CHAPTER 12

It is by no means enough that an officer should be capable... . He should be as well a gentleman of liberal education, refined manners, punctilious courtesy, and the nicest sense of personal honor... . No meritorious act of a subordinate should escape his attention, even if the reward be only one word of approval. Conversely, he should not be blind to a single fault in any subordinate.

True as may be the political principles for which we are now contending... the ships themselves must be ruled under a system of absolute despotism.

I trust that I have now made clear to you the tremendous responsibilities... . We must do the best we can with what we have.

John Paul Jones, September 14, 1775; excerpts from a letter to the naval committee of the N. A. insurrectionists.

The Rodger Young was again returning to Base for replacements, both capsules and men. Al Jenkins had bought his farm, covering a pickup and that one had cost us the Padre, too. And besides that, I had to be replaced. I was wearing brand-new sergeant's chevrons (vice Migliaccio) but I had a hunch that Ace would be wearing them as soon as I was out of the ship—they were mostly honorary, I knew; the promotion was Jelly's way of giving me a good send-off as I was detached for O. C. S.

But it didn't keep me from being proud of them. At the Fleet landing field I went through the exit gate with my nose in the air and strode up to the quarantine desk to have my orders stamped. As this was being done I heard a polite, respectful voice behind me: " Excuse me, Sergeant, but that boat that just came down—is it from the Rodger—"

I turned to see the speaker, flicked my eyes over his sleeves, saw that it was a small, slightly stoop-shouldered corporal, no doubt one of our—

" Father! "

Then the corporal had his arms around me. " Juan! Juan! Oh, my little Johnnie! "

I kissed him and hugged him and started to cry. Maybe that civilian clerk at the quarantine desk had never seen two non-coms kiss each other before. Well, if I had noticed him so much as lifting an eyebrow, I would have pasted him. But I didn't notice him; I was busy. He had to remind me to take my orders with me.

By then we had blown our noses and quit making an open spectacle of ourselves. I said, " Father, let's find a corner somewhere and sit down and talk. I want to know... well, everything! " I took a deep breath. " I thought you were dead. "

" No. Came close to buying it once or twice, maybe. But, Son... Sergeant—I really do have to find out about that landing boat. You see—"

" Oh, that. It's from the Rodger Young. I just—"

He looked terribly disappointed. " Then I've got to bounce, right now. I've got to report in. " Then he added eagerly, " But you'll be back aboard soon, won't you, Juanito? Or are you going on R & R? "

" Uh, no. " I thought fast. Of all the ways to have things roll! " Look, Father, I know the boat schedule. You can't go aboard for at least an hour and a bit. That boat is not on a fast retrieve; she'll make a minimum-fuel rendezvous when the Rog completes this pass—if the pilot doesn't have to wait over for the next pass after that; they've got to load first. "

He said dubiously, " My orders read to report at once to the pilot of the first available ship's boat. "

" Father, Father! Do you have to be so confounded regulation? The girl who's pushing that heap won't care whether you board the boat now, or just as they button up. Anyhow they'll play the ship's recall over the speakers in here ten minutes before boost and announce it. You can't miss it. "

He let me lead him over to an empty corner. As we sat down he added, " Will you be going up in the same boat, Juan? Or later? "

" Uh—" I showed him my orders; it seemed the simplest way to break the news. Ships that pass in the night, like the Evangeline story—cripes, what a way for things to break!

He read them and got tears in his eyes and I said hastily, " Look, Father, I'm going to try to come back—I wouldn't want any other outfit than the Roughnecks. And with you in them... oh, I know it's disappointing but—"

" It's not disappointment, Juan. "

" Huh? "

" It's pride. My boy is going to be an officer. My little Johnnie—Oh, it's disappointment, too; I had waited for this day. But I can wait a while longer. " He smiled through his tears. " You've grown, lad. And filled out, too. "

" Uh, I guess so. But, Father, I'm not an officer yet and I might only be out of the Rog a few days. I mean, they sometimes bust ‘em out pretty fast and—"

" Enough of that, young man! "

" Huh? "

" You'll make it. Let's have no more talk of ‘busting out. ' " Suddenly he smiled. " That's the first time I've been able to tell a sergeant to shut up. "

" Well... I'll certainly try, Father. And if I do make it, I'll certainly put in for the old Rog. But—" I trailed off.

" Yes, I know. Your request won't mean anything unless there's a billet for you. Never mind. If this hour is all we have, we'll make the most of it and I'm so proud of you I'm splitting my seams. How have you been, Johnnie? "

" Oh, fine, just fine. " I was thinking that it wasn't all bad. He would be better off in the Roughnecks than in any other outfit. All my friends... they'd take care of him, keep him alive. I'd have to send a gram to Ace—

Father like as not wouldn't even let them know he was related. " Father, how long have you been in? "

" A little over a year. "

" And corporal already! "

Father smiled grimly. " They're making them fast these days. "

I didn't have to ask what he meant. Casualties. There were always vacancies in the T. O.; you couldn't get enough trained soldiers to fill them. Instead I said, " Uh... but, Father, you're—Well, I mean, aren't you sort of old to be soldiering? I mean the Navy, or Logistics, or—"

" I wanted the M. I. and I got it! " he said emphatically. " And I'm no older than many sergeants -- not as old, in fact. Son, the mere fact that I am twenty-two years older than you are doesn't put me in a wheel chair. And age has its advantages, too. "

Well, there was something in that. I recalled how Sergeant Zim had always tried the older men first, when he was dealing out boot chevrons. And Father would never have goofed in Basic the way I had—no lashes for him. He was probably spotted as non-com material before he ever finished Basic. The Army needs a lot of really grown-up men in the middle grades; it's a paternalistic organization.

I didn't have to ask him why he had wanted M. I., nor why or how he had wound up in my ship—I just felt warm about it, more ‘flattered by it than any praise he had ever given me in words. And I didn't want to ask him why he had joined up; I felt that I knew. Mother. Neither of us had mentioned her—too painful.

So I changed the subject abruptly. " Bring me up to date. Tell me where you've been and what you've done. "

" Well, I trained at Camp San Martin—"

" Huh? Not Currie? "

" New one. But the same old lumps, I understand. Only they rush you through two months faster, you don't get Sundays off. Then I requested the Rodger Young -- and didn't get it -- and wound up in McSlattery's Volunteers. A good outfit. "

" Yes, I know. " They had had a reputation for being rough, tough, and nasty—almost as good as the Roughnecks.

" I should say that it was a good outfit. I made several drops with them and some of the boys bought it and after a while I got these. " He glanced at his chevrons. " I was a corporal when we dropped on Sheol—"

" You were there? So was I! " With a sudden warm flood of emotion I felt closer to my father than I ever had before in my life.

" I know. At least I knew your outfit was there. I was around fifty miles north of you, near as I can guess. We soaked up that counterattack when they came boiling up out of the ground like bats out of a cave. " Father shrugged. " So when it was over I was a corporal without an outfit, not enough of us left to make a healthy cadre. So they sent me here. I could have gone with King's Kodiak Bears, but I had a word with the placement sergeant—and, sure as sunrise, the Rodger Young came back with a billet for a corporal. So here I am. "

" And when did you join up? " I realized that it was the wrong remark as soon as I had made it—but I had to get the subject away from McSlattery's Volunteers; an orphan from a dead outfit wants to forget it.

