Prisoners of Power

5.

Captain Chachu completed the briefing and barked: “Corporal Gaal, remain. The rest are dismissed.”

After the other platoon leaders had filed out, the captain, swiveling in his chair and whistling the old soldier’s song “Cool It, Mama,” studied Guy for some time. Captain Chachu bore no resemblance to Captain Tolot. He was stocky and swarthy, with a large bald spot, much older than Tolot and, not long ago, had fought in eight coastal actions. He had received the Fiery Cross and three other medals for bravery under fire. People still talked about his fantastic duel with a white submarine: his tank had received a direct hit and caught fire, but he continued firing until he lost consciousness from severe bums. It was said that his entire body was covered by skin transplants. Three fingers were missing from his left hand. He was blunt and coarse, a real fighter. Unlike the reserved Captain Tolot, he never thought it necessary to conceal his emotions from his subordinates or superiors. When he was in a good mood, the entire brigade knew it, but when he was out of sorts and whistled “Cool It, Mama,” well, watch out.

Looking him straight in the eye, Guy was dismayed by the thought that he had somehow disappointed and angered this remarkable man. He quickly reviewed in his mind all his own minor offenses and those of his platoon but could recall nothing that hadn’t been dismissed with a careless wave of the captain’s crippled hand and a throaty, grumpy response: “OK, that’s what the Legion’s all about. The hell with it!”

The captain stopped swiveling and whistling.

“I don’t like a lot of talk and scribbling,” he said. “Either you recommend Candidate Sim or you don’t. Which is it?”

“Yes, sir, I recommend him,” said Guy quickly. “But...”

“No ‘buts,’ corporal! Do you or don’t you?”

“I do, sir.”

“Then what’s the meaning of these two pieces of paper?”

The captain pulled some papers from his pocket and unfolded them on the desk, holding them down with his crippled hand. “Here it says: ‘I recommend the aforementioned Mac Sim, a loyal and capable person’—well, that’s clear—‘for appointment to the noble calling of candidate in the ranks of the Fighting Legion.’ And here’s your second note: ‘In connection with the aforementioned, I feel it is my duty to call the attention of the command to the need for a thorough check of the designated candidate for the Fighting Legion, Mac Sim.’ Massaraksh! What the hell do you really mean, corporal?”

“Captain!” Guy was very agitated. “I really don’t know what to say. I know Candidate Sim is a loyal citizen, devoted to the Legion’s ideals. I’m sure that he will have much to contribute. But since only men of impeccable integrity belong in the Legion, I thought—”

“You thought!” the captain snapped. “Corporal, here’s what you’ll do. You’ll take one of these two notes right now and tear it up. You must understand that I cannot go to the brigadier with two statements. It’s got to be either yes or no. This is the Legion, corporal, not a philosophy department! You have two minutes to think it over.”

The captain took a thick folder from a drawer and disgustedly tossed it on the desk. Guy looked at his watch despondently. It was a difficult decision to make. It was dishonest and unworthy of a legionnaire to conceal from the authorities his incomplete knowledge of the man he was recommending, even if it was Mac. On the other hand, it was dishonest and unworthy of a legionnaire to avoid responsibility by shifting the decision onto the captain, who had seen Maxim only twice, and then only in formation. “Well, all right, I’ll go over it again. Points in favor: He has accepted the Legion’s ideals heart and soul; he passed the physical without a hitch; he was sent by Captain Tolot and Doctor Zogu to some top-secret institution, evidently for a thorough investigation, which he passed. True, I’m taking Maxim’s own word for this last statement—he claims he lost all his documents. And last, he’s a brave, natural-born fighter. He made short work of Ratso’s gang, single handed. He’s open in his dealings with others, good-natured, and absolutely unselfish. And extraordinarily gifted. Points against: We’ve absolutely no idea who he is and where he came from; either he remembers nothing of his past or he refuses to tell us. And he doesn’t have any documents. But why should that bother us? After all, the government now controls only the borders and the central region. Two-thirds of our country is still torn by anarchy and plagued by starvation and epidemics. People are fleeing those areas and none of them have documents—the younger ones don’t even know what documents are. And how many of them have lost their memory! And how many degens! But we know one thing for sure, the most important—Maxim is not a degen.”

“Well, corporal?” asked the captain.

“Yes, sir!” said Guy rather recklessly. “May I?”

He picked up the note containing his suggestion that Maxim be checked and tore it up slowly.

“Cor-rect decision! Well done, legionnaire! Notes, reports, checks—rubbish! Combat will be the proving ground! When we get into our tanks and head for the atomic trap zone, we’ll find out damn quick who is with us and who isn’t.”

“Yes, sir,” said Guy without particular conviction. He understood the old soldier, but he felt that the hero of the coastal actions was mistaken. Combat, of course, was important, but one’s integrity was something else. Anyway, the question had nothing to do with Maxim’s case. Maxim was honest to the core.

“Massaraksh!” barked the captain. “The Health Department certified him and the rest is our business.” He looked at Guy angrily and added: “A legionnaire has complete trust in his friend. If he doesn’t, he’s certainly no friend and he ought to kick him out. I’m surprised at you, corporal. OK, back to your platoon. There’s very little time left. I’ll watch the candidate myself during the operation.”

Guy clicked his heels and left. Safely outside, he smiled. The old soldier had taken the responsibility on himself after all. Now, with a clear conscience, he could consider Maxim his friend. Mac Sim. His real surname was a mouthful. Either he had imagined it in a delirious state or he actually was related to those mountain people. H’m, what was the name of their ancient king. Zaremichakbeshmucaray. Guy walked over to the parade ground and scanned it for his platoon. Tireless Pandi was driving the men through the top-floor window of a dummy three-story building. They were soaked from the effort, and with only an hour left before the operation, that wasn’t so good.

“As you were!” shouted Guy from afar.

“As you were!” yelled Pandi. “Fall in!”

The platoon fell into formation quickly.

“Attention!” Pandi shouted. He marched up to Guy smartly and reported: “Corporal, the platoon is learning to take a town by assault.”

“Stand at attention,” ordered Guy, trying to express disapproval by his tone of voice, as Corporal Serembesh was so skilled at doing. He strode back and forth in front of the formation, hands clasped behind his back, looking into the familiar faces of his men.

Bulging eyes—gray, brown, blue—followed his every movement, ready to execute his orders. Ibis was his life, these twelve strong men—six full privates of the Fighting Legion on the right flank and six candidates aspiring to be regular privates on the left flank; all wearing smart black jump suits with shiny buttons, glistening combat boots, and berets tipped jauntily over their right eyebrows. And in the center of the formation, on the candidates’ right flank, lowered Maxim, his favorite, even though it was wrong for a platoon leader to single out one over the others. “Hey, what’s this? Those strange brown eyes of his aren’t rigid like the others. Well, all right, he’ll learn that in time... And what’s this?”

Guy went up to Maxim and jabbed at his open top button. Then, standing on tiptoe, he adjusted his beret. “Damn, there goes that stupid grin again. Well, give him time, he’ll outgrow it. After all, he is the youngest recruit in the platoon.”

To avoid any semblance of favoritism, Guy straightened the buckle on Maxim’s neighbor, although it was unnecessary. Then he stepped back three paces and ordered the platoon to stand at ease.

“Men,” said Guy, “today we’re going to take part in a regular operation as part of the company. We’re going to neutralize the agents of a potential enemy. The operation will be conducted according to Plan Thirty-three. I know that you regular privates remember your part, but I think it would help to refresh the memories of those candidates who neglect to fasten all their buttons. Each platoon is assigned one entrance to the building. The platoon divides into four teams: three teams of three for the inside job, and a backup team outside. The inside teams of two privates and one candidate will go through all the apartments systematically, and remember, without making a commotion. After a patrol has entered an apartment, it will do as follows: the candidate will guard the front door; a private will occupy the rear entrance and not permit anything to divert him: and the team leader will inspect the apartment. The outside backup team of three candidates commanded by the platoon leader—in this case, me—will remain below at the building’s entrance, prepared to render immediate assistance to any inside team requiring it. You know the makeup of the inside teams and the backup teams. Attention!” He withdrew one step. “Fall into teams!”

After a brief shuffling, the platoon regrouped into teams. Each man stood in his proper place. No one had fumbled with his submachine gun, slipped, or lost his beret, as usually happened during exercises. Maxim, with a broad grin on his face again, lowered above the backup team’s right flank. An absurd thought suddenly occurred to Guy—that Maxim viewed the entire operation as an amusing game. Damn it, it couldn’t be true! It was just that damn idiotic smile.

“Not bad,” grumbled Guy, giving Pandi an approving look. The old man had done a fine job—really drilled the men. “Attention! Platoon, fall in!”

A brief shuffling again, neat and precise—beautiful—and the platoon stood before him in a straight row. Good! Simply remarkable! A shiver ran through him. Hands clasped behind his back, he strode up and down in front of the platoon.

“Legionnaires!” he said. “We are the strength and hope of the All-Powerful Creators. In fulfilling their great mission they have only us to rely on.” This was the truth, the real truth; and there was a certain fascination in it. It gave one a sense of superiority to the rest of society. “The Fighting Legion is the iron fist of history. It has been called upon to sweep aside all obstacles on our proud path. The sword of the Fighting Legion has been tempered in fire; it burns in our hands, and only streams of the enemy’s blood can cool it. The enemy is cunning. He is cowardly, but stubborn. The All-Powerful Creators have commanded us to smash this treacherous resistance, to tear out by the roots those forces that drag us down into chaos and depraved anarchy. That is our duty and we are happy to fulfill it. We make many sacrifices. We disturb the tranquillity of our mothers, brothers, and children We deprive the honest worker, the honest civil servant, the honest tradesman and industrialist of much deserved rest. They know why we must invade their homes, and they welcome us as their best friends, as their protectors. Remember this, and do not let anything divert you from your mission. A friend is a friend, but an enemy is an enemy. Are there any questions?”

“No!” bellowed the platoon.

“Attention! Thirty minutes to rest and check your equipment. Dismissed!”

The platoon scattered and headed for the barracks in twos and threes. Guy followed slowly, and Maxim, smiling, waited for him a short distance away. “Guy, how about a fast round of the word?”

Guy groaned to himself. He’d have to shut this kid up! Gag him! God, imagine a candidate bugging his corporal with such idiotic nonsense a half-hour before an operation.

“This isn’t the time for games,” he said as coldly as possible.

“Are you upset about something?” asked Maxim sympathetically.

Guy shook his head in exasperation. What the hell could he do with him? It was utterly impossible to silence such a good-natured giant, who was on top of everything else his sister’s savior and a man far superior to himself in everything but military drill. Guy glanced around and then pleaded: “Listen, Mac, you’re putting me in a damned awkward position When we’re in the barracks, I’m your boss, I give the orders, and you obey. I’ve been pounding that into your dumb head.”

“But I am ready to obey you. Go ahead, give an order! I know what discipline is.”

“I already have. Check your equipment.”

“Excuse me Guy. But that isn’t the order you gave us. You ordered us to check equipment and rest. Have you forgotten? Well I’ve checked my equipment and now I’m resting. So, how about the word game? I’ve thought up a good one.”

“Mac, get this! A subordinate has the right to address his superior officer only according to regulations. And only in regard to military matters.”

“Yes, I remember. Paragraph Nine. But that’s only when we’re on duty. At the moment, we’re resting.”

“How do you know I’m resting?” asked Guy. They stood behind an enclosure, where, thank God, they could not be seen. No one could see this tower leaning against the fence and tugging his corporal by the buttons. “Look, Mac, I rest only at home, but even there I would never permit a subordinate to... now let goof my buttons and button up your own.”

Maxim fastened his buttons.

“Guy, I don’t understand you. On duty you behave one way at home another. Why?”

“Let’s not go into that again. I’m sick of telling you the same thing over and over. And that grin of yours—when are you going to stop smiling in formation?”

“There’s nothing in the regulations that says you can’t smile,” replied Mac slowly. “As far as repeating the same thing over and over to me, Guy, there’s something I want to tell you. Now, don’t be offended at what I’m going to say. I know you’re not a—speecher—a reciter...”

“A what?”

“You’re not a person who can speak beautifully.”

“Orator?”

“Orator. Yes, that’s the word. You’re not an orator. But that doesn’t matter. Today you made a speech to us. You spoke the right words, good words. But at home when you spoke about the Legion and the job it had to do and about conditions in your country, it was very interesting. It came from you, it was really you speaking. But here you repeat the same thing over and over and it’s not really you speaking. Everything you say here is true, but it’s always the same. And very boring. You’re not offended, are you?”

