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 toward 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 neck irons used to bring Bill and the others to the labor camp, all joined together by a long chain that connected the neck irons. 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 toward 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 Chris Keeler! 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 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.