Father said quietly, " Shortly after Buenos Aires. "

" Oh. I see. "

Father didn't say anything for several moments. Then he said softly,

" I'm not sure that you do see, Son. "

" Sir? "

" Mmm... it will not be easy to explain. Certainly, losing your mother had a great deal to do with it. But I didn't enroll to avenge her—even though I had that in mind, too. You had more to do with it—"

" Me? "

" Yes, you. Son, I always understood what you were doing better than your mother did—don't blame her; she never had a chance to know, any more than a bird can understand swimming. And perhaps I knew why you did it, even though I beg to doubt that you knew yourself, at the time. At least half of my anger at you was sheer resentment... that you had actually done something that I knew, buried deep in my heart, I should have done. But you weren't the cause of my joining up, either... you merely helped trigger it and you did control the service I chose. "

He paused. " I wasn't in good shape at the time you enrolled. I was seeing my hypnotherapist pretty regularly—you never suspected that, did you? -- but we had gotten no farther than a clear recognition that I was enormously dissatisfied. After you left, I took it out on you—but it was not you, and I knew it and my therapist knew it. I suppose I knew that there was real trouble brewing earlier than most; we were invited to bid on military components fully a month before the state of emergency was announced. We had converted almost entirely to war production while you were still in training.

" I felt better during that period, worked to death and too busy to see my therapist. Then I became more troubled than ever. " He smiled. " Son, do you know about civilians? "

" Well... we don't talk the same language. I know that. "

" Clearly enough put. Do you remember Madame Ruitman? I was on a few days leave after I finished Basic and I went home. I saw some of our friends, said good-by—she among them. She chattered away and said, ‘So you're really going out? Well, if you reach Faraway, you really must look up my dear friends the Regatos. ' "

" I told her, as gently as I could, that it seemed unlikely, since the Arachnids had occupied Faraway.

" It didn't faze her in the least. She said, ‘Oh, that's all right— they're civilians! ' " Father smiled cynically.

" Yes, I know. "

" But I'm getting ahead of my story. I told you that I was getting still more upset. Your mother's death released me for what I had to do... even though she and I were closer than most, nevertheless it set me free to do it. I turned the business over to Morales—"

" Old man Morales? Can he handle it? "

" Yes. Because he has to. A lot of us are doing things we didn't know we could. I gave him a nice chunk of stock—you know the old saying about the king that tread the grain—and the rest I split two ways, in a trust: half to the Daughters of Charity, half to you whenever you want to go back and take it. If you do. Never mind. I had at last found out what was wrong with me. " He stopped, then said very softly, " I had to perform an act of faith. I had to prove to myself that I was a man. Not just a producing-consuming economic animal... but a man. "

At that moment, before I could answer anything, the wall speakers around us sang: " —shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young! " and a girl's voice added, " Personnel for F. C. T. Rodger Young, stand to boat. Berth H. Nine minutes. "

Father bounced to his feet, grabbed his kit roll. " That's mine! Take care of yourself, Son -- and hit those exams. Or you'll find you're still not too big to paddle. "

" I will, Father. "

He embraced me hastily. " See you when we get back! " And he was gone, on the bounce.

In the Commandant's outer office I reported to a fleet sergeant who looked remarkably like Sergeant Ho, even to lacking an arm. However, he lacked Sergeant Ho's smile as well. I said, " Career Sergeant Juan Rico, to report to the Commandant pursuant to orders. "

He glanced at the clock. " Your boat was down seventy-three minutes ago. Well? "

So I told him. He pulled his lip and looked at me meditatively. " I've heard every excuse in the book. But you've just added a new page. Your father, your own father, really was reporting to your old ship just as you were detached? "

" The bare truth, Sergeant. You can check it—Corporal Emilio Rico. "

" We don't check the statements of the ‘young gentlemen' around here. We simply cashier them if it ever turns out that they have not told the truth. Okay, a boy who wouldn't be late in order to see his old man off wouldn't be worth much in any case. Forget it. "

" Thanks, Sergeant. Do I report to the Commandant now? "

" You've reported to him. " He made a check mark on a list. " Maybe a month from now he'll send for you along with a couple of dozen others.

Here's your room assignment, here's a checkoff list you start with -- and you can start by cutting off those chevrons. But save them; you may need them later. But as of this moment you are ‘Mister, ' not ‘Sergeant. ' "

" Yes, sir. "

" Don't call me ‘sir. ' I call you ‘sir. ' But you won't like it. "

I am not going to describe Officer Candidates School. It's like Basic, but squared and cubed with books added. In the mornings we behaved like privates, doing the same old things we had done in Basic and in combat and being chewed out for the way we did them -- by sergeants. In the afternoons we were cadets and " gentlemen, " and recited on and were lectured concerning an endless list of subjects: math, science, galactography, xenology, hypnopedia, logistics, strategy and tactics, communications, military law, terrain reading, special weapons, psychology of leadership, anything from the care and feeding of privates to why Xerxes lost the big one. Most especially how to be a one-man catastrophe yourself while keeping track of fifty other men, nursing them, loving them, leading them, saving them—but never babying them. We had beds, which we used all too little; we had rooms and showers and inside plumbing; and each four candidates had a civilian servant, to make our beds and clean our rooms and shine our shoes and lay out our uniforms and run errands. This service was not intended as a luxury and was not; its purpose was to give the student more time to accomplish the plainly impossible by relieving him of things any graduate of Basic can already do perfectly.

Six days shalt thou work and do all thou art able, The seventh the same and pound on the cable.

Or the Army version ends: -- and clean out the stable, which shows you how many centuries this sort of thing has been going on. I wish I could catch just one of those civilians who think we loaf and put them through one month of O. C. S.

In the evenings and all day Sundays we studied until our eyes burned and our ears ached—then slept (if we slept) with a hypnopedic speaker droning away under the pillow.

Our marching songs were appropriately downbeat: " No Army for mine, no Army for mine! I'd rather be behind the plow any old time! " and " Don't wanta study war no more, " and " Don't make my boy a soldier, the weeping mother cried, " and—favorite of all—the old classic " Gentlemen Rankers" with its chorus about the Little Lost Sheep: " -- God ha' pity on such as we. Baa! Yah! Bah! "

Yet somehow I don't remember being unhappy. Too busy, I guess. There was never that psychological " hump" to get over, the one everybody hits in Basic; there was simply the ever-present fear of flunking out. My poor preparation in math bothered me especially. My roommate, a colonial from Hesperus with the oddly appropriate name of " Angel, " sat up night after night, tutoring me.

Most of the instructors, especially the officers, were disabled. The only ones I can remember who had a full complement of arms, legs, eyesight, hearing, etc., were some of the non-commissioned combat instructors -- and not all of those. Our coach in dirty fighting sat in a powered chair, wearing a plastic collar, and was completely paralyzed from the neck down. But his tongue wasn't paralyzed, his eye was photographic, and the savage way in which he could analyze and criticize what he had seen made up for his minor impediment.

