The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (31 page)

At War Base Three nobody was happy. Ships that were supposed
to be fight-months away carrying on the carefully planned search for General
Carr's hideout were fluttering down out of the sky like senile penguins,
disabled by blown jets, jammed computers, and all the other natural ills that
worn out and poorly serviced equipment is heir to. Technical maintenance was
quietly going mad. Commander Krogson was being noisy about it.

"Schninkle!" he screamed. "Isn't anything
happening anyplace?"

"Nothing yet, sir," said the little man.

"Well
make
something happen!" He hoisted
his battered brogans onto the scarred top of the desk and chewed savagely on a
frayed cigar. "How are the other sectors doing?"

"No better than we are," said Schninkle.
"Commander Snork of Sector Six tried to pull a fast one but he didn't get
away with it. He sent his STAP into a plantation planet out at the edge of the
Belt and had them hypno the whole population. By the time they were through
there were about fifteen million greenies running around yelling 'Up with
General Carr!' 'Down with the Lord Protector!' 'Long Live the People's
Revolution!' and things like that. Snork even gave them a few medium vortex
blasters to make it look more realistic. Then he sent in his whole fleet,
tipped off the press at Prime Base, and waited. Guess what the Bureau of
Essential Information finally sent him?"

"I'll bite," said Commander Krogson.

"One lousy cub reporter. Snork couldn't back out then
so he had to go ahead and blast the planet down to bedrock. This morning he got
a three-line notice in
Space
and a citation as Third Rate Protector of
the People's Space Ways, Eighth Grade."

"That's better than the nothing we've got so far!"
said the commander gloomily.

"Not when the press notice is buried on the next to
last page right below the column on 'Our Feathered Comrades'," said
Schninkle, "and when the citation is posthumous. They even misspelled his
name; it came out Snark!"

As Kurt turned to go, there was a sharp knock on Colonel
Harris' door.

"Come in!" called the colonel.

Lieutenant Colonel Blick, the battalion executive officer,
entered with an arrogant stride and threw his commander a slovenly salute. For
a moment he didn't notice Kurt standing at attention beside the door.

"Listen, Harris!" he snarled. "What's the
idea of pulling that cleanup detail out of my quarters?"

"There are no servants in this battalion, Blick,"
the older man said quietly. "When the men come in from work detail at
night they're tired. They've earned a rest and as long as I'm CO. they're going
to get it. If you have dirty work that has to be done, do it yourself. You're
better able to do it than some poor devil who's been dragging a plow all day. I
suggest you check pertinent regulations!"

"Regulations!" growled Blick. "What do you
expect me to do, scrub my own floors?"

"I do," said the colonel dryly, "when my wife
is too busy to get to it. I haven't noticed that either my dignity or my
efficiency have suffered appreciably. I might add," he continued mildly,
"that staff officers are supposed to set a good example for their juniors.
I don't think either your tone or your manner are those that Lieutenant Dixon
should be encouraged to emulate." He gestured toward Kurt and Blick spun
on one heel.

"Lieutenant
Dixon!" he roared in an
incredulous voice. "By whose authority?"

"Mine," said the colonel mildly. "In case
you've forgotten I am still commanding officer of this battalion."

"I protest!" said Blick. "Commissions have
always been awarded by decision of the entire staff."

"Which you now control," replied the colonel.

Kurt coughed nervously. "Excuse me, sir," he said,
"but I think I'd better leave."

Colonel Harris shook his head. "You're one of our
official family now, son, and you might as well get used to our squabbles. This
particular one has been going on between Colonel Blick and me for years. He has
no patience with some of our old customs." He turned to Blick. "Have
you, Colonel?"

"You're right, I haven't!" growled Blick.
"And that's why Tm going to change some of them as soon as I get the
chance. The sooner we stop this Tech School nonsense and put the recruits to
work in the fields where they belong, the better off we'll all be. Why should a
plowman or a hunter have to know how to read wiring diagrams or set tubes. It's
nonsense, superstitious nonsense. You!" he said, stabbing his finger into
the chest of the startled lieutenant. "You! Dixon! You spent fourteen
years in the Tech Schools just like I did when I was a recruit. What for?"

