[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine April 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Terra resounded to the triple toast of the
Haldorian hordes: For Haldor! For Glory!
And for Heaven's sake, let us out of here!
Once my name was Ameet Ruxt, my skin was light blue, and I was a
moderately low-ranking member of the Haldorian Empire. Or should
I say I was a member of the lower income group? No, definitely
"low-ranking," because in a warrior society, even one with as high a
technological level as a statistician sits low on the totem pole. He
is handed the wrong end of the stick--call it what you will; he's
the one who doesn't acquire even one wife for years and he hasn't a
courtesy title. He's the man they draft into their Invasion Forces--the
Haldorians are always invading someone--and turn him into a Fighter
Basic in a third of a year.
"Look," I'd complained to the burly two-striper in the Receiving
Center, "I'm a trained statistician with a degree and...."
"Say Sir, when you address me."
I started over again. "I know, Sir, that they use statisticians in the
service. So if Haldor needs me in the service it's only sensible that I
should work in statistics."
The Hweetoral looked bored, but I've found out since that all
two-stripers looked bored; it's because so many of them have attained,
at that rank, their life's ambition. "Sure, sure. But we just got a
directive down on all you paper-pushers. Every one of you from now on
out is headed for Fighter Basic Course. You know, I envy you, Ruxt.
Haldor, what I wouldn't give to be out there with real men again!
Jetting down on some new planet--raying down the mongrels till they
yelled for mercy--and grabbing a new chunk of sky for the Empire.
Haldor! That's the life!" He glanced modestly down at his medalled
chest.
"Yes, Sir," I said, "it sure is. But look at my examination records you
have right there. Physically I'm only a 3 and you have to have a 5 to
go to Basic Fighter. And besides," I threw in the clincher, though I
was a bit ashamed of it, "my fighting aptitude only measures a 2!"
The Hweetoral sneered unsubtly and grabbed a scriber with heavy
fingers. A couple of slashes, a couple of new entries, and lo, I was
now a 5 in both departments. I was qualified in every respect.
"See," he said, "that's your first lesson in the Service, Ruxt.
Figures don't mean a thing, because they can always be changed. That's
something a figure pusher like you has to learn. So--" he shoved
out that ponderous hand and crushed mine before I could protect
myself--"good luck, Ruxt. I know you'll get through that course--alive,
I mean." He chuckled heartily. "And I know men!"
* * * * *
He was right. I got through alive. But then, 76.5 per cent of draftees
do get through the Basic Fighter Course, alive. But for me it took a
drastic rearrangement of philosophy.
Me, all I'd ever wanted was a good life. An adequate income, art and
music, congenial friends, an understanding wife--just one wife was all
I'd ever hoped for. As you can see, I was an untypical Haldorian on
every point.
After my first day in Basic Fighter Course I just wanted to stay alive.
"There's two kinds of men we turn out here," our Haldor told us as
we lined up awkwardly for the first time (that scene so loved by
vision-makers). We new draftees called our Trontar our Haldor because
he actually had the power over our bodies that the chaplains assured us
the Heavenly Haldor had over our liberated spirits. Our Trontar looked
us over with his fatherly stare, flexing his powerful arm muscles so
that his three tattooed stripes rippled and danced. "Yeah," he went
on, "two kinds of men: Fighting men and dead men!" The Trontar grinned
that fighting Haldorian grin you see all your lives on the Prop Sheets.
"And I'll tell you something, men. When you leave here--all Fighters
Basic--I'm going to envy you. Yeah, I'll really envy you gutsy killers
when you go out in that big Out-There and grab yourselves a new chunk
of sky." He paused and studied our faces. "Now we're gonna run, and I
do mean run, two full decades. The last four men in get to do it over
again, and pull kitchen duty tonight too."
I tried, as others have tried, to slip quietly out of Basic Fighter. I
tried being sick, but following sick report one found oneself doing a
full day's training--after the understanding medics had shoved some pep
pills into you. I demanded a physical examination. They weren't going
to push me around.
After a couple of days in solitary, I asked in a nice way for physical
evaluation.
Well, I asked. I wasn't very smart in those days.
They weren't interested in my story of how my records had been
falsified or in my fighting aptitude.
"Look, draftee," the psycho-man said after I finally got to him, "the
fact that you've got to see me shows you have enough of a fighting
aptitude. Your Trontar didn't encourage you to request evaluation, did
he? And he isn't going to like you very much when you report back to
your platoon, is he?"