No, of course Guy wasn’t offended, but a fine icy needle had just pricked his ego: until now he had thought he had always presented things to his men as smoothly and convincingly as Corporal Serembesh. And the captain, too, had been repeating the very same speech for three years. There was nothing surprising or disgraceful about it. After all, nothing had really changed in the country’s domestic or foreign policy in the past three years.

“And where does it say, Mac, that a subordinate should reprove his superior?”

“The regulations say just the opposite,” admitted Maxim. “I think that’s wrong. Look, you take my advice when you’re trying to solve ballistics problems, and you accept my suggestions when you make a mistake in your calculations.”

“But that’s at home! Anything goes at home.”

“Well, suppose you give us the wrong sighting during gunnery practice? Suppose you miscalculate the wind factor? What then?”

“Under no circumstances do you question a superior’s orders.”

“Even in such a case?”

“You fire as ordered,” said Guy sternly. “Mac, you’ve said enough in the past ten minutes to put you in the stockade for two months. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. But, suppose, in combat...?”

“Suppose what in combat?”

“You give a wrong sighting? What then?”

Guy had never commanded a platoon in combat. He suddenly recalled how Corporal Bakhtu had read the map incorrectly during a reconnaissance in force. The entire platoon was driven within firing range of an adjoining company. He himself had remained behind and sent half the platoon to their death. They knew damn well that he was wrong but no one dreamed of correcting him.

“Good Lord,” thought Guy suddenly, “it never would have occurred to us to correct him. Maxim doesn’t understand anything. Everything’s simple, but he won’t admit it. How many times have we gone through this! He takes the most self-evident facts and turns them upside down, and it’s impossible to convince him that he’s wrong. Instead, just the opposite happens: you begin to doubt yourself. Your head starts spinning and before you know it you’re completely confused. Yet he’s certainly not that stupid. He learned to speak our language in one month and mastered reading and writing in two days. Then read everything I own in two more days. Knows mathematics and mechanics better than our experts. Or take, for example, his discussions with Uncle Kaan.

“Lately, all the old man’s discussions at dinner have been directed at Maxim. And he keeps insisting to us that Maxim is the only man alive today with such an unusual knowledge of fossil animals and such an interest in them. He sketched some weird looking animals for Maxim, and Maxim sketched some that were even weirder. And they argued about which was the more ancient, which descended from which, and why. Unc even brought in scientific books from his library, and still Maxim barely conceded a point to him. One minute, Unc was shouting himself hoarse—the next, he was tearing the sketches to bits and stamping on them. He called Maxim an ignoramus, a bigger fool than Shapshu. Then he began to run his hands through the sparse gray hair at the back of his head and mumble with a nervous smile: ‘Bold, massaraksh, bold. Young man, you certainly have an imagination!’

“He knows mathematics and mechanics; knows military chemistry very well; and paleontology? Who in this day and age knows paleontology? Draws like an artist, sings like a professional. And he’s so generous, almost unnaturally generous. Drove off a gang of bandits, killed most of them, single-handed, with his bare hands. Anyone else caught in such a trap would have taken off like a rocket. He didn’t give a damn about them, yet was upset, couldn’t sleep, became annoyed when he was praised and thanked, and even blew up once. He turned white and shouted that it was wrong to praise someone for murder. And what a job it was to persuade him to join the Legion! He understood everything, agreed to everything, wanted to join, but, he said, he’d be required to shoot. At people. So I told him: not at people, at degens, at rabble, worse than thieves. We agreed, thank God, that at the beginning, until he got used to the idea, he would simply disarm his opponents. Amusing, yet somehow frightening. No wonder he’s always blabbing about coming from another world. I know that world. Unc has a book about it: The Misty Land of Zartak. It says that Zartak is inhabited by a happy people and lies in the Alebastro Mountains. According to the book, they’re all like Maxim. But if one of them leaves the valley, he immediately forgets where he came from and everything about his past life. He remembers only that he came from another world. Unc says that no such valley exists, that it’s pure poppycock, that there is the Zartak range, but the range was so thoroughly blasted by superbombs during the war that the mountain people suffer from permanent loss of memory.”

“Why so silent, Guy? Are you thinking about me?”

Guy looked away.

“Look here, Mac. I must ask you to do one thing for me. For the sake of discipline never show that you know more than I do. Watch how the others behave, and behave exactly as they do.”

“I’ve been trying to,” said Maxim sadly. He paused and added: “It’s difficult to get used to the idea. We don’t do things that way.”

“By the way, how’s your wound?” Guy tried to change the subject.

“It’s healing quickly,” replied Maxim absentmindedly. “Listen, Guy, let’s go straight home after this operation. I miss Rada a lot. Don’t you? We’ll drop the others off at the barracks and then head for home in the truck.”

Guy inhaled deeply. At that instant the loudspeaker’s silver box, hanging almost above their heads, roared out the duty officer’s command: “Sixth Company, fall out on the drill field! Attention, Sixth Company.”

“Candidate Sim! No more talk!” Guy barked. “Get into formation!” Maxim started to rush off, but Guy caught him with the barrel of his gun. “Please, Mac, remember,” he said. “Like the I others! No different! The captain himself is going to observe you today.”

Within three minutes the company was in formation. It had grown dark, and searchlights played over the drill field.

Truck engines rumbled softly at the formation’s rear. The brigadier, accompanied by Captain Chachu, reviewed the company in silence, inspecting every legionnaire, a procedure followed before the start of every operation. He was calm; his eyes were narrowed, and his lips were turned up at the corners in a rather kindly way. Then, without a word, he nodded to the captain and left. Waddling and waving his crippled hand, the captain planted himself before the formation and turned his swarthy face toward the legionnaires.

“Legionnaires!” he bellowed in a voice that sent shivers up and down Guy’s spine. “You have a job to do. Do it well. Company, attention! To your trucks! Corporal Gaal, front and center!”

When Guy reached the captain and snapped to attention, the captain said softly: “Your platoon has a special assignment. When you arrive at your destination, remain in your vehicle. I myself will take command of your platoon.”

6.

The shock absorbers were in terrible shape, and the ride on the miserable cobblestone roads was particularly jolting. His submachine gun pressed between his legs. Candidate Sim held Guy by his belt solicitously, reasoning that it would be unbecoming for the corporal, so concerned about his image, to go flying head over heels. Either Guy did not object or he failed to notice his subordinate’s precaution. After his conversation with the captain, Guy appeared to be very disturbed about something, so Maxim was happy that the orders required him to remain at Guy’s side and render assistance if necessary.

The trucks passed the Central Theater, rolled along the stinking Imperial Canal, then turned down Boot Street, a long thoroughfare deserted at this hour, and began to zigzag through the winding streets of some suburb that Maxim had never seen before. Recently he had visited many sections and had come to know the city well. He had learned a great deal in those forty or so days and finally understood the difficult position he was in. It proved to be far less comforting and far more incredible than he had expected.

He had still been plodding through his ABC’s when Guy had persisted in asking him where he came from. It was useless to show him drawings: Guy would accept them with a strange smile on his face and continue to repeat the same question: “Where are you from?” Irritated, Maxim finally pointed to the ceiling with his pencil and said: “From the sky.” To Maxim’s surprise, Guy thought this a completely natural explanation and began to rattle off words that Maxim at first assumed were the names of planets in their solar system. But Guy opened a map, and Maxim saw that they were not the names of planets but of antipodal countries. Maxim shrugged his shoulders, used up his entire stock of negative expressions, and began to study the map. The conversation had ended there for the time being.

One evening, several days later, Maxim and Rada had been watching television. A very strange program was being shown that resembled a movie without beginning or end. It had no plot, just an endless stream of actors, rather weird individuals who, from the point of view of any humanoid, behaved rather savagely. Rada watched with interest, shrieked, grabbed Maxim’s sleeve, and twice burst into tears. Maxim became bored quickly and was about to doze off to some gloomy music when, suddenly, something familiar flashed across the screen. He rubbed his eyes. There, on the screen, was Pandora. A morose takhorg was dragging itself through the jungle, crushing trees. Suddenly Peter appeared with a decoy in his arms. Very engrossed and serious, he backed away, tripped on a snag, and flew backward into a swamp. Maxim was startled to recognize his own mentogram. Then came another, and still another, without narration, and with the identical musical background.

And Pandora disappeared, yielding the screen to an emaciated blind man who crawled along a ceiling covered by a dusty spider web. “What’s that?” asked Maxim, pointing to the screen.

“A TV program,” snapped Rada. “It’s interesting. Watch it.”

It made no sense to him. It suddenly occurred to him that these might be the mentograms of other visitors from outer space. But he quickly rejected this thought: the worlds portrayed on television were too terrible, too monotonous: stuffy little rooms; endless corridors cluttered with furniture that suddenly sprouted gigantic thorns; spiral staircases winding into the impenetrable gloom of narrow stairwells; basements, with barred windows, jammed with crawling bodies, and immobile faces locked in pain peering through the bars. These images were closer to a grotesque delirium than to real worlds. In comparison, Maxim’s mentograms sparkled with realism.

Similar programs were repeated almost daily and were called Magic Journey. But Maxim could never understand their point. In reply to his questions, Guy and Rada merely shrugged their shoulders in bewilderment. “It’s a TV program. That’s the way it’s done to make it interesting. It’s a magic journey. A fairy tale. Watch it! Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s frightening.” Maxim began to doubt very seriously that the purpose of Professor Hippo’s research was to facilitate communication between his planet and visitors from outer space.

About ten days later this intuitive conclusion was confirmed indirectly. Guy had passed the entrance exams for the Independent Study Program of Officer’s Candidate School and was cramming for his mathematics and mechanics courses. The diagrams and formulas used in their elementary ballistics studies puzzled Maxim. He nagged Guy. At first Guy did not understand what he was driving at. Then, grinning condescendingly, he explained to Maxim the cosmography of his world. It turned out that the inhabited island was neither a sphere nor a geoid; in fact, it wasn’t a planet at all.

According to Guy, the inhabited island was the World, the only world in the universe. Beneath the natives’ feet lay the firm surface of the World Sphere. Above them was a gigantic gaseous sphere of finite volume and unknown composition, whose physical characteristics were still not understood. There was a theory that the density of this gas increased rapidly toward the center of the gaseous bubble and certain mysterious processes produced periodic changes in the intensity of the World Light, thus giving day and night. Besides the short-term daily changes in the World Light, there were long-term changes that generated seasonal fluctuations in temperature and the seasons themselves. Gravity acted away from the center of the World Sphere, perpendicular to its surface. In short, the inhabited island was located on the inner surface of an enormous bubble in an infinite firmament filling the rest of the universe.

Completely stunned, Maxim began to argue, but it soon became quite apparent that they did not speak the same language, that it was more difficult for them to understand each other’s thinking than for a staunch Copernican to understand a follower of Ptolemy. Maxim believed that the unusual characteristics of this planet’s atmosphere were the key to the matter. In the first place, its unusually high index of refraction lifted up the horizon and from time immemorial had inspired the natives’ peculiar conception of their land as being neither flat nor convex but concave. “Stand on the seashore,” suggested schoolbooks, “and follow the path of a ship leaving a pier. At first it will appear to be moving on a plane, but the further it goes, the higher it will rise, until it vanishes in the atmospheric haze covering the rest of the World.” In the second place, the atmosphere was very dense and phosphoresced day and night, so that no one ever saw the stars. Isolated instances of observation of the sun were recorded in chronicles and served as the basis for countless attempts to create a World Light theory.

Maxim realized that he was caught in a gigantic trap, that contact with Earth could not be established until he succeeded in turning inside out the natural concepts that had developed over thousands of years. Evidently, attempts had been made to do this, judging from the popular expletive “massaraksh,” which meant, literally, “world inside out.” Guy had told him about an abstract mathematical theory that analyzed the World differently. The theory was formulated in ancient times, but its adherents had been persecuted by the official religion, and it had its martyrs. Through the efforts of certain brilliant mathematicians of the last century, the theory was expressed in exact mathematical form. But it had remained a purely abstract theory, although, finally, like most abstract theories, it found practical application—very recently, when super-long-distance military weapons were developed.

After weighing all the information he now had about their planet, Maxim realized two things: that all this time the natives must have considered him insane and therefore had deliberately selected his mentograms for the Magic Journey; and that, for the time being, he had better keep his mouth shut about coming from another planet—unless he wanted to be returned to Hippo. This meant that he could expect no help from the inhabited island, that he must depend only on himself, that the construction of a coil transmitter must be postponed indefinitely, and that he was stranded for a long time to come, perhaps, massaraksh, forever.

