“But we are easily the equivalent of a battalion of conventional troops,” Rommel objected, logically. He lowered his ladder, and now that the mayor was well out of sight, Siegfried felt free to climb back into the cool interior of the Bolo.
He waited until he was settled in his customary seat, now worn to the contours of his own figure after a year, before he answered the AI he now consciously considered to be his best friend as well as his assigned partner. Inside the cabin of the Bolo, everything was clean, if a little worn—cool—the light dimmed the way Siegfried liked it. This was, in fact, the most comfortable quarters Siegfried had ever enjoyed. Granted, things were a bit cramped, but he had everything he needed in here, from shower and cooking facilities to multiple kinds of entertainment. And the Bolo did not need to worry about “wasting” energy; his power-plant was geared to supply full-combat needs in any and all climates; what Siegfried needed to keep cool and comfortable was miniscule. Outside, the ever-present desert sand blew everywhere, the heat was enough to drive even the most patient person mad, and the sun bleached everything to a bone-white. Inside was a compact world of Siegfried’s own.
Bachman’s World had little to recommend it. That was the problem.
“It’s a complicated issue, Rommel,” he said. “If a battalion of conventional troops had been sent here, there would have been more than the initial expenditure—there would have been an ongoing expenditure to support them.”
“Yes—that support money would come into the community. I understand their distress.” Rommel would understand, of course; Field Marshal Erwin Rommel had understood the problems of supply only too well, and his namesake could hardly do less. “Could it be they demanded the troops in the first place in order to gain that money?”
Siegfried grimaced, and toyed with the controls on the panel in front of him. “That’s what High Command thinks, actually. There never was any real reason to think Bachman’s World was under any sort of threat, and after a year, there’s even less reason than there was when they made the request. They expected something to bring in money from outside; you and I are hardly bringing in big revenue for them.”
Indeed, they weren’t bringing in any income at all. Rommel, of course, required no support, since he was not expending anything. His power-plant would supply all his needs for the next hundred years before it needed refueling. If there had been a battalion of men here, it would have been less expensive for High Command to set up a standard mess hall, buying their supplies from the local farmers, rather than shipping in food and other supplies. Further, the men would have been spending their pay locally. In fact, local suppliers would have been found for nearly everything except weaponry.
But with only one man here, it was far less expensive for High Command to arrange for his supplies to come in at regular intervals on scheduled freight-runs. The Bolo ate nothing. They didn’t even use “local” water; the Bolo recycled nearly every drop, and distilled the rest from occasional rainfall and dew. Siegfried was not the usual soldier-on-leave; when he spent his pay, it was generally off-planet, ordering things to be shipped in, and not patronizing local merchants. He bought books, not beer; he didn’t gamble, his interest in food was minimal and satisfied by the R.E.M.s (Ready-to-Eat-Meals) that were standard field issue and shipped to him by the crateful. And he was far more interested in that four-letter word for “intercourse” that began with a “t” than in intercourse of any other kind. He was an ascetic scholar; such men were not the sort who brought any amount of money into a community. He and his partner, parked as they were at the edge of the spaceport, were a continual reminder of how Bachman’s World had been “cheated.”
And for that reason, the mayor of Port City had suggested—stiffly, but politely—that his and Rommel’s continuing presence so near the main settlement was somewhat disconcerting. He had hinted that the peace-loving citizens found the Bolo frightening (and never mind that they had requested some sort of defense from the military). And if they could not find a way to make themselves useful, perhaps they ought to at least
“You heard him, my friend,” Siegfried sighed. “They’d like us to go away. Not that they have any authority to order us to do so—as I reminded the mayor. But I suspect seeing us constantly is something of an embarrassment to whoever it was that promised a battalion of troops to bring in cash and got us instead.”
“In that case, Siegfried,” Rommel said gently, “we probably should take the mayor’s suggestion. How long do you think we should stay away?”
“When’s the next ship due in?” Siegfried replied. “There’s no real reason for us to be here until it arrives, and then we only need to stay long enough to pick up my supplies.”
“True.” With a barely-audible rumble, Rommel started his banks of motive engines. “Have you any destination in mind?”
Without prompting, Rommel projected the map of the immediate area on one of Siegfried’s control-room screens. Siegfried studied it for a moment, trying to work out the possible repercussions of vanishing into the hills altogether. “I’ll tell you what, old man,” he said slowly, “we’ve just been playing at doing our job. Really, that’s hardly honorable, when it comes down to it. Even if they don’t need us and never did, the fact is that they asked for on-planet protection, and we haven’t even planned how to give it to them. How about if we actually go out there in the bush and
There was interest in the AI’s voice; he did not imagine it. “What do you mean by that?” Rommel asked.
“I mean, let’s go out there and scout the territory ourselves; plan defenses and offenses, as if this dustball
Rommel was silent for a moment. “They will still blame High Command, Siegfried. They did not receive what
