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"I'm taller." "Want to bet? No, don't try to wiggle away from me; I'll twist your arm. Slip off your shoes and stand back to back." "Sit down, children," their father said mildly. "Rod, why were you late?" "Uh . . ." He had worked out a diversion involving telling about the examination coming up, but he did not use it as his sister intervened. "Don't heckle him, Pater. Ask for excuses and you'll get them. I learned that when I was a sublieutenant." "Quiet, daughter. I can raise him without your help." Rod was surprised by his father's edgy answer, was more surprised by Helen's answer: "So? Really?" Her tone was odd. Rod saw his mother raise a hand, seem about to speak, then close her mouth. She looked upset. His sister and father looked at each other; neither spoke. Rod looked from one to the other, said slowly, "Say, what's all this?" His father glanced at him. "Nothing. We'll say no more about it.
Dinner is waiting. Coming, dear?" He turned to his wife, handed her up from her chair, offered her his arm. "Just a minute," Rod said insistently. "I was late because I was hanging around the Gap." "Very well. You know better, but I said we would say no more about it." He turned toward the lift. "But I wanted to tell you something else, Dad. I won't be home for the next week or so." "Very well- eh? What did you say?" "I'll be away for a while, sir. Maybe ten days or a bit longer." His father looked perplexed, then shook his head. "Whatever your plans are, you will have to change them. I can't let you go away at this time." "But, Dad-" "I'm sorry, but that is definite." "But, Dad, I have to!" "No." Rod looked frustrated. His sister said suddenly, "Pater, wouldn't it be well to find out why he wants to be away?" "Now, daughter-" "Dad, I'm taking my solo survival, starting tomorrow morning!" Mrs. Walker gasped, then began to weep. Her husband said, "There, there, my dear!" then turned to his son and said harshly, "You've upset your mother." "But, Dad, I. . ." Rod shut up, thinking bitterly that no one seemed to give a hoot about his end of it. Mter all, he was the one who was going to have to sink or swim. A lot they knew or- "You see, Pater," his sister was saying. "He does have to be away. He has no choice, because- " "I see nothing of the sort! Rod, I meant to speak about this earlier, but I had not realized that your test would take place so soon. When I signed permission for you to take that course, I had, I must admit, a mental reservation.
I felt that the experience would be valuable later when and if you took the course in college. But I never intended to let you come up against the final test while still in high school. You are too young. Rod was shocked speechless. But his sister again spoke for him. "Fiddlesticks!" "Eh? Now, daughter, please remember that-" "Repeat fiddlesticks! Any girl in my company has been up against things as rough and many of them are not much older than Buddy. What are you trying to do, Pater? Break his nerve?" "You have no reason to. . . I think we had best discuss this later." "I think that is a good idea." Captain Walker took her brother's arm and they followed their parents down to the refectory. Dinner was on the table, still warm in its delivery containers; they took their places, standing, and Mr. Walker solemnly lighted the Peace Lamp.
The family was evangelical Monist by inheritance, each of Rod's grandfathers having been converted in the second great wave of proselyting that swept out of Persia in the last decade of the previous century, and Rod's father took seriously his duties as a family priest. As the ritual proceeded Rod made his responses automatically, his mind on this new problem. His sister chimed in heartily but his mother's answers could hardly be heard. Nevertheless, the warm symbolism had its effect; Rod felt himself calming down. By the time his father intoned the last "-one Principle, one family, one flesh!" he felt like eating. He sat down and took the cover off his plate.
A yeast cutlet, molded to look like a chop and stripped with real bacon, a big baked potato, and a grilled green labia garnished with baby's buttons . . . Rod's mouth watered as he reached for the catsup. He noticed that Mother was not eating much, which surprised him. Dad was not eating much either but Dad often just picked at his food . . . he became aware with sudden warm pity that Dad was thinner and greyer than ever. How old was Dad? His attention was diverted by a story his sister was telling: "-and so the Commandant told me I would have to clamp down. And I said to her, 'Ma'am, girls will be girls. If I have to bust a petty officer every time one of them does something like that, pretty soon I won't have anything but privates. And Sergeant Dvorak is the best gunner I have."' "Just a second," her father interrupted. "I thought you said 'Kelly,' not 'Dvorak.'" "I did and she did. Pretending to misunderstand which sergeant she meant was the secret weapon-for I had Dvorak cold for the same offense, and Tiny Dvorak (she's bigger than I am) is the Squadron's white hope for the annual corps-wide competition for the best trooper. Of course, losing her stripes would put her, and us, out of the running.
