Harry Harrison - Bill 2 - On The Planet Of Robot Slaves
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Special thanks to Nat Sobel, Michael Kazan, John Douglas, David Keller, and
Mary HiggsFirst published in Great Britain 1989 by Victor Gollancz
Ltd, 14 Henrietta Street, London WC2E 8QJCopyright © 1989 by Harry
HarrisonBritish Library Cataloguing in Publication DataHarrison, Harry,
1925-- Bill, the galactic hero on the planet of robot slaves. I.
Title 823'.9141[F] ISBN 0-575-04615-5Printed in Great Britain by
St Edmundsbury Press Ltd, Bury St Edmunds, SuffolkT H E T R U ES T O R Y
O FBILL1Bill, that's what they called him. They called him that because
that was his name. A simple farm boy destined for the stars, ripped from his
green acres, his silver robomule, his blue Mom -- she had circulatory troubles
--and forced by trickery into the armed forces of the Emperor. The story
of how Bill became a Galactic Hero has been told in a book titled _Bill, the
Galactic Hero_. It is a true story and there is a tear on every page. (An
artificial tear dripped onto the pages by the printer.) Read it. It will make
you laugh, make you cry, make you want to rush away and throw up. You will see
how hard the military labored to destroy Bill, how he shrunk and withered,
then grew and matured under this treatment. Learning, like any good soldier,
to curse -- say bowb at least 354 times a day -- to drink in excess, to lust
after girls while his eyeballs bulged with sperm. Any woman would be proud to
be his mother. Though I can't think why. After being drugged and tricked
into enlisting in the Space Troopers, Bill was sent for his basic training at
Camp Leon Trotsky. It was there under the sadistic guidance of Deathwish
Drang, a drill instructor with three-inch-long tusks, that his morale was
crushed, his will destroyed, his IQ diminished,2his spirit broken as he was
turned into the perfect trooper. Only his suburb physical condition, the
product of years of boring physical activity down on the farm, prevented him
from being crushed like a beetle as well. No sooner had his basic training
been finished, in fact even before it was finished, and even more important
before he could get through the front door of the Lower Ranks Cathouse, he and
his bunkmates were bundled off to war aboard the space battleship, the grand
old lady of the fleet, the _Fanny Hill_. The war was on. Mankind was
advancing to the stars. For out there among the stardust, suns and planets,
comets and space crap, there existed a race of intelligent aliens. The
Chingers. They were peaceful little green lizards with four arms, scales, a
tail like most lizards. So of course they had to be destroyed. They might
become a menace sometime, maybe. In any case -- what is an army and a navy for
if not to fight war? The boredom of space service was relieved slightly
when Bill discovered that his good friend, Eager Beager, was a Chinger spy. At
first this was hard for Bill to understand, even with his militarily lowered
intelligence, since everyone knew that Chingers looked like moth-eaten
alligators, with four arms, that stood seven feet tall. Bill understood the
facts a lot better when he discovered that Beager was a special kind of spy.
Well, not really a spy, but a robot operated by a seven-inch-high Chinger from
a control center in Beager's skull. Seven inches, seven feet, the military
does exaggerate slightly in the need of good propaganda. In any case the spy
escaped and the normality of starvation and boredom returned until Bill
finally went into battle as a fusetender,3tending giant fuses. The battle
was fierce, all'of his buddies were killed, and Bill was slightly wounded when
his left arm was blown off. Despite this, and completely by accident, he fired
the shot heard round the fleet -- that destroyed the enemy spaceship. A hero
now, with a good, strong; black right arm sewed in place of his carbonized
left arm (having two right arms he can now shake hands with himself which is
lots of fun), he received a medal and a hero's award. He also managed to
go AWOL, which stands for Away Without Leave, also Over the Hill, which is
basically slipping out of the clutches of the troopers for a little bit. In
the course of his adventures on the planet Helier he also became a spy, got
involved in garbage disposal, and other interesting things. So interesting
that he ended up in combat and doomed to die on the planet of no return where
the troopers went in only one direction. But alcohol-related research revealed
that while normal casualties were being sewn up and sent back to combat, new
arms sewed on to replace old arms, new everythings, well, almost everything,
sewn on as replacements, there was a shortage of feet. A footless soldier
would be sent offplanet for repair, to fight another day on another world.