At first I wondered why these obvious candidates for physical retirement and full-pay pension didn't take it and go home. Then I quit wondering.

I guess the high point in my whole cadet course was a visit from Ensign

Ibanez, she of the dark eyes, junior watch officer and pilot-under-instruction of the Corvette Transport Mannerheim. Carmencita showed up, looking incredibly pert in Navy dress whites and about the size of a paperweight, while my class was lined up for evening meal muster -- walked down the line and you could hear eyeballs click as she passed— walked straight up to the duty officer and asked for me by name in a clear, penetrating voice.

The duty officer, Captain Chandar, was widely believed never to have smiled at his own mother, but he smiled down at little Carmen, straining his face out of shape, and admitted my existence... whereupon she waved her long black lashes at him, explained that her ship was about to boost and could she please take me out to dinner?

And I found myself in possession of a highly irregular and totally unprecedented three-hour pass. It may be that the Navy has developed hypnosis techniques that they have not yet gotten around to passing on to the Army. Or her secret weapon may be older than that and not usable by M. I. In any case I not only had a wonderful time but my prestige with my classmates, none too high until then, climbed to amazing heights.

It was a glorious evening and well worth flunking two classes the next day. It was somewhat dimmed by the fact that we had each heard about Carl— killed when the Bugs smashed our research station on Pluto -- but only somewhat, as we had each learned to live with such things.

One thing did startle me. Carmen relaxed and took off her hat while we were eating, and her blue-black hair was all gone. I knew that a lot of the Navy girls shaved their heads -- after all, it's not practical to take care of long hair in a war ship and, most especially, a pilot can't risk having her hair floating around, getting in the way, in any free-fall maneuvers. Shucks, I shaved my own scalp, just for convenience and cleanliness. But my mental picture of little Carmen included this mane of thick, wavy hair.

But, do you know, once you get used to it, it's rather cute. I mean, if a girl looks all right to start with, she still looks all right with her head smooth. And it does serve to set a Navy girl apart from civilian chicks -- sort of a lodge pin, like the gold skulls for combat drops. It made Carmen look distinguished, gave her dignity, and for the first time I fully realized that she really was an officer and a fighting man—as well as a very pretty girl.

I got back to barracks with stars in my eyes and whiffing slightly of perfume. Carmen had kissed me good-by.

The only O. C. S. classroom course the content of which I'm even going to mention was: History and Moral Philosophy.

I was surprised to find it in the curriculum. H. & M. P. has nothing to do with combat and how to lead a platoon; its connection with war (where it is connected) is in why to fight -- a matter already settled for any candidate long before he reaches O. C. S. An M. I. fights because he is M. I.

I decided that the course must be a repeat for the benefit of those of us (maybe a third) who had never had it in school. Over 20 per cent of my cadet class were not from Terra (a much higher percentage of colonials sign up to serve than do people born on Earth—sometimes it makes you wonder) and of the three quarters or so from Terra, some were from associated territories and other places where H. & M. P. might not be taught. So I figured it for a cinch course which would give me a little rest from tough courses, the ones with decimal points.

Wrong again. Unlike my high school course, you had to pass it. Not by examination, however. The course included examinations and prepared papers and quizzes and such -- but no marks. What you had to have was the instructor's opinion that you were worthy of commission.

If he gave you a downcheck, a board sat on you, questioning not merely whether you could be an officer but whether you belonged in the Army at any rank, no matter how fast you might be with weapons—deciding whether to give you extra instruction... or just kick you out and let you be a civilian.

History and Moral Philosophy works like a delayed-action bomb. You wake up in the middle of the night and think: Now what did he mean by that? That had been true even with my high school course; I simply hadn't known what Colonel Dubois was talking about. When I was a kid I thought it was silly for the course to be in the science department. It was nothing like physics or chemistry; why wasn't it over in the fuzzy studies where it belonged? The only reason I paid attention was because there were such lovely arguments.

I had no idea that " Mr. " Dubois was trying to teach me why to fight until long after I had decided to fight anyhow.

Well, why should I fight? Wasn't it preposterous to expose my tender skin to the violence of unfriendly strangers? Especially as the pay at any rank was barely spending money, the hours terrible, and the working conditions worse? When I could be sitting at home while such matters were handled by thick-skulled characters who enjoyed such games? Particularly when the strangers against whom I fought never had done anything to me personally until I showed up and started kicking over their tea wagon— what sort of nonsense is this?

Fight because I'm an M. I.? Brother, you're drooling like Dr. Pavlov's dogs. Cut it out and start thinking.

Major Reid, our instructor, was a blind man with a disconcerting habit of looking straight at you and calling you by name. We were reviewing events after the war between the Russo-Anglo-American Alliance and the Chinese Hegemony, 1987 and following. But this was the day that we heard the news of the destruction of San Francisco and the San Joaquin Valley; I thought he would give us a pep talk. After all, even a civilian ought to be able to figure it out now—the Bugs or us. Fight or die.

Major Reid didn't mention San Francisco. He had one of us apes summarize the negotiated treaty of New Delhi, discuss how it ignored prisoners of war... and, by implication, dropped the subject forever; the armistice became a stalemate and prisoners stayed where they were—on one side; on the other side they were turned loose and, during the Disorders, made their way home—or not if they didn't want to.

Major Reid's victim summed up the unreleased prisoners: survivors of two divisions of British paratroopers, some thousands of civilians, captured mostly in Japan, the Philippines, and Russia and sentenced for " political" crimes.

" Besides that, there were many other military prisoners, " Major Reid's victim went on, " captured during and before the war—there were rumors that some had been captured in an earlier war and never released. The total of unreleased prisoners was never known. The best estimates place the number around sixty-five thousand. "

" Why the ‘best'? "

" Uh, that's the estimate in the textbook, sir. "

" Please be precise in your language. Was the number greater or less than one hundred thousand? "

" Uh, I don't know, sir. "

" And nobody else knows. Was it greater than one thousand? "

" Probably, sir. Almost certainly. "

" Utterly certain—because more than that eventually escaped, found their ways home, were tallied by name. I see you did not read your lesson carefully. Mr. Rico! "

Now I was the victim. " Yes, sir. "

" Are a thousand unreleased prisoners sufficient reason to start or resume a war? Bear in mind that millions of innocent people may die, almost certainly will die, if war is started or resumed. "

I didn't hesitate. " Yes, sir! More than enough reason. "

" ‘More than enough. ' Very well, is one prisoner, unreleased by the enemy, enough reason to start or resume a war? "

I hesitated. I knew the M. I. answer—but I didn't think that was the one he wanted. He said sharply, " Come, come, Mister! We have an upper limit of one thousand; I invited you to consider a lower limit of one. But you can't pay a promissory note which reads ‘somewhere between one and one thousand pounds' -- and starting a war is much more serious than paying a trifle of money. Wouldn't it be criminal to endanger a country—two countries in fact -- to save one man? Especially as he may not deserve it? Or may die in the meantime? Thousands of people get killed every day in accidents... so why hesitate over one man? Answer! Answer yes, or answer no—you're holding up the class. "

