line for chow. Tembo, just ahead of him, also had a card, all angels and churches, just what you would expect, and Bill was shocked when he saw Tembo read the card one last time then plunge it into his cup of dinner.
“What are you doing that for?” he asked, shocked.
“What else is mail good for?” Tembo hummed, and poked the card deeper.
“You just watch this now.” Before Bill's startled gaze, and right in front of his eyes, the card was starting to swell. The white surface broke off and fell away in tiny flakes while the brown insides grew and grew until they filled the cup and were an inch thick. Tembo fished the dripping slab out and took a large bite from one corner.
“Dehydrated chocolate,” he said indistinctly. “Good! Try yours.” Even before he spoke Bill had pushed his card down into the liquid and was fascinatedly watching it swell. The message fell away, but instead of brown a swelling white mass became visible.
“Taffy-or bread maybe,” he said, and tried not to drool.
The white mass was swelling, pushing against the sides of the cup, expanding out of the top. Bill grabbed the end and held it as it rose. Out and out it came until every drop of liquid had been absorbed and Bill held between his out-stretched hands a string of fat, connected letters over two yards long.
VOTE-FOR-HONEST-DEER-THE-TROOPERS'-FRIEND they read. Bill leaned over and bit out an immense mouthful of T. He spluttered and spat the damp shards onto the deck.
“Cardboard,” he said sadly. “Mother always shops for bargains. Even in dehydrated chocolate…” He reached for his cup for something to wash the old-newsprint taste out of his mouth, but it was empty.
Somewhere high in the seats of power, a decision was made, a problem resolved, an order issued. From small things do big things grow; a tiny bird turd lands on a snow-covered mountain slope, rolls, collects snow, becomes bigger and bigger, gigantic and more gigantic until it is a thundering mass of snow and ice, an avalanche, a ravening mass of hurtling death that wipes out an entire village. From small beginnings… Who knows what the beginning was here, perhaps the Gods do, but they are laughing. Perhaps the haughty, strutting peahen wife of some High Minister saw a bauble she cherished and with shrewish, spiteful tongue exacerbated her peacock husband until, to give himself peace, he promised her the trinket, then sought the money for its purchase. Perhaps this was a word in the Emperor's ear about a new campaign in the 77sub7th Zone, quiet now for years, a victory there-or even a draw if there were enough deaths-would mean a medal, an award, some cash. And thus did a woman's covetousness, like a tiny bird's turd, start the snowball of warfare rolling, mighty fleets gathering, ship after ship assembling, like a rock in a pool of water the ripples spread until even the lowliest were touched by its motion…
“We're heading for action,” Tembo said as he sniffed at his cup of lunch.
“They're loading up the chow with stimulants, pain depressors, saltpeter, and antibiotics.” “Is that why they keep playing the patriotic music?” Bill shouted so that he could be heard over the endless roar of bugles and drums that poured from the speakers. Tembo nodded.
“There is little time left to be saved, to assure your place in Samedi's legions-” “Why don't you talk to Bowb Brown?” Bill screamed. “I got tom-toms coming out of my ears! Every time I look at a wall I see angels floating by on clouds.
Stop bothering me! Work on Bowb-anybody who would do what he does with thoats would probably join up with your Voodoo mob in a second.” “I have talked with Brown about his soul, but the issue is still in doubt. He never answers me, so I am not sure if he has heard me or not. But you are different, my son, you show anger, which means you are showing doubt, and doubt is the first step to belief…” The music cut off in mid-peal, and for three seconds there was an echoing blast of silence that abruptly terminated.
“Now hear this. Attention all hands… stand by… in a few moments we will be taking you to the flagship for a on-the-spot report from the admiral… stand by…” The voice was cut off by the sounding of General Quarters but went on again when this hideous sound had ended. “… and here we are on the bridge of that gigantic conquistadore of the spacelanes, the twenty-mile-long, heavily armored, mightily gunned super battleship the Fairy Queen… the men on watch are stepping aside now and coming toward me in a simple uniform of spun platinum is the Grand Admiral of the Fleet, the Right Honorable Lord Archaeopteryx… Could you spare us a moment Your Lordship?
Wonderfull The next voice you hear will be… “ The next voice was a burst of music while the fusemen eyed their fusebands, but the next voice after that had all the rich adenoidal tones always heard from peers of the Empire.