Unhappily for Bill he had two good feet and therefore was doomed to die in
combat. But, ever resourceful, he blew his right foot off, which was better
than getting everything else blown off. So there it is. With an artificial
foot, a growing alcoholic habit, incipient satyriasis, Deathwish Drang's
surgically transplanted fangs willed to him, and a hobnailed liver, he is
ready for whatever comes. Bill, a trooper loyal to the Emperor, as if he4had
a choice, destined for life to be an interstellar warrior, since his
enlistment is automatically extended whether he likes it or not. About the
only thing that he has going for him is the fact that with an artificial foot
he has only half as much atheletes' foot as the other troopers. Here he
is, a reluctant galactic hero, going into action yet once again.Harry
HarrisonC H A P T E R 15Bill was not happy in his work. He Really
should have been since, like most things military, it required little or no
intelligence. Just well-conditioned reflexes. Which reflexes now tickled his
brain with a reminder that the shufe of recruit footsteps was growing very
dim. He glanced up to see that they were almost out of sight. In fact they
really were out of sight behind the cloud of dust kicked up by their weary
boots. And their feet were, obviously, weary as well. Bill took a deep breath
and blasted most of it out with a single roar of sound. "To the rear --
h'arch!" A small bird fell to the ground, stunned by the intensity of the
command. This cheered Bill ever so slightly since it proved that his skills as
a drill-private were improving. It cheered the recruits as well since they
were about to march into a deep, rock-filled ravine. The first rank was
already atremble with fear, facing the terrible choice of death by falling or
death by drill-instructor. They wheeled about, not too smartly since they were
stumbling with fatigue, and marched, coughing strenuously, back into the cloud
of dust. As they came closer a snarl of anger twisted Bill's lips, a snarl
made even more impressive by the6single, long tusk that rested on his lower
lip, its yellow tip practically touching his chin. Bill twanged it with his
fingernail and the snarl grew snarlier. Two tusks were menacing. One rusk made
him look like a bulldog who had lost a fight. Something had to be done about
this.The loud thud of tramping feet drew his attention and his eyes
unfocussed to see that the marching recruits were just a step away, the
nearest one gasping with fear at the thought of running down the DI.
"Company -- HALT!" he bellowed.Aching feet thudded into silence and the
recruit almost thudded into Bill. He stood in shivering eyeball contact with
the feared DI, his dusty eyeball touching Bill's bloodshot one."What are you
staring at?" Bill sussurated with all the menace of a snake in heat.
"Nothing, majesty, sir, your highness. . ." "Don't lie -- you're staring
at my face.""No, I mean yes, can't help myself since my eyeball is touching
your face." "And it's not just my face you are staring at -- it's my tusk.
And you are thinking -- why has he only one tusk?" Bill stepped back and
growled loathingly at all of the swaying, frightened, fatigued, near-death
recruits. "You are all thinking that, aren't you? Say _yes_!" "Yes!" They
gasped and croaked in unison, most of them too hammered by fatigue to have the
slightest idea of what the hell they were doing anyway. "I knew it," Bill
sighed, then twanged the solitary rusk gloomily. "Not that I blame you. A DI
with two tusks would be a fearful and terrible sight. But a single tusk is, I
must say it, a pathetic sight."7 He sniffled with self-pity and rubbed a
pendant drop from his nose with the back of his hand. "Not that I expect
sympathy from you feebleminded misfits -- or loyalty or anything like that,
since it is always bowbyour-buddy week. No, I expect raw self-interest and
bribery. We will drill until it grows dark or you drop dead, whichever comes
first." He waited while the moan of pain sighed through the troops. "Or you
might emulate yesterday's intake who, so sympathetic to my problem, freely
donated one buck each towards my fang fund. I must admit that I was so
grateful that I cut the drill short at that point." The troopers, all
recently and reluctantly drafted into service for the glory of the Empire, had
already absorbed a few survival messages. They read this one loud and cleat.
There was a clink of coins as Bill passed before them and accepted their
unsolicited donations. "Dismissed," he muttered as he counted the loot.
Enough, yes, just enough. He smiled and looked down at his feet. The smile
instantly vanished. The tusk was only half of his problem. He was now looking
at the other half. His left foot appeared normal enough, encased in its
mirror-finished recruit-stamping boot. His right boot was slightly
different. More than slightly. For one thing it was twice the size of his left
boot. Of even greater interest was the long toe that stuck out through a hole
above the heel. An impressive yellow toe that .was tipped by a shining claw.
Bill growled in frustrated anger and kicked out with his right foot and gouged
a deep groove in the hard ground. Something was just going to have to be done
about this as well.8 Thunder rumbled from behind the mountains as Bill
started across the drill field towards the barracks. He cast a suspicious eye
at the sky as black clouds boiled quickly into sight. The wind rushed up just
as fast as the clouds. He coughed as the dust swirled around him -- but not
for long. The dust was beaten down by a torrential rain that instantly turned
the field to a sea of mud. The rain -- stopped as soon as he had been well
soaked -- and giant hailstones plocked holes into the mud and rattled off his
helmet. Before he reached the barracks the clouds were blown from sight and
the tropical sun burned billows of steam from his uniform. This planet,
Grundgy, had an interesting climate. This was the only thing interesting
about it. Otherwise it was barren and worthless and had only two seasons:
frigid winter, tropical summer. There were no minerals worth digging, no land
worth planting, no resources worth exploiting. In other words the perfect
planet to turn into a military base. This had been done, at great and
overpriced expense, until the giant island-continent in the boiling, iceberg
filled sea, was a single great military establishment. Fort Grundgy, named
after the galaxy-famous Commander Merda Grundgy. He was famous for absolutely
nothing other than the fact that he had expired of terminal hemorrhoids from
overeating. But since he was the Emperor's granduncle his name would be ever
honored. These and kindred gloomy thoughts sifted through Bill's mind as
he sifted through the moneybag in his riveted steel footlocker. Enough, just
enough. Six hundred and twelve Imperial Bucks. Now was the time. He
unzipped his boots and kicked them off. The9~###~three yellow toes on his
right foot were curled and cramped and he stretched them happily. Then he
ripped off his uniform and dropped it into the shredder where the reinforced
paper fabric was instantly reduced to its component fibers. He tore a fresh
uniform from the roll on the latrine wall and drew it on. He had trouble
getting his large yellow toes into his right boot and muttered foul curses as
he struggled with it. It was raining stair rods when he opened the
barracks door. Muttering nastily he slammed the door shut, counted to ten,
then opened it again and stepped out into the broiling sun and hurried down
the company street to the base hospital."The doctor is otherwise engaged and
cannot see you at this time," the zaftig corporal at reception said as she
daintily filed the edge of one blood-red fingernail. "Put your name here for
sick call which is three weeks from now at four in the morning -- eeek!"
