Starship Troopers Part 10

When it came time to drop onto Klendathu, I was a.s.signed to PFC Dutch Bamburger as a supernumerary. He managed to conceal his pleasure at the news and as soon as the platoon sergeant was out of earshot, he said, "Listen, boot, you stick close behind me and stay out of my way. You go slowing me down, I break your silly neck."

I just nodded. I was beginning to realize that this was not a practice drop.

Then I had the shakes for a while and then we were down - Operation Bughouse should have been called "Operation Madhouse." Everything went wrong. It had been planned as an all-out move to bring the enemy to their knees, occupy their capital and the key points of their home planet, and end the war. Instead it darn near lost the war.

I am not criticizing General Diennes. I don't know whether it's true that he demanded more troops and more support and allowed himself to be overruled by the Sky Marshal-in-Chief - or not. Nor was it any of my business. Furthermore I doubt if some of the smart second-guessers know all the facts.

What I do know is that the General dropped with us and commanded us on the ground and, when the situation became impossible, he personally led the diversionary attack that allowed quite a few of us (including me) to be retrieved - and, in so doing, bought his farm. He's radioactive debris on Klendathu and it's much too late to court-martial him, so why talk about it?

I do have one comment to make to any armchair strategist who has never made a drop. Yes, I agree that the Bugs' planet possibly could have been plastered with H-bombs until it was surfaced with radioactive gla.s.s. But would that have won the war? The Bugs are not like us. The Pseudo-Arachnids aren't even like spiders. They are arthropods who happen to look like a madman's conception of a giant, intelligent spider, but their organization, psychological and economic, is more like that of ants or termites; they are communal ent.i.ties, the ultimate dictators.h.i.+p of the hive. Blasting the surface of their planet would have killed soldiers and workers; it would not have killed the brain caste and the queens - I doubt if anybody can be certain that even a direct hit with a burrowing H-rocket would kill a queen; we don't know how far down they are. Nor am I anxious to find out; none of the boys who went down those holes came up again.

So suppose we did ruin the productive surface of Klendathu? They still would have s.h.i.+ps and colonies and other planets, same as we have, and their HQ is still intact - so unless they surrender, the war isn't over. We didn't have nova bombs at that time; we couldn't crack Klendathu open. If they absorbed the punishment and didn't surrender, the war was still on.

If they can can surrender - surrender - Their soldiers can't. Their workers can't fight (and you can waste a lot of time and ammo shooting up workers who wouldn't say boo! boo!) and their soldier caste can't surrender. But don't make the mistake of thinking that the Bugs are just stupid insects because they look the way they do and don't know how to surrender. Their warriors are smart, skilled, and aggressive - smarter than you are, by the only universal rule, if the Bug shoots first. You can burn off one leg, two legs, three legs, and he just keeps on coming; burn off four on one side and he topples over - but keeps on shooting. You have to spot the nerve case and get it . . . whereupon he will trot right on past you, shooting at nothing, until he crashes into a wall or something.

The drop was a shambles from the start. Fifty s.h.i.+ps were in our piece of it and they were supposed to come out of Cherenkov drive and into reaction drive so perfectly co-ordinated that they could hit orbit and drop us, in formation and where we were supposed to hit, without even making one planet circuit to dress up their own formation. I suppose this is difficult. Shucks, I know it is. But when it slips, it leaves the M. I. holding the sack.

We were lucky at that, because the Valley Forge Valley Forge and every Navy file in her bought it before we ever hit the ground. In that tight, fast formation (4.7 miles/sec. orbital speed is not a stroll) she collided with the and every Navy file in her bought it before we ever hit the ground. In that tight, fast formation (4.7 miles/sec. orbital speed is not a stroll) she collided with the Ypres Ypres and both s.h.i.+ps were destroyed. We were lucky to get out of her tubes - those of us who did get out, for she was still firing capsules as she was rammed. But I wasn't aware of it; I was inside my coc.o.o.n, headed for the ground. I suppose our company commander knew that the s.h.i.+p had been lost (and half his Wildcats with it) since he was out first and would know when he suddenly lost touch, over the command circuit, with the s.h.i.+p's captain. and both s.h.i.+ps were destroyed. We were lucky to get out of her tubes - those of us who did get out, for she was still firing capsules as she was rammed. But I wasn't aware of it; I was inside my coc.o.o.n, headed for the ground. I suppose our company commander knew that the s.h.i.+p had been lost (and half his Wildcats with it) since he was out first and would know when he suddenly lost touch, over the command circuit, with the s.h.i.+p's captain.