The hopelessness of his situation was demoralizing, but he got a grip on himself and forced himself to think rationally. His mother would face a painful period. It would be terribly difficult for her, and this thought alone smothered any desire to think rationally. “Damn this place, this dull, claustrophobic world! OK, now, Mac, you have a choice: dwell on the impossible and bite your nails, or pull yourself together and live. Live as you’ve always wanted to live. Love your friends, work toward a goal, fight, win, take it and dish it out. Anything, but stop moping around.” He dropped the conversation with Guy about the structure of the universe and took an entirely new tack: he began to quiz Guy about the inhabited island’s history and social system.

Their discussion of history was not particularly productive. Guy’s knowledge was scanty, and he didn’t own any serious books on the subject. Nor did the city library. But Maxim managed to extract a few facts. He learned that the country now sheltering him had been significantly larger at one time and had possessed numerous overseas colonies and that these colonies had been the cause of a highly destructive war with neighboring states whose names were already forgotten. The war had enveloped the entire World; millions upon millions had perished; thousands of cities had been destroyed; dozens of large and small nations had been wiped off the face of the planet; and chaos had reigned throughout the World. Famine and epidemics followed. Popular uprisings were suppressed with nuclear weapons. This country—along with the rest of the world—had been headed for total destruction until the All-Powerful Creators had come to the rescue. The facts suggested that an anonymous group of young staff officers with two divisions at their command, unhappy about being sent to the slaughter in an atomic mincing machine, organized a coup and seized power. Since then the situation had stabilized considerably, and the war seemed to have petered out, although a formal peace treaty had never been concluded.

Maxim realized that the country’s political system was far from ideal. But it was clear that the All-Powerful Creators were extremely popular, and among all classes of society. Maxim could not understand the economic reasons for this popularity, but apparently it was related to their tactics: the military clique curbed the appetites of the industrialists, thereby gaining favor with the workers. And by subjugating the workers, they gained favor with the industrialists. But this was only guesswork on his part. Guy was surprised when Maxim presented the problem from this point of view, because the concept of class meant absolutely nothing to him, nor could he imagine contradictions between social groups.

The country’s foreign relations were still extremely tense. Two large independent nations, Khonti and Pandeya, were located to the north. Although no one knew anything about their domestic affairs, it was common knowledge that these countries harbored the most aggressive designs. They sent in saboteurs and spies, provoked border incidents, and were preparing for war. The purpose of such a war was not clear to Guy. He had never really given it any thought. For him they were simply enemies to the north. That was all he needed to know.

To the south, beyond the borderland forests, lay a desert, land that had been totally defoliated by nuclear explosions. The desert covered the territories of a whole group of countries that had once been the most active militarily. No one seemed to know what was happening in those millions of square miles, nor were they interested in knowing. The southern borders were subject to constant attack by hordes of half-savage degens who infested the forest beyond the Blue Snake River. The problem of the southern border was an extremely critical one. It was so rough that the Fighting Legion’s elite forces were concentrated there. Guy had served there for three years and told many incredible stories about his experiences.

It was possible that other countries still existed further south of the desert, at the other end of the planet’s only continent, but they kept themselves well isolated. On the other hand, the Island Empire, on three mighty archipelagos in the arctic zone, constantly made its menacing presence known. A huge fleet of white submarines, equipped with the latest technology of destruction, plied the radioactive waters with their crews of specially trained cutthroats. Like phantoms, the submarines terrorized the coastal regions with their unprovoked shellings and raiding parties. The Legion had also to turn back the White threat.

Maxim was shaken by this picture of chaos and destruction. Here was a planet with a glimmer of intelligent life, but life was on the point of extinguishing itself once and for all.

Maxim heard Rada’s calm and terrible account of how her mother had received the news of her father’s death. Her father, an epidemiologist, had refused to leave a plague-ridden region, and since the government in those days had neither the time nor the means to cope with an epidemic, a bomb was simply dropped. After her mother’s death, young Rada, to support little Guy and helpless Uncle Kaan, worked eighteen hours a day as a dishwasher at a deportation center, then as a chambermaid in a luxury hotel for speculators. Later she spent some time in prison. After that she was unemployed and had to beg for several months.

Maxim heard Uncle Kaan’s story, too. Unc, once an eminent scientist, told how the Academy of Sciences had been abolished during the first year of the war and the Battalion of His Imperial Majesty’s Academy had been formed; how, during the famine, the founder of evolutionary theory had gone insane and hanged himself; how they had made broth from grasshoppers and weeds; how a starving crowd had attacked the zoological museum and seized specimens preserved in alcohol, for food.

Maxim listened to Guy’s ingenuous tales of the antiballistic missile towers; how cannibals stole up to the construction sites at night and kidnapped rehabs and Legion sentries; how ruthless vampires—part human, part beast, part dog—struck in the darkness like silent ghosts. He listened to his ecstatic praise of the ABM network, built at great sacrifice during the final years of the war. By defending the country from the air, the ABM network had halted enemy operations. Even today, the ABMs were their only guarantee against aggression from the north. And those scoundrels were now planning attacks on the ABM towers; those mercenary murderers of women and children were being bought with Khonti’s and Pandeya’s filthy money. Guy’s face twitched with hatred. “That’s where our real job is.” He banged his fist on the table. “That’s why I joined the Legion rather than go to work in a factory or office. Yes, I joined the Legion, which is now fighting to save everything we hold dear.”

Maxim listened greedily, as if to a horror story. And it was all the more terrifying and fantastic because it had actually happened and was still happening; at any moment the most horrible atrocities could happen again. His own problems were trivial beside this.

The trucks turned sharply into a narrow street with tall brick buildings. Pandi announced: “We’re here, men.” Pedestrians turned away, shielding their eyes from the dazzling headlights. One truck stopped, and a long telescopic antenna shot up above the cab.

“All out!” barked the leaders of the Second and Third Platoons. The legionnaires hopped out.

“First Platoon, stay where you are!” ordered Guy.

Pandi and Maxim, about to jump out, sat down again.

“Fall into threes!” yelled the corporals on the sidewalk. “Second Platoon, forward! Third Platoon, follow. Forward, march!”

Hobnailed boots thundered along the pavement, and someone shrieked ecstatically: “Long live the Fighting Legion!”

“Hurrah!” shouted the pale-faced figures who had pressed against the wall to clear the way for the men. The pedestrians were used to legionnaires.

Candidate Zoiza, on Maxim’s right, was still a kid. The lanky youngster, with yellowish fuzz on his cheeks, poked Maxim in the ribs with his sharp elbow and smiled happily. Maxim smiled back. The other platoons had already vanished through the entrances; only the corporals, standing staunchly at the doors with impassive faces, remained behind. The door of a truck cab slammed and Captain Chachu barked: “First Platoon, out of the trucks and fall in!”

Maxim leaped over the side. When the platoon was lined up, the captain, with a wave of his hand, stopped Guy, who was running over to report. Then he planted himself in front of the formation.

“Put on your helmets!”

The regular privates had expected this command, but the candidates were slow to respond. The captain waited impatiently for Zoiza to adjust his chin strap. Then he shouted: “Right turn” and “Forward, on the double.” He ran in front of them, waving his crippled hand, leading the platoon through a dark archway and into a narrow courtyard. Then he turned under another archway, just as gloomy and foul, and halted before a chipped door.

“Attention!” he barked. “The first team and Candidate Sim will follow me. The rest of you stay here. Corporal Gaal, when I whistle, send another team up to me on the fourth floor. Don’t let anyone out. Take them alive. Shoot only when absolutely necessary. First team and Candidate Sim, follow me!”

He pushed the door open and disappeared. Maxim passed Pandi and followed the captain. Behind the door was a dimly lit, steep stone staircase with steel handrails. Taking three steps at a time, the captain dashed upstairs. Maxim caught up with him and saw the pistol in his hand. On the run, Maxim slipped the gun from around his neck. For an instant he felt sick at the thought of having to shoot people. Then, remembering that these weren’t people, just animals, he felt relieved. The repulsive slime beneath his feet, the bleary light, the spit-spattered walls, all served to confirm his conclusion.

Second floor. Kitchen odors. The terrified face of an old woman showed through the slit of a slightly opened door. A half-crazed cat leaped from under Maxim’s feet with a loud meow. Third floor. Some blockhead had left a bucket of slop in the middle of the landing. The captain knocked it over and the slop flew into the stairwell. “Massaraksh!” roared Pandi from below. “Out of the way. Downstairs!” barked the captain at a couple embracing in a dark corner. Fourth floor. An ugly brown door. A scratched tin plaque: “Hobbi, Dentist. No appointment necessary.” A drawn-out cry behind the door. The captain stopped and grunted: “Locked!” Sweat rolled down his dark face. Maxim didn’t understand. Pandi ran up, pushed him aside, aimed his gun at the door, below the doorknob, and released a burst of machine-gun fire. Sparks and pieces of wood flew through the air. Instantly, shots rang out from behind the door, through a prolonged scream. More chips started flying. Something hot and solid whizzed over Maxim’s head. The captain flung open the door.

The room was dark; yellow flashes illuminated puffs of smoke. “After me!” yelled the captain, and he dove headfirst toward the flashes. Maxim and Pandi tore after him. A hall—stuffy heat, powder smoke. Danger on the left. Maxim threw out his hand, caught a hot muzzle, jerked the weapon away. Someone’s dislocated joints crunched softly but distinctly, and a large soft body stiffened as it fell. Ahead, in the smoke, the captain barked: “Don’t shoot. Take them alive!” Maxim threw down his gun and rushed into a lighted room. It was filled with books and pictures, and there was no one to shoot. Two men were writhing on the floor. One was screaming. A woman lay unconscious in an easy chair, head flung back. Pale, almost transparent. The captain stood over the screaming man, looked around, jammed his pistol into his holster. Pandi gave Maxim a powerful shove and burst into the room. Behind him were legionnaires, dragging the stocky body of the man who had been shooting.

Sweaty and excited. Candidate Zoiza handed Maxim his abandoned gun. The captain turned his frightening, dark face toward them. “Where’s the other one?” he snarled, and instantly a blue curtain fell and a lanky man in a stained white smock jumped from the window ledge and headed straight for the captain. Slowly he raised two enormous pistols to eye level. His eyes were glassy with pain. Zoiza screamed.

Maxim was standing sideways and didn’t have time to turn. He sprang as hard as he could, but the man managed to pull the trigger once. Face singed, choking from powder fumes, Maxim grabbed his wrists and the pistols clanked to the floor. The man fell to his knees, and his neck went limp. When Maxim released him, he collapsed to the floor.

“Well, well, well,” said the captain. “Set this one over here,” he ordered Pandi. “And you,” he said to pale, perspiring Zoiza. “Run downstairs and tell the platoon leaders where I am. Have them report what they’ve done.” Zoiza clicked his heels and rushed toward the door. “And tell Gaal to come up here... Stop yelling, you scum!” he shouted at the man groaning on the floor and kicked him lightly in the side with the toe of his boot. “Useless. No-good trash. Search them!” he ordered Pandi. “Line them up. Right here, on the floor. That woman, too.”

Maxim went over to the woman, picked her up gently, and carried her to the bed. He was confused and disturbed. This wasn’t the sort of thing he had expected.

“Candidate Sim!” barked the captain. “I said on the floor!” He looked at Maxim with his unnaturally transparent eyes; his lips twitched almost convulsively. Maxim decided that it was not for him to prescribe what was right or wrong. He was still a stranger in this country; he had yet to learn what they chose to love or hate. He lifted the woman and placed her on the floor next to the stocky man who had been firing in the hall. Pandi and another legionnaire turned the prisoners’ pockets inside out. All five were unconscious.

The captain sat down in the easy chair, threw his cap on the table, lit a cigarette, and beckoned to Maxim. Maxim clicked his heels smartly and went over to him.

“Why did you throw down your gun?” the captain asked in a low voice.

“You ordered us not to shoot.”

“Sir.”

“Yes, sir. You ordered us not to shoot, sir.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed as he blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

“If I had ordered you to stop talking, I suppose you would have bitten off your tongue, eh?”

Maxim remained silent. This exchange irritated him, but he remembered Guy’s instructions.

“What does your father do?”

“He is a scientist, sir.”

“Is he alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain looked hard at Maxim.

“Where is he?”

Maxim realized what he had blurted out. Now he would have to extricate himself.

“I don’t know, sir. Rather, I don’t remember, sir.”