"So I straightened out the 'mix up' in my best wide-eyed, thick-headed manner, let the old gal sit for a moment trying not to bite her nails, then told her that I had both women confined to barracks until that gang of college boys was through installing the new 'scope, and sang her a song about how the quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, and made myself responsible for seeing to it that she was not again embarrassed by scandalous-her word, not mine-scandalous incidents . . . especially when she was showing quadrant commanders around. "So she grumpily allowed as how the company commander was responsible for her company and she would hold me to it and now would I get out and let her work on the quarterly training report in peace? So I threw her my best parade ground salute and got out so fast I left a hole in the air." "I wonder," Mr. Walker said judicially, "if you should oppose your commanding officer in such matters? After all, she is older and presumably wiser than you are."
Helen made a little pile of the last of her baby's buttons, scooped them up, and swallowed them. "Fiddlesticks squared and cubed. Pardon me, Pater, but if you had any military service you would know better. I am as tough as blazes to my girls myself. . . and it just makes them boast about how they've got the worst fire-eater in twenty planets. But if they're in trouble higher up, I've got to take care of my kids. There always comes a day when there is something sticky up ahead and I have to stand up and walk toward it. And it will be all right because I'll have Kelly on my right flank and Dvorak on my left and each of them trying to take care of Maw Walker all by her own self. I know what I'm doing. 'Walker's Werewolves' are a team." Mrs. Walker shivered. "Gracious, darling, I wish you had never taken up a calling so . . . well, so dangerous." Helen shrugged. "The death rate is the same for us as for anybody . . . one person, one death, sooner or later. What would you want, Mum? With eighteen million more women than men on this continent did you want me to sit and knit until my knight comes riding? Out where I operate, there are more men than women; I'll wing one yet, old and ugly as I am. Rod asked curiously, "Sis, would you really give up your commission to get married?" "Would I! I won't even count his arms and legs. If he is still warm and can nod his head, he's had it. My target is six babies and a farm." Rod looked her over. "I'd say your chances are good. You're quite pretty even if your ankles are thick."
"Thanks, pardner. Thank you too much. What's for dessert, Mum?" "I didn't look. Will you open it, dear?" Dessert turned out to be iced mango rinds, which pleased Rod. His sister went on talking. "The Service isn't a bad shake, on active duty. It's garrison duty that wears. My kids get fat and sloppy and restless and start fighting with each other from sheer boredom. For my choice, barracks casualties are more to be dreaded than combat. I'm hoping that our squadron will be tagged to take par was startled by the shift. "Why? Are they waiting for me?" "No. I persuaded them that it was best to keep it from you until it happened. Then I came straight in and told you. Now you can do as you please- pretend you don't know, or go have Mum cry over you, and listen to a lot of last-minute, man-to-man advice from Dad that you will never take. About midnight, with your nerves frazzled, you can get back to your preparations for your survival test. Play it your own way- but I've rigged it so you can avoid that if you want to. Easier on everybody. Myself, I like a cat's way of saying good-bye." Rod's mind was in turmoil. Not to say good-by seemed unnatural, ungrateful, untrue to family sentiment- but the prospect of saying goodbye seemed almost unbearably embarrassing. "What's that about a cat?" "When a cat greets you, he makes a big operation of it, humping, stropping your legs, buzzing like mischief. But when he leaves, he just walks off and never looks back. Cats are smart." "Well . ."
Surely, Dad must, if he is to get well." She considered pointing out that the enormous expense of the time jump would leave Rod practically penniless; she decided that this was better left undiscussed. "But Mum does not have to." "But she has to go with Dad!" "So? Use arithmetic. She prefers leaving you alone for twenty years in order to be with Dad for two weeks. Or turn it around: she prefers having you orphaned to having herself widowed for the same length of time." "I don't think that's quite fair to Mum," Rod answered slowly.
"I wasn't criticizing. She's making the right decision. Nevertheless, they both have a strong feeling of guilt about you and-" "About me?" "About you. I don't figure into it. If you insist on saying good-by, their guilt will come out as self-justification and self-righteousness and they will find ways to take it out on you and everybody will have a bad time. I don't want that. You are all my family." "Uh, maybe you know best." "I didn't get straight A's in emotional logic and military leadership for nothing. Man is not a rational animal; he is a rationalizing animal. Now let's see what you plan to take with you." She looked over his lists and equipment, then whistled softly. "Whew! Rod, I never saw so much plunder. You won't be able to move. Who are you? Tweedledum preparing for battle, or the White Knight?" "Well, I was going to thin it down," he answered uncomfortably. "I should think so!" "Uh, Sis, what sort of gun should I carry?" "Huh? Why the deuce do you want a gun?" "Why, for what I might run into, of course. Wild animals and things.
