Bill, the Galactic Hero btgh-1 Page 4

  But what had he been doing with his watch?

  Chapter 4

  This question kept bugging Bill all the time during the days of their training as they painfully learned the drill of fuse tending. It was an exacting, technical job that demanded all their attention, but in spare moments Bill worried. He worried when they stood in line for chow, and he worried during the few moments every night between the time the lights were turned off and sleep descended heavily upon his fatiguedrugged body. He worried whenever he had the time to do it, and he lost weight.

  He lost weight not because he was worrying, but for the same reason everyone else lost weight. The shipboard rations. They were designed to sustain life, and that they did, but no mention was made of what kind of life it was to be.

  It was a dreary, underweight, hungry one. Yet Bill took no notice of this.

  He had a bigger problem, and he needed help: After Sunday drill at the end of their second week, he stayed to talk to First Class Spleen instead of joining the others in their tottering run toward the mess hall.

  “I have a problem, sir…” “You ain't the only one, but one shot cures it and you ain't a man until you've had it.” “It's not that kind of a problem. I'd like to… see the…

  chaplain…” Spleen turned white and sank back against the bulkhead. “Now I heard everything,” he said weakly. “Get down to chow, and if you don't tell anyone about this I won't either.” Bill blushed. “I'm sorry about this, First Class Spleen, but I can't help it.

  It's not my fault I have to see, him, it could have happened to anyone…” His voice trailed away, and he looked down at his feet, rubbing one boot against another. The silence stretched out until Spleen finally spoke, but all the comradeliness was gone from his voice.

  “All right, trooper-if that's the way you want it. But I hope none of the rest of the boys hear about it. Skip chow and get up there now-here's a pass.” He scrawled on a scrap of paper then threw it contemptuously to the floor, turning and walking away as Bill bent humbly to pick it up.

  Bill went down dropchutes, along corridors, through passageways, and up ladders. In the ship's directory the chaplain was listed as being in compartment 362-B on the 89th deck, and Bill finally found this, a plain metal door set with rivets. He raised his hand to knock, while sweat stood out in great beads from his face and his throat was dry. His knuckles boomed hollowly on the panel, and after an endlcss period a muffled voice sounded from the other side.

  “Yeah, yeah-c'mon in-it's open.” Bill stepped through and snapped to attention when he saw the officer behind the single desk that almost filled the tiny room. The officer, a fourth lieutenant, though still young was balding rapidly. There were black circles under his eyes, and he needed a shave. His tie was knotted crookedly and badly crumpled. He continued to scratch among the stacks of paper that littered the desk, picking them up, changing piles with them, scrawling notes on some and throwing others into an overflowing wastebasket. When he moved one of the stacks Bill saw a sign on the desk that read LAUNDRY OFFICER.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I am in the wrong office. I was looking for the chaplain.” “This is the chaplain's office but he's not on duty until 2300 hours, which is; as someone even as stupid-looking as you can tell, is in fifteen minutes more.” “Thank you, sir, I'll come back…” Bill slid toward the door.

  “You'll stay and work.” The officer raised bloodshot eyeballs and cackled evilly. “I got you. You can sort the hanky reports. I've lost six hundred jockstraps, and they may be in there. You think it's easy to be a laundry officer?” He sniveled with self-pity and pushed a tottering stack of papers over to Bill, who began to sort through them. Long before he was finished the buzzer sounded that ended the watch.

  “I knew it!” the officer sobbed hopelessly, “this job will never end; instead it gets worse and worse. And you think you got problems!” He reached out an unsteady finger and flipped the sign on his desk over. It read CHAPLAIN on the other side. Then he grabbed the end of his necktie and pulled it back hard over his right shoulder. The necktie was fastened to his collar and the collar was set into ball bearings that rolled smoothly in a track fixed to his shirt. There was a slight whirring sound as the collar rotated; then the necktie was hanging out of sight down his back and his collar was now on backward, showing white and smooth and cool to thefront.

  The chaplain steepled his fingers before him, lowered his eyes, and smiled sweetly. “How may I help you, my son?” “I thought you were the laundry officer,” Bill said, taken aback.