But there is no way to ask him, because he wasn't retrieved. All I ever had was a gradually dawning realization that things were in a mess.

The next eighteen hours were nightmare. I shan't tell much about it because I don't remember much, just s.n.a.t.c.hes, stop-motion scenes of horror. I have never liked spiders, poisonous or otherwise; a common house spider in my bed can give me the creeps. Tarantulas are simply unthinkable, and I can't eat lobster, crab, or anything of that sort. When I got my first sight of a Bug, my mind jumped right out of my skull and started to yammer. It was seconds later that I realized that I had killed it and could stop shooting. I suppose it was a worker; I doubt if I was in any shape to tackle a warrior and win.

But, at that, I was in better shape than was the K-9 Corps. They were to be dropped (if the drop had gone perfectly) on the periphery of our entire target and the neodogs were supposed to range outward and provide tactical intelligence to interdiction squads whose business it was to secure the periphery. Those Calebs aren't armed, of course, other than their teeth. A neodog is supposed to hear, see, and smell and tell his partner what he finds by radio; all he carries is a radio and a destruction bomb with which he (or his partner) can blow the dog up in case of bad wounds or capture.

Those poor dogs didn't wait to be captured; apparently most of them suicided as soon as they made contact. They felt the way I do about the Bugs, only worse. They have neodogs now that are indoctrinated from puppyhood to observe and evade without blowing their tops at the mere sight or smell of a Bug. But these weren't.

But that wasn't all that went wrong. Just name it, it was fouled up. I didn't know what was going on, of course; just stuck close behind Dutch, trying to shoot or flame anything that moved, dropping a grenade down a hole when ever I saw one. Presently I got so that I could kill a Bug without wasting ammo or juice, although I did not learn to distinguish between those that were harmless and those that were not. Only about one in fifty is a warrior but he makes up for the other forty-nine. Their personal weapons aren't as heavy as ours but they are lethal just the same - they've got a beam that will penetrate armor and slice flesh like cutting a hard-boiled egg, and they co operate even better than we do . . . because the brain that is doing the heavy thinking for a "squad" isn't where you can reach it; it's down one of the holes.

Dutch and I stayed lucky for quite a long time, milling around over an area about a mile square, corking up holes with bombs, killing what we found above surface, saving our jets as much as possible for emergencies. The idea was to secure the entire target and allow the reinforcements and the heavy stuff to come down without important opposition; this was not a raid, this was a battle to establish a beachhead, stand on it, hold it, and enable fresh troops and heavies to capture or pacify the entire planet.

Only we didn't.

Our own section was doing all right. It was in the wrong pew and out of touch with the other section - the platoon leader and sergeant were dead and we never re-formed. But we had staked out a claim, our special-weapons squad had set up a strong point, and we were ready to turn our real estate over to fresh troops as soon as they showed up.

Only they didn't. They dropped in where we should have dropped, found unfriendly natives and had their own troubles. We never saw them. So we stayed where we were, soaking up casualties from time to time and pa.s.sing them out ourselves as opportunity offered - while we ran low on ammo and jump juice and even power to keep the suits moving. This seemed to go on for a couple of thousand years.

Dutch and I were zipping along close to a wall, headed for our special-weapons squad in answer to a yell for help, when the ground suddenly opened in front of Dutch, a Bug popped out, and Dutch went down.

I flamed the Bug and tossed a grenade and the hole closed up, then turned to see what had happened to Dutch. He was down but he didn't look hurt. A platoon sergeant can monitor the physicals on every man in his platoon, sort out the dead from those who merely can't make it una.s.sisted and must be picked up. But you can do the same thing manually from switches right on the belt of a man's suit.