She had eeked because he had growled viciously as he had kicked out with a
twisting kick and had tom a groove down the metal of her desk with his clawed
heel. "Don't give me no bowb, Corp, I been too long in the army to take no
bowb." "Apparently you have not been in it long enough to learn any
grammar. Out-before I call the MP's and have you shot for destruction of
government property-eeek!" Her pained cry echoed the screech of torn metal
as he raked the desk again. "Call the Doc. Tell him it's about money, not
medicine." "Why didn't you say so to begin with," she10sniffed as he
banged the intercom. "Cash customer to see you, Admiral." She did this with
alacrity and efficiency since the admiral-doctor was giving her a percentage,
as well as a good stupfing, with equal alacrity and efficiency whenever he got
his mind off of his illegal experiments. The door opened behind her and
Admiral-Doctor Mel Praktis poked his bald head out and leered one-eyedly at
Bill, his other eye hidden by a black monocle. The monocle concealed the fact
that the eye had been removed in a manner too disgusting to mention. But had
since been replaced by an electronic telescope-microscope, which is a very
handy thing to have. His illegal medical experiments had been so loathsome
that when they had been discovered he had been condemned to death by
impalingor alternately becoming a medic in the navy. It had not been an easy
decision. Though it had worked out well in the end since the alcoholic
commander of the base here turned a blind drunk eye on his experiments.
Praktis had blinded the eye himself with a limitless supply of medical alcohol
to make sure he got away with his dirty work. "Are you the one for the
prefrontal lobotomy?" Praktis asked. "Not bowby likely. The tusk, Doc, the
tusk, remember? I only had enough bucks before for a single implant-but I have
the rest now." "No bucks no tusks. Let's see what you got." Bill shook
the bag so it jingled. "Inside, we don't have all day." Praktis shook
the coins into the sink, threw the empty bag into the disposal chute, then
soaked the money in antiseptic before counting it.11 "Never know what
grotty infections the troops have. You're ten bucks short." "You should
know-you infected most of them. No bowb, Doc, that's the agreed price. Six
hundred and twelve." "That was last week. I'm taking inflation into
account." "That's all that I have," Bill whimpered. "Then sign a chit
against next month's pay." "You have no soul," Bill muttered as he
signed. "I checked it at the church when I got in the service. What's the
name? I have to access the computer to find where I filed your fang."
"Bill. With two L's." "Two L's only for officers." He punched the
keyboard. "Here it is, under Bil where it belongs. Freezer twelve, in the
liquid nitrogen." He grabbed up metal tongs and rushed off, was back in an
instant with a plastic cylinder that smoked moistly in the warm air. He threw
it into the microwave and pushed buttons. "Sixty seconds should do it. Any
more and it would be cooked." "No jokes, Doc. This is a serious matter."
"Only to you, trooper. To me it's just a few more bucks for my broker towards
buying my discharge." The microwave pinged and he jerked his thumb towards the
operating table. "Take your trousers off and lie down." "Trousers? It goes
in my jaw, Doc-where were you thinking of putting it?" Praktis's only
answer was an evil chuckle as he wheeled the electronic surgeon into place.
Bill gagged as the rubber clamps whipped his mouth open. Praktis muttered and
punched com12 mands into the keyboard. Bill screamed hoarsely around the
clamps as the laser scalpel sizzled his gums and forceps twisted an incisor.
"Oops, sorry, I forgot." Praktis lied sadistically as he shot in a local
anesthetic before continuing. In a matter of seconds the tooth was out, Bill's
gum was peeled back, the hole in his jaw drilled larger, the roots of the fang
firmly implanted, GrowFlesh pumped into the interstices before sutureglue
sealed it all into place. "Rinse and spit and get out of here," Praktis
ordered as Bill climbed groggily on his feet. "That's better," Bill said,
admiring himself in the mirror. He twanged each tusk in turn, then smiled a
twisted smile. This was really a very revolting expression. "Deathwish Drang
would be proud to see me, if he was still alive." "Out." "Not yet,
Doc." He tore the oversized shoe from his right foot and stretched out his
long toes. Then raked three long grooves into the plastic floor. "What about
this, huh? What about this?" "Very nice indeed, if I say so myself. I
think your claws need trimming." "The foot needs changing! Am I to go
through the rest of my life with a giant chicken foot stuck onto my ankle?"