He got my goat. I gave him the cap trooper's answer. " Yes, sir! "

" ‘Yes' what? "

" It doesn't matter whether it's a thousand -- or just one, sir. You fight. "

" Aha! The number of prisoners is irrelevant. Good. Now prove your answer. "

I was stuck. I knew it was the right answer. But I didn't know why. He kept hounding me. " Speak up, Mr. Rico. This is an exact science. You have made a mathematical statement; you must give proof. Someone may claim that you have asserted, by analogy, that one potato is worth the same price, no more, no less, as one thousand potatoes. No? "

" No, sir! "

" Why not? Prove it. "

" Men are not potatoes. "

" Good, good, Mr. Rico! I think we have strained your tired brain enough for one day. Bring to class tomorrow a written proof, in symbolic logic, of your answer to my original question. I'll give you a hint. See reference seven in today's chapter. Mr. Salomon! How did the present political organization evolve out of the Disorders? And what is its moral justification? "

Sally stumbled through the first part. However, nobody can describe accurately how the Federation came about; it just grew. With national governments in collapse at the end of the XXth century, something had to fill the vacuum, and in many cases it was returned veterans. They had lost a war, most of them had no jobs, many were sore as could be over the terms of the Treaty of New Delhi, especially the P. O. W. foul-up—and they knew how to fight. But it wasn't revolution; it was more like what happened in Russia in 1917 -- the system collapsed; somebody else moved in.

The first known case, in Aberdeen, Scotland, was typical. Some veterans got together as vigilantes to stop rioting and looting, hanged a few people (including two veterans) and decided not to let anyone but veterans on their committee. Just arbitrary at first -- they trusted each other a bit, they didn't trust anyone else. What started as an emergency measure became constitutional practice... in a generation or two.

Probably those Scottish veterans, since they were finding it necessary to hang some veterans, decided that, if they had to do this, they weren't going to let any " bleedin', profiteering, black-market, double-time-for-overtime, army-dodging, unprintable" civilians have any say about it. They'd do what they were told, see? -- while us apes straightened things out! That's my guess, because I might feel the same way... and historians agree that antagonism between civilians and returned soldiers was more intense than we can imagine today.

Sally didn't tell it by the book. Finally Major Reid cut him off. " Bring a summary to class tomorrow, three thousand words. Mr. Salomon, can you give me a reason—not historical nor theoretical but practical—why the franchise is today limited to discharged veterans? "

" Uh, because they are picked men, sir. Smarter. "

" Preposterous! "

" Sir? "

" Is the word too long for you? I said it was a silly notion. Service men are not brighter than civilians. In many cases civilians are much more intelligent. That was the sliver of justification underlying the attempted coup d'etat just before the Treaty of New Delhi, the so-called ‘Revolt of the Scientists': let the intelligent elite run things and you'll have utopia. It fell flat on its foolish face of course. Because the pursuit of science, despite its social benefits, is itself not a social virtue; its practitioners can be men so self-centered as to be lacking in social responsibility. I've given you a hint, Mister; can you pick it up? "

Sally answered, " Uh, service men are disciplined, sir. "

Major Reid was gentle with him. " Sorry. An appealing theory not backed

up by facts. You and I are not permitted to vote as long as we remain in the Service, nor is it verifiable that military discipline makes a man self-disciplined once he is out; the crime rate of veterans is much like that of civilians. And you have forgotten that in peacetime most veterans come from non-combatant auxiliary services and have not been subjected to the full rigors of military discipline; they have merely been harried, overworked, and endangered—yet their votes count. "

Major Reid smiled. " Mr. Salomon, I handed you a trick question. The practical reason for continuing our system is the same as the practical reason for continuing anything: It works satisfactorily.

" Nevertheless, it is instructive to observe the details. Throughout history men have labored to place the sovereign franchise in hands that would guard it well and use it wisely, for the benefit of all. An early attempt was absolute monarchy, passionately defended as the ‘divine right of kings. '

" Sometimes attempts were made to select a wise monarch, rather man leave it up to God, as when the Swedes picked a Frenchman, General Bernadotte, to rule them. The objection to this is that the supply of Bernadottes is limited.

" Historic examples range from absolute monarch to utter anarch; mankind has tried thousands of ways and many more have been proposed, some weird in the extreme such as the antlike communism urged by Plato under the misleading title The Republic. But the intent has always been moralistic: to provide stable and benevolent government.

" All systems seek to achieve this by limiting franchise to those who are believed to have the wisdom to use it justly. I repeat ‘all systems'; even the so-called ‘unlimited democracies' excluded from franchise not less than one quarter of their populations by age, birth, poll tax, criminal record, or other. "

Major Reid smiled cynically. " I have never been able to see how a thirty-year old moron can vote more wisely than a fifteen-year-old genius... but that was the age of the ‘divine right of the common man. ' Never mind, they paid for their folly.

" The sovereign franchise has been bestowed by all sorts of rules— place of birth, family of birth, race, sex, property, education, age, religion, et cetera. All these systems worked and none of them well. All were regarded as tyrannical by many, all eventually collapsed or were overthrown.

" Now here are we with still another system... and our system works quite well. Many complain but none rebel; personal freedom for all is greatest in history, laws are few, taxes are low, living standards are as high as productivity permits, crime is at its lowest ebb. Why? Not because our voters are smarter than other people; we've disposed of that argument. Mr. Tammany can you tell us why our system works better than any used by our ancestors? "

I don't know where Clyde Tammany got his name; I'd take him for a Hindu. He answered, " Uh, I'd venture to guess that it's because the electors are a small group who know that the decisions are up to them... so they study the issues. "

" No guessing, please; this is exact science. And your guess is wrong. The ruling nobles of many another system were a small group fully aware of their grave power. Furthermore, our franchised citizens are not everywhere a small fraction; you know or should know that the percentage of citizens among adults ranges from over eighty per cent on Iskander to less than three per cent in some Terran nations yet government is much the same everywhere. Nor are the voters picked men; they bring no special wisdom, talent, or training to their sovereign tasks. So what difference is there between our voters and wielders of franchise in the past? We have had enough guesses;

I'll state the obvious: Under our system every voter and officeholder is a man who has demonstrated through voluntary and difficult service that he places the welfare of the group ahead of personal advantage.