  “I am, my son, but that is just one of the burdens that must fall upon my shoulders. There is little call for a chaplain in these troubled times, but much call for a laundry officer. I do my best to serve.” He bent his head humbly.

  “But-which are you? A chaplain who is a part-time laundry officer, or a laundry officer who is a part-time chaplain?” “That is a mystery, my son. There are some things that it is best not to know. But I see you arc troubled. May I ask if you are of the faith?” “Which faith?” “That's what I'm asking you!” the chaplain snapped, and for a moment the Old Laundry Officer peeped through. “How can I help you if I do not know what your religion is?” “Fundamentalist Zoroastrian.” The chaplain took a plastic-covered sheet from a drawer and ran his finger down it. “Z… Z… Zen… Zodomite… Zoroastrian, Reformed Fundamentalist, is that the one?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, should be no trouble with this, my son… 21-52-05…” He quickly dialed the number on a control plate set into the desk; then, with a grand gesture and an evangelistic gleam in his eye, he swept all the laundry papers to the floor. Hidden machinery hummed briefly, a portion of the desk top dropped away and reappeared a moment later bearing a black plastic-box decorated with golden bulls, rampant. “Be with you in a second,” the chaplain said, opening the box.

  First he unrolled a length of white cloth sewn with more golden bulls and draped this around his neck. He placed a thick, leather-bound book next to the box, then on the closed lid set two metal bulls with hollowed-out backs.

  Into one of them he poured distilled water from a plastic flask and into the other sweet oil, which he ignited. Bill watched these familiar arrangements with growing happiness.

  “It's very lucky,” Bill said, “that you are a Zoroastrian. It makes it easier to talk to you.” “No luck involved, my son, just intelligent planning.” The chaplain dropped some powdered Haoma into the flame, and Bill's nose twitched as the drugged incense filled the room. “By the grace of Ahura Mazdah I am an anointed priest of Zoroaster. By Allah's will a faithful muezzin of Islam, through Yahweh's intercession a circumcised rabbi, and so forth.” His benign face broke into a savage snarl. “And also because of an officer shortage I am the damned laundry officer.” His face cleared. “But now, you must tell me your problem…” “Well, it's not easy. It may be just foolish suspicion on my part, but I'm worried about one of my buddies. There is something strange about him. I'm not sure how to tell it…” “Have confidence, my boy, and reveal your innermost feelings to me, and do not fear. What I hear shall never leave this room, for I am bound to secrecy by the oath of my calling. Unburden yourself.” “That's very nice of you, and I do feel better already. You see, this buddy of mine has always been a little funny, he shines the boots for all of us and volunteered for latrine orderly and doesn't like girls.” The chaplain nodded beatifically and fanned some of the incense toward his nose. “I see little here to worry you, he sounds a decent lad. For is it not written in the Vendidad that we should aid our fellow man and seek to shoulder his burdens and pursue not the harlots of the streets?” Bill pouted. “That's all right for Sunday school, but it's no way to act in the troopers! Anyway, we just thought he was out of his mind, and he might have been-but that's not all. I was with him on the gun deck, and he pointed his watch at the guns and pressed the stem, and I heard it click! It could be a camera. I… I think he is a Chinger spy!” Bill sat back, breathing deeply and sweating. The fatal words had been spoken.

>   The chaplain continued to nod, smiling, half-unconscious from the Haoma fumes. Finally he snapped out of it, blew his nose, and opened the thick copy of the Avesta. He mumbled aloud in Old Persian a bit, which seemed to brace him, then slammed it shut.

  “You must not bear false witness!” he boomed, fixing Bill with piercing gaze and accusing finger.