"Why not? It sure beats a wooden leg." "I want a real foot!" "You got
a real foot-a real giant mutated chicken foot. And let me tell you, not that I
want to brag, but there isn't another surgeon in the known universe that could
have done that. And they complain about my so-called illegal experiments!
They'll13come crawling to me when they have foot troubleyou wait and see."
"I don't want to wait and see nothing. Except a real live human foot there."
"You know the drill, trooper, so don't come whining to me with your petty
problems. There is a war on, soldier-or haven't you heard? There are
shortages. And one thing in really short supply is spare feet." "Isn't
there anything you can do?" "I could give you a rabbit's foot instead.
They are supposed to be very lucky." Bill howled, "I want a real foot!"
His howl went unheard because at that moment there was a loud explosion that
blew away most of the roof of the hospital.C H A P T E R 214While
Dr. Praktis vibrated with fear, gaping vacantly at the gaping hole and falling
debris, Bill dived under the metal table. Once his personal ass had been saved
he thought of the future, and his chicken foot, so out of pure selfishness
reached out and dragged the doctor to safety. A great lump of masonry fell on
the spot where Praktis had just been standing and he gurgled with horror. Then
bathed Bill with spaniel eyes of gratitude. "You saved my life," he
whimpered. "Just don't forget that when the next shipment of frozen feet
arrive. I want first pick." "It will be yours! If you are in a hurry I
have a very dainty size three foot that was all that was left of a nurse eaten
by guard dogs." "No, thanks. I'll wait. The one I got now has great combat
possibilities until Mr. Right Foot comes along." "Why are you talking
about combat?" Praktis squeaked. "Because we are in it right now. Or don't
those bombs, shells, and screams of the dying mean anything to you?"
Praktis's moan of agony was drowned out by a thunderous flapping as a shadow
passed over them.15 Bill chanced a quick look out from under the table
and saw that a ponderous dragon was flying in circles above. The dragon saw
his movement with its beady eye, opened its mouth and belched out a tongue of
flame. Bill jerked his head back and the smoky fireball sizzled the floor all
around them. Praktis groaned and quivered. Bill just felt angry. "This is
no way to run a military base. Where are the defenses? The antidragon guns? I
am going to get that scaly mother before it gets me!" As soon as the
dragon had flapped off he scuttled from under the table and dived through the
opening where the wall had been. He wasted just one second admiring the great
amount of damage that the dragon had done so quickly-then dived for cover
again as one of them soared overhead and ejected a stick of bombs from its
cloaca. When the last bits of debris had clattered to the ground he rushed to
the nearest arms locker and tore the door open with a kick with his clawed
heel. "Great, really great!" he chortled and grabbed up the black tube
inside that was lettered SAM in white. "SAM," he said settling the rest
onto his shoulder. "Surface to Air Missile." His index finger caressed the
trigger as he squinted into the sight. A lovely sight of crosshairs on the
round belly of the nearest dragon. "Here's one from the troopers!" he
ejaculated happily as he squeezed the trigger. The SAM clattered and
clicked and a metal arm popped out of the barrel with a flag flapping from the
end. YOU MISSED was embroidered daintily on the flag. "This bowby thing is
nothing but a training16dummy!" Bill howled and hurled it at him. But
the dragon had caught the motion of the flapping flag and wheeled about in a
tight turn. It dived. Smoke blew back from its gaping nostrils as it opened
its mouth to exhale the tongue of lambent flame that would cook Bill like a
chop on a spit. "This is it," Bill muttered bravely. "To die so far from
home-with a chicken foot." Closer the flame came and closer-and the dragon
blew up as a missile got it right in the belly button. "At least someone
found a SAM that works," Bill grunted as the thing crashed onto the the
latrine roof just before him. It made a great clanging sound, instead of the
splatting sound that he had expected. This was explained when the dragon's
head was tom off by the impact and crashed to the ground. Wires and rods
projected from the severed neck, while hydraulic fluid rather than blood
spurted from the broken pipes. "Should have known," he said smugly. "A
machine. Flesh and blood dragons are for the birds. Aerodynamically unsound.
Wings too small for one thing." And while he pondered these eternal
mysteries he looked on with interest as the top of the dragon's head split and
opened like a lid. This was very familiar. Particularly when the
seven-inch-high, fourarmed green creature looked out at him balefully.