" And that is the one practical difference. "

" He may fail in wisdom, he may lapse in civic virtue. But his average performance is enormously better than that of any other class of rulers in history. "

Major Reid paused to touch the face of an old-fashioned watch, " reading" its hands. " The period is almost over and we have yet to determine the moral reason for our success in governing ourselves. Now continued success is never a matter of chance. Bear in mind that this is science, not wishful thinking; the universe is what it is, not what we want it to be. To vote is to wield authority; it is the supreme authority from which all other authority derives—such as mine to make your lives miserable once a day. Force, if you will! -- the franchise is force, naked and raw, the Power of the Rods and the Ax. Whether it is exerted by ten men or by ten billion, political authority is force. "

" But this universe consists of paired dualities. What is the converse of authority? Mr. Rico. "

He had picked one I could answer. " Responsibility, sir. "

" Applause. Both for practical reasons and for mathematically verifiable moral reasons, authority and responsibility must be equal -- else a balancing takes place as surely as current ‘flows between points of unequal potential. To permit irresponsible authority is to sow disaster; to hold a man responsible for anything he does not control is to behave with blind idiocy. The unlimited democracies were unstable because their citizens were not responsible for the fashion in which they exerted their sovereign authority... other than through the tragic logic of history. The unique ‘poll tax' that we must pay was unheard of. No attempt was made to determine whether a voter was socially responsible to the extent of his literally unlimited authority. If he voted the impossible, the disastrous possible happened instead -- and responsibility was then forced on him willy-nilly and destroyed both him and his foundationless temple. "

" Superficially, our system is only slightly different; we have democracy unlimited by race, color, creed, birth, wealth, sex, or conviction, and anyone may win sovereign power by a usually short and not too arduous term of service -- nothing more than a light workout to our cave-man ancestors. But that slight difference is one between a system that works, since it is constructed to match the facts, and one that is inherently unstable. Since sovereign franchise is the ultimate in human authority, we insure that all who wield it accept the ultimate in social responsibility -- we require each person who wishes to exert control over the state to wager his own life -- and lose it, if need be -- to save the life of the state. The maximum responsibility a human can accept is thus equated to the ultimate authority a human can exert. Yin and yang, perfect and equal. "

The Major added, " Can anyone define why there has never been revolution against our system? Despite the fact that every government in history has had such? Despite the notorious fact that complaints are loud and unceasing? "

One of the older cadets took a crack at it. " Sir, revolution is impossible. "

" Yes. But why? "

" Because revolution -- armed uprising -- requires not only dissatisfaction but aggressiveness. A revolutionist has to be willing to fight and die -- or he's just a parlor pink. If you separate out the aggressive ones and make them the sheep dogs, the sheep will never give you trouble. "

" Nicely put! Analogy is always suspect, but that one is close to the facts. Bring me a mathematical proof tomorrow. Time for one more question— you ask it and I'll answer. Anyone? "

" Uh, sir, why not go—well, go the limit? Require everyone to serve and let everybody vote? "

" Young man, can you restore my eyesight? "

" Sir? Why, no, sir! "

" You would find it much easier than to instill moral virtue—social responsibility -- into a person who doesn't have it, doesn't want it, and resents having the burden thrust on him. This is why we make it so hard to enroll, so easy to resign. Social responsibility above the level of family, or at most of tribe, requires imagination -- devotion, loyalty, all the higher virtues -- which a man must develop himself; if he has them forced down him, he will vomit them out. Conscript armies have been tried in the past. Look up in the library the psychiatric report on brainwashed prisoners in the so called ‘Korean War, ' circa 1950 -- the Mayer Report. Bring an analysis to class. " He touched his watch. " Dismissed. "

Major Reid gave us a busy time.

But it was interesting. I caught one of those master's thesis assignments he chucked around so casually; I had suggested that the Crusades were different from most wars. I got sawed off and handed this: Required: to prove that war and moral perfection derive from the same genetic inheritance.

Briefly, thus: All wars arise from population pressure. (Yes, even the Crusades, though you have to dig into trade routes and birth rate and several other things to prove it. ) Morals—all correct moral rules derive from the instinct to survive; moral behavior is survival behavior above the individual level—as in a father who dies to save his children. But since population pressure results from the process of surviving through others, then war, because it results from population pressure, derives from the same inherited instinct which produces all moral rules suitable for human beings.

Check of proof: Is it possible to abolish war by relieving population pressure (and thus do away with the all-too evident evils of war) through constructing a moral code under which population is limited to resources?

Without debating the usefulness or morality of planned parenthood, it may be verified by observation that any breed which stops its own increase gets crowded out by breeds which expand. Some human populations did so, in Terran history, and other breeds moved in and engulfed them.

Nevertheless, let's assume that the human race manages to balance birth and death, just right to fit its own planets, and thereby becomes peaceful. What happens?

Soon (about next Wednesday) the Bugs move in, kill off this breed which " ain'ta gonna study war no more" and the universe forgets us. Which still may happen. Either we spread and wipe out the Bugs, or they spread and wipe us out -- because both races are tough and smart and want the same real estate.

Do you know how fast population pressure could cause us to fill the entire universe shoulder to shoulder? The answer will astound you, just the flicker of an eye in terms of the age of our race.

Try it—it's a compound-interest expansion.

But does Man have any " right" to spread through the universe?

Man is what he is, a wild animal with the will to survive, and (so far) the ability, against all competition. Unless one accepts that, anything one says about morals, war, politics—you name it -- is nonsense. Correct morals arise from knowing what Man is -- not what do gooders and well-meaning old Aunt Nellies would like him to be.

The universe will let us know—later -- whether or not Man has any " right" to expand through it.

In the meantime the M. I. will be in there, on the bounce and swinging, on the side of our own race.

Toward the end each of us was shipped out to serve under an experienced combat commander. This was a semifinal examination, your ‘board-ship instructor could decide that you didn't have what it takes. You could demand a board but I never heard of anybody who did; they either came back with an upcheck or we never saw them again.

Some hadn't failed; it was just that they were killed -- because assignments were to ships about to go into action. We were required to keep kit bags packed—once at lunch, all the cadet officers of my company were tapped; they left without eating and I found myself cadet company commander.

Like boot chevrons, this is an uncomfortable honor, but in less than two days my own call came.

I bounced down to the Commandant's office, kit bag over my shoulder and feeling grand. I was sick of late hours and burning eyes and never catching up, of looking stupid in class; a few weeks in the cheerful company of a combat team was just what Johnnie needed!

I passed some new cadets, trotting to class in close formation, each with the grim look that every O. C. S. candidate gets when he realizes that possibly he made a mistake in bucking for officer, and I found myself singing. I shut up when I was within earshot of the office.

Two others were there, Cadets Hassan and Byrd. Hassan the Assassin was the oldest man in our class and looked like something a fisherman had let out of a bottle, while Birdie wasn't much bigger than a sparrow and about as intimidating.

We were ushered into the Holy of Holies. The Commandant was in his wheel chair—we never saw him out of it except Saturday inspection and parade, I guess walking hurt. But that didn't mean you didn't see him—you could be working a prob at the board, turn around and find that wheel chair behind you, and Colonel Nielssen reading your mistakes.

He never interrupted -- there was a standing order not to shout " Attention! " But it's disconcerting. There seemed to be about six of him.

The Commandant had a permanent rank of fleet general (yes, that Nielssen); his rank as colonel was temporary, pending second retirement, to permit him to be Commandant. I once questioned a paymaster about this and confirmed what the regulations seemed to say: The Commandant got only the pay of a colonel—but would revert to the pay of a fleet general on the day he decided to retire again.

Well, as Ace says, it takes all sorts—I can't imagine choosing half pay for the privilege of riding herd on cadets.