Dutch didn't answer when I called to him. His body temperature read ninety-nine degrees, his respiration, heartbeat, and brain wave read zero - which looked bad but maybe his suit was dead rather than he himself. Or so I told myself, forgetting that the temperature indicator would give no reading if it were the suit rather than the man. Anyhow, I grabbed the can-opener wrench from my own belt and started to take him out of his suit while trying to watch all around me.

Then I heard an allhands call in my helmet that I never want to hear again. "Sauve qui peut! Home! Home! Pickup and Home! Home! Pickup and home! home! Any beacon you can hear. Six minutes! All hands, save yourselves, pick up your mates. Home on any beacon! Sauve qui - " Any beacon you can hear. Six minutes! All hands, save yourselves, pick up your mates. Home on any beacon! Sauve qui - "

I hurried.

His head came off as I tried to drag him out of his suit, so I dropped him and got out of there. On a later drop I would have had sense enough to salvage his ammo, but I was far too sluggy to think; I simply bounced away from there and tried to rendezvous with the strong point we had been heading for.

It was already evacuated and I felt lost . . . lost and deserted. Then I heard recall, not the recall it should have been "Yankee Doodle" (if it had been a boat from the Valley Forge Valley Forge) - but "Sugar Bush," a tune I didn't know. No matter, it was a beacon; I headed for it, using the last of my jump juice lavishly - got aboard just as they were about to b.u.t.ton up and shortly thereafter was in the Voortrek Voortrek, in such a state of shock that I couldn't remember my serial number.

I've heard it called a "strategic victory" - but I was there and I claim we took a terrible licking.

Six weeks later (and feeling about sixty years older) at Fleet Base on Sanctuary I boarded another ground boat and reported for duty to s.h.i.+p's Sergeant Jelal in the Rodger Young Rodger Young. I was wearing, in my pierced left ear lobe, a broken skull with one bone. Al Jenkins was with me and was wearing one exactly like it (Kitten never made it out of the tube). The few surviving Wildcats were distributed elsewhere around the Fleet; we had lost half our strength, about, in the collision between the Valley Forge Valley Forge and the and the Ypres Ypres; that disastrous mess on the ground had run our casualties up over 80 per cent and the powers-that-be decided that it was impossible to put the outfit back together with the survivors - close it out, put the records in the archives, and wait until the scars had healed before reactivating Company K (Wildcats) with new faces but old traditions.

Besides, there were a lot of empty files to fill in other outfits. Sergeant Jelal welcomed us warmly, told us that we were joining a smart outfit, "best in the Fleet," in a taut s.h.i.+p, and didn't seem to notice our ear skulls. Later that day he took us forward to meet the Lieutenant, who smiled rather shyly and gave us a fatherly little talk. I noticed that Al Jenkins wasn't wearing his gold skull. Neither was I - because I had already noticed that n.o.body in Rasczak's Roughnecks wore the skulls.

They didn't wear them because, in Rasczak's Roughnecks, it didn't matter in the least how many combat drops you had made, nor which ones; you were either a Roughneck or you weren't - and if you were not, they didn't care who you were. Since we had come to them not as recruits but as combat veterans, they gave us all possible benefit of doubt and made us welcome with no more than that unavoidable trace of formality anybody necessarily shows to a house guest who is not a member of the family.

But, less than a week later when we had made one combat drop with them, we were full fledged Roughnecks, members of the family, called by our first names, chewed out on occasion without any feeling on either side that we were less than blood brothers thereby, borrowed from and lent to, included in bull sessions and privileged to express our own silly opinions with complete freedom - and have them slapped down just as freely. We even called non-coms by their first names on any but strictly duty occasions. Sergeant Jelal was always on duty, of course, unless you ran across him dirtside, in which case he was "Jelly" and went out of his way to behave as if his lordly rank meant nothing between Roughnecks.