  “You got me wrong,” Bill moaned, writhing in the chair. “He's done these things, I saw him use the watch. What kind of spiritual aid do you call this?” “Just a bracer, my boy, a touch of the old-time religion to renew your sense of guilt and start you thinking about going to church regular again. You have been backsliding!” “What else could I do-chapel is forbidden during recruit training?” “Circumstances are no excuse, but you will be forgiven this time because Ahura Mazdah is all-merciful.” “But what about my buddy-the spy?” “You must forget your suspicions, for they are not worthy of a follower of Zoroaster. This poor lad must not suffer because of his natural inclinations to be friendly, to aid his comrades, to keep himself pure, to own a crummy watch that goes click. And besides, if you do not mind my introducing a spot of logic-how could he be a spy? To be a spy he would have to be a Chinger, and Chingers are seven feet tall with tails. Catch?” “Yeah, yeah,” Bill mumbled unhappily. “I could figure that one out for myself-but it still doesn't explain everything…” “It satisfies me, and it must satisfy you. I feel that Ahriman has possessed you to make you think evil of your comrade, and you had better do some penance and join me in a quick prayer before the laundry officer comes back on duty.” This ritual was quickly finished, and Bill helped stow the things back in the box and watched it vanish back into the desk. He said good-by and turned to leave.

  “Just one moment, my son,” the chaplain said with his warmest smile, reaching back over his shoulder at the same time to grab the end of his necktie.

  He pulled, and his collar whirred about, and as it did the blissful expression was wiped from his face to be replaced by a surly snarl. “Just where do you think you're going, bowb! Put your ass back in that chair.” “B-but,” Bill stammered, “you said I was dismissed.” “That's what the chaplain said, and as laundry officer I have no truck with him. Now-fast-what's the name of this Chinger spy you are hiding?” “I told you about that under oath-” “You told the chaplain about it, and he keeps his word and he didn't tell me, but I just happened to hear.” He pressed a red button on the control panel.

  “The MPs are on the way. You talk before they get here, bowb, or I'll have you keelhauled without a space suit and deprived of canteen privileges for a year.

  The name?” “Eager Beager,” Bill sobbed, as heavy feet trampled outside and two redhats forced their way into the tiny room.

  “I have a spy for you boys,” the laundry officer announced triumphantly, and the MPs grated their teeth, howled deep in their throats, and launched themselves through the air at Bill. He dropped under the assault of fists and clubs and was running with blood before the laundry officer could pull the overmuscled morons with their eyes not an inch apart off him.

  “Not him…:' the officer gasped, and threw Bill a towel to wipe off some of the blood. “This is our informant, the loyal, patriotic hero who ratted on his buddy by the name of Eager Beager, who we will now grab and chain so he car. be questioned. Let's go.” The MPs held Bill up between them, and by the time they had come to the fuse tenders' quarters the breeze from their swift passage had restored him a bit.

  The laundry officer opened the door just enough to poke in his head. “Hi, gang!” he called cheerily. “Is Eager Beager here?” Eager looked up from the boot he was polishing, waving and grinning.

  “That's me-gee.” “Get him!” the laundry officer expostulated, jumping aside and pointing accusingly. Bill dropped to the floor as the MPs let go of him and thundered into the compartment. By the time he had staggered back to his feet Eager was pinioned, handcuffed and chained, hand and foot, but still grinning.

  “Gee-you guys want some boots polished too?” “No backtalk, you dirty spy,” the laundry officer grated, and slapped him hard in the offensive grin. At least he tried to slap him in the offensive grin, but Beager opened his mouth and bit the hand that hit him, clamping down hard so that the officer could not get away. “He bit me!” the man howled, and tried desperately to pull free. Both MPs, each handcuffed to an arm of the prisoner, raised their clubs to give him a sound battering.

  At this moment the top of Eager Beager's head flew open.

  Happening at any other time, this would have been considered unusual, but happening at this moment it was spectacularly unusual, and they all, including Bill, gaped, as a seven-inch-high lizard climbed out of the open skull and jumped to the floor in which it made a sizable dent upon landing. It had four tiny arms, along tail, a head like a baby alligator, and was bright green. It looked exactly like a Chinger except that it was seven inches tall instead of seven feet.

  “All bowby humans have B. O.,” it said, in a thin imitation of Eager Beager's voice. “Chingers can't sweat. Chingers forever!” It charged across the compartment toward Beager's bunk.

  Paralysis prevailed. All of the fuse tenders who had witnessed the impossible events stood or sat as they had been, frozen with shock, eyes bulging like hard-boiled eggs. The laundry officer was pinioned by the teeth locked into his hand, while the two MPs struggled with the handcuffs that held them to the immobile body. Only Bill was free to move and, still dizzy from the beating, he bent over to grab the tiny creature. Small and powerful talons locked into his flesh, and he was pulled from his feet and went sailing through the air to crash against a bulkhead. “Gee-that's for you, you stoolie!” the minuscule voice squeaked.