"You are a Chinger!" Bill gasped. "Well I'm not a dragon's cerebellum if
that's what you are thinking," the Chinger sneered. Bill groped up a chunk
of broken concrete to crush the little green bastard but he was too late. The
enemy alien kicked open a hatch in the dragon's neck17and dragged out a tiny
rocket harness which it slipped into. "Up the Chingers!" it squeaked as
tiny rockets flared and it shot off into the sky. Bill dropped the concrete
and looked into the control room in the skull. just lire the one in Eager
Beager's head, with an operating console and tiny water cooler. There was even
a metal label above the commode with a serial number on it. Bill leaned over
and squinted at it. "MADE IN USA, that's what it says. I wonder what that
means?" He wasn't the only one who was interested. Now that the attack was
well and truly over, Dr. Praktis came crawling out of the ruins of the
hospital. His quivering terror faded as scientific curiosity took its place.
"What on earth is that?" he said. "Ain't nothing on earth. It is what is
left of a bomb-laying, fire-spraying, Chinger flying-dragon machine."
"What does this mean -- MADE IN USA?" "The same question that I was
asking, Doc." Bill looked around, then went and dug a gurney from the rubble.
"Here, help me load this head aboard and we'll take it to the CO and see what
he thinks." Which proved hard to do since the headquarters buildings had
taken a real pasting. An admiral, with the golden fouled anchors and soldering
irons of a technical officer on his shoulders, stood staring gloomily at the
smoldering remains when they approached. He looked up and nodded at Praktis.
"They missed you and me, Mel, but got all the18other officers. Every one.
They were holding an orgy here for a Red Cross benefit." "At least they
died doing their duty." "A good way to go." The technical officer sighed
deeply-then looked very suspiciously at Praktis. "How long have you been an
admiral, Dr. Mel Praktis?" "And what's that to you, Prof. Lubyanka?"
"Because whoever has got seniority is in command. And I have been an admiral
for two years, six months and three days come nine o'clock tonight." "I
don't bother keeping track of petty things like that," Praktis sneered.
"Which means you're a short-timer, you butchering medical bastard."
"Circuit-board wiring dingbat!" "Trooper, kill this mutineer." "Is
that an order, sir?" "It is." Bill grabbed Praktis by the neck and
began to throttle him. "Finns!... Uncle!" Praktis gasped and the new CO
signaled for his release. "Bring that dragon decapitation with you. We
have got to tell Fleet HQ what happened. And find out where this attack came
from. This sector was supposed to have been pacified long ago." Because of
its location, behind the sewage treatment plant and distant from the HQ
buildings, the electronic lab was untouched. Admiral Lubyanka's engineers
hurried to their master's call and carried the dragon debris away. Praktis and
Bill were ignored for the moment and, with true trooper's instincts, they
scuttled out of sight. "How about you inviting me to the Officer's19Club
for a conference, sir?" Bill insinuated sanguinely. "Why?" Praktis asked
suspiciously. "Drink," was the instant reply. They were well into
their second bottle of Olde Paint Dissolver before the messenger found them.
"Admiral wants you both in his office instantly if not sooner." "Bowb
off!" Dr. Praktis sneered. The messenger drew his gun. "I was ordered to
shoot you both if you gave me a hard time." The double-time running had
sobered them a bit and they stood panting and swaying and holding each other
up in front of Lubyanka's desk. He was growling and muttering as he shuffled
through the reports before him. He glanced up and shuddered. "Sit down
before you fall down," he ordered, then waved a readout at them. "SNABU,"
he grated through gritted teeth. "Situation normal-all bowbed up. Our
satellite stations have managed to get an electronic tracer on the track of
the spacer that dumped those dragons on us. It headed off in the direction of
Alpha Canis Major, a sector which has, up until now, been neutral. We need to
know what is going onand where this planet Usa is." "Well you are the
electronic genius, not me." Praktis sniffed. "There is no work for a tired old
sawbones here." "Oh yes there is. I'm putting you in charge of the pursuit
ship." "Why me?" "Because you are about the only officer I have
left-and rank does have its responsibilities. And20this nerd goes with you
since we are short of combat-experienced troopers as well. I'll scratch up a
crew for youbut I can't promise very much." "Oh thanks a bunch! Any other
bad news?" "Yes. The attack knocked out every spacer we had. Except for
the garbage tug." "I used to work in garbage disposal," Bill said
brightly. "Then you will feel right at home. Pack your bags and be back
here by 0315 at the latest. That's when I send the assassination squad after
you. We'll have the tracking equipment loaded aboard by that time." "Any
way we can drop out of this?" Praktis asked gloomily as they picked their way
through the rubble-filled base. "Not a one. I did the research the first
day we got here. Easy enough to get off the base-but no place to go after
that. Local plantlife inedible. Ocean all around. No place to hide."
"Whee. Then come with me and carry my bags." "You won't need me, sir,"
Bill said, pointing behind the doctor's back. "Those three medics should be
able to help you." Praktis turned to look and saw nothing. Turned back and
saw the same thing. He howled with anger but Bill was well out of sight.