“But you remembered that he was a scientist. What else do you remember?”

“I don’t know, sir. I remember many things, but Corporal Gaal believes that my memory is deceptive.”

Hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway. Guy entered the room and snapped to attention.

“Get to work on this half-dead scum,” ordered the captain. “You have enough handcuffs?”

Guy glanced over his shoulder at the prisoners.

“With your permission, sir, we’ll have to borrow a pair from Second Platoon.”

“Get busy.”

Guy ran out. More boots echoed through the stairway as platoon leaders appeared to report that everything was proceeding according to plan. Two suspicious characters had been arrested. The tenants, as always, had rendered active assistance. The captain ordered them to finish up quickly and, when they had completed their assignments, to radio the code word “Tamba” to headquarters. When the platoon leaders had gone, he lit another cigarette and remained silent for some time. He watched the legionnaires remove books from the shelves, leaf through them, and fling them onto the bed.

“Pandi,” he called in a low voice, “get busy with the pictures. But be careful with this one. Don’t spoil it. I’ll take it for myself.” He turned to Maxim again. “What do you think of it?”

Maxim looked at it. A seashore, a broad expanse of water without а horizon, dusk and a woman emerging from the sea. It was windy, chilly. The woman looked cold.

“A fine painting, sir,” said Maxim.

“Do you recognize the place?”

“Not at all, sir. I’ve never seen that sea.”

“Well, what sea have you seen?”

“A completely different one, sir. But it’s my deceptive memory again, sir.”

“Nonsense. It’s the same sea. Except that you weren’t looking at it from the shore, but from a ship’s bridge. And below you was a white deck. At the stem was another bridge, somewhat lower. On the shore, instead of this dame, there was a tank. And you were aiming for the turret. Massaraksh.”

“I don’t understand,” said Maxim coldly. “I’ve never aimed anything anywhere.”

“How can you be so sure of that? After all. Candidate Sim, you don’t remember anything!”

“But I do remember that I never aimed anything anywhere.”

“Sir!”

“I do remember that I never aimed anything anywhere, sir. And I don’t understand what you’re talking about, sir.”

Guy entered, accompanied by two candidates. They began to place heavy handcuffs on the prisoners.

“These people are human, too,” the captain said suddenly. “They have wives, children. They loved someone, someone loved them.”

The captain was obviously mocking him, but Maxim said precisely what he thought: “Yes, sir. They appear to be human, too.”

“You didn’t expect that?”

“No, sir. I expected something quite different.”

Through the corner of his eye he could see Guy’s frightened expression. But he was sick and tired of lying, and he added: “I thought they would really be degenerates, like naked... animals.”

“Naked idiot,” snapped the captain. “You’re not in the forest, you know. Here they look like people. Good, kind people who get excruciating headaches when they’re under stress—just like you do,” he added unexpectedly.

“I never get any aches or pains, sir. Do you?”

“What?”

“You sound so irritated that I thought...”

“Captain!” Guy shouted in a tremulous voice. “I beg to report, sir, that the prisoners have regained consciousness.”

The captain looked at him and smiled ironically.

“Don’t worry, corporal. Your buddy proved himself today to be a real legionnaire. If it weren’t for him. Captain Chachu would be stretched out here with a bullet in his brain.” He looked up at the ceiling and blew out a dense cloud of smoke. “You have a good nose, corporal. I’d promote this rascal to regular private on the spot; massaraksh, I’d even make him an officer! He has the makings of a brigadier: he loves to ask officers questions. But, corporal, now I understand. You had good reasons for your report. So we’ll wait a while before promoting him.” The captain rose, clumped around the table, and halted before Maxim. “We won’t even make him a regular private yet. He’s a fine fighter, but still wet behind the ears. We’ll get him into shape... Attention!” he shouted suddenly. “Corporal Gaal, remove the prisoners! Private Pandi and Candidate Sim, take my painting and all papers in this apartment and bring them to me in the truck.”

He turned and left the room. Guy looked at Maxim reproachfully but said nothing. The legionnaires kicked and jabbed the prisoners to their feet and led them to the door. They did not resist but swayed and buckled like blobs of jelly. The stocky man who had been firing in the hall groaned loudly and swore under Ms breath. The woman’s lips moved soundlessly; her eyes were glazed.

“Hey, Mac,” said Pandi. “Take the blanket from the bed and wrap the books in it. Drag it downstairs—I’ll take the picture. Yeah, and don’t forget your gun, you blockhead! You’re wondering why the captain raked you over the coals, eh? You threw away your gun. Imagine, throwing away your gun during a battle! You nut!”

“Cut it, Pandi,” said Guy angrily. “Take the picture and go.”

In the doorway Pandi turned around to Maxim, tapped himself on the forehead, and vanished. They could hear him singing “Cool It, Mama” at the top of his lungs as he walked down the stairs. Maxim laid his gun on the table and walked over to the pile of books that had been dumped on the bed and floor. Never before on this planet had he seen so many books in one place, except perhaps in the city library. Of course, the bookstores had many more books, but not more titles.

The pages were yellowed with age. Some books were singed, and some, to Maxim’s surprise, were perceptibly radioactive. He didn’t have time to examine them properly.

Maxim packed up two bundles and paused to look around the room. Empty twisted shelves, dark stains where pictures had been hanging—the pictures had been torn from their frames and trampled. Not a trace of dental equipment. He picked up the bundles and started for the door, then remembered his gun and returned. On a desk, beneath plate glass, lay two photographs. One was of a pale woman dandling a boy of about four on her knees. She was young, content, proud. The other showed a beautiful spot in the mountains, dark clumps of trees, and an old tumbled own tower. Maxim slung the gun across his back and returned to the bundles.

7.

Every morning after breakfast the brigade assembled on the drill field to hear the orders of the day before dispersing to their assignments. For Maxim this was the most disturbing part of the day, with the exception of evening roll call. The reading of orders always ended in a frenzied display of loyalty and zeal. Maxim forced himself to suppress his revulsion at this paroxysm of insanity that seized the entire brigade from the commander to the lowliest candidate. He reproached himself for harboring the skepticism of an outsider, an alien; he tried to inspire himself, to convince himself that he must understand their enthusiasm and steep himself in it. But he could not.

Schooled since childhood to show self-restraint, to question, and to dislike high-sounding phrases, he had to control his irritation with his comrades during formation. Following the reading of an order sentencing some candidate to three days in the stockade for arguing with a private, the men would suddenly lose their good nature and sense of humor. Their mouths would fly open and they would begin to roar “Hoorah” with wild enthusiasm. Then, with tears in their eyes, they would sing “The Fighting Legion March,” repeating it as many as four times. Even the cooks ran out and joined in, waving pots and knives frenziedly. Reminding himself that in this world he must conform, he forced himself to join in the singing and to suppress his sense of the ridiculous. But the contrived enthusiasm disgusted him.

Today a burst of enthusiasm followed Order 127, promoting Private Dimbas to corporal; Order 128, citing Candidate Sim for his courageous act during an operation; and Order 129, placing Fourth Company’s barracks under repair. Scarcely had the brigade adjutant returned the orders to his leather map case than the brigadier tore off his cap, took a deep breath, and shouted in a rasping falsetto: “Forward, Legionnaires! Men of Iron!” And on and on. Maxim felt especially uncomfortable today when he saw tears rolling down Captain Chachu’s dark cheeks. The legionnaires bellowed like bulls, beating time with their gun butts on their massive belt buckles. To avoid the sight and sound of this spectacle, Maxim squinted and roared like an enraged takhorg, and his voice drowned out all the others—at least it seemed that way to him. “Forward, fearless men!” he roared, now hearing only his own voice. My God, what idiotic words. Probably composed by some corporal. To go into combat with such words you’d have to be awfully in love with your work. He opened his eyes and saw a flock of black birds, startled, fly silently over the drill field. “A diamond coat of mail will not save you, oh, foe.”

Everything ended as abruptly as it had begun. The brigadier’s glassy eyes scanned the formation. Suddenly he remembered where he was and ordered: “Officers, take your companies to their assignments!” The men, still dazed, looked at each other dumbfounded. Captain Chachu had to shout “Right dress” twice before the ranks came to order. The company was marched off to the barracks, and the captain ordered: “First Platoon is assigned to escort duty. The other platoons will go to their regular duties, Fall out!”

They dispersed. Guy drew up his platoon and distributed assignments. Maxim and Private Pandi were assigned the interrogation room, and Guy hurriedly explained to Maxim his duties: stand to the prisoner’s right; if he makes the slightest attempt to rise from his seat, use force; obey your brigade commander; Private Pandi will be in charge. In short, watch Pandi and do exactly what he does.

“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have assigned you to this post, It’s never given to candidates, but the captain ordered it. Keep a sharp lockout, Mac. I can’t figure out the captain. Either he’s trying to push you up quickly—he talked a lot about you at yesterday’s operation review with platoon leaders and cited you in an order—or he’s checking you out. Why, I don’t know. Maybe it’s my fault—the report I submitted. Or maybe it’s your fault—for blabbing so much.” He inspected Maxim anxiously. “Clean your boots, tighten your belt, and put on dress gloves. Oh, you don’t have any—candidates don’t get them. OK, run over to the supply room. Make it snappy. We leave in thirty minutes.”

At the supply room Maxim met Pandi, who was changing a cracked beret insignia.

“Take a look at this guy, corporal!” said Pandi to the quartermaster, clapping Maxim on the shoulder. “Ever seen the likes of him? Nine days in the Legion and a citation already. They put him on duty with me in the interrogation room. Probably ran down here for white gloves. Corporal, give him a real good pair. He’s earned it. This guy is a hero!”

The corporal grunted, dug through the shelves piled with supplies, tossed several pairs of white cotton gloves on the counter in front of Maxim, and said contemptuously: “Here! You call yourselves heroes, with those lunatics you catch? Sure, when their guts are splitting with pain, all you have to do is pick ’em up and shove ’em in a sack. Even my grandfather could be a hero there. With his hands tied behind his back.”

“Your grandfather would have hotfooted it out of there like crazy if someone jumped him with two pistols,” said Pandi. “I almost thought the captain was done for.”

“Done for!” grumbled the quartermaster. “After six months on the southern border, you’ll really be done for. You’ll have had it, boy. Then we’ll see who hotfoots it out like crazy.”

When they were outside, Maxim asked in a most respectful tone: “Private Pandi, sir, why do the degens have such pains? And they all seem to get them at the same time. How come?”

“It’s fear that does it. They’re degens. Understand? Mac, you’ve got to read more. There’s a pamphlet—The Degens: Their Habits and Origins. Be sure and read it or you’ll never get anywhere. Courage alone won’t get you very far.” He paused. “Look, we normal people get excited, angry, or scared, and nothing happens. Maybe we sweat or tremble. But their bodies are abnormal. Degenerate. If they get angry at someone or get the jitters or anything like that, they suddenly get terrific headaches and pains all over. Maddening pains. Get it? That’s how we can identify them. And, of course, we arrest them. Say, those gloves are OK. Just my size, too. What do you think?”

“Too tight for me, sir,” complained Maxim. “Let’s trade.”

The exchange pleased both of them. Suddenly Maxim remembered how Fank had writhed in pain in the car. And patrolling legionnaires had arrested him. “What could have frightened him? Or angered him? He didn’t seem agitated, drove the car calmly, even whistled. But he turned around and saw a patrol car. Or was that afterward? True, he was in a terrific hurry and a van was blocking the way. Maybe he got angry? Good God, what am I saying? Anyone can have a fit of anger. And he was probably arrested because of the accident. I wonder where he was taking me and who he is? I’ve got to find Fank.”

He polished his boots, groomed himself in front of a large mirror, slung the gun around his neck, and reexamined himself in the mirror. At that instant he heard Guy’s order to fall out. After an eagle-eyed inspection of his men and a check of their knowledge of their assignments, Guy ran to the company office to report. Soon Captain Chachu emerged with Guy. He, too, inspected each man carefully. “Take your platoon, corporal.” The platoon marched toward headquarters.

At headquarters the captain ordered Private Pandi and Candidate Sim to follow him, and Guy led away the rest of the platoon. Pandi and Maxim entered a small room with heavily curtained windows. It smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. At the far end stood a large empty table surrounded by three-legged chairs. An old painting depicting an ancient battle hung on the wall. Ten steps from the table and to the right of the door. Maxim saw a metal seat. Its single leg was bolted solidly to the floor.

“To your stations!” ordered the captain. He walked ahead and sat down.