Deacon Matson practically said that we could expect dangerous animals." "I doubt if he advised you to carry a gun. From his reputation, Dr. Matson is a practical man. See here, infant, on this tour you are the rabbit, trying to escape the fox. You aren't the fox." "What do you mean?" "Your only purpose is to stay alive. Not to be brave, not to fight, not to dominate the wild but just stay breathing. One time in a hundred a gun might save your life; the other ninety-nine it will just tempt you into folly. Oh, no doubt Matson would take one, and I would, too. But we are salted; we know when not to use one. But consider this. That test area is going to be crawling with trigger-happy young squirts. If one shoots you, it won't matter that you have a gun, too because you will be dead. But if you carry a gun, it makes you feel cocky; you won't take proper cover. If you don't have one, then you'll know that you are the rabbit. You'll be careful." "Did you take a gun on your solo test?" "I did. And I lost it the first day. Which saved my life." "How?" "Because when I was caught without one I ran away from a Bessmer's griffin instead of trying to shoot it. You savvy Bessmer's griffin?" "Uh, Spica V?" "Spica IV. I don't know how much outer zoology they are teaching you, kids, these days-from the ignoramuses we get for recruits I've reached the conclusion that this new-fangled 'functional education' has abolished studying in favor of developing their cute little personalities.
"Why I had one girl who wanted to- never mind; the thing about the griffin is that it does not really have vital organs. Its nervous system is decentralized, even its assimilation system. To kill it quickly you would have to grind it into a hamburger. Shooting merely tickles it. But not know that; if I had had my gun I would have found out the hard way. As it was, it treed me for three days, which did my figure good and gave me time to think over the philosophy, ethics, and pragmatics of self-preservation." Rod did not argue, but he still had a conviction that a gun was a handy thing to have around. It made him feel good, taller, stronger, and more confident, to have one slapping against his thigh. He didn't have to use it- not unless he just had to. And he knew enough to take cover; nobody in the class could do a silent sneak the way he could. While Sis was a good soldier, still she didn't know everything and- But Sis was still talking.
"I know how good a gun feels. It makes you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, three meters tall and covered with hair. You're ready for anything and kind of hoping you'll find it. This is exactly what is dangerous about it because you aren't anything of the sort. You are a feeble, hairless embryo, remarkably easy to kill. You could carry an assault gun with a two thousand meters precision range and isotope charges that will blow up a hill, but you still would not have eyes in the back of your head like a Janus bird, nor be able to see in the dark like the Thetis pygmies. Death can cuddle up behind you while you are drawing a bead on something in front." "But, Sis, your own company carries guns. "Guns, radar, bombs, black scopes, gas, warpers, and some things which we light-heartedly hope are secret. What of it? You aren't going to storm a city. Buddy, sometimes I send a girl out on an infiltration patrol, object: information-go out, find out, come back alive.
How do you suppose I equip her?" "Never mind. In the first place I don't pick an eager young recruit; I send some unkillable oldtimer. She peels down to her underwear, darkens her skin if it is not dark, and goes out barehanded and bare-footed, without so much as a fly swatter. I have yet to lose a scout that way. Helpless and unprotected you do grow eye's in the back of your head, and your nerve ends reach out and feel everything around you. I learned that when I was a brash young j.o., from a salty trooper old enough to be my mother." Impressed, Rod said slowly, "Deacon Matson told us he would make us take this test barehanded if he could."
"Dr. Matson is a man of sense. "Well, what would you take?" "Test conditions again?" Rod stated them. Captain Walker frowned. "Mmm . . . not much to go on. Two to ten days probably means about five. The climate won't be hopelessly extreme. I suppose you own a Baby Bunting?" "No, but I've got a combat parka suit. I thought I would carry it, then if the test area turned out not to be cold, I'd leave it at the gate. I'd hate to lose it; it weighs only half a kilo and cost quite a bit." "Don't worry about that. There is no point in being the best-dressed ghost in Limbo. Okay, besides your parka I would make it four kilos of rations, five of water, two kilos of sundries like pills and matches, all in a vest pack . . . and a knife." "'That isn't much for five days, much less ten." "It is all you can carry and still be light on your feet. "Let's see your knife, dear." Rod had several knives, but one was "his" knife, a lovely all-purpose one with a 21-cm. moly steel blade and a fine balance.