Out of sight and filled with a sense of dark despair as he shuffled towards
the barracks. All right, the troopers were never a laugh a second, and this
planet was for the pits, but at least he could stay alive here. But this
garbage scow to the stars gig with the mad doctor in charge had a very bad
smell to it. He groped about in the interstices of his brain cells
but21could not find a feasible plan of escape. Blow off the other foot? No,
he would end up with two chicken feet-and tail feathers-if he knew Praktis. It
looked like it was time for a trip. Covering the combination lock on his
footlocker with his free hand he punched in the number. Then pushed his thumb
against the fingerprint detector plate before using his key. You could never
be too secure, not in the troopers. He stirred the contents of the tray with
his forgers and wondered what he should take with him on ship. He doubted if
he would need the gross of condoms. The knuckle-duster knife with poison darts
might come in handy. Something to read? He gloomily flipped through the pages
of Combat Comia: explosions sounded weakly from its pages, the cries of tiny
voices. There was the very good chance, as always, that he would never see
this base again. Not that he would miss it. Better take everything then.
Bill dug his barracks bag out from under his bunk and packed carefully by
dumping everything from his footlocker into it. There was still plenty of time
before he had to board. He touched his sonowatch and it whispered dimly,
"Senator McGurk, the trooper's friend, is pleased to tell you that the time is
now twenty-three hundred hours." It was a cheap watch, a gift from his
mother. A few hours to drown his sorrows before they left. But he was
completely broke. Bill looked around at the empty barracks and wondered who
had any booze. Not the recruits, certainly. The sergeant's cell was in the
comer and he went and rapped on the door. "You in there, Sarge?" The
answer was only silence, which was fine.22He wrenched the metal end off the
nearest bed and broke the door in. The place was a pigsty-but this pig was a
real boozer. Bill selected two of the most lethal looking bottles. Hid one in
his barracks bag and cracked the seal on the other. As soon as the steam had
stopped rising he drank deep and sighed happily. Before he got too zonked he
set the alarm on the sonowatch. When McGurk, the trooper's friend, told
him it was time to wakey-wakey Bill was just finishing the bottle. He
staggered to his feet and shouldered his barracks bag. That is he made a
feeble attempt to shoulder it, but instead of him pulling it up it pulled him
down. "Wosha," he said, watching the lights go round and round as he
leaned on the bag for support. "You like it down there, sir?" a voice
said. After much blinking Bill made out the form of one of the recruits
standing over him. Bulging of eye and strong of shoulder. After a few failed
attempts to speak Bill managed a coherent and fairly articulate sentence.
"I do not like it down here." Muttering sympathetically, the recruit
helped Bill to his swaying feet, steadied him until he stayed vertical.
"Name..." Bill said with slow precision. "Name's Wurber, your honor. Ahh
just arrived..." "Shut up. Pick up that bag. Hold me up. Walk." In
this manner they weaved their way to the landing pad. Bill shuddered at the
sight of the battered tug, then permitted Wurber to support him as they
climbed painfully aboard. The recruit's generosity was well rewarded
by23his being drafted to load supplies, drafted a second time to fill out
the depleted crew. Thus does the military render swift justice to those who
break the first commandment: Keep the mouth shut and don't volunteer.C
H A P T E R 324Give her that, the grand old lady of the garbage
fleet, the Imelda Marcos, was a workhorse, yes she was. Maybe she was wider
than she was long, pitted and rusty, stained black by coffee grounds, gaily
festooned with toilet paper, speckled with potato peels, maybe she was all
those things. But she could puff and toot and really do her job. The garbage
container had never been made that she could not lift into space. No sewage
tanker existed that she could not swing into orbit. She was a worker. Her
commander wasn't. Captain Bly had once been first in his class in the Space
Academy, had had all of the promise of the best and the brightest. But he had
thrown it all away with one small mistake, one moment's dallying where he
should not have dallied, one moment's surrender to lust. Unhappily, his
commanding officer had, tragically, returned to his quarters early that same
day. He had found young Bly in bed with his wife. And his nephew. Not to
mention a sheep, and his favorite hunting dog. The commander had really loved
that dog. Needless to say things did not go well for Bly after that. There
are some things that are just not done. Even in the navy. Which says a lot.
For a mo25ment's indiscretion a career had been ruined. He lived to regret
it. If only he hadn't taken on the dog too! But it was far, far too late for
recriminations. A gentleman would have done the Right Thing. But he was no
longer a gentleman. The officers of the fleet had seen to that. He had been
shuttled from ship to ship, ever sinking lower, ever moving on. Until he had
ended up here in command of the Imelda Marcos. She was a good old tug and
did her job with gruff efficiency. Even though her captain was high or stoned,
or both, most of the time. But now, for the first time that any of the crew,
even the oldest compacter's mate, could remember, he was sober. Unshaven
stubble smeared the pasty gray of his jowls, as shaky of hand, bright red of
eye, he stood at his post on the bridge and glared at Admiral Praktis.
"You just can't tramp into my ship without a word, weld that great ugly
machine to my control console, take command where you are not wanted..."