Colonel Nielssen looked up and said, " Morning, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable. " I sat down but wasn't comfortable. He glided over to a coffee machine, drew four cups, and Hassan helped him deal them out. I didn't want coffee but a cadet doesn't refuse the Commandant's hospitality.

He took a sip. " I have your orders, gentlemen, " he announced, " and your temporary commissions. " He went on, " But I want to be sure you understand your status. "

We had already been lectured about this. We were going to be officers just enough for instruction and testing—" supernumerary, probationary, and temporary. " Very junior, quite superfluous, on good behavior, and extremely temporary; we would revert to cadet when we got back and could be busted at any time by the officers examining us.

We would be " temporary third lieutenants" -- a rank as necessary as feet on a fish, wedged into the hairline between fleet sergeants and real officers. It is as low as you can get and still be called an " officer. " If anybody ever saluted a third lieutenant, the light must have been bad.

" Your commission reads ‘third lieutenant, ' " he went on, " but your pay stays the same, you continue to be addressed as ‘Mister, ' the only change in uniform is a shoulder pip even smaller than cadet insignia. You continue under instruction since it has not yet been settled that you are fit to be officers. " The Colonel smiled. " So why call you a ‘third lieutenant'? "

I had wondered about that. Why this whoopty-do of " commissions" that weren't real commissions?

Of course I knew the textbook answer.

" Mr. Byrd? " the Commandant said.

" Uh... to place us in the line of command, sir. "

" Exactly! " Colonel glided to a T. O. on one wall. It was the usual pyramid, with chain of command defined all the way down. " Look at this—" He pointed to a box connected to his own by a horizontal line; it read:

ASSISTANT TO COMMANDANT (Miss Kendrick).

" Gentlemen, " he went on, " I would have trouble running this place without Miss Kendrick. Her head is a rapid-access file to everything that happens around here. " He touched a control on his chair and spoke to the air. " Miss Kendrick, what mark did Cadet Byrd receive in military law last term? "

Her answer came back at once: " Ninety-three per cent, Commandant. "

" Thank you. " He continued, " You see? I sign anything if Miss Kendrick has initialed it. I would hate to have an investigating committee find out how often she signs my name and I don't even see it. Tell me, Mr. Byrd... if I drop dead, does Miss Kendrick carry on to keep things moving? "

" Why, uh—" Birdie looked puzzled. " I suppose, with routine matters, she would do what was necess—"

" She wouldn't do a blessed thing! " the Colonel thundered. " Until Colonel Chauncey told her what to do—his way. She is a very smart woman and understands what you apparently do not, namely, that she is not in the line of command and has no authority. "

He went on, " ‘Line of command' isn't just a phrase; it's as real as a slap in the face. If I ordered you to combat as a cadet the most you could do would be to pass along somebody else's orders. If your platoon leader bought it and you then gave an order to a private -- a good order, sensible and wise—you would be wrong and he would be just as wrong if he obeyed it. Because a cadet cannot be in the line of command. A cadet has no military existence, no rank, and is not a soldier. He is a student who will become a soldier—either an officer, or at his formal rank. While he is under Army discipline, he is not in the Army. That is why—"

A zero. A nought with no rim. If a cadet wasn't even in the Army --

" Colonel! "

" Eh? Speak up, young man. Mr. Rico. "

I had startled myself but I had to say it. " But... if we aren't in the Army... then we aren't M. I. Sir? "

He blinked at me. " This worries you? "

" I, uh, don't believe I like it much, sir. " I didn't like it at all. I felt naked.

" I see. " He didn't seem displeased. " You let me worry about the space-lawyer aspects of it, son. "

" But—"

" That's an order. You are technically not an M. I. But the M. I. hasn't forgotten you; the M. I. never forgets its own no matter where they are. If you are struck dead this instant, you will be cremated as Second Lieutenant Juan Rico, Mobile Infantry, of -- " Colonel Nielssen stopped. " Miss Kendrick, what was Mr. Rico's ship? "

" The Rodger Young. "

" Thank you. " He added, " —in and of TFCT Rodger Young, assigned to mobile combat team Second Platoon of George Company, Third Regiment, First Division, M. I. -- the ‘Roughnecks, ' " he recited with relish, not consulting anything once he had been reminded of my ship. " A good outfit, Mr. Rico—proud and nasty. Your Final Orders go back to them for Taps and that's the way your name would read in Memorial Hall. That's why we always commission a dead cadet, son—so we can send him home to his mates. "

I felt a surge of relief and homesickness and missed a few words. "... lip buttoned while I talk, we'll have you back in the M. I. where you belong. You must be temporary officers for your ‘prentice cruise because there is no room for dead-heads in a combat drop. You'll fight—and take orders—and give orders. Legal orders, because you will hold rank and be ordered to serve in that team; that makes any order you give in carrying out your assigned duties as binding as one signed by the C-in-C.

" Even more, " the Commandant went on, " once you are in line of command, you must be ready instantly to assume higher command. If you are in a one-platoon team—quite likely in the present state of the war—and you are assistant platoon leader when your platoon leader buys it... then... you... are... It! "

He shook his head. " Not ‘acting platoon leader. ' Not a cadet leading a drill. Not a ‘junior officer under instruction. ' Suddenly you are the Old Man, the Boss, Commanding Officer Present -- and you discover with a sickening shock that fellow human beings are depending on you alone to tell them what to do, how to fight, how to complete the mission and get out alive. They wait for the sure voice of command—while seconds trickle away -- and it's up to you to be that voice, make decisions, give the right orders... and not only the right ones but in a calm, unworried tone. Because it's a cinch, gentlemen, that your team is in trouble -- bad trouble! -- and a strange voice with panic in it can turn the best combat team in the Galaxy into a leaderless, lawless, fear-crazed mob.

" The whole merciless load will land without warning. You must act at once and you'll have only God over you. Don't expect Him to fill in tactical details; that's your job. He'll be doing all that a soldier has a right to expect if He helps you keep the panic you are sure to feel out of your voice. "

The Colonel paused. I was sobered and Birdie was looking terribly serious and awfully young and Hassan was scowling. I wished that I were back in the drop room of the Rog, with not too many chevrons and an after-chow bull session in full swing. There was a lot to be said for the job of assistant section leader—when you come right to it, it's a lot easier to die than it is to use your head.

The Commandant continued: " That's the Moment of Truth, gentlemen. Regrettably there is no method known to military science to tell a real officer from a glib imitation with pips on his shoulders, other than through ordeal by fire. Real ones come through—or die gallantly; imitations crack up.

" Sometimes, in cracking up, the misfits die. But the tragedy lies in the loss of others... good men, sergeants and corporals and privates, whose only lack is fatal bad fortune in finding themselves under the command of an incompetent.

" We try to avoid this. First is our unbreakable rule that every candidate must be a trained trooper, blooded under fire, a veteran of combat drops. No other army in history has stuck to this rule, although some came close. Most great military schools of the past—Saint Cyr, West Point, Sandhurst, Colorado Springs didn't even pretend to follow it; they accepted civilian boys, trained them, commissioned them, sent them out with no battle experience to command men... and sometimes discovered too late that this smart young ‘officer' was a fool, a poltroon, or a hysteric.