Pandi carefully placed Maxim to the right and rear of the prisoner’s seat, posted himself to the left, and whispered to him to stand at attention. Both men stiffened. The captain sat with legs crossed, smoking and watching the legionnaires nonchalantly. But Maxim was sure the captain was studying him.

The door opened in back of Pandi. Pandi took two steps forward, one step to the right, and did a left face. Maxim was about to follow suit, but realized that he wasn’t blocking the way. He snapped to attention again. There was something contagious about this adolescent game, although it seemed primitive and obviously inappropriate for a country in such dire straits.

“Attention!” barked Pandi.

The captain rose, crushed his cigarette in an ashtray, clicked his heels lightly, and greeted the new arrivals to the table: the brigadier, a stranger in civilian clothes, and the brigade adjutant with a thick folder under his arm. The sour brigadier sat down toward the middle of the table and stuck a finger under his embroidered collar to loosen it. The civilian, a small ugly man with a roughly shaven, flabby face, moved silently to a seat beside him. The brigade adjutant, still standing, opened the folder and sorted through the papers, passing some of them to the brigadier.

After standing for a few minutes in apparent indecision, Pandi returned to his original position with the same crisp movements, The men at the table were talking in low voices.

“Are you going to the meeting today, Chachu?” asked the brigadier.

“Can’t, I have some business to take care of,” replied the captain.

“Too bad. We’re having an important discussion there today.”

“I remembered it too late. Anyway, I’ve already expressed my opinion.”

“Not very effectively,” the civilian remarked softly to the captain. “Besides, the situation is changing. Opinions are changing.”

“Not for us in the Legion,” said the captain coldly.

“Now, really, gentlemen,” said the brigadier. “Come to today’s meeting anyway.”

“I hear they’ve brought in fresh lake mushrooms,” said the adjutant, still digging through his papers. “In their own juice.”

“Hear that, captain?” said the civilian.

“No, gentlemen,” said the captain. “I have one opinion and I’ve already expressed it. As for the lake mushrooms ...”He added something else that Pandi and Maxim couldn’t hear, and the entire group burst into laughter. Captain Chachu leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. The adjutant stopped digging through his papers and whispered something to the brigadier. The brigadier nodded several times. The adjutant sat down and, as if he were addressing the empty seat, called out: “Nole Renadu.”

Pandi pushed the door open, thrust his head into the corridor, and repeated in a loud voice: “Nole Renadu.”

Movement was heard in the corridor, and an elderly man, expensively dressed but somewhat battered and disheveled, entered the room. His legs were slightly unsteady, so Pandi took him by the elbow and planted him in the prisoner’s seat. The door clicked shut. The man coughed loudly, rested his hands on his knees, and raised his head proudly.

“So-o...” drawled the brigadier, studying the papers. He rattled off something that sounded like a tongue twister: “Nole Renadu-fifty-five-years-old-homeowner-member-of-the-city council. So-o. Member of the Veteran’s Association.” The civilian beside the brigadier yawned, slipped a magazine from his pocket, set it on his knees, and leafed through it. “The prisoner... removed during a search... then and there. So-o. What were you doing at Number Eight Trumpeter Street?”

“I’m the owner of the building,” said Renadu with dignity. “I was having a conference with my manager.”

“Have you checked his documents?” The brigadier turned to the adjutant.

“Yes, sir. Everything is in order.”

“So-o,” said the brigadier. “Mr. Renadu, do you know any of the prisoners?”

“No, I do not,” said Renadu, shaking his head vigorously. “Not personally. But the name of one of them—Ketshef—I think someone by that name lives in the building. But I don’t remember. Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe not in this building. I have two more, and one of them—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the civilian without raising his eyes from the magazine. “What were the other prisoners in the cell talking about? Didn’t you listen?”

“Uh... I... uh,” hesitated Renadu. “I must confess... well, your cell has... insects. So most of the time we were busy with them. Someone was whispering in a comer, but I was too busy fighting off the insects.” He laughed nervously.

“Of course,” agreed the brigadier. “Well, now, I don’t think an apology is necessary, Mr. Renadu. Here are your documents. You are free. Chief escort!” he called out.

Pandi opened the door wide and shouted: “Chief escort, report to the brigadier!”

“I wouldn’t even consider discussing the question of apologies,” said Renadu gravely. “I and I alone am to blame. More precisely, my damned heredity. May I?” he asked Maxim, pointing to the table where his documents lay.

“Stay where you are,” said Pandi in a low voice.

Guy entered. The brigadier handed him the documents and ordered the return of confiscated property. Mr. Renadu was released.

“Rashe Musai,” said the adjutant to the iron stool.

“Rashe Musai,” repeated Pandi through the open door.

A thin, utterly exhausted man wearing a shabby robe and one slipper entered. He had scarcely sat down when the brigadier shouted: “So, you murderer, you’ve been hiding?” Rashe responded with a lengthy, muddled explanation. He had not been hiding, he had a sick wife and three children, his rent wasn’t paid, he had been arrested twice and released, he was now employed in a factory as an upholsterer, and he had not done anything wrong. Maxim was certain he would be released, but the brigadier rose suddenly and declared that Rashe Musai, age forty-two, married, twice arrested, was sentenced to seven years in accordance with the law on preventive detention. For an instant Rashe Musai appeared not to understand the sentence. Then a terrible scene erupted. The upholsterer sobbed, pleaded incoherently to be forgiven, and continued to shout and cry while Pandi dragged him out into the corridor. Maxim caught Captain Chachu’s eye on him again.

“Kivi Popshu,” announced the adjutant.

A broad-shouldered fellow whose face was disfigured by some skin disease was pushed through the door. This housebreaker, a repeater, caught at the scene of the crime, behaved in an insolently ingratiating manner. First he begged the authorities not to sentence him to a cruel death, then he laughed hysterically, made wisecracks, and told stories about himself, all of them beginning in the same way: “I entered a house...” He would not give anyone else a chance to speak. After several unsuccessful attempts to question him, the brigadier leaned back in his chair and looked to his right and left indignantly. Captain Chachu said in a monotone: “Candidate Sim, shut him up!”

Not knowing how to silence the prisoner, Maxim simply grabbed Kivi Popshu by the shoulder and shook him hard. The prisoner’s jaws snapped shut; he bit his tongue and fell silent. Then the civilian, who had been observing the prisoner, said:

“I’ll take this one. He’ll be useful.”

“Fine,” said the brigadier and ordered the escort to return Kivi Popshu to his cell.

When the prisoner had been led out, the adjutant said: “That finishes the small fry. Now for the group.”

“Begin with their leader,” suggested the civilian. “What’s his name—Ketshef?”

The adjutant glanced at his papers and again addressed the prisoner’s seat: “Gel Ketshef.”

A handcuffed man was led into the room. His eyes were red, his face swollen. He sat down and fixed his gaze on the picture above the brigadier’s head. “Is your name Gel Ketshef?” asked the brigadier.

“Yes.”

“You are a dentist?”

“I was.”

“What is your relationship to the dentist Hobbi?”

“I bought his practice.”

“Why aren’t you in practice now?”

“I sold my equipment.”

“Why?”

“Financial problems.”

“What’s your relationship to Ordi Tader?”

“She’s my wife.”

“Any children?”

“We had a son.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you do during the war?”

“I fought.”

“Why did you decide to engage in antigovemment activity?”

“Because in the history of the World there has never been a more loathsome government,” said Ketshef. “Because I loved my wife and child. Because you’ve killed my friends and corrupted my people. Because I’ve always hated you. Isn’t that enough?”

“Enough,” said the brigadier calmly. “More than enough. Now tell us how much the Khontis are paying you? Or is it Pandeya?”

The man broke into laughter—but it was an oppressive laughter, the laughter of a dead man.

“Come off it. Let’s put an end to this farce. What good will it do you?”

“Are you the leader of this group?”

“I was.”

“Who are the members of your organization?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re sure?” the civilian asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“You know, Ketshef,” said the civilian gently, “your position is extremely serious. We know everything about your group. We even know something about your group’s connections. But whether your name or another’s is given out as our source depends completely on you.”

Ketshef lowered his head and remained silent.

“You!” shouted Captain Chachu. “You, an ex-combat officer! Do you understand what they’re offering you? Not your life, massaraksh! But your honor!”

Ketshef began to laugh again but did not answer. Maxim felt that this man feared nothing. Neither death nor dishonor. He had already endured everything there was to endure and considered himself as good as dead. The brigadier shrugged his shoulders and declared that Gel Ketshef, age fifty, married, a dentist, was sentenced to death in accordance with the law for the protection of public health. Sentence to be carried out within forty-eight hours. Should the condemned agree to give testimony, the sentence could be changed.

After Ketshef had been led out, the brigadier, displeased, said to the civilian: “I don’t understand you. I think he spoke rather willingly. From your point of view—a regular chatterbox. No, I don’t understand.”

The civilian laughed. “Listen, my friend, you stick to your job and I’ll stick to mine.”

The brigadier was offended. “The leader of a group... is inclined to philosophize. I don’t understand you.”

“Have you ever seen a philosophizing corpse?”

“Nonsense.”

“Well, have you?”

“And have you?” asked the brigadier.

“Yes, just now,” said the civilian with authority. “And, take note, this isn’t the first time. I’m alive. He’s dead. So what’s there to discuss?”

The captain rose suddenly, went over to Maxim, and whispered into his face: “Watch your posture, candidate. Attention! Eyes straight ahead!” He studied Maxim for several seconds, then returned to his seat.

“So,” said the adjutant. “We still have Ordi Tader, Memo Gramenu, and two others who refuse to give their names.”

“We’ll start with them,” suggested the civilian.

Number 7313, a lean, sinewy man with painfully swollen lips, entered and sat down. He, too, was in handcuffs, although he had an artificial arm.

“Your name?” asked the brigadier.

“Which one?” asked the one-armed prisoner cheerfully.

Maxim winced—he had been certain the man would remain silent.

“Do you have so many? Give your real name.”

“My real name is Seven-Three-One-Three.”

“So-o. What were you doing in Ketshef’s apartment?”

“I was lying unconscious. For your information, I’m very good at it. If you like, I can give you a demonstration.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the civilian. He was very angry. “Save your skill for later. You’ll be needing it.”

The prisoner burst out laughing. He laughed heartily, as if he were still a young man, and Maxim realized with horror that this laughter was genuine. The men sitting around the table stiffened as they listened to him.

“Massaraksh!” The prisoner wiped his tears with his shoulder. “Some threat!” He turned to the civilian. “But you, you re still a young man. You must learn to do your job coolly, officially—for the money. It makes an enormous impression on the victims of your inquisition. What an appalling state of affairs when you find yourself being tortured not by an enemy but by a bureaucrat. Take a look at my left arm. His Imperial Majesty’s specialists sawed it off in three stages; and each order was accompanied by a lengthy official correspondence. Those butchers were just doing a disagreeable, boring, unrewarding job. While they were sawing off my arm, they cursed their wretchedly low pay. And I was terrified. I had to strain my willpower to keep from talking. And now... I can see how you hate me. You—me, and I—you. Fine! But you have been hating me less than twenty years, and I—you, for more than thirty. You, young man, were still toddling under the table and tormenting the cat.”

“Ah,” said the civilian, “an old-timer. I thought we’d already killed all of you off.”

“Don’t count on it,” replied the prisoner. “You still have a lot to learn.”

“I think that’s enough,” said the brigadier, turning to the civilian.

The civilian wrote something rapidly on the magazine and, passed it to the brigadier. The brigadier was surprised and looked at the civilian dubiously. The civilian smiled. Then, shrugging his shoulders, the brigadier addressed the captain: “Captain Chachu. You were a witness. How did the accused conduct himself when arrested?”

“He was sprawled on the floor,” replied the captain glumly.

“In other words, he did not resist. So-o.” The brigadier paused briefly again, rose, and pronounced sentence: “Prisoner Seven-Three-One-Three is sentenced to death. Until the date is set, the prisoner will be sent into exile for reeducation.” Captain Chachu looked scornful and bewildered. The one-armed prisoner laughed softly and shook his head as they led him out.

Number 7314 was brought in. This was the man who had lain screaming and writhing on the floor. Although he was very frightened, he behaved defiantly. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, he shouted that he would not answer questions or beg for leniency. And he did remain silent and refused to answer a single question, even the civilian’s question about mistreatment while under arrest. The interrogation ended when the brigadier looked at the civilian and blinked inquiringly. The civilian nodded and said: “Yes, give him to me.” He seemed very pleased.

The brigadier ran through the remaining papers and said:

“Let’s go, gentlemen. Let’s get something to eat.”