But the Lieutenant was always "The Lieutenant" - never "Mr. Rasczak," nor even "Lieutenant Rasczak." Simply "The Lieutenant," spoken to and of in the third person. There was no G.o.d but the Lieutenant and Sergeant Jelal was his prophet. Jelly could say "No" in his own person and it might be subject to further argument, at least from junior sergeants, but if he said, "The Lieutenant wouldn't like it," he was speaking ex cathedra ex cathedra and the matter was dropped permanently. n.o.body ever tried to check up on whether or not the Lieutenant would or would not like it; the Word had been spoken. and the matter was dropped permanently. n.o.body ever tried to check up on whether or not the Lieutenant would or would not like it; the Word had been spoken.

The Lieutenant was father to us and loved us and spoiled us and was nevertheless rather remote from us aboard s.h.i.+p - and even dirtside . . . unless we reached dirt via a drop. But in a drop well, you wouldn't think that an officer could worry about every man of a platoon spread over a hundred square miles of terrain. But he can. He can worry himself sick over each one of them. How he could keep track of us all I can't describe, but in the midst of a ruckus his voice would sing out over the command circuit: "Johnson! Check squad six! Smitty's in trouble," and it was better than even money that the Lieutenant had noticed it before Smith's squad leader.

Besides that, you knew with utter and absolute certainty that, as long as you were still alive, the Lieutenant would not get into the retrieval boat without you. There have been prisoners taken in the Bug War, but none from Rasczak's Roughnecks.

Jelly was mother to us and was close to us and took care of us and didn't spoil us at all. But he didn't report us to the Lieutenant - there was never a court-martial among the Roughnecks and no man was ever flogged. Jelly didn't even pa.s.s out extra duty very often; he had other ways of paddling us. He could look you up and down at daily inspection and simply say, "In the Navy you might look good. Why don't you transfer?" - and get results, it being an article of faith among us that the Navy crew members slept in their uniforms and never washed below their collar lines.

But Jelly didn't have to maintain discipline among privates because he maintained discipline among his non-coms and expected them to do likewise. My squad leader, when I first joined, was "Red" Greene. After a couple of drops, when I knew how good it was to be a Roughneck, I got to feeling gay and a bit too big for my clothes - and talked back to Red. He didn't report me to Jelly; he just took me back to the washroom and gave me a medium set of lumps, and we got to be pretty good friends. In fact, he recommended me for lance, later on.

Actually we didn't know whether the crew members slept in their clothes or not; we kept to our part of the s.h.i.+p and the Navy men kept to theirs, because they were made to feel unwelcome if they showed up in our country other than on duty - after all, one has social standards one must maintain, mustn't one? The Lieutenant had his stateroom in male officers' country, a Navy part of the s.h.i.+p, but we never went there, either, except on duty and rarely. We did go forward for guard duty, because the Rodger Young Rodger Young was a mixed s.h.i.+p, female captain and pilot officers, some female Navy ratings; forward of bulkhead thirty was ladies' country - and two armed M. I. day and night stood guard at the one door cutting it. (At battle stations that door, like all other gastight doors, was secured; n.o.body missed a drop.) was a mixed s.h.i.+p, female captain and pilot officers, some female Navy ratings; forward of bulkhead thirty was ladies' country - and two armed M. I. day and night stood guard at the one door cutting it. (At battle stations that door, like all other gastight doors, was secured; n.o.body missed a drop.) Officers were privileged to go forward of bulkhead thirty on duty and all officers, including the Lieutenant, ate in a mixed mess just beyond it. But they didn't tarry there; they ate and got out. Maybe other corvette transports were run differently, but that was the way the Rodger Young Rodger Young was run - both the Lieutenant and Captain Deladrier wanted a taut s.h.i.+p and got it. was run - both the Lieutenant and Captain Deladrier wanted a taut s.h.i.+p and got it.

Nevertheless guard duty was a privilege. It was a rest to stand beside that door, arms folded, feet spread, doping off and thinking about nothing . . . but always warmly aware that any moment you might see a feminine creature even though you were not privileged to speak to her other than on duty. Once I was called all the way into the Skipper's office and she spoke to me - she looked right at me and said, "Take this to the Chief Engineer, please."

