"Figures?" asked Hweetoral Borr. I could see a train of thought had
been started in the Hweetoral's mind.
"Yeah, figures," snapped Trontar Hytd. "He likes to count things, Borr.
Get it?"
"Guess we need all our ray charges counted, for one thing," suggested
Hweetoral Borr. "I get all mixed up with them figures."
"After training hours, of course," Trontar Hytd said.
"Of course, Trontar. And someone's gotta jawbone some kind of report on
ammo expenditures every training day. Maybe after the rest of us have
sacked in, for instance?"
"Of course. Okay, Hweetoral, I guess you got the idea."
Invasion was almost a relief after that brief bit of refresher training
the 27th was going through.
Our General-on-the-way-up had outlined his plan of attack: "Drop'm,
hit'm, lift'm and drop'm again." So I dropped, hit the defenders, was
lifted to a new center of resistance, and dropped again. I understand
it was a standard type of invasion, there's only one way to do simple
things.
* * * * *
Once in a while, these days, I remember those sadistic and
battle-hardened comrades of mine. Hard, gutsy Trontar Hytd stayed
on his feet to direct his platoon underground after our Kansas
force collapsed, and one of those little fission weapons separated
his body parts too widely for even our unsentimentally competent
surgeon/replacer to reassemble him. Well, they had a go at the job, but
they had to ray down what they created--some primitive regression had
set in and the creature was hungry.
And rough and tough Hweetoral Borr incautiously scratched his hairy
ear just when one of those rude projectile weapons was firing at
him. The slug slipped through that opening the Hweetoral had made in
his body armor. With the brain gone--or such brain as Hweetoral Borr
possessed--our kindly old surgeon/replacer was foxed again.
Then there were the new germs....
But these things are as nothing to the creative military mind. A swarm
of regulations, manuals and directives issue forth from headquarters,
and force fields cease to collapse, and fighters keep their body armor
on and adjusted. When something like the influenza germ wipes out half
a platoon, the wheels turn, a new vaccine is devised, and no more
Haldorians die from that particular germ. All the individual has to do
is to live from one injection to the next (any civilized enemy always
dreams up new diseases), move from one enemy strong point to the next,
and dream of the day when he can return to his old life. For me it was
a dream of returning to that quiet tiny room with its walls lined with
the best of Haldorian art--just cheap reproductions, of course--and
never again to handle a rayer or to wear armor. Real life, meanwhile,
went on.
"Fighter First-Class Ruxt! Take these men and blast that strong
point!" That would be the order somewhere in Missouri, or maybe in
Mississippi--I never was much good on micro-geography. "Hweetoral Ruxt!
Take your squad and clean out that city. New Orleans they call it. Get
their formal surrender and make damn sure there are no guerrillas left
when the colonel comes through to inspect."
By the time I was Trontar Ruxt the invasion was practically over. As I
say, it was the standard thing with one or two countries holding out
after all hope was gone--England never did formally surrender, not that
it mattered--and our successful General was made a Sub-Marshal of the
Haldorian Empire.
A real promotion and a great honor. Much good it did him when he
ventured his battle fleet too far into the Slug lines a year later.
With the fighting over--the real fighting, I mean--the ever-efficient
Haldorians started moving their troops off Earth to get ready for a new
and bigger invasion that the computers had decreed. Only a few troops
were to be left behind for occupation and guard stuff.