A yeast cutlet, molded to look like a chop and stripped with real bacon, a big baked potato, and a grilled green lobia garnished with baby’s buttons… Rod’s mouth watered as he reached for the catsup.
He noticed that Mother was not eating much, which surprised him. Dad was not eating much either but Dad often just picked at his food…he became aware with sudden warm pity that Dad was thinner and grayer than ever. How old was Dad?
His attention was diverted by a story his sister was telling: “—and so the Commandant told me I would have to clamp down. And I said to her, ‘Ma’am, girls will be girls. It I have to bust a petty officer everytime one of them does something like that, pretty soon I won’t have anything but privates. And Sergeant Dvorak is the best gunner I have.’”
“Just a second,” her father interrupted. “I thought you said ‘Kelly,’ not ‘Dvorak.’”
“I did and she did. Pretending to misunderstand which sergeant she meant was my secret weapon—for I had Dvorak cold for the same offense, and Tiny Dvorak (she’s bigger than I am) is the Squadron’s white hope for the annual corps-wide competition for best trooper. Of course, losing her stripes would put her, and us, out of the running.
“So I straightened out the ‘mix up’ in my best wide-eyed, thick-headed manner, let the old gal sit for a moment trying not to bite her nails, then told her that I had both women confined to barracks until that gang of college boys was through installing the new ’scope, and sang her a song about how the quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, and made myself responsible for seeing to it that she was not again embarrassed by scandalous—her word, not mine—scandalous incidents…especially when she was showing quadrant commanders around.
“So she grumpily allowed as how the company commander was responsible for her company and she would hold me to it and now would I get out and let her work on the quarterly training report in peace? So I threw her my best parade ground salute and got out so fast I left a hole in the air.”
“I wonder,” Mr. Walker said judicially, “if you should oppose your commanding officer in such matters? After all, she is older and presumably wiser than you are.”
Helen made a little pile of the last of her baby’s buttons, scooped them up and swallowed them. “Fiddlesticks squared and cubed. Pardon me, Pater, but if you had any military service you would know better. I am as tough as blazes to my girls myself…and it just makes them boast about how they’ve got the worst fire-eater in twenty planets. But if they’re in trouble higher up, I’ve got to take care of my kids. There always comes a day when there is something sticky up ahead and I have to stand up and walk toward it. And it will be all right because I’ll have Kelly on my right flank and Dvorak on my left and each of them trying to take care of Maw Walker all by her ownself. I know what I’m doing. ‘Walker’s Werewolves’ are a team.”
Mrs. Walker shivered. “Gracious, darling, I wish you had never taken up a calling so…well, so dangerous.”
Helen shrugged. “The death rate is the same for us as for anybody…one person, one death, sooner or later. What would you want, Mum? With eighteen million more women than men on this continent did you want me to sit and knit until my knight comes riding? Out where I operate, there are more men than women; I’ll wing one yet, old and ugly as I am.”
Rod asked curiously, “Sis, would you really give up your commission to get married?”
“Would I! I won’t even count his arms and legs. If he is still warm and can nod his head, he’s had it. My target is six babies and a farm.”
Rod looked her over. “I’d say your chances are good. You’re quite pretty even if your ankles are thick.”
“Thanks, pardner. Thank you too much. What’s for dessert, Mum?”
“I didn’t look. Will you open it, dear?”
Dessert turned out to be iced mangorines, which pleased Rod. His sister went on talking. “The Service isn’t a bad shake, on active duty. It’s garrison duty that wears. My kids get fat and sloppy and restless and start fighting with each other from sheer boredom. For my choice, barracks casualties are more to be dreaded than combat. I’m hoping that our squadron will be tagged to take part in the pacification of Byer’s Planet.”
Mr. Walker looked at his wife, then at his daughter. “You have upset your mother again, my dear. Quite a bit of this talk has hardly been appropriate under the Light of Peace.”
“I was asked questions, I answered.”
“Well, perhaps so.”