My daily s.h.i.+pside job, aside from cleaning, was servicing electronic equipment under the close supervision of "Padre" Migliaccio, the section leader of the first section, exactly as I used to work under Carl's eye. Drops didn't happen too often and everybody worked every day. If a man didn't have any other talent he could always scrub bulkheads; nothing was ever quite clean enough to suit Sergeant Jelal. We followed the M. I. rule; everybody fights, everybody works. Our first cook was Johnson, the second section's sergeant, a big friendly boy from Georgia (the one in the western hemisphere, not the other one) and a very talented chef. He wheedled pretty well, too; he liked to eat between meals himself and saw no reason why other people shouldn't.

With the Padre leading one section and the cook leading the other, we were well taken care of, body and soul - but suppose one of them bought it? Which one would you pick? A nice point that we never tried to settle but could always discuss.

The Rodger Young Rodger Young kept busy and we made a number of drops, all different. Every drop has to be different so that they never can figure out a pattern on you. But no more pitched battles; we operated alone, patrolling, harrying, and raiding. The truth was that the Terran Federation was not then able to mount a large battle; the foul-up with Operation Bughouse had cost too many s.h.i.+ps, 'way too many trained men. It was necessary to take time to heal up, train more men. kept busy and we made a number of drops, all different. Every drop has to be different so that they never can figure out a pattern on you. But no more pitched battles; we operated alone, patrolling, harrying, and raiding. The truth was that the Terran Federation was not then able to mount a large battle; the foul-up with Operation Bughouse had cost too many s.h.i.+ps, 'way too many trained men. It was necessary to take time to heal up, train more men.

In the meantime, small fast s.h.i.+ps, among them the Rodger Young and other corvette transports, tried to be everywhere at once, keeping the enemy off balance, hurting him and running. We suffered casualties and filled our holes when we returned to Sanctuary for more capsules. I still got the shakes every drop, but actual drops didn't happen too often nor were we ever down long - and between times there were days and days of s.h.i.+pboard life among the Roughnecks.

It was the happiest period of my life although I was never quite consciously aware of it - I did my full share of beefing just as everybody else did, and enjoyed that, too.

We weren't really really hurt until the Lieutenant bought it. hurt until the Lieutenant bought it.

I guess that was the worst time in all my life. I was already in bad shape for a personal reason: My mother had been in Buenos Aires when the Bugs smeared it.

I found out about it one time when we put in at Sanctuary for more capsules and some mail caught up with us a note from my Aunt Eleanora, one that had not been coded and sent fast because she had failed to mark for that; the letter itself came. It was about three bitter lines. Somehow she seemed to blame me for my mother's death. Whether it was my fault because I was in the Armed Services and should have therefore prevented the raid, or whether she felt that my mother had made a trip to Buenos Aires because I wasn't home where I should have been, was not quite clear; she managed to imply both in the same sentence.

I tore it up and tried to walk away from it. I thought that both my parents were dead - since Father would never send Mother on a trip that long by herself. Aunt Eleanora had not said so, but she wouldn't have mentioned Father in any case; her devotion was entirely to her sister. I was almost correct - eventually I learned that Father had planned to go with her but something had come up and he stayed over to settle it, intending to come along the next day. But Aunt Eleanora did not tell me this.

A couple of hours later the Lieutenant sent for me and asked me very gently if I would like to take leave at Sanctuary while the s.h.i.+p went out on her next patrol - he pointed out that I had plenty of acc.u.mulated R&R and might as well use some of it. I don't know how he knew that I had lost a member of my family, but he obviously did. I said no, thank you, sir; I preferred to wait until the outfit all took R&R together.

I'm glad I did it that way, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have been along when the Lieutenant bought it . . . and that would have been just too much to be borne. It happened very fast and just before retrieval. A man in the third squad was wounded, not badly but he was down; the a.s.sistant section leader moved in to pick up - and bought a small piece of it himself. The Lieutenant, as usual, was watching everything at once - no doubt he had checked physicals on each of them by remote, but we'll never know. What he did was to make sure that the a.s.sistant section leader was still alive; then made pickup on both of them himself, one in each arm of his suit.

He threw them the last twenty feet and they were pa.s.sed into the retrieval boat - and with everybody else in, the s.h.i.+eld gone and no interdiction, was. .h.i.t and died instantly.