"To learn maintenance, of course," said Kurt.

"What's maintenance?" demanded Blick.

"Taking stuff apart and putting it back together and
polishing jet bores with microplanes and putting plates in alignment and
checking the meters when we're through to see the job was done right. Then
there's class work in Direc calculus and subelectronics and—"

"That's enough!" interrupted Blick. "And now
that you've learned all that, what can you do with it?"

Kurt looked at him in surprise.

"Do with it?" he echoed. "You don't
do
anything
with it. You just learn it because regulations say you should."

"And this," said Blick, turning to Colonel Harris,
"is one of your prize products. Fourteen of his best years poured down the
drain and he doesn't even know what for!" He paused and then said in an
arrogant voice, "I'm here for a showdown, Harris!"

"Yes?" said the colonel mildly.

"I demand that the Tech Schools be closed at once, and
the recruits released for work details. If you want to keep your command,
you'll issue that order. The staff is behind me on this!"

Colonel Harris rose slowly to his feet. Kurt waited for the
thunder to roll, but strangely enough, it didn't. It almost seemed to him that
there was an expression of concealed amusement playing across the colonel's
face.

"Some day, just for once," he said, "I wish
somebody around here would do something that hasn't been done before."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Blick.

"Nothing," said the colonel. "You know,"
he continued conversationally, "a long time ago I walked into my C.O.'s
office and made the same demands and the same threats that you're making now. I
didn't get very far, though—just as you aren't going to—because I overlooked
the little matter of the Inspector General's annual visit. He's due in from
Imperial Headquarters Saturday night, isn't he, Blick?"

"You know he is!" growled the other.

"Aren't worried, are you? It occurs to me that the I.G.
might take a dim view of your new order."

"I don't think he'll mind," said Blick with a
nasty grin. "Now will you issue the order to close the Tech Schools or
won't you?"

"Of course not!" said the colonel brusquely.

"That's final?"

Colonel Harris just nodded.

"All right," barked Blick, "you asked for
it!"

There was an ugly look on his face as he barked, "Kane!
Simmons! Arnett! The rest of you! Get in here!"

The door to Harris' office swung slowly open and revealed a
group of officers standing sheepishly in the anteroom.

"Come in, gentlemen," said Colonel Harris.

They came slowly forward and grouped themselves just inside
the door.

"I'm taking over!" roared Blick. "This garrison
has needed a house-cleaning for a long time and I'm just the man to do
it!"

"How about the rest of you?" asked the colonel.

"Beg pardon, sir," said one hesitantly, "but
we think Colonel Blick's probably right. I'm afraid we're going to have to confine
you for a few days. Just until after the I.G.'s visit," he added
apologetically.

"And what do you think the I.G. will say to all
this?"

"Colonel Blick says we don't have to worry about
that," said the officer. "He's going to take care of
everything."

A look of sudden anxiety played across Harris' face and for
the first time he seemed on the verge of losing his composure.

"How?" he demanded, his voice betraying his
concern.

"He didn't say, sir," the other replied. Harris
relaxed visibly.

"All right," said Blick. "Let's get
moving!" He walked behind the desk and plumped into the colonel's chair.
Hoisting his feet on the desk he gave his first command.

"Take him away!"

There was a sudden roar from the far corner of the room.
"No you don't!" shouted Kurt. His battle-ax leaped into his hand as
he jumped in front of Colonel Harris, his muscular body taut and his gray eyes
flashing defiance.

Blick jumped to his feet. "Disarm that man!" he
commanded. There was a certain amount of scuffling as the officers in the front
of the group by the door tried to move to the rear and those behind them
resolutely defended their more protected positions.

Blick's face grew so purple that he seemed on the verge of
apoplexy. "Major Kane," he demanded, "place that man under
restraint!"

Kane advanced toward Kurt with a noticeable lack of
enthusiasm. Keeping a cautious eye on the glittering ax head, he said in what
he obviously hoped to be a placating voice, "Come now, old man. Can't have
this sort of thing, you know." He stretched out his hand hesitantly toward
Kurt. "Why don't you give me your ax and we'll forget that the incident
ever occurred."