Helen glanced up. “Isn’t it time to turn it out, anyway? We all seem to have finished eating.”
“Why, if you like. Though it is hardly reverent to hurry.”
“The Principle knows we haven’t all eternity.” She turned to Rod. “How about making yourself scarce, mate? I want to make palaver with the folks.”
“Gee, Sis, you act as if I was—”
“Get lost, Buddy. I’ll see you later.”
Rod left, feeling affronted. He saw Helen blow out the pax lamp as he did so.
He was still making lists when his sister came to his room. “Hi, kid.”
“Oh. Hello, Sis.”
“What are you doing? Figuring what to take on your solo?”
“Sort of.”
“Mind if I get comfortable?” She brushed articles from his bed and sprawled on it. “We’ll go into that later.”
Rod thought it over. “Does that mean Dad won’t object?”
“Yes. I pounded his head until he saw the light. But, as I said, well go into that later. I’ve got something to tell you, youngster.”
“Such as?”
“The first thing is this. Our parents are not as stupid as you probably think they are. Fact is, they are pretty bright.”
“I never said they were stupid!” Rod answered, comfortably aware of what his thoughts had been.
“No. But I heard what went on before dinner and so did you. Dad was throwing his weight around and not listening. But, Buddy, it has probably never occurred to you that it is hard work to be a parent, maybe the hardest job of all—particularly when you have no talent for it, which Dad hasn’t. He knows it and works hard at it and is conscientious. Mostly he does mighty well. Sometimes he slips, like tonight. But, what you did not know is this: Dad is going to die.”
“What?” Rod looked stricken. “I didn’t know he was ill!”
“You weren’t meant to know. Now climb down off the ceiling; there is a way out. Dad is terribly ill, and he would die in a few weeks at the most—unless something drastic is done. But something is going to be. So relax.”
She explained the situation bluntly: Mr. Walker was suffering from a degenerative disease under which he was slowly starving to death. His condition was incurable by current medical art; he might linger on, growing weaker each day, for weeks or months—but he would certainly die soon.
Rod leaned his head on his hands and chastised himself. Dad dying…and he hadn’t even noticed. They had kept it from him, like a baby, and he had been too stupid to see it.
His sister touched his shoulder. “Cut it out. If there is anything stupider than flogging yourself over something you can’t help, I’ve yet to meet it. Anyhow, we are doing something about it.”
“What? I thought you said nothing could be done?”
“Shut up and let your mind coast. The folks are going to make a Ramsbotham jump, five hundred to one, twenty years for two weeks. They’ve already signed a contract with Entropy, Incorporated. Dad has resigned from General Synthetics and is closing up his affairs; they’ll kiss the world good-by this coming Wednesday—which is why he was being stern about your plans to be away at that time. You’re the apple of his eye—Heaven knows why.”
Rod tried to sort out too many new ideas at once. A time jump…of course! It would let Dad stay alive another twenty years. But—“Say, Sis, this doesn’t get them anything! Sure, it’s twenty years but it will be just two weeks to them…and Dad will be as sick as ever. I know what I’m talking about; they
did the same thing for Hank Robbin’s great grandfather and he died anyhow, right after they took him out of the stasis. Hank told me.”
Captain Walker shrugged. “Probably a hopeless case to start with. But Dad’s specialist, Dr. Hensley, says that he is morally certain that Dad’s case is not hopeless…twenty years from now. I don’t know anything about metabolic medicine, but Hensley says that they are on the verge and that twenty years from now they ought to be able to patch Dad up as easily they can graft on a new leg today.”
“You really think so?”
“How should I know? In things like this you hire the best expert you can, then follow his advice. The point is, if we don’t do it, Dad is finished. So we do it.”
“Yeah. Sure, sure, we’ve got to.”
She eyed him closely and added, “All right. Now do you want to talk with them about it?”
“Huh?” He was startled by the shift. “Why? Are they waiting for me?”