I haven't mentioned the names of the private and of the a.s.sistant section leader on purpose. The Lieutenant was making pickup on all of us, with his last breath. Maybe I was the private. It doesn't matter who he was. What did matter was that our family had had its head chopped off. The head of the family from which we took our name, the father who made us what we were.

After the Lieutenant had to leave us Captain Deladrier invited Sergeant Jelal to eat forward, with the other heads of departments. But he begged to be excused. Have you ever seen a widow with stern character keep her family together by behaving as if the head of the family had simply stepped out and would return at any moment? That's what Jelly did. He was just a touch more strict with us than ever and if he ever had to say: "The Lieutenant wouldn't like that," it was almost more than a man could take. Jelly didn't say it very often.

He left our combat team organization almost unchanged; instead of s.h.i.+fting everybody around, he moved the a.s.sistant section leader of the second section over into the (nominal) platoon sergeant spot, leaving his section leaders where they were needed - with their sections - and he moved me from lance and a.s.sistant squad leader into acting corporal as a largely ornamental a.s.sistant section leader. Then he himself behaved as if the Lieutenant were merely out of sight and that he was just pa.s.sing on the Lieutenant's orders, as usual.

It saved us.

Chapter 11.

I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.

W. Churchill, XXth century Soldier-Statesman .

As we came back into the s.h.i.+p after the raid on the Skinnies-the raid in which Dizzy Flores bought it, Sergeant Jelal's first drop as platoon leader - a s.h.i.+p's gunner who was tending the boat lock spoke to me: "How'd it go?"

"Routine," I answered briefly. I suppose his remark was friendly but I was feeling very mixed up and in no mood to talk - sad over Dizzy, glad that we had made pickup anyhow, mad that the pickup had been useless, and all of it tangled up with that washed-out but happy feeling of being back in the s.h.i.+p again, able to muster arms and legs and note that they are all present. Besides, how can you talk about a drop to a man who has never made one?

"So?" he answered. "You guys have got it soft. Loaf thirty days, work thirty minutes. Me, I stand a watch in three and and turn to." turn to."

"Yeah, I guess so," I agreed and turned away. "Some of us are born lucky."

"Soldier, you ain't peddlin' vacuum," he said to my back.

And yet there was much truth in what the Navy gunner had said. We cap troopers are like aviators of the earlier mechanized wars; a long and busy military career could contain only a few hours of actual combat facing the enemy, the rest being: train, get ready, go out - then come back, clean up the mess, get ready for another one, and practice, practice, practice, in between. We didn't make another drop for almost three weeks and that on a different planet around another star - a Bug colony. Even with Cherenkov drive, stars are far apart.

In the meantime I got my corporal's stripes, nominated by Jelly and confirmed by Captain Deladrier in the absence of a commissioned officer of our own. Theoretically the rank would not be permanent until approved against vacancy by the Fleet M. I. repple-depple, but that meant nothing, as the casualty rate was such that there were always more vacancies in the T. O. than there were warm bodies to fill them. I was a corporal when Jelly said I was a corporal; the rest was red tape.

But the gunner was not quite correct about "loafing"; there were fifty-three suits of powered armor to check, service, and repair between each drop, not to mention weapons and special equipment. Sometimes Migliaccio would downcheck a suit, Jelly would confirm it, and the s.h.i.+p's weapons engineer, Lieutenant Farley, would decide that he couldn't cure it short of base facilities - whereupon a new suit would have to be broken out of stores and brought from "cold" to "hot," an exacting process requiring twenty-six man-hours not counting the time of the man to whom it was being fitted.

We kept busy.

But we had fun, too. There were always several compet.i.tions going on, from acey-deucy to Honor Squad, and we had the best jazz band in several cubic light-years (well, the only one, maybe), with Sergeant Johnson on the trumpet leading them mellow and sweet for hymns or tearing the steel right off the bulkheads, as the occasion required. After that masterful (or should it be "mistressful"?) retrieval rendezvous without a programmed ballistic, the platoon's metalsmith, PFC Archie Campbell, made a model of the Rodger Young Rodger Young for the Skipper and we all signed and Archie engraved our signatures on a base plate: for the Skipper and we all signed and Archie engraved our signatures on a base plate: To Hot Pilot Yvette Deladrier, with thanks from Rasczak's Roughnecks To Hot Pilot Yvette Deladrier, with thanks from Rasczak's Roughnecks, and we invited her aft to eat with us and the Roughneck Downbeat Combo played during dinner and then the junior private presented it to her. She got tears and kissed him - and kissed Jelly as well and he blushed purple.