"Shut up," Praktis implied. "You will do as you are ordered." Admiral
Lubyanka snarled agreement as he pulled his head out of the depths of the
machine in question. "And don't you ever forget that, Bly. You take orders
from him. You can fly this junker-but Praktis is in command. The electronic
tracker is tracking electronically, which is what this entire damn operation
is about. My technician here, Megahertz Mate 2nd Class Cy BerPunk, will follow
the escaping ship. He'll give you your course. Your assignment, should you
decide to take it, and you have no choice, is to track those damned dragons
back to28their nest-then report the location to me here. Ready, BerPunk?"
The technician soldered one last connection and nodded, his coarse black hair
swinging freely over the white pocked skin of his forehead, brushing the black
glasses that concealed his eyes. "On line. Systemsgo." he said coarsely. "RAM
is ramming, electrons zinging. All systems go-or already gone." "And about
time too, Lubyanka snarled, then stabbed Praktis in the chest with a sharp
finger. "Do this job, Praktis, and do it well-or it's your ass." "It's
already my ass so I have nothing to lose. Heave anchor, Lubyanka, or you will
blast off with us to the big garbage dump in the sky. Is the ship secured for
takeoff, Captain Bly?" Bly treated him to a look of withering contempt and
cracked his knuckles. "Good," Praktis said. "I see that we are going to
get along real nice." Bill had to step aside, or rather stagger aside
since he wasn't that sober yet, when Admiral Lubyanka made his exit. Captain
Bly watched until the spacelock indicator changed from red to green, then
thumbed the takeoff warning. The alarm sounded through the ship like a
gargantuan eructation and the crew hurried to buckle in. Bill dropped into a
vacant seat and pulled the straps tight just as Captian Bly switched on full
power. Gravity sat on their chests with the 11G takeoff: Except for Bill who
had a rat sitting on his chest as well as gravity, for it had been hurled from
the pipes in the ceiling by the blast. It glared at Bill with gleaming red
eyes, its lips pulled back by the drag of takeof blast to expose its long,
yellow incisors. Bill glared back, eyes equally red, his yellow fangs equally
exposed. Neither could27move and they glared in futile hatred until the
engines cut out. Bill grabbed for the rat but it leaped to safety and ran out
the door. "We're in orbit," Captain Bly said "What's our course?"
"It's coming, man, coming..." Cy muttered, stabbing buttons and adjusting
switches. He sneered at the VDU which was filled with sparkling confetti, then
tapped it with a long and dirty fingernail. The image cleared and the trace
was clear. "Time needed. Working it out now. This little old 80286 CPU has
got a math coprocessor so it should rustle through the computations like
crazy..." "Shut up," Praktis snarled as he looked around the cabin. Wurber
was just starting down the ladder. "You, stop!" he commanded. "Ahh gotta
go to the toilet," he whimpered. "Your business after my business-and my
business is a cold beer. Fetch." "Got it!" Cy crowed. "Course is right
ascension seventy-one degrees, six minutes and seventeen seconds, declination
twelve degrees exactly. Hack." The gyros whined as the garbage tug turned
to her new course. Lights flickered and changed on the console under the
skilled, if trembling, fingers of her commander. "Don't unbelt yet," he
warned. "The FTL drive, so recently installed, is an experimental model. And
this flight is the first experiment." "Return to base!" Praktis screamed.
"I want out!' "Too late!" Captian Bly chortled in reply, stabbing a
button. "Too late by far. We're all in this to28gether-and I have nothing to
lose-since I've already lost everything, everything..." Quick tears of
self-indulgence blinded him. But not so much that he didn't see Praktis creep
forward to grab him. A blaster sprang into his hand, its gaping muzzle pitted
and scarred. "Sit," he commanded. "And enjoy. Up until now Faster Than Light
travel has been by Bloater drive. Now, for the first time ever-that I know
about-we will be trying out the Spritzer drive. It was installed by that
creepo Admiral Lubyanka. Told me that if I would try it out he would clear my
name of all shame. Too late! I told him. I live with shame and will die with
shame if I must. Nowhere we go!" One grimy thumb stabbed the large red
button and a gasp ran through the ship as they felt themselves squeezed in an
implacable grip. "That's the . . . first part. A black hole has been opened in
space in front of the ship. Now we are... being squeezed down. . . so we can
be squirted through the hole at . . FTL speed. That's why it is named the
Spritzer drive. We are being pumped under light pressure and spritzed through
spa-a-a-ce..." It was a thoroughly disgusting and uncomfortable way to
travel, Bill decided, and yearned for the old Bloater drive. But at least they
lived through it, and that was something. When they had become unsqueezed and
space outside had returned to normal, Cy turned to his tracker and fiddled
with the controls. "Bang on, baby. The track is still there, stronger and
clearer even. And it heads towards that planet you see over there. The one
with the concentric rings, an oblate moon and a black spot at the north pole.