“Lads-we're going into action! This, the mightiest fleet the galaxy has ever seen is heading directly toward the enemy to deliver the devastating blow that may win us the war. In my operations tank before me I see a myriad pinpoints of light, stretching as far as the eye can see, and each point of light-I tell you they are like holes in a blanket!-is not a ship, not a squadron-but an entire fleet! We are sweeping forward, closing in…” The sound of tom-toms filled the air, and on the fuseband that Bill was watching appeared a matched set of golden gates, swinging open.
“Tembo!” he screamed. “Will you knock that off I want to hear about the battle…” “Canned tripe,” Tembo sniffed. “Better to use the few remaining moments of this life that may remain to you to seek salvation. That's no admiral, that's a canned tape. I've heard it five times already, and they only play it to build morale before what they are sure is to be a battle with heavy losses. It never was an admiral, it's,from an old TV program…” “Yippee!” Bill shouted, and leaped forward. The fuse he was looking at crackled with a brilliant discharge around the clips, and at the same moment the fuseband charred and turned from red to black. “Unggh!” he grunted, then “Unggh! Ungghl Ungghl” in rapid succession, burning his palms on the still hot fuse, dropping it on his toe, and finally getting it into a fuseway. When he turned back Tembo had already clipped a fresh fuse into the empty clips.
“That was my fuse you shouldn't have…” there were tears in his eyes.
“Sorry. But by the rules I must help if I am free.” “Well, at least we're in action,” Bill said, back in position and trying to favor his bruised foot.
“Not in action yet, still too cold in here. And that was just a fuse breakdown, you can tell by the clip discharge, they do that sometimes when they get old.” “… massed armadas manned by heroic troopers…” “We could have been in combat.” Bill pouted.
“… thunder of atomic broadsides and lightning trails of hurtling torpedoes… “ “I think we are now. It does feel warmer, doesn't it, Bill? We had better undress; if it really is a battle we may get too busy.” “Let's go, let's go, down to the buff,” First Class Spleen barked, leaping gazellelike down the rows of fuses, clad only in a pair of dirty gym socks and his tattooed-on stripes and fouled-fuse insignia of rank. There was a sudden crackling in the air, and Bill felt the clipped-short stubs of his hair stirring in his scalp.
“What's that?” he yiped.
“Secondary discharge from that bank of fuses,” Tembo pointed. “It's classified as to what is happening, but I heard tell that it means one of the defense screens is under radiation attack, and as it overloads it climbs up the spectrum to green, to blue to ultraviolet until finally it goes black and the screen breaks down.” “That sounds pretty way out.” “I told you it was just a rumor. The material is classified…” “THERE SHE GOES!!” A crackling bang split the humid air of the fuse room, and a bank of fuses arced, smoked, burned black. One of them cracked in half, showering small fragments like shrapnel in every direction. The fusemen leaped,,grabbed the fuses, slipped in replacements with sweating hands, barely visible to each other through the reeking layers of smoke. The fuses were driven home, and there was a moment's silence, broken only by a plaintive bleating from the communications screen.
“Son of a bowb!” First Class Spleen muttered, kicking a fuse out of the way and diving for the screen. His uniform jacket was hanging on a hook next to it, and he struggled into this before banging the RECEIVE switch. He finished closing the last button just as the screen cleared. Spleen saluted, so it must have been an officer he was facing; the screen was edge-on to Bill, so he couldn't tell, but the voice had the quacking no-chin-and-plenty-of- teeth whine that he was beginning to associate with the officer class.
“You're slow in answering, First Class Spleen-maybe Second Class Spleen would be able to answer faster?” “Have pity, sir-I'm an old man.” He dropped to his knees in a prayerful attitude which took him off the screen.
“Get up, you idiot! Have you repaired the fuses after that last overload?” “We replace, sir, not repair…” “None of your technical gibberish, you swine! A straight answer!” “All in order, sir. Operating in the green. No complaints from anyone, your worship.” “Why are you out of uniform?” “I am in uniform, sir,” Spleen whined, moving closer to the screen so that his bare behind and shaking lower limbs could not be seen.
“Don't lie to me! There's sweat on your forehead. You aren't allowed to sweat in uniform. Do you. see me sweating? And I have a cap on too-at the correct angle. I'll forget it this time because I have a heart of gold.
