Bill, the Galactic Hero

by Harry Harrison

  "Yeah...I guess we're just not civilized," Bill said, gun ready, but the snake kept going on down. At least fifty yards of it slithered by before the tail flipped past and it was out of sight. "Serves the damn spy right," Bill grunted happily and pulled himself to his feet.

  Once on the ground Bill began to realize just how bad a spot he was in. The damp swamp had swallowed up any marks of his passage from the night before and he hadn't the slightest idea in which direction the battle area lay. The sun was just a general illumination behind the layers of fog and cloud, and he felt a sudden chill as he realized how small were his chances of finding his way back. The invasion area, just ten miles to a side, made a microscopic pinprick in the hide of this planet. Yet if he didn't find it he was as good as dead. And if he just stayed here he would die, so, picking what looked like the most likely direction, he started off.

  "I'm pooped," he said, and was. A few hours of dragging through the swamps had done nothing except weaken his muscles, fill his skin with insect bites, drain a quart or two of blood into the ubiquitous leeches and deplete the charge in his gun as he killed a dozen or so of the local life forms that wanted him for breakfast. He was also hungry and thirsty. And still lost.

  The rest of the day just recapitulated the morning so that when the sky began to darken he was close to exhaustion and his supply of cough medicine was gone. He was very hungry when he climbed a tree to find a spot to rest for the night and he plucked a luscious looking red fruit.

  "Supposed to be poison," he looked at it suspiciously, then smelled it. It smelled fine. He threw it away.

  In the morning he was much hungrier. "Should I put the barrel of the gun in my mouth and blow my head off?" he asked himself, weighing the atomic pistol in his hand. "Plenty of time for that yet. Plenty of things can still happen." Yet he didn't really believe it when he heard voices coming through the jungle towards him, human voices. He settled behind the limb and aimed his gun in that direction.

  The voices grew louder, then a clanking and rattling. An armed Venian scuttled under the tree, but Bill held his fire as other figures loomed out of the fog. It was a long file of human prisoners wearing the neckirons used to bring Bill and the others to the labour camp, all joined together by a long chain that connected the neckirons. Each of the men was carrying a large box on his head. Bill let them stumble by underneath and kept a careful count of the Venian guards. There were five in all with a sixth bringing up the rear, and when this one had passed underneath the tree Bill dropped straight down on him, braining him with his heavy boots. The Venian was armed with a Chinger-made copy of a standard atomic rifle and Bill smiled wickedly as he hefted its familiar weight. After sticking the pistol into his waistband he crept after the column, rifle ready. He managed to kill the fifth guard by walking up behind him and catching him in the back of the neck with the rifle butt. The last two troopers in the file saw this but had enough brains to be quiet as he crept up on number four. Some stir among the prisoners or a chance sound warned this guard and he turned about, raising his rifle. There was no chance now to kill him silently so Bill burned his head off and ran as fast as he could towards the head of the column. There was a shocked silence when the blast of the rifle echoed through the fog and Bill filled it with a shout.

  "Hit the dirt — FAST!"

  The soldiers dived into the mud and Bill held his atomic rifle at his waist as he ran, fanning it back and forth before him like a water hose and holding down the trigger on full automatic. A continuous blast of fire poured out a yard above the ground and he squirted it in an arc before him. There were shouts and screams in the fog and then the charge in the rifle was exhausted. Bill threw it from him and drew the pistol. Two of the remaining guards were down and the last one was wounded and got off a single badly aimed shot before Bill burned him too.

  "Not bad," he said, stopping and panting. "Six out of six."

  There were low moans coming from the line of prisoners and Bill curled his lip in disgust at the three men who hadn't dropped at his shouted command.

  "What's the matter?" he asked, stirring one with his foot, "never been in combat before?" But this one didn't answer because he was charred dead.

  "Never...." the next one answered, gasping in pain. "Get the corpsman, I'm wounded, there's one ahead in the line. Oh, oh, why did I ever leave the Fanny Hill! Medic...."

  Bill frowned at the three gold balls of a Fourth Lieutenant on the man's collar, then bent and scraped some mud from his face. "You! The laundry officer!" 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 a while, no telling how long."

  "Keep him alive." Bill looked around at the circle of prisoners. "Any way to get those neckirons 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 FIVE

  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 shorta
rm...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 favour." 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 on to 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 legal-like, 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 with 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 medicines," 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 bedspace. They were just starting to ship some of them off-planet 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 reconnoitre. The enemy lines seemed to be lightly held and he found the 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 trees. 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 foot 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."

  ENVOI

  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 a-jingle. 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 spanner and tightened one of the bolts in the ankle of his artificial foot. Then he squirted a few drops from an oil can on to the joint and rolled the pants leg back down. When he straightened up he noticed that a robomule was pulling a plough 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 ploughboy 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 hottern'n H— out here today."

  "Say hell, son, I heard the word before."

  "Momma don't like me to cuss. You sure do have long teeth, mister."

  The sergeant twanged a tusk. "A big fellow like you shouldn't worry about a little cussing. If you were a trooper you could say hell — or even bowb — if you wanted to, all the time."

  "I don't think I'd want to say anything like that." He flushed redly under his deep tan. "Thanks for the beer, but I gotta be ploughing on now. Momma said I was to never talk to soldiers."

  "Your momma'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 1,000 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 thunk inside of it and the farmer stood, rigid and frozen. He did not move or c
hange 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, grey-haired woman wailed 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 on to 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.