Kurt's ax suddenly leaped toward the major's head. Kane
stood petrified as death whizzed toward him. At the last split second Kurt gave
a practiced twist to his wrist and the ax jumped up, cutting the air over the
major's head with a vicious whistle. The top half of his silver staff plume
drifted slowly to the floor.

"You want it," roared Kurt, his ax flicking back
and forth like a snake's tongue, "you come get it. That goes for the rest
of you, too!"

The litde knot of officers retreated still farther. Colonel
Harris was having the time of his life.

"Give it to 'em, son!" he whooped.

Blick looked contemptuously at the staff and slowly drew his
own ax. Colonel Harris suddenly stopped laughing.

"Wait a minute, Blick!" he said. "This has
gone far enough." He turned to Kurt.

"Give them your ax, son."

Kurt looked at him with an expression of hurt bewilderment
in his eyes, hesitated for a moment, and then glumly surrendered his weapon to
the relieved major.

"Now," snarled Blick, "take that insolent
puppy out and feed him to the lizards!"

Kurt drew himself up in injured dignity. "That is no
way to refer to a brother officer," he said reproachfully.

The vein in Blick's forehead started to pulse again.
"Get him out of here before I tear him to shreds!" he hissed through
clenched teeth. There was silence for a moment as he fought to regain control
of himself. Finally he succeeded.

"Lock him up!" he said in an approximation to his
normal voice. "Tell the provost sergeant I'll send down the charges as
soon as I can think up enough."

Kurt was led resentfully from the room.

"The rest of you clear out," said Blick. "I
want to talk with Colonel Harris about the I.G."

There was a saying in the Protectorate that when the Lord
Protector was angry, stars and heads fell. Commander Krogson felt his wobble on
his neck. His far-sweeping scouts were sending back nothing but reports of
equipment failure, and the sector commander had coldly informed him that
morning that his name rested securely at the bottom of the achievement list. It
looked as if War Base Three would shortly have a change of command. "Look,
Schninkle," he said desperately, "even if we can't give them anything,
couldn't we make a promise that would look good enough to take some of the heat
off us?"

Schninkle looked dubious.

"Maybe a new five-year plan?" suggested Krogson.

The little man shook his head. "That's a subject we'd
better avoid entirely," he said. "They're still asking nasty
questions about what happened to the last one. Mainly on the matter of our
transport quota. I took the liberty of passing the buck on down to Logistics.
Several of them have been. . . eh . . . removed as a consequence."

"Serves them right!" snorted Krogson. "They
got me into that mess with their 'if a freighter and a half flies a light-year
and a half in a month and a half, ten freighters can fly ten light-years in ten
months!' I knew there was something fishy about it at the time, but I couldn't
put my finger on it."

"It's always darkest before the storm," said
Schninkle helpfully.

"Take off your war bonnet and make yourself
comfortable," said Colonel Harris hospitably.

Blick grunted assent. "This thing is sort of
heavy," he said. "I think I'll change uniform regulations while I'm
at it."

"There was something you wanted to tell me?"
suggested the colonel.

"Yeah," said Blick. "I figure that you figure
the I.G.'s going to bail you out of this. Right?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"I would," said Blick. "I was up snoopin'
around the armory last week. There was something there that started me doing
some heavy thinking. Do you know what it was?"

"I can guess," said the colonel.

"As I looked at it, it suddenly occurred to me what a
happy coincidence it is that the Inspector General always arrives just when you
happen to need him."

"It is odd, come to think of it."

"Something else occurred to me, too. I got to thinking
that if I were CO. and I wanted to keep the troops whipped into line, the
easiest way to do it would be to have a visible symbol of Imperial Headquarters
appear in person once in a while."

"That makes sense," admitted Harris,
"especially since the chaplain has started preaching that Imperial
Headquarters is where good marines go when they die—
If
they follow
regulations while they're alive. But how would you manage it?"