He handed it to his sister, who cradled it lightly. "Nice!" she said and glanced around the room. "Over there by the outflow." "I see." She whipped it past her ear, let fly, and the blade sank into the target, sung and quivered. She reached down and drew another from her boot top. "This is a good one, too." She threw and it bit into the target a blade's width from the first. She retrieved both knives, stood balancing them, one on each hand. She flipped her own so that the grip was toward Rod. "This is my pet, 'Lady Macbeth.' I carried her on my own solo, Buddy.
I want you to carry her on yours. "You want to trade knives? All right." Rod felt a sharp twinge at parting with "Colonel Bowie" and a feeling of dismay that some other knife might let him down. But it was not an offer that he could refuse, not from Sis. "My very dear! I wouldn't deprive you of your own knife, not on your solo. I want you to carry both, Buddy. You won't starve nor die of thirst, but a spare knife may be worth its weight in thorium." "Gee, Sis! But I shouldn't take your knife, either- you said you were expecting active duty. I can carry a spare of my own" "I won't need it. My girls haven't let me use a knife in years. I want you to have Lady Macbeth on your test." She removed the scabbard from her boot top, sheathed the blade; and handed it to him. "Wear it in good health, brother." 3 Through the Tunnel Rod arrived at Templeton gate the next morning feeling not his best. He had intended to get a good night's sleep in preparation for his ordeal, but his sister's arrival in conjunction with overwhelming changes in his family had defeated his intention. As with most children Rod had taken his family and home for granted; he had not thought about them much, nor placed a conscious value on them, any more than a fish treasures water.
They simply were. Now suddenly they were not. Helen and he had talked late. She had begun to have stron~ misgivings about her decision to let him know of the c ange on the eve of his test. She had weighed it, decided. that it was the "right" thing to do, then had learned the ages-old sour truth that right and wrong can sometimes be determined only through hindsight. It had not been fair, she later concluded, to load anything else on his mind just before his test; But it had not seemed fair, either, to let him leave without knowing. . . to return to an empty house.
The decision was necessarily hers; she had been his guardian since earlier that same day. The papers had been signed and sealed; the court had given approval. Now she found with a sigh that being a "parent" was not unalloyed pleasure; it was more like the soul-searching that had gone into her first duty as a member of a court-martial. When she saw that her "baby" was not quieting, she had insisted that he go to bed anyhow, then had given him a long back rub, combining it with hypnotic instructions to sleep, then had gone quietly away when he seemed asleep. But Rod had not been asleep; he had simply wanted to be alone. His mind raced like an engine with no load for the best part of an hour, niggling uselessly at the matter of his father's illness, wondering what it was going to be like to greet them again after twenty years- why, he would be almost as old as Mum! - switching over to useless mental preparations for unknown test conditions. At last, he realized that he had to sleep- forced himself to run through mental relaxing exercises, emptying his mind and hypnotizing himself. It took longer than ever before but finally, he entered a great, golden, warm cloud and was asleep. His bed mechanism had to call him twice. He woke bleary-eyed and was still so after a needle shower.
He looked in a mirror, decided that shaving did not matter where he was going and anyhow he was late-then decided to shave after all . . . being painfully shy about his sparse young growth. Mum was not up, but she hardly ever got up as early as that. Dad rarely ate breakfast these days . . . Rod recalled why with a twinge. But he had expected Sis to show up. Glumly he opened his tray and discovered that Mum had forgotten to dial an order, something that had not happened twice in his memory. He placed his order and waited for service- another ten minutes lost. Helen showed up as he was leaving, dressed surprisingly in a dress. "Good morning." "Hi, Sis. Say, you'll have to order your own tucker. Mother didn't and I didn't know what you wanted." "Oh, I had breakfast hours ago. I was waiting to see you off." "Oh. Well, so long. I've got to run, I'm late." "I won't hold you up." She came over and embraced him. "Take it easy, mate. That's the important thing. More people have died from worry than ever bled to death. And if you do have to strike, strike low." "Uh, I'll remember." "See that you do. I'm going to get my leave extended today so that I'll be here when you come back." She kissed him. "Now run." Dr. Matson was sitting at a desk outside the dispensary at Templeton Gate, checking names on his roll. He looked up as Rod arrived. "Why, hello, Walker.