“No. I persuaded them that it was best to keep it from you until it happened. Then I came straight in and told you. Now you can do as you please—pretend you don’t know, or go have Mum cry over you, and listen to a lot of last-minute, man-to-man advice from Dad that you will never take. About midnight, with your nerves frazzled, you can get back to your preparations for your survival test. Play it your own way—but I’ve rigged it so you can avoid that, if you want to. Easier on everybody. Myself, I like a cat’s way of saying good-by.”
Rod’s mind was in a turmoil. Not to say good-by seemed unnatural, ungrateful, untrue to family sentiment—but the prospect of saying good-by seemed almost unbearably embarrassing. “What’s that about a cat?”
“When a cat greets you, he makes a big operation of it, humping, stropping your legs, buzzing like mischief. But when he leaves, he just walks off and never looks back. Cats are smart.”
“Well…”
“I suggest,” she added, “that you remember that they are doing this for their convenience, not yours.”
“But Dad has to—”
“Surely, Dad must, if he is to get well.” She considered pointing out that the enormous expense of the time jump would leave Rod practically penniless; she decided that this was better left undiscussed. “But Mum does not have to.”
“But she has to go with Dad!”
“So? Use arithmetic. She prefers leaving you alone for twenty years in order to be with Dad for two weeks. Or turn it around: she prefers having you orphaned to having herself widowed for the same length of time.”
“I don’t think that’s quite fair to Mum,” Rod answered slowly.
“I wasn’t criticizing. She’s making the right decision. Nevertheless, they both have a strong feeling of guilt about you and—”
“About me?”
“About you. I don’t figure into it. If you insist on saying good-by, their guilt will come out as self-justification and self-righteousness and they will find ways to take it out on you and everybody will have a bad time. I don’t want that. You are all my family.”
“Uh, maybe you know best.”
“I didn’t get straight A’s in emotional logic and military leadership for nothing. Man is not a rational animal; he is a rationalizing animal. Now let’s see what you plan to take with you.”
She looked over his lists and equipment, then whistled softly. “Whew! Rod, I never saw so much plunder. You won’t be able to move. Who are you? Tweedledum preparing for battle, or the White Knight?”
“Well, I was going to thin it down,” he answered uncomfortably.
“I should think so!”
“Uh, Sis, what sort of gun should I carry?”
“Huh? Why the deuce do you want a gun?”
“Why, for what I might run into, of course. Wild animals and things. Deacon Matson practically said that we could expect dangerous animals.”
“I doubt if he advised you to carry a gun. From his reputation, Dr. Matson is a practical man. See here, infant, on this tour you are the rabbit, trying to escape the fox. You aren’t the fox.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your only purpose is to stay alive. Not to be brave, not to fight, not to dominate the wilds—but just stay breathing. One time in a hundred a gun might save your life; the other ninety-nine it will just tempt you into folly. Oh, no doubt Matson would take one, and I would, too. But we are salted; we know when not to use one. But consider this. That test area is going to be crawling with trigger-happy young squirts. If one shoots you, it won’t matter that you have a gun, too—because you will be dead. But if you carry a gun, it makes you feel cocky; you won’t take proper cover. If you don’t have one, then you’ll know that you are the rabbit. You’ll be careful.”
“Did you take a gun on your solo test?”
“I did. And I lost it the first day. Which saved my life.”
“How?”
“Because when I was caught without one I ran away from a Bessmer’s griffin instead of trying to shoot it. You savvy Bessmer’s griffin?”
“Uh, Spica V?”
“Spica IV. I don’t know how much outer zoology they are teaching you kids these days—from the ignoramuses we get for recruits I’ve reached the conclusion that this new-fangled ‘functional education’ has abolished studying in favor of developing their cute little personalities. Why I had one girl who wanted to—never mind; the thing about the griffin is that it does not really have vital organs. Its nervous system is decentralized, even its assimilation system. To kill it quickly you would have to grind it into hamburger. Shooting merely tickles it. But not know that; if I had had my gun I would have found out the hard way. As it was, it treed me for three days, which did my figure good and gave me time to think over the philosophy, ethics, and pragmatics of self-preservation.”
