sergeant said, and the other's fingers closed on it.
“Now sign this form, right down there where it says RECRUIT'S SIGNATURE…” The stylo scratched, and a sudden scream pierced the air.
“My Charlie! What are you doing with my Charlie!” an ancient, gray-haired woman walled, as she scrambled around the hill.
“Your son is now a trooper for the greater glory of the Emperor,” the sergeant said, and waved over the robot tailor.
“No-please-” the woman begged, clutching the sergeant's hand and dribbling tears onto it. “I've lost one son, isn't that enough… “ she blinked up through the tears, then blinked again. “But you-you're my boy! My Bill come home! Even with those teeth and the scars and one black hand and one white hand and one artificial foot, I can tell; a mother always knows!” The sergeant frowned down at the woman. “I believe you might be right,” he said. “I thought the name Phigerinadon II sounded familiar.” The robot tailor had finished his job. The red paper jacket shone bravely in the sun, the one-molecule-thick boots gleamed. “Fall in,” Bill shouted, and the recruit climbed over the wall.
“Billy, Billy…” the woman wailed, “this is your little brother Charlie!
You wouldn't take your own little brother into the troopers, would you?” Bill thought about his mother, then he thought about his baby brother Charlie, then he thought of the one month that would be taken off of his enlistment time for every recruit he brought in, and he snapped his answer back,instantly.
“Yes,” he said.
The music blared, the soldiers marched, the mother cried-as mothers have always done-and the brave little band tramped down the road and over the hill and out of sight into the sunset.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-sm0lr8ih-ied1-jfws-ioaj-n2207kaku15r
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 19.10.2012
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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Bill, the Galactic Hero btgh-1 Page 16