I thought maybe you had decided to be smart." 'I'm sorry I'm late, sir. Things happened." "Don't fret about it. Knew a man once who didn't get shot at sunrise because he overslept the appointment." "Really? Who was he?" "Young fellow I used to know. Myself." "Hunh? You really did, sir? You mean you were" "Not a word of truth in it. Good stories are rarely true. Get on in there and take your physical, before you get the docs irritated." They thumped him and x-rayed him and made a wavy pattern from his brain and did all the indignities that examining physicians do. The senior examiner listened to his heart and felt his moist hand. "Scared, son?" "Of course I am!" Rod blurted. "Of course you are. If you weren't, I wouldn't pass you. What's that bandage on your leg?" "Uh-" The bandage concealed Helen's knife "Lady Macbeth." Rod sheepishly admitted the fact. "Take it off." "Sir?" "I've known candidates to pull dodges like that to cover up a disqualification. So let's have a look." Rod started removing it; the physician let him continue until he was sure that it was a cache for a weapon and not a wound dressing. "Get your clothes on. Report to your instructor. Rod put on his vest pack of rations and sundries, fastened his canteen under it.
It was a belt canteen of flexible synthetic divided into half-liter pockets. The weight was taken by shoulder straps and a tube ran up the left suspender, ending in a nipple near his mouth so that he might drink without taking it off. He planned, if possible, to stretch his meager supply through the whole test, avoiding the hazards of contaminated water and the greater hazards of the water hole assuming that fresh water could be found at all. He wrapped twenty meters of line, light, strong, and thin, around his waist. Shorts, overshirt, trousers, and boot moccasins completed his costume; he belted "Colonel Bowie" on the outside. Dressed, he looked fleshier than he was; only his knife showed. He carried his parka suit over his left arm. It was an efficient garment, hooded, with built-in boots and gloves, and with pressure seams to let him use bare hands when necessary, but it was much too warm to wear until he needed it. Rod had learned early in the game that Eskimos don't dare to sweat. Dr. Matson was outside the dispensary door.
"The late Mr. Walker," he commented, then glanced at the bulkiness of Rod's torso. "Body armor, son?" "No, sir. Just a vest pack." "How many penalties you carrying?" "Eleven kilograms. Mostly water and rations." "Mmm . . well, it will get heavier before it gets lighter. No Handy-Dandy Young Pioneer's Kit? No collapsible patent wigwam?" Rod blushed. "No, sir." "You can leave that snow suit. Ill mail it to your home." "Uh, thank you, sir." Rod passed it over, adding, wasn't sure I'd need it, but I brought it along, just in case. "You did need it." "Sir?" "I've already flunked five for showing up without their snuggies. . . and four for showing up with vacuum suits. Both ways for being stupid. They ought to know that the Board would not dump them into vacuum or chlorine or such without specifying space suits in the test notice. We're looking for graduates, not casualties. On the other hand, cold weather is within the limits of useful test conditions."
Rod glanced at the suit he had passed over. "You're sure I won't need it, sir?" "Quite. Except that you would have flunked if you hadn't fetched it. Now bear a hand and draw whatever pig shooter you favor; the armorer is anxious to close up shop. What gun have you picked?" Rod gulped. "Uh, I was thinking about not taking one, Deacon- I mean 'Doctor.'" "You can call me 'Deacon' to my face- ten days from now. But this notion of yours interests me. How did you reach that conclusion?" "Uh, why, you see, sir. . . well, my sister suggested it." "So? I must meet your sister.
What's her name?" "Assault Captain Helen Walker," Rod said proudly, "Corps of Amazons." Matson wrote it down. "Get on in there. They are ready for the drawing. Rod hesitated. "Sir," he said with sudden misgiving, "if I did carry a gun, what sort would you advise?" Matson looked disgusted. "I spend a year trying to spoonfeed you kids with stuff I learned the hard way. Comes examination and you ask me to slip you the answers. I can no more answer that than I would have been justified yesterday in telling you to bring a snow suit." "Sorry, sir. "No reason why you shouldn't ask; it's just that I won't answer. Let's change the subject.
This sister of yours must be quite a girl." "Oh, she is, sir." "Mmm . . . maybe if I had met a girl like that I wouldn't be a cranky old bachelor now. Get in there and draw your number. Number one goes through in six minutes." "Yes, Doctor." His way led him past the school armorer, who had set up a booth outside the door. The old chap was wiping off a noiseless Summerfield. Rod caught his eye. "Howdy, Guns." "Hi, Jack. Kind of late, aren't you? What'll it be?" Rod's eye ran over the rows of beautiful weapons. Maybe just a little needle gun with poisoned pellets. He wouldn't have to use it. Then he realized that Dr. Matson had answered his question, with a very broad hint. "Uh, I'm already heeled, Guns. Thanks." "Okay. Well, good luck, and hurry back." "Thanks a lot." He went into the gate room. The seminar had numbered more than fifty students; there were about twenty waiting to take the examination. He started to look around, was stopped by a gate attendant who called out, "Over here! Draw your number." The lots were capsules in a bowl. Rod reached in, drew one out, and broke it open. "Number seven."
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