The court adjourned. Maxim and Pandi were permitted to stand at ease. When the captain, too, had left the room, Pandi said indignantly: “Did you see those animals? Worse than I snakes. If they didn’t get headaches, how could you tell they I were degens? It’s frightening to think what would happen.”

Maxim did not reply. He was in no mood for conversation. His picture of this world, which had seemed so clear-cut and logical only yesterday, was now eroded and blurred. Pandi continued talking, not needing any response from Maxim. Removing his white gloves to avoid soiling them, he took a bag of roasted nuts from his pocket and offered some to Maxim. He began to tell him how he detested this assignment. First of all, he was deathly afraid of catching something from the degens. Second, some of them, like this one-armed fellow, behaved so disrespectfully that he could scarcely control himself. Once he had taken it as long as he could and then given one of them a good punch in the jaw. He was almost broken to candidate. Thanks to the captain, all he got was twenty days in the stockade plus forty days without leave.

Maxim chewed the nuts in silence, scarcely listening to Pandi’s chatter. “Hate,” he thought. “These hate the others, and they hate back. But why? ‘The most loathsome government.’ Why is it loathsome? Where did he get the idea? Corrupted his people. How? What does all this mean? And that civilian... was he really hinting at torture? That sort of thing died out centuries ago, In the Middle Ages. But what about fascism? Hitler. Auschwitz. Race theory, genocide. World destruction. Guy—a fascist? And Rada? Unlikely. The captain? I wish I understood the connection between those terrible headaches and their disobeying the authorities. Why is it that only degens are trying to destroy the ABM network? And why not all degens?”

“Corporal Pandi,” he asked, “what about the Khontis—are they all degens?”

Pandi became very thoughtful.

“H’m, how can I explain it? Well, our job is to handle the city degens and the wild ones in the forest. The army people are trained to deal with anything they come up against in Khonti or anywhere else. All you need to know is that the Khontis are our worst enemies. Before the war they obeyed us, but now they are getting their revenge. And that’s it. Got it?”

“More or less,” replied Maxim. Pandi reprimanded him instantly. “That’s no way for a legionnaire to answer. A legionnaire says ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ ‘More or less’ is for civilians, for the corporal’s sister. You don’t answer like that in the service.”

With a subject so inspiring and dear to his heart and with such an attentive and respectful audience, Pandi would have babbled on indefinitely. But the officers were returning. Pandi broke off in midsentence, whispered “Attention,” and froze into position-after completing the required maneuvers between the table and the prisoner’s seat. Maxim followed suit.

The officers were in fine spirits. Captain Chachu, with a contemptuous expression on his face, was telling them in a loud voice how, in ’96, they had stuck some dough on red-hot armor and it turned out delicious. The brigadier and civilian retorted that fighting spirit was damned important, but the Fighting Legion’s mess should be second to none; the less canned food, the better. With half-closed eyes the adjutant rattled off some recipes from memory. The others fell silent and listened to him with strange tenderness in their eyes. Then the adjutant choked with emotion and coughed to clear his throat. The brigadier, sighing, said: “Yes. Splendid. But we’ll have to get back to work now.”

Still coughing, the adjutant opened the folder, dug through the papers, and announced: “Ordi Tader.”

The woman entered, looking as pale and as transparent as she had yesterday. When Pandi extended his hand to take her by the elbow and seat her, she recoiled sharply, as if from a snake, and Maxim thought she was going to strike Pandi. She didn’t; she was handcuffed. She just calmly and distinctly told him to keep his ; filthy hands off her and walked around him and sat down.

The brigadier asked her the usual questions. She did not reply. The civilian reminded her of her child and husband, but still she refused to answer. She sat straight and tall. Maxim could not see her face, only her tense thin neck beneath disheveled hair.

Suddenly she said in a low voice: “You are real swine. All of you. Murderers! But you will all die. You, brigadier—I am seeing you for the first and last time. You will die a cruel death. Not by my hands, unfortunately, but it will be a cruel, cruel death. And you, you bloodthirsty animals. I personally finished off two like you. If these two idiots weren’t standing behind me, I’d kill you this instant.” She caught her breath. “And you, you fat-headed cannon fodder, we’ll get you yet. But you’ll die an easy death. Gel missed, but I know people who won’t.”

They did not interrupt her but listened attentively.

They seemed ready to listen to her for hours, when suddenly she rose and stepped toward the table. Pandi caught her by the shoulder and threw her back on the seat. Then she spat with all her strength but failed to reach the table. Suddenly she went limp and began to cry. They watched her cry for some time. Then the brigadier rose and sentenced her to death, the sentence to be carried out within forty-eight hours. Pandi took her by the arm and pushed her through the door. The civilian rubbed his hands, smiled, and said: “That was luck. Fine escorts.” The brigadier replied: “Thank the captain.”

Captain Chachu said only: “Ssh.” Everyone fell silent.

The adjutant summoned Memo Gramenu and skipped the usual formalities because it was a clear-cut case. When he was placed under arrest he had shown armed resistance. They did not bother to interrogate him. While the brigadier read the death sentence, he looked at the ceiling indifferently, nursing his injured right hand with his left. The dislocated fingers were bound with a rag. Maxim could not understand the prisoner’s unnatural calm and his cold indifference to the proceedings.

Gramenu was being led out when the adjutant, with a sigh of relief, gathered the papers into his folder, and the brigadier started a conversation with the civilian about the promotion system. Captain Chachu went over to Pandi and Maxim and ordered them to leave. Although Maxim clearly saw a threat in his transparent eyes, he was too preoccupied to care. He wondered about the man who would have to execute the woman. Impossible! But someone would have to do the job in the next forty-eight hours.

8.

Guy pulled on his pajamas, hung up his uniform, and turned to Maxim. Candidate Sim was sitting on a small sofa that Rada had placed in an empty corner for him. One boot was off and he had started on the other. His eyes were turned to the wall. Guy crept up to him from the side and tried to jab him playfully. As usual, he missed his mark: Mac jerked his head back just in time.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Guy playfully. “Pining for Rada? You’re out of luck, brother; she’s on the night shift today.”

Mac smiled weakly and started on the other boot.

“Why out of luck?” he said absentmindedly. “Guy, I know you wouldn’t lie to me.” He stopped tugging. “You’re always saying they get paid for their work.”

“Who? The degens?”

“Right. You’ve talked about it a lot, to me and the men. Paid agents of the Khontis, you said. And the captain gives us the same story every day.”

“What else is there to say about them?” Oh, God, there goes Mac again with one of his boring conversations. “You’re really a funny guy, Mac. Nothing’s changed with them, so there’s nothing new to say. Degens have always been degens, and that’s the way it is now. They’ve always received money from our enemies. They do it now, too. For example, just last year, a group of them were caught red-handed with a cellarful of dough. How could an honest man have that much money? They weren’t bankers.”

Mac set his boots neatly by the wall, rose, and began unbuttoning his jump suit.

“Guy,” he said, “There’s something I don’t understand about you people. You’re told something about a person, but when you look at him, you know it can’t be true. That it’s a mistake.”

“That happens,” said Guy, frowning. “But if you’re referring to degens...”

“Precisely. I watched them today. They’re ordinary people... like everybody else. Some a little better, some a little worse. Some are brave, others cowardly. But they certainly aren’t the animals I expected. Or that all of you think they are. Wait, don’t interrupt me. I don’t know if they are dangerous. Everything seems to indicate that they are. But I don’t believe they’re bought.”

“Why can’t you believe it? Look, let’s say you don’t believe me; I’m a little guy. But what about the captain? And the brigadier?”

Maxim threw off his jump suit, went over to the window, and stared out, pressing his forehead against the pane.

“And if mistakes are made?”

“Mistakes?” Guy was bewildered. “Who makes mistakes? The brigadier? Mac, you are a jerk!”

“OK.” Mac turned around. “But we’re not discussing him now. We’re talking about the degens. Let’s take you, for example. You would die for your cause, right?”

“Right! And so would you.”

“OK, so we would. And that’s precisely my point. We would die for a cause, not for the Legion’s rations or for money. Offer me a billion of your paper bills and I wouldn’t be willing to die for it. And you’re the same way.”

“Of course,” said Guy, thinking what a character Mac was, always getting strange ideas.

“Well?”

“What do you mean—well?”

“Well, all right,” said Maxim impatiently. “You wouldn’t agree to die for money. Neither would I. But you think the degens would? Ridiculous!”

“Sure they would!” Guy was steamed up. “That’s why they’re degens! Money means more to them than anything else. Nothing’s holy to them. Strangling a child is no big deal to them, They’ve done it! Get this, Mac: if a man tries to destroy the ABM network, what kind of man can he be? I’ll tell you—a cold-blooded murderer!”

“I’m not so sure about that. Some of them were interrogated today. If they had named their confederates, they could have saved their necks, gotten off with hard labor in a penal colony, But they didn’t. So doesn’t that mean that their confederates mean more to them than money? More than life itself?”

“You can’t say that for sure,” replied Guy. “According to the law, all the degens would be sentenced to death, without a court trial. You yourself saw them tried.”

He looked at Mac and saw that he was confused and wavering. He was really good-hearted but so naive; he didn’t understand that cruelty to the enemy was unavoidable. He should really lay it on the line, tell him to stop talking nonsense, to shut up and listen to his superiors. Mac was no blockhead or ignorant kid; if things were explained to him properly, he’d understand.

“No!” said Mac stubbornly. “You can’t hate for money alone. And the degens do hate—more than I believed possible for people to hate. You hate them less than they hate you. And I want to know why.”

“Now listen. I’ll explain it to you again. In the first place, they are degens. They hate all normal people. By nature they’re vicious, like rats. And second, we interfere in their affairs. They would like to do their dirty work, get their dough, and live in clover. And what do we do? We say to them: ‘Freeze! Hands up!’ What do you expect them to do, love us?”

“If they’re all as vicious as rats, what about that landlord? H they’re all bought, as you say they are, why was he released?”

Guy laughed.

“That landlord is a coward. There are plenty of those, too. They hate us, but they’re afraid. They know it pays to be nice to us. Besides, he’s a landlord, a rich man. You can’t buy him off so easy. He’s not like that dentist. Mac, you’re funny; you’re like a kid! You know that all people aren’t alike, and neither are the degens.”

“Of course I know,” interrupted Mac. “But, take the dentist. I’ll bet my shirt he wasn’t bought. I can’t prove it to you, but I feel it in my bones. That dentist is a courageous, decent man.”

“You mean degen!”

“Have it your way. A courageous, decent degen. I saw his library. He’s well educated. He knows a thousand times more than you or the captain. Why is he against us? If everything is as you say, why doesn’t an educated man like that know it? Even when threatened with death, he tells us straight to our faces that he’s for the people and against us. Why?”

“An educated degen is doubly dangerous,” Guy lectured him. “Just being a degen, he hates us. But if he’s educated, he can spread that hatred everywhere. Education, my dear friend, is not always a blessing. Like a gun, it depends on who has it.”

“Education is always a blessing.”

“I disagree. I’d rather see all the Khontis ignorant. Then, at least, we could live like people instead of being always afraid that they’ll get us. If they were uneducated, we could control them better.”

“Yes,” said Mac in a strange tone, “we know how to do that all right. We know very well how to be cruel.”

“You’re talking like a child again. We’d be very happy to convince them by rational persuasion. It certainly would be less expensive and less bloody. But what would you do if persuasion didn’t work?”

“That means they do have convictions, doesn’t it?” Mac interrupted. “If a well-educated person like that dentist is convinced he’s right, then where does Khonti money come into the picture?”

Guy was fed up with Mac’s arguments, so as a last resort he began to cite the Creators’ Code. But Mac broke in, calling out suddenly: “Rada! You’ve had enough sleep! Your legionnaires are starving to death and want your company!”

Guy was surprised to hear Rada’s voice come from behind the screen.

“I’ve been awake for a long time. You’ve been shouting as if you were on the drill field.”

“What are you doing home?” asked Guy.

Wrapping her robe more closely around her, she came out from behind the screen.

“Lost my job,” she announced. “Mama Tei closed down her place. She inherited some money and is going off to the country. But she recommended me for a good job. Mac, why are your things all over the place? Put them in the closet. I’ve asked you both a dozen times not to come in with your boots on! Guy, set the table, we’ll eat right away. Mac, you’ve lost weight. My goodness, what are they doing to you there?”

“Come on, come on!” said Guy. “Let’s have some dinner.”