" At least we have no misfits of those sorts. We know you are good soldiers—brave and skilled, proved in battle else you would not be here. We know that your intelligence and education meet acceptable minimums. With this to start on, we eliminate as many as possible of the not-quite-competent—get them quickly back in ranks before we spoil good cap troopers by forcing them beyond their abilities. The course is very hard -- because what will be expected of you later is still harder.

" In time we have a small group whose chances look fairly good. The major criterion left untested is one we cannot test here; that undefinable something which is the difference between a leader in battle... and one who merely has the earmarks but not the vocation. So we field-test for it.

" Gentlemen! -- you have reached that point. Are you ready to take the oath? "

There was an instant of silence, then Hassan the Assassin answered firmly, " Yes, Colonel, " and Birdie and I echoed.

The Colonel frowned. " I have been telling you how wonderful you are— physically perfect, mentally alert, trained, disciplined, blooded. The very model of the smart young officer—" He snorted. " Nonsense! You may become officers someday. I hope so... we not only hate to waste money and time and effort, but also, and much more important, I shiver in my boots every time I send one of you half-baked not-quite-officers up to the Fleet, knowing what a Frankensteinian monster I may be turning loose on a good combat team. If you understood what you are up against, you wouldn't be so all-fired ready to take the oath the second the question is put to you. You may turn it down and force me to let you go back to your permanent ranks. But you don't know.

" So I'll try once more. Mr. Rico! Have you ever thought how it would feel to be court-martialed for losing a regiment? "

I was startled silly. " Why -- No, sir, I never have. " To be court-martialed—for any reason—is eight times as bad for an officer as for an enlisted man. Offenses which will get privates kicked out (maybe with lashes, possibly without) rate death in an officer. Better never to have been born!

" Think about it, " he said grimly. " When I suggested that your platoon leader might be killed, I was by no means citing the ultimate in military disaster. Mr. Hassan! What is the largest number of command levels ever knocked out in a single battle? "

The Assassin scowled harder than ever. " I'm not sure, sir. Wasn't there a while during Operation Bughouse when a major commanded a brigade, before the Sove-ki-poo? "

" There was and his name was Fredericks. He got a decoration and a promotion. If you go back to the Second Global War, you can find a case in which a naval junior officer took command of a major ship and not only fought it but sent signals as if he were admiral. He was vindicated even though there were officers senior to him in line of command who were not even wounded. Special circumstances—a breakdown in communications. But I am thinking of a case in which four levels were wiped out in six minutes— as if a platoon leader were to blink his eyes and find himself commanding a brigade. Any of you heard of it? "

Dead silence.

" Very well. It was one of those bush wars that hared up on the edges of

the Napoleonic wars. This young officer was the most junior in a naval vessel -- wet navy, of course—wind-powered, in fact. This youngster was about the age of most of your class and was not commissioned. He carried the title of temporary third lieutenant'—note that this is the title you are about to carry. He had no combat experience; there were four officers in the chain of command above him. When the battle started his commanding officer was wounded. The kid picked him up and carried him out of the line of fire. That's all—make pickup on a comrade. But he did it without being ordered to leave his post. The other officers all bought it while he was doing this and he was tried for ‘deserting his post of duty as commanding officer in the presence of the enemy. ' Convicted. Cashiered. "

I gasped. " For that? Sir. "

" Why not? True, we make pickup. But we do it under different

circumstances from a wet-navy battle, and by orders to the man making pickup. But pickup is never an excuse for breaking off battle in the presence of the enemy. This boy's family tried for a century and a half to get his conviction reversed. No luck, of course. There was doubt about some circumstances but no doubt that he had left his post during battle without orders. True, he was green as grass—but he was lucky not to be hanged. " Colonel Nielssen fixed me with a cold eye. " Mr. Rico—could this happen to you? "

I gulped. " I hope not, sir. "

" Let me tell you how it could on this very ‘prentice cruise. Suppose

you are in a multiple-ship operation, with a full regiment in the drop. Officers drop first, of course. There are advantages to this and disadvantages, but we do it for reasons of morale; no trooper ever hits the ground on a hostile planet without an officer. Assume the Bugs know this— and they may. Suppose they work up some trick to wipe out those who hit the ground first... but not good enough to wipe out the whole drop. Now suppose, since you are a supernumerary, you have to take any vacant capsule instead of being fired with the first wave. Where does that leave you? "

" Uh, I'm not sure, sir. "

" You have just inherited command of a regiment. What are you going to do? With your command, Mister? Talk fast—the Bugs won't wait! "

" Uh... " I caught an answer right out of the book and parroted it. " I'll take command and act as circumstances permit, sir, according to the tactical situation as I see it. "

" You will, eh? " The Colonel grunted. " And you'll buy a farm too that's all anybody can do with a foul-up like that. But I hope you'll go down swinging—and shouting orders to somebody, whether they make sense or not. We don't expect kittens to fight wildcats and win—we merely expect them to try. All right, stand up. Put up your right hands. "

He struggled to his feet. Thirty seconds later we were officers—" temporary, probationary, and supernumerary. "

I thought he would give us our shoulder pips and let us go. We aren't supposed to buy them—they're a loan, like the temporary commission they represent. Instead he lounged back and looked almost human.

" See here, lads—I gave you a talk on how rough it's going to be. I want you to worry about it, doing it in advance, planning what steps you might take against any combination of bad news that can come your way, keenly aware that your life belongs to your men and is not yours to throw away in a suicidal reach for glory... and that your life isn't yours to save, either, if the situation requires that you expend it. I want you to worry yourself sick before a drop, so that you can be unruffled when the trouble starts.

" Impossible, of course. Except for one thing. What is the only factor that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone? "

Nobody answered.

" Oh, come now! " Colonel Nielssen said scornfully. " You aren't recruits. Mr. Hassan! "

" Your leading sergeant, sir, " the Assassin said slowly.

" Obviously. He's probably older than you are, more drops under his belt, and he certainly knows his team better than you do. Since he isn't carrying that dreadful, numbing load of top command, he may be thinking more clearly than you are. Ask his advice. You've got one circuit just for that.

" It won't decrease his confidence in you; he's used to being consulted. If you don't, he'll decide you are a fool, a cocksure know-it-all—and he'll be right.

" But you don't have to take his advice. Whether you use his ideas, or whether they spark some different plan—make your decision and snap out orders. The one thing—the only thing! -- that can strike terror in the heart of a good platoon sergeant is to find that he's working for a boss who can't make up his mind.