Rod did not argue, but he still had a conviction that a gun was a handy thing to have around. It made him feel good, taller, stronger and more confident, to have one slapping against his thigh. He didn’t have to use it—not unless he just had to. And he knew enough to take cover; nobody in the class could do a silent sneak the way he could. While Sis was a good soldier, still she didn’t know everything and—
But Sis was still talking. “I know how good a gun feels. It makes you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, three meters tall and covered with hair. You’re ready for anything and kind of hoping you’ll find it. Which is exactly what is dangerous about it—because you aren’t anything of the sort. You are a feeble, hairless embryo, remarkably easy to kill. You could carry an assault gun with two thousand meters precision range and isotope charges that will blow up a hill, but you still would not have eyes in the back of your head like a janus bird, nor be able to see in the dark like the Thetis pygmies. Death can cuddle up behind you while you are drawing a bead on something in front.”
“But, Sis, your own company carries guns.”
“Guns, radar, bombs, black scopes, gas, warpers, and some things which we light-heartedly hope are secret. What of it? You aren’t going to storm a city. Buddy, sometimes I send a girl out on an infiltration patrol, object: information—go out, find out, come back alive. How do you suppose I equip her?”
“Uh—”
“Never mind. In the first place I don’t pick an eager young recruit; I send some unkillable old-timer. She peels down to her underwear, darkens her skin if it is not dark, and goes out bare-handed and bare-footed, without so much as a fly swatter. I have yet to lose a scout that way. Helpless and unprotected you do grow eye’s in the back of your head, and your nerve ends reach out and feel everything around you. I learned that when I was a brash young j.o., from a salty trooper old enough to be my mother.”
Impressed, Rod said slowly, “Deacon Matson told us he would make us take this test bare-handed, if he could.”
“Dr. Matson is a man of sense.”
“Well, what would you take?”
“Test conditions again?”
Rod stated them. Captain Walker frowned. “Mmm…not much to go on. Two to ten days
probably means about five. The climate won’t be hopelessly extreme. I suppose you own a Baby Bunting?”
“No, but I’ve got a combat parka suit. I thought I would carry it, then if the test area turned out not to be cold, I’d leave it at the gate. I’d hate to lose it; it weighs only half a kilo and cost quite a bit.”
“Don’t worry about that. There is no point in being the best dressed ghost in Limbo. Okay, besides your parka I would make it four kilos of rations, five of water, two kilos of sundries like pills and matches, all in a vest pack…and a knife.”
“That isn’t much for five days, much less ten.”
“It is all you can carry and still be light on your feet. Let’s see your knife, dear.”
Rod had several knives, but one was “his” knife, a lovely all-purpose one with a 21-cm. molysteel blade and a fine balance. He handed it to his sister, who cradled it lightly. “Nice!” she said, and glanced around the room.
“Over there by the outflow.”
“I see.” She whipped it past her ear, let fly, and the blade sank into the target, sung and quivered. She reached down and drew another from her boot top. “This is a good one, too.” She threw and it bit into the target a blade’s width from the first.
She retrieved both knives, stood balancing them, one on each hand. She flipped her own so that the grip was toward Rod. “This is my pet, ‘Lady Macbeth.’ I carried her on my own solo, Buddy. I want you to carry her on yours.”
“You want to trade knives? All right.” Rod felt a sharp twinge at parting with “Colonel Bowie” and a feeling of dismay that some other knife might let him down. But it was not an offer that he could refuse, not from Sis.
“My very dear! I wouldn’t deprive you of your own knife, not on your solo. I want you to carry both, Buddy. You won’t starve nor die of thirst, but a spare knife may be worth its weight in thorium.”
“Gee, Sis! But I shouldn’t take your knife, either—you said you were expecting active duty. I can carry a spare of my own.”
“I won’t need it. My girls haven’t let me use a knife in years. I want you to have Lady Macbeth on your test.” She removed the scabbard from her boot top, sheathed the blade; and handed it to him. “Wear it in good health, brother.”