Rada went to the kitchen. As she left the room, Mac watched her with a tender expression on his face.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” asked Guy. He was startled to see Mac’s face harden abruptly. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Listen,” said Mac. “They can do anything. Even torture a person. You know more about that than I do. But to shoot women, to torture women.” He grabbed his boots and left the room.

Guy grunted, scratched his head vigorously, and began to put out plates. Their discussion had left him with an unpleasant aftertaste and conflicting feelings. Of course Mac was still green, and not from their world. But it was amazing how these arguments with Mac always turned out. He certainly was remarkably logical. Although he had been talking nonsense this time, too, everything had shaped up so logically! Guy had to admit that, if not for this conversation, he would hardly have reached a basically simple conclusion, namely: that the main objection to the degens was that they were degens. Discount this, and all the other accusations against them turned out to be nonsense. “Yes, the whole point is that they are degens and hate everything normal. This is sufficient reason for them to oppose us without Khonti’s gold. Does that mean the Khontis are degens, too? We’ve never been told they are. If they aren’t, then our degens should hate them as they hate us. Oh, massaraksh! Darn this logic!”

When Mac returned. Guy pounced on him.

“How did you know Rada was home?”

“What do you mean—how? It was quite obvious.

“If it was so obvious to you, why didn’t you warn me? And why, massaraksh, do you blab so much in the presence of outsiders? I’ve told you dozens of times, massaraksh!”

“Massaraksh, who’s an outsider here? Rada? Rada is less an outsider to me than all your captains!”

“Massaraksh! What do the regulations say about military secrets?”

“Massaraksh and massaraksh! Why are you badgering me? I thought you knew she was home! I thought you were kidding about the night shift. Besides, what the hell kind of military secrets were we discussing anyway?”

“Anything concerning the service is—”

“Damn you and your service! You can’t even talk in front of your own sister! You’ve got your lousy secrets everywhere. It’s impossible—we can’t even open our mouths!”

“Who do you think you are, shouting at me? Remember, I’m the one who’s teaching you, you fool! And you have the nerve to shout at me?”

Before Guy could finish, Mac had calmed down. Mac walked over to him, and then Guy felt powerful arms seize him, the room began to spin, and the ceiling rushed toward him. He let out a muffled cry, and Mac, carrying him carefully above his head, walked over to the window.

“Well, where should I throw you and your secrets? Out the window?”

“What an idiotic joke, massaraksh!” shouted Guy, waving his arms wildly.

“So you don’t want to be thrown out the window? Well, then stay here.”

Mac carried Guy behind the screen and threw him down on Rada’s bed. Guy sat up, straightened his pajamas, and muttered: “Some joke.”

Guy had cooled down too; he might as well save his anger for the degens.

They set the table. Rada came in with a pot of soup. Behind her was Unc Kaan with his precious flask. It alone, he assured everyone, protected him from colds and a host of geriatric ailments. They sat down and started on the soup. Unc drained a wine glass, took a deep breath, and began to talk about his enemy. Shapshu, he said, had written an article about the function of certain bones in some ancient lizard, and the entire article was based on idiocy, contained nothing but idiocy, and was written for idiots.

As far as Unc Kaan was concerned, everyone was an idiot, including his faculty colleagues and his assistants. And the students? The height of idiocy. So the fate of paleontology was a foregone conclusion. Guy wasn’t particularly distressed—what use would it ever be to anyone? But Rada was very fond of Unc and always grieved along with him when he complained about his colleagues or the university’s failure to supply funds for an expedition.

Today the dinner conversation took a different turn. Rada, who had heard everything from behind the screen, asked Unc how the degens differed from normal people. Guy glowered at Maxim and asked Rada not to ruin their appetites. He suggested that she read the literature on degens.

Unc declared that this literature was prepared for downright idiots; that the people in the Department of Education believed everyone to be as ignorant as themselves; that the degen problem was certainly not as simple as the literature deliberately portrayed it. “Either we behave like cultured people or like our brave but ignorant barracks officers.” Unc drained another glass of wine and launched into a theory now current in scientific circles: the degens were nothing other than a new biological form that evolved as a result of radiation exposure.

“The degens are dangerous—no doubt about that,” said Unc, raising his finger, “But they are far more dangerous than you think, Guy. They are fighting for a place in this world, for the survival of their species, and this struggle is not a question of social conditions. It will end only when either the last man or the last de-gen-mutant leaves the arena of biological history victorious. Khonti gold? Nonsense! Diversions against the ABM network? Trivial. Look beyond the Blue Snake River, my friends. Yes, beyond the Blue Snake River! That’s where your real danger comes from. The prolific colonies of humanoid monsters will come from down there to trample us, to annihilate us! Guy, you are blind. And your commanders, too. You must fight to save an entire civilization, not just one people, not simply our mothers and children, but all humanity!”

Guy became furious. He was hardly concerned, he said, with the fate of humanity. He didn’t believe this theory nonsense. If he was told that it was possible to set the wild degens against Khonti, he would devote his whole life to the task. Unc called him a blind fool. He said that the All-Powerful Creators were real martyrs and were truly engaged in unequal battle if all they had at their command were such miserable, blind supporters.

Guy decided not to argue with him because Unc understood nothing about politics. Mac tried to get involved in the argument and began to talk about the one-armed degen, but Guy cut short his feeble attempts to publicize a service secret. He told Rada to serve the second course and asked Mac to turn on the television set. “Too much yak-yakking today,” he said. “We’re on leave; let’s relax.”

But his imagination had been aroused, and since there was | nothing worthwhile on TV, Guy began to tell stories about the wild degens. Having fought them for three years, he knew a thing or two about them. He hadn’t sat it out in the rear like those philosophizing types. Rada felt sorry for the old man and called her brother a braggart. Still, Unc and Mac defended him and asked him to continue. Guy refused: his feelings had been hurt, and besides, he couldn’t think of a single example to refute the old souse’s arguments. Suddenly he remembered what Zef, first sergeant of the 114th Unit of condemned prisoners, had once told him, and he presented this theory to Unc with pleasure. Zef had said that degens were becoming increasingly active because the radioactive desert was closing in on them. Their only hope for survival was to fight their way into areas free of radioactivity.

“Who told you that?” asked Unc scornfully. “What idiot ever concocted that simplistic explanation?”

Guy looked at him, gloating, and replied with authority: “That happens to be the opinion of Allu Zef, one of our most eminent psychiatrists.”

“Where did you meet him?” inquired Unc even more scornfully. “In the company kitchen?”

Guy bit his tongue and focused his attention on the TV weatherman.

Massaraksh, Mac barged into the argument again.

“All right, I am ready to grant you that those monsters in the south are some new species. But tell me—what does that landlord Renadu have in common with them? Renadu is also considered a degen, but clearly he doesn’t belong to this new species.”

Since this had never occurred to Guy, he was relieved what Unc jumped in to answer the question. After calling Mac all sort of names, Unc explained that the undetected degens, the city ones, were actually the surviving remnants of the new specie who, in the central regions, had been almost completely wiped out in the cradle. They still remembered those horrors. Many were killed at birth, sometimes together with their mothers. Only the ones in whom the new species traits were invisible to the naked eye survived. Uncle Kaan drained a fifth glass of wine, dropped all restraint, and developed for his audience an efficient program for the medical inspection of the entire population. This, he insisted, must be undertaken sooner or later, and better sooner than later. Absolutely no exceptions! Weeds must be torn with the roots without mercy.

With this, dinner ended. Rada cleared the dishes from tit table. Without waiting for his listeners’ reactions, Unc triumphantly corked his flask and started for his room. Guy follow“l| him with his eyes—the old man in his threadbare jacket, patched trousers, darned socks, and worn shoes. Damned war! Before the war the entire apartment had belonged to Uncle. He had a servant, wife, son, fancy china, lots of money, even a country home somewhere. But now his dusty book-crammed study served as bedroom and what have you. Secondhand clothing, loneliness, oblivion. A sorry state. Guy pushed the easy chair closer to the TV, stretched out, and began to watch the screen drowsily. Mac sat beside him for a while, then rose silently, and disappeared into another comer. He browsed in Guy’s small collection of books, selected a textbook, and began to leaf through it.

After Rada had finished the dishes, she sat down beside Guy and crocheted, glancing up at the screen occasionally. All was peaceful and serene. Guy dozed off.

He had a ridiculous dream: he caught two degens in a railroad tunnel, began interrogating them, and suddenly discovered that one of them was Mac. The other one, smiling gently, said to Guy: “All this time you’ve been making a big mistake. Your place is with us. The captain is just a hired killer. He’s no patriot. He just likes to kill.” Guy was crushed by doubts, but then sensed that everything was about to become crystal clear. Just one more second, and all Ms doubts would vanish. Ibis strange situation was so agonizing that his heart skipped several beats, and he woke up abruptly.

Mac and Rada were quietly chatting about trivial things. About swimming in the sea, about sand and cockleshells. A thought suddenly occurred to him: was he really capable of doubling, of vacillating? What did the doubts in his dream mean? Could they happen during his waking life? For some time he tried to recall the dream in all its details, but it slipped away like a bar of wet soap. Relieved, Guy passed it off as nonsense.

The TV program was boring, so Guy suggested a few beers. Rada went to the kitchen and brought two bottles from the refrigerator. They drank and chatted, and in the course of their aimless conversation it came out that Mac had absorbed an entire textbook on geopolitics in the preceding half-hour. Rada was delighted, but Guy refused to believe it. He insisted that a person might be able to leaf through it in half an hour, but certainly not read it and assimilate it. Impossible! Mac demanded a test and they made a bet: the loser would tell Uncle Kaan straight to his face that his colleague Shapshu was a superior intellect and a brilliant scientist.

Guy opened the book at random, found questions at the end of a chapter, and read: “Explain our government’s moral magnanimity with respect to northern expansion.” Mac answered in his own words but correctly summarized the text, adding that in his opinion moral magnanimity had nothing to do with expansion; he viewed the entire problem as stemming from Khonti’s and Pandeya’s aggressive regimes. Guy scratched his head, turned several pages, and asked: “What is the average cereal yield in the northwestern regions?” Mac laughed and said that there were no data for the northwest. Guy’s inability to trip up Mac delighted Rada. “What is the population pressure at the mouth of the Blue Snake River?” continued Guy. Mac stated a figure, cited an error in calculation, and did not fail to add that the concept of population pressure troubled him. He couldn’t understand why it had been introduced. Guy started to explain that population pressure was a measure of aggressiveness, but Rada interrupted him. Guy, she said, was deliberately changing the subject, trying to squirm out of their bet because he realized how poorly he was doing.

Dismayed by the prospect of confronting Uncle Kaan, Guy stalled for time by starting an argument. Mac listened for a while. Then, out of the blue, he declared that Rada should not accept the job as a waitress but should return to school. Relieved at the change of subject. Guy shouted that he had told her the same thing a thousand times and had suggested she apply for the Women’s Legion Corps, where she would be turned into a useful citizen. But the conversation fell flat. Mac merely shook his head, and Rada, as she had on previous occasions, spoke about the WLC in the most disrespectful terms.

Guy didn’t bother to argue with her. He threw aside the textbook, went over to the closet for his guitar, and tuned it. Mac and Rada pushed the table aside and faced each other, preparing dance to the accompaniment of “Yes—Yes, No—No.” Guy played for them. As he watched them dance, he thought what splendid couple they made. But apartments were impossible find. If they got married, he would have to move to the barracks.

Oh well, that wouldn’t be so bad. Many of the corporals lived in the barracks. On the other hand, Mac didn’t act as though he planning to get married. He treated Rada more like a friend, although with unusual tenderness and respect. Yet it was clear that Rada had fallen in love with him. How her eyes sparkled! How could a girl not fall in love with such a man! Even that old hag, Madame Go, stuck her skull out the door and grinned as soon as she heard Mac walking down the corridor. Every tenant in the building was fond of him. The legionnaires, too. Only captain treated him strangely... although he didn’t deny that Mac was a firebrand.

The couple danced on and on, until they were about to drop from exhaustion. Mac took the guitar from Guy, retuned it in his own special way, and began to sing his mountain songs. Dozens of them, but not one familiar tune. Yet they had a strange effect on Guy. Although he didn’t understand a single word, sometimes he would feel like crying, sometimes like laughing. Rada had already memorized some of them and tried to hum them now. One of her favorites was a funny song about a girl who sat on a mountain, waiting for her boyfriend. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not reach her—one obstacle after another blocked his path.

The doorbell rang, but they did not hear it through the music. Then a loud knocking, and Captain Chachu’s orderly burst into the room.

