“No execution … ?” one of the court officers asked in a high, querulous voice, and another, older one dropped his head onto his arms and began to sob.
“Well he’s not getting off that easily,” the president said, scowling at Bill. “If the accused was on this post for the last year then he should have been on duty. And during that year he must have slept. Which means he slept on duty. Therefore I sentence him to hard labor in military prison for one year and one day and order that he be reduced in rank to Fuse Tender Seventh Class. Tear off his stripes and take him away; I have to get to the golf course.
II
The transit stockade was a makeshift budding of plastic sheets bolted to bent aluminum frames and was in the center of a large quadrangle. MPs with bayoneted atomrifles marched around the perimeter of the six electrified barbed-wire fences. The multiple gates were opened by remote control, and Bill was dragged through them by the handcuff robot that had brought him here. This debased machine was a squat and heavy cube as high as his knee that ran on clanking treads and from the top of which projected a steel bar with heavy handcuffs fastened to the end. Bill was on the end of the handcuffs. Escape was impossible, because if any attempt was made to force the cuffs the robot sadistically exploded a peewee atom bomb it had in its guts and blew up itself and the escaping prisoner, as well as anyone else in the vicinity. Once inside the compound the robot stopped and did not protest when the guard sergeant unlocked the cuffs. As soon as its prisoner was freed the machine rolled into its kennel and vanished.
“All right, wise guy, you’re in any charge now, and dat means trouble for you, ” the sergeant snapped at Bill. He had a shaven head, a wide and scar-covered jaw, small, closeset eyes in which there flickered the guttering candle of stupidity.
Bill narrowed his own eyes to slits and slowly raised his good left right arm, flexing the biceps. Tembo’s muscle swelled and split the thin prison fatigue jacket with a harsh, ripping sound Then Bill pointed to the ribbon of the Purple Dart which he had pinned to his chest.
“Do you know how I got that?” he asked in a grim and toneless voice. “I got that by killing thirteen Chingers singlehanded in a pillbox I had been sent into. I got into this stockade here because after killing the Chingers I came back and killed the sergeant who sent me in there. Now-what did you say about trouble, Sergeant?”
“You don’t give me no trouble I don’t give you no trouble,” the guard sergeant squeaked as he skittered away. “You’re in cell 13, in there, right upstairs … ” He stopped suddenly and began to chew all the fingernails on one hand at the same time, with a nibbling-crunching sound. Bill gave him a long glower for good measure, then turned and went slowly into the building.
The door to number 13 stood open, and Bill looked in at the narrow cell dimly lit by the light that filtered through the translucent plastic walls. The double-decker bunk took up almost all of the space, leaving only a narrow passage at one side. Two sagging shelves were bolted to the far wall and, along with the stenciled message BE CLEAN NOT OBSCENEDIRTY TALK HELPS THE ENEMY!, made up the complete furnishings. A small man with a pointed face and beady eyes lay on the bottom bunk looking intently at Bill. Bill looked right back and frowned.
“Come in, Sarge,” the little man said as he scuttled up the support into the upper bunk. “I been saving the lower for you, yes I have. The name is, Blackey, and I’m doing ten months for telling a second looey to blow it out …”
He ended the sentence with a slight questioning note that Bill ignored. Bill’s feet hurt. He kicked off the purple boots and stretched out on the sack. Blackey’s head popped over the edge of the upper bunk, not unlike a rodent peering out the landscape. “It’s a long time to chow-how’s about a Dobbin-burger?” A hand appeared next to the head and slipped a shiny package down to Bill.