" There never has been an outfit in which officers and men were more dependent on each other than they are in the M. I., and sergeants are the glue that holds us together. Never forget it. "

The Commandant whipped his chair around to a cabinet near his desk. It contained row on row of pigeonholes, each with a little box. He pulled out one and opened it. " Mr. Hassan—"

" Sir? "

" These pips were worn by Captain Terence O'Kelly on his ‘prentice cruise. Does it suit you to wear them? "

" Sir? " The Assassin's voice squeaked and I thought the big lunk was going to break into tears. " Yes, sir! "

" Come here. " Colonel Nielssen pinned them on, then said, " Wear them as gallantly as he did... but bring them back. Understand me? "

" Yes, sir. I'll do my best. "

" I'm sure you will. There's an air car waiting on the roof and your boat boosts in twenty-eight minutes. Carry out your orders, sir! "

The Assassin saluted and left; the Commandant turned and picked out another box. " Mr. Byrd, are you superstitious? "

" No, sir. "

" Really? I am, quite. I take it you would not object to wearing pips which have been worn by five officers, all of whom were killed in action? "

Birdie barely hesitated. " No, sir. "

" Good. Because these five officers accumulated seventeen citations, from the Terran Medal to the Wounded Lion. Come here. The pip with the brown discoloration must always be worn on your left shoulder—and don't try to buff it off! Just try not to get the other one marked in the same fashion. Unless necessary, and you'll know when it is necessary. Here is a list of former wearers. You have thirty minutes until your transportation leaves. Bounce up to Memorial Hall and look up the record of each. "

" Yes, sir. "

" Carry out your orders, sir! "

He turned to me, looked at my face and said sharply, " Something on your mind, son? Speak up! "

" Uh—" I blurted it out. " Sir, that temporary third lieutenant—the one that got cashiered. How could I find out what happened? "

" Oh. Young man, I didn't mean to scare the daylights out of you; I simply intended to wake you up. The battle was on one June 1813 old style between USF Chesapeake and HMF Shannon. Try the Naval Encyclopedia; your ship will have it. " He turned back to the case of pips and frowned.

Then he said, " Mr. Rico, I have a letter from one of your high school teachers, a retired officer, requesting that you be issued the pips he wore as a third lieutenant. I am sorry to say that I must tell him ‘No. ' "

" Sir? " I was delighted to hear that Colonel Dubois was still keeping track of me—and very disappointed, too.

" Because I can't! I issued those pips two years ago—and they never came back. Real estate deal. Hmm -- " He took a box, looked at me. " You could start a new pair. The metal isn't important; the importance of the request lies in the fact that your teacher wanted you to have them. "

" Whatever you say, sir. "

" Or" —he cradled the box in his hand—" you could wear these. They have been worn five times... and the last four candidates to wear them have all failed of commission -- nothing dishonorable but pesky bad luck. Are you willing to take a swing at breaking the hoodoo? Turn them into goodluck pips instead? "

I would rather have petted a shark. But I answered, " All right, sir. I'll take a swing at it. "

" Good. " He pinned them on me. " Thank you, Mr. Rico. You see, these were mine, I wore them first... and it would please me mightily to have them brought back to me with that streak of bad luck broken, have you go on and graduate. "

I felt ten feet tall. " I'll try, sir! "

" I know you will. You may now carry out your orders, sir. The same air car will take both you and Byrd. Just a moment—Are your mathematics textbooks in your bag? "

" Sir? No, sir. "

" Get them. The Weightmaster of your ship has been advised of your extra baggage allowance. "

I saluted and left, on the bounce. He had me shrunk down to size as soon as he mentioned math.

My math books were on my study desk, tied into a package with a daily assignment sheet tucked under the cord. I gathered the impression that Colonel Nielssen never left anything unplanned—but everybody knew that.

Birdie was waiting on the roof by the air car. He glanced at my books and grinned. " Too bad. Well, if we're in the same ship, I'll coach you. What ship? "

" Tours. "

" Sorry, I'm for the Moskva. " We got in, I checked the pilot, saw that it had been pre-set for the field, closed the door and the car took off. Birdie added, " You could be worse off. The Assassin took not only his math books but two other subjects. "

Birdie undoubtedly knew and he had not been showing off when he offered to coach me; he was a professor type except that his ribbons proved that he was a soldier too.

Instead of studying math Birdie taught it. One period each day he was a faculty member, the way little Shujumi taught judo at Camp Currie. The M. I. doesn't waste anything; we can't afford to. Birdie had a B. S. in math on his eighteenth birthday, so naturally he was assigned extra duty as instructor—which didn't keep him from being chewed out at other hours.

Not that he got chewed out much. Birdie had that rare combo of brilliant intellect, solid education, common sense, and guts, which gets a cadet marked as a potential general. We figured he was a cinch to command a brigade by the time he was thirty, what with the war.

But my ambitions didn't soar that high. " It would be a dirty, rotten shame, " I said, " if the Assassin flunked out, " while thinking that it would be a dirty, rotten shame if I flunked out.

" He won't, " Birdie answered cheerfully. " They'll sweat him through the rest if they have to put him in a hypno booth and feed him through a tube. Anyhow, " he added, " Hassan could flunk out and get promoted for it. "

" Huh? "

" Didn't you know? The Assassin's permanent rank is first lieutenant—field commission, naturally. He reverts to it if he flunks out. See the regs. "

I knew the regs. If I flunked math, I'd revert to buck sergeant, which is better than being slapped in the face with a wet fish any way you think about it... and I'd thought about it, lying awake nights after busting a quiz.

But this was different. " Hold it, " I protested. " He gave up first lieutenant, permanent grade... and has just made temporary third lieutenant... in order to become a second lieutenant? Are you crazy? Or is he? "

Birdie grinned. " Just enough to make us both M. I. "

" But—I don't get it. "

" Sure you do. The Assassin has no education that he didn't pick up in the M. I. So how high can he go? I'm sure he could command a regiment in battle and do a real swingin' job provided somebody else planned the operation. But commanding in battle is only a fraction of what an officer does, especially a senior officer. To direct a war, or even to plan a single battle and mount the operation, you have to have theory of games, operational analysis, symbolic logic, pessimistic synthesis, and a dozen other skull subjects. You can sweat them out on your own if you've got the grounding. But have them you must, or you'll never get past captain, or possibly major. The Assassin knows what he is doing. "

" I suppose so, " I said slowly. " Birdie, Colonel Nielssen must know that Hassan was an officer—is an officer, really. "

" Huh? Of course. "

" He didn't talk as if he knew. We all got the same lecture. "

" Not quite. Did you notice that when the Commandant wanted a question answered a particular way he always asked the Assassin? "

I decided it was true. " Birdie, what is your permanent rank? "

The car was just landing; he paused with a hand on the latch and grinned. " PFC—I don't dare flunk out! "

I snorted. " You won't. You can't! " I was surprised that he wasn't even a corporal, but a kid as smart and well educated as Birdie would go to O. C. S. just as quickly as he proved himself in combat... which with the war on, could be only months after his eighteenth birthday.

Birdie grinned still wider. " We'll see. "

" You'll graduate. Hassan and I have to worry, but not you. "

" So? Suppose Miss Kendrick takes a dislike to me. " He opened the door and looked startled. " Hey! They're sounding my call. So long! "

" See you, Birdie. "

But I did not see him and he did not graduate. He was commissioned two weeks later and his pips came back with their eighteenth decoration—the Wounded Lion, posthumous.