Do you see it?"29 "Hard to miss," Praktis sniffed, "since it is the only
planet around. So chart its position and let's get the hell out of here before
we are noticed." "That comes under the heading of famous last words,"
Captain Bly blubbered, gaping at the viewscreen which was filled with flying
dragons. "Hit the Spritzer drive and let's get spritzing!" Praktis
screamed. But even as the words left his lips it was too late. Well before the
soundwaves reached Captain.Bly's ears it was too late. Lightning bolts of
ravening energy poured from the dragons' mouths and engulfed the ship. All
the fuses blew, all the lights went out. And they were falling. "Getting
mighty close to that planet," Bill observed, then drew back before the barrage
of curses. "Temper, temper," he said. "Does anyone know how we can get out of
this one?" "Pray," Cy said, rolling his eyes heavenward, or in any
direction, which was the same thing. "Pray for salvation and succor."
Captain Bly sneered at that. "You are the only sucker here if you think that
is going to help us. We've got one chance and one chance only. Our fuel is
gone, our batteries drained..." "Then we are dead!" Praktis wailed and
tore out handfuls of hair. "Not quite yet. I said we had a chance. The
forward hold is filled with garbage and is ready for ejection. This is done by
a giant spring that has been coiled up by the compression of the garbage when
it was packed aboard. At the very last instant before we crash I will eject
the garbage. By the Newtonian principle that for every action there is an
equal and30opposite reaction our speed will be neutralized and we will come
to rest." "A garbage drive," Bill moaned. "Is this the end? What a way to
die. . ." But his complaint went unheard for they were already in the
planet's atmosphere and the molecules of air pummeled the spacer cruelly. They
smashed into the outer skin, heated it into incandescence while the garbage
spacer still hurtled downwards. Through thicker and thicker air, through wispy
high clouds, towards the ground below that rushed towards them at a terrible
pace. "Fire the garbage!" Praktis pleaded, but to no avail. Captain Bly
stood firm. The others added their cries to his, begged and sobbed, but the
thick, grubby finger did not descend. Closer and ever closer they fell,
until they could see individual grains of sand on the ground below In the
final nanosecond of the last microsecond the finger stabbed down.
Ka-chunk! went the coiled spring, releasing its nascent energy in a single
mighty spasm. Ka -flopf! went the garbage, hurtling outward to crash into
the planet just below. Ker-splat! went the space tug as it settled gently
into the mound of old newspapers, fish cans, grapefruit rinds, broken light
bulbs, beheaded rats, dead tea bags and shredded files. "Not bad if I say
so myself," Captain Bly chortled. "Not bad at all. This is really one for the
record books." The cabin echoed with the click of safety belts being
unlocked, the thud of hesitant boots upon the rusty deck.31 "Gravity
feels good," Bill opined. "A little light, but good..." "Shut up!" Pratkis
snapped. "I have one question and one question only for you, Cy. Did you..."
his voice broke and he restored it with a quick cough. "Did you get off the
planet's position?" "I tried to, Admiral. But the power cut off before I
could get out a signal." "Then do it now! There must be some juice left in
the batteries. Try it!" Cy punched in the commands, then thumbed the
activator button. The screen glowed-then went black and all the lights went
out. Wurber shrieked with fear at the sudden darkness, sobbed with relief when
the feeble glow of the emergency blub oozed out. "It worked!" Praktis
chortled. "Worked! The signal went out!" "Sure did, Admiral. At that
strength it must have gone up about five feet at least." "Then we are
marooned..." Bill intoned feebly. "Lost in space. On an enemy planet.
Surrounded by flying dragons. Millions of parsecs from home. In a dead
spaceship sitting on a mound of garbage." "You got it buddy-boy," Cy
nodded. "That's just about the size of it."C H A P T E R 432"Here
is your beer, sir. can i go potty now?" Wurber gurgled, holding out the
once-warm bottle, now blood-hot from his heated grip. Pratkis snarled an
inarticulate reply as he grabbed the bottle and half-drained it in a single
glug. Captain Bly groped through the pockets of his crumpled uniform until he
found the butt of an Hjoint which he lit. Bill sniffed his exhaust fumes
appreciatively but decided against asking for a drag. Instead he went to look
out of the viewport at this newfound planet, but all he could see was
garbage. Pratkis grimaced as he drained the warm beer from the bottle,
then whistled wetly. When Bill looked around he flipped the bottle to him.
"Put this outside with the rest of the rubbish, chicken-foot. And while you
are out there sort of have a look-see and let me know what it looks like."
"Are you requesting me to make a reconnaissance and report back?" "Yes, if
that's what you want to call it in your rotten Trooperese. I'm a doctor first
and an admiral by accident. So just get on with it." The dim glow of the
emergency light did not penetrate down the ladderway. Bill clicked his heels
together to turn on his toe-torch, then climbed33down the rungs in the light
of his glowing boot. Since there was no power the spacelock would not open
when he thumbed the switch. He turned the sticky manual wheel and groaned with
the effort. When the inner door had opened about a foot he squeezed through
摘要：
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SpecialthankstoNatSobel,MichaelKazan, JohnDouglas,DavidKeller,andMaryHiggs FirstpublishedinGreatBritain1989 byVictorGollanczLtd,14HenriettaStreet,LondonWC2E8QJ Copyright©1989byHarryHarrison BritishLibraryCataloguinginPublicationData Harrison,Harry,1925-- Bill,thegalacticheroontheplanetof...
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