“Corporal, sir, may I speak with you?” he bellowed, casting a furtive glance at Rada.

Mac stopped playing.

“What is it?” said Guy.

“The captain has ordered you and Candidate Sim to report to company headquarters at once. A car is waiting below.”

Guy jumped up.

“Go wait for us in the car. We’ll be down in a few minutes. Hurry and dress,” he said to Maxim.

Rada took the guitar and cradled it in her arms like a baby. Then she turned and walked to the window.

“What’s it all about?” asked Mac.

“How should I know? Maybe it’s a practice alert.”

“I don’t like it.”

Guy looked at him and turned on the radio. Nothing alarming. They dressed hurriedly.

“Well, Rada, we’re going,” said Guy.

“Then go,” said Rada without turning around.

“Let’s go, Mac.” Guy pulled his beret over his eye.

“Call me if you’re delayed,” said Rada.

The orderly obligingly opened the door for Guy. They climbed into the car and set off for headquarters. Evidently they had been summoned because of an emergency. Turning the siren up full blast, the driver raced toward their destination. Guy thought, with some regret, about the pleasant evening they had left behind. But that was the life of a legionnaire. In a few minutes they would receive their orders, pick up their guns, and start shooting. Right on top of a cozy evening: beer, warm pajamas, singing to the accompaniment of the guitar. Ah, yes, that was the life of a legionnaire, the best of all possible lives. Wives, girlfriends? No need of them. Mac didn’t want to marry Rada. Never mind, she’d wait. If she loved him, she’d wait.

The car tore onto the parade ground and braked at the entrance to the barracks. Guy leaped out and ran up the steps. He stopped short at the door, checked his beret and belt buckle, gave Mac a quick once-over and fastened his collar—massaraksh, it was always open!—and knocked.

“Come in!” barked a familiar voice.

Guy entered and reported for duty. Captain Chachu, wearing a cap and woolen cape, sat behind his desk, smoking and drinking coffee. The cartridge case in front of him was filled with butts. Two submachine guns rested against the side of the desk. He rose slowly, leaning heavily on the desk with both hands. Staring at Mac, he began to speak.

“Candidate Sim! You have shown yourself to be an extraordinary fighter and a loyal comrade. I applied to the brigade commander for your early promotion to the rank of regular private in the Fighting Legion. You passed the test by fire very successfully. Now you will be tested by blood.”

Guy was overjoyed: he hadn’t expected this to happen so soon. “There’s an old soldier for you!” he thought. “What a fool I was to think he had it in for Mac.” Guy glanced at Mac, and his joy paled at the sight of Mac’s wooden countenance and bulging eyes. All according to regulations. But at this particular moment it wasn’t necessary.

“I am about to hand you an order. Candidate Sim,” continual the captain, handing Mac a document. “It is the first order addressed to you personally. And I hope not the last. Read it and sign it.”

Mac took the order and skimmed through it. Guy’s heart skipped again—not from joy, but from a vague and fearful premonition. Mac’s face remained immobile, and everything appeared to be in order, except that he hesitated almost imperceptibly before he picked up the pen and signed the document. The captain examined the signature and placed the paper in his map case.

He picked up a typed envelope from his desk. “Corporal Gaal, go to the guardroom and bring the condemned prisoners here. Take a gun—no, here, take this one.”

Guy took the envelope, slung the gun over his shoulder, ei-ecuted an about-face, and marched toward the door. He could still hear the captain telling Mac: “Don’t worry, candidate. No need to get jittery. It’s only frightening the first time.”

Guy crossed the field on the double, heading toward the guardhouse. He handed the chief sentry the envelope, signed in the designated places, and received the necessary receipts in turn. The condemned prisoners were turned over to him. They were the recent conspirators: the stocky man whose fingers Mac had dislocated and the woman. Massaraksh, this was too much! The woman—it was absolutely unnecessary! This was no job for Mac. He led the prisoners to the drill field and prodded them toward the barracks. Nursing his hand, the man dragged himself along, while the woman walked straight as a rod, her hands thrust deeply into her jacket pockets. She appeared to be oblivious to everything around her. “Massaraksh, and why not Mac? Why the hell not? The broad is just as bad as the other degen bastards. Why should we make an exception of her? And why, massaraksh, should we make an exception for Candidate Sim? Let him get used to it!”

The captain and Mac were waiting in the truck. The captain was behind the wheel; Mac sat in the back with his gun resting between his knees. Guy opened the door and the prisoners climbed in. “On the floor!” he ordered. They sat down obediently on the steel floor, and Guy sat opposite Mac. He tried to catch Mac’s eye, but Mac was looking at the prisoners. No, he was looking at the woman, who was huddled up on the floor, clutching her knees. Without turning around the captain asked if they were ready. The truck pulled out.

They rode in silence. The captain drove at top speed, evidently anxious to finish the job. Mac kept looking at the woman, as if he were trying to get her attention, and Guy kept trying to catch Mac’s eye. The condemned prisoners clung to each other and squirmed on the floor. The man started to talk to the woman, but Guy shouted at him. The car sped out of the city, passed the southern gate, and turned into a familiar deserted village. A very familiar village. It led to Pink Caves. The captain turned the car again, braked sharply, and eased it into a quarry. He switched off I the engine and ordered everyone out.

It was almost dawn, and a light mist was spreading through the quarry. Its windswept stone walls emitted a faint pink glow. Long ago marble had been mined here.

Matters were coming to a head. Mac continued to behave like a model soldier. Not a single superfluous movement. His face was impassive, and his eyes were focused on the captain in anticipation of an order. The stocky man behaved well, with dignity. No, he wouldn’t give them any trouble. But the woman went to pieces toward the end. She kept clenching her fists convulsively, pressing them to her chest and then dropping them. Guy expected some hysterics, but it didn’t appear that they’d have to drag her to the execution spot.

The captain lit a cigarette, looked up at the sky, and said to Mac, “Take them along this path. You’ll come to a cave. You’ll know where to stand them. When you’re finished, be sure to check them and, if necessary, give them the coup de grace. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Mac woodenly.

“You’re lying, boy. You don’t know. It means—in the head. Get going, candidate. You’ll return here a regular private.”

Suddenly the woman spoke. “If one of you is a real man... tell my mother. Duck Village, Number Two. It’s the next village. Her name is—”

“Don’t lower yourself,” boomed the stocky man’s deep voice.

“—her name is Illi Tader.”

“Don’t lower yourself,” he repeated, raising his voice. The captain punched him in the face. He stopped talking, put his hand to his cheek, and glared at the captain.

“Get going, candidate,” repeated the captain.

Mac turned to the prisoners and motioned to them with his gun. They started along the path. The woman turned around shouted again: “Duck Village, Number Two. Illi Tader!”

Mac walked behind them slowly with his gun raised in front of him. The captain flung open the car door and sat down sideways behind the wheel with his feet stretched out.

“O. K. We’ll wait about fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Guy mechanically.

He followed Mac with his eyes until the group disappeared behind a pink ledge. “I’ll have to buy a bottle on the way back,” he thought. “Get him good and drunk. They say it helps.”

“You may smoke, corporal,” said the captain.

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t smoke.”

The captain spat through his teeth.

“Aren’t you worried that your friend will let you down?”

“Absolutely not, sir,” said Guy, but without conviction. “Although, if I may say so, sir, I’m very sorry that he got the woman. He’s from the mountains and they—”

“He’s no more from the mountains than you or me,” said the captain. “Anyway, it’s not a question of women. Well, we’ll see what happens. By the way, what were you doing when you were summoned to headquarters?”

“We were singing, sir.”

“What were you singing?”

“Mountain songs, sir. He knows a lot of them.”

The captain got out of the car and paced up and down along the path. He had stopped talking, and about ten minutes later began whistling the “Legion March.” Guy kept listening for shots but didn’t hear any. He began to grow anxious. Could they have escaped from Mac? Impossible! Disarmed him? Even more impossible. Then why the hell wasn’t he firing? Maybe he had led them beyond the usual spot? The stench there was pretty strong, and Mac had a very keen sense of smell. He was so squeamish about that sort of thing, he could very well have gone another mile or so.

“Well, Corporal Gaal,” said the captain, halting, “that’s it. I’m afraid we can’t wait any longer for your buddy. And I’m afraid you won’t be called corporal after today.”

Guy looked at him in dismay. The captain grinned.

“What the hell’s the matter with you? You look as if your eyes are about to pop out. Your friend ran away, deserted. He’s a coward and a traitor. Do you understand. Corporal Gaal?”

Guy was stunned. Not so much by what the captain said as how he said it. The captain was ecstatic. He looked as if he had just won a large bet. Guy looked into the quarry mechanically and suddenly saw Mac. He was returning alone, carrying his gun by its strap.

“Massaraksh,” the captain said hoarsely. He, too, was stunned.

They stopped talking and watched Mac approach them—slowly, stepping easily over the stone fragments. They watched his calm face with its strange eyes. Guy’s head was spinning. What happened to the shots? Had he strangled them? Or smashed them with the butt of his gun? He, Mac, do that to a woman? Never! But the shots? There hadn’t been any,

Five paces away, Mac halted and, looking the captain straight in the eye, flung the gun at his feet.

“Good-bye, captain,” he said. “I released them, and now I want to leave. Take your gun! Take your clothes!” He turned to Guy and, unbuckling his belt, said to him: “Guy, this is a dirty business. They’ve been lying to us.”

He pulled off his boots and jump suit, tied everything into a bundle and stood there, almost naked, in his silver shorts and barefoot, just as Guy had seen him for the first time on the southern border. He went over to the truck and placed the bundle on the hood. Guy was shocked. He looked at the captain—then almost froze in horror.

“Captain!” he shouted. “Don’t! He’s out of his mind! He—”

“Candidate Sim!” snapped the captain, his hand on his holster. “Get into the car! You’re under arrest.”

“That’s what you think. I’m free. I’ve come for Guy. Let’s go, Guy. They’ve made a sucker out of you. They’re dishonest people. Before I had doubts about them, but now I’m sure. Let’s go, Guy.”

Guy shook his head. He wanted to say something, to explain something, but he had neither the time nor the words to express it. The captain had drawn his pistol.

“Candidate Sim! Into the car!”

“Are you coming?” asked Mac.

Guy shook his head again. He looked at the pistol. Only one thought ran through his head: Mac was about to be shot. Oh God, what should he do?

“OK,” said Mac. “I’ll find you. I’ll find out everything and I’ll find you. You don’t belong with them. Give Rada my love.”

He turned and began to walk away, striding over the stone fragments as easily as if he were wearing boots. Guy stared mutely at his triangular back and waited for the shot and the black hole beneath his left shoulder blade.

“Candidate Sim,” said the captain without raising his voice. “For the last time, I’m ordering you to return. I’m going to shoot.”

Mac halted and turned toward him again.

“Shoot?” he said. “Why? Well, the reason doesn’t matter. Put down your pistol.”

Holding the pistol at his hip, Chachu aimed at Mac.

“I’m counting to three. Get into the truck, candidate. One!”

“Come, hand over your pistol.” Mac extended his hand and advanced toward the captain.

“Two!”

“Don’t!” shouted Guy.

The captain fired. Mac was close to him. Guy saw the bullet hit his shoulder. Mac staggered back, as if he had run into an obstacle.

“You fool!” said Mac. “Hand over your gun, you vicious fool!”

Mac continued to advance toward the captain, his hand reaching out for the weapon. Blood was spurting from his shoulder. With a strangely unsteady cry, the captain retreated and fired three shots in rapid succession into the broad tanned chest. Mac fell on his back, rose, and fell again. The captain fired three more shots. Mac fell forward and lay still.

Guy felt giddy and his legs buckled. He sank down on the truck’s running board. The repulsive crunching sound of bullets penetrating the body of his closest friend still ran through his head. Soon he recovered his strength, but still unsure of his legs, rested a little longer.

Mac’s motionless body lay like a rock among the pink and white fragments. The captain returned to where he had been standing, held his gun in readiness, and lit up a cigarette, inhaling greedily. He didn’t look at Guy. Smoking the cigarette down to the last puff, he burned himself; he threw the butt away and took two steps toward the dead man.

“Massaraksh!” grunted the captain, replacing his pistol in its holster.

He fumbled for a long time, trying to fasten it, and finally gave up. He walked over to Guy, grabbed his clothing at the chest with his crippled hand, and jerked him up. Breathing noisily in Guy’s face, he spoke unsteadily.

“OK, boy, we won’t bust you to private. But you’re finished in the Legion. You’ll write out a request for transfer to the army. Get in the van.”