After I got my chevrons I simply had to get things straight with Ace, because Jelly kept me on as a.s.sistant section leader. This is not good. A man ought to fill each spot on his way up; I should have had a turn as squad leader instead of being b.u.mped from lance and a.s.sistant squad leader to corporal and a.s.sistant section leader. Jelly knew this, of course, but I know perfectly well that he was trying to keep the outfit as much as possible the way it had been when the Lieutenant was alive - which meant that he left his squad leaders and section leaders unchanged.

But it left me with a ticklish problem; all three of the corporals under me as squad leaders were actually senior to me - but if Sergeant Johnson bought it on the next drop, it would not only lose us a mighty fine cook, it would leave me leading the section. There mustn't be any shadow of doubt when you give an order, not in combat; I had to clear up any possible shadow before we dropped again.

Ace was the problem. He was not only senior of the three, he was a career corporal as well and older than I was. If Ace accepted me, I wouldn't have any trouble with the other two squads.

I hadn't really had any trouble with him aboard. After we made pickup on Flores together he had been civil enough. On the other hand we hadn't had anything to have trouble over; our s.h.i.+pside jobs didn't put us together, except at daily muster and guard mount, which is all cut and dried. But you can feel it. He was not treating me as somebody he took orders from.

So I looked him up during off hours. He was lying in his bunk, reading a book, s.p.a.ce Rangers against the Galaxy s.p.a.ce Rangers against the Galaxy - a pretty good yarn, except that I doubt if a military outfit ever had so many adventures and so few goof-offs. The s.h.i.+p had a good library. - a pretty good yarn, except that I doubt if a military outfit ever had so many adventures and so few goof-offs. The s.h.i.+p had a good library.

"Ace. Got to see you."

He glanced up. "So? I just left the s.h.i.+p, I'm off duty."

"I've got to see you now. Put your book down."

"What's so aching urgent? I've got to finish this chapter."

"Oh, come off it, Ace. If you can't wait, I'll tell you how it comes out."

"You do and I'll clobber you." But he put the book down, sat up, and listened.

I said, "Ace, about this matter of the section organization - you're senior to me, you ought to be a.s.sistant section leader."

"Oh, so it's that again!"

"Yep. I think you and I ought to go see Johnson and get him to fix it up with Jelly."

"You do, eh?"

"Yes, I do. That's how it's got to be."

"So? Look, Shortie, let me put you straight. I got nothing against you at all. Matter of fact, you were on the bounce that day we had to pick up Dizzy; I'll hand you that. But if you want a squad, you go dig up one of your own. Don't go eying mine. Why, my boys wouldn't even peel potatoes for you."

"That's your final word?"

"That's my first, last, and only word."

I sighed. "I thought it would be. But I had to make sure. Well, that settles that. But I've got one other thing on my mind. I happened to notice that the washroom needs cleaning . . . and I think maybe you and I ought to attend to it. So put your book aside . . . as Jelly says, non-coms are always on duty."

He didn't stir at once. He said quietly, "You really think it's necessary, Shortie? As I said, I got nothing against you."

"Looks like."

"Think you can do it?"

"I can sure try."

"Okay. Let's take care of it."

We went aft to the washroom, chased out a private who was about to take a shower he didn't really need, and locked the door. Ace said, "You got any restrictions in mind, Shortie?"

"Well . . . I hadn't planned to kill you."

"Check. And no broken bones, nothing that would keep either one of us out of the next drop - except maybe by accident, of course. That suit you?"

"Suits," I agreed. "Uh, I think maybe I'll take my s.h.i.+rt off."

"Wouldn't want to get blood on your s.h.i.+rt." He relaxed. I started to peel it off and he let go a kick for my kneecap. No wind up. Flat-footed and not tense.