  Before anyone else could interfere, the lizardoid ran to Beager's pile of barracks bags and tore the topmost one open and dived inside. A high-pitched humming grew in volume an instant later, and from the bag emerged the bulletlike nose of a shining projectile. It pushed out until a tiny spaceship not two feet long floated in the compartment. Then it rotated about its vertical axis, stopping when it pointed at the bulkhead. The humming rose in pitch, and the ship suddenly shot forward and tore through the metal of the partition as if it had been no stronger than wet cardboard. There were other distant tearingsounds as it penetrated bulkhead after bulkhead until, with a rending clang, it crashed through the outer skin of the ship and escaped into space. There was the roar of air rushing into the void and the clamor of alarm bells.

  “Well I'll be damned… “ the laundry officer said, then snapped his gaping mouth closed and screamed, “Get this thing offa my hand-it's biting me to death!” The two MPs still swayed back and forth, handcuffed effectively to the immobile figure of the former Eager Beager. Beager just stared, smiling around the grip he had on the officer's hand, and it wasn't until Bill got his atomic rifle and put the barrel into Eager's mouth and levered the jaw open that the hand could be withdrawn. While he did this Bill saw that the top of Eager's head had split open just above his ears and was held at the back by a shiny brass hinge. Inside the gaping skull, instead of brains and bones and things, was a model control room with a tiny chair, minuscule controls, TV screens, and a water cooler. Eager was just a robot worked by the little creature that had escaped in the spaceship. It looked like a Chinger-but it was only seven inches tall.

  “Hey!” Bill said, “Eager is just a robot worked by the little creature that escaped in the spaceship! It looked like a Chinger-but it was only seven inches tall…” “Seven inches, seven feet-what difference does it make!” the laundry officer mumbled petulantly as he wrapped a handkerchief around his wounded hand. “You don't expect us to tell the recruits how small the enemy really are, or to explain how they come from a 10G planet. We gotta keep the morale up.”

  Chapter 5

  Now that Eager Beager had turned out to be a Chinger spy, Bill felt very much alone. Bowb Brown, who never talked anyway, now talked even less, which meant never, so there was no one that Bill could bitch to. Bowb was
the only other fuseman in the compartment who had been in Bill's squad at Camp Leon Trotsky, and all of the new men were very clannish and given to sitting close together and mumbling and throwing suspicious looks over their shoulders if he should come too close. Their only recreation was welding and every off watch they would break out the welders and weld things to the floor and the next watch cut them loose again, which is about as dim a way of wasting time as there is; but they seemed to enjoy it. So Bill was very much out of things and tried bitching to Eager Beager.

  “Look at the trouble you got me into!” he whined.

  Beager just smiled back, unmoved by the complaint.

  “At least close your head when I'm talking to you,” Bill snarled, and reached over to slam the top of Eager's head shut. But it didn't do any good. Eager couldn't do anything any more except smile. He had polished his last boot.

  He just stood there now; he was really very heavy and besides was magnetized to the floor, and the fuse tenders hung their dirty shirts and arc welders on him. He stayed there for three watches before someone figured out what to do with him, until finally a squad of MPs came with crowbars and tilted him into a handcar and rolled him away.

  “So long,” Bill called out, waving after him, then went back to polishing his boots. “He was a good buddy, even if he was a Chinger spy.” Bowb didn't answer him, and welders wouldn't talk to him, and he spent a lot of the time avoiding Reverend Tembo. The grand old lady of the fleet, Christine Keeler, was still in orbit while her engines were being installed.

  There was very little to do, because, in spite of what First Class Spleen had said, they had mastered all the intricacies of fuse tending in a little less than the prescribed year; in fact it took them something like maybe fifteen minutes. In his free time Bill wandered around the ship, going as far as the MPs who guarded the hatchways would allow him, and even considered going back to see the chaplain so he could have someone to bitch to. But if he timed it wrong he might meet the laundry officer again, and that was more than he could face. So he walked through the ship, very much alone, and looked in through the door of a compartment and saw a boot on a bed.