“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 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.”
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.
