“Would an adjusted age of eighteen fit?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay, make it just under that — minority enlistment.”
“There’s a tattoo on him,” Dr. Krishnamurti offered, “which might give a clue. A slave mark.”
“The deuce you say!” Colonel Brisby reflected that his follow-up dispatch to “X” Corps was justified. “Dated?”
“Just a manumission — a Sargonese date which fits his Story. The mark is a factor’s mark. No date.”
“Too bad. Well, now that he is clear with Medical, I’ll send for him.”
“Colonel.”
“Eh? Yes, Kris?”
“I cannot recommend enlistment.”
“Huh? He’s as sane as you are.”
“Surely. But he is a poor risk.”
“Why?”
“I interviewed subject under light trance this morning. Colonel, did you ever keep a dog?”
“No. Not many where I come from.”
“Very useful laboratory animals, they parallel many human characteristics. Take a puppy, abuse him, kick him, mistreat him — he’ll revert to feral carnivore. Take his litter brother, pet him, talk to him, let him sleep with you, but train him — he’s a happy, well-behaved house pet. Take another from that same litter, pet him on even days and kick him on odd days. You’ll have him so confused that he’ll be ruined for either role; he can’t survive as a wild animal and he doesn’t understand what is expected of a pet. Pretty soon he won’t eat, he won’t sleep, he can’t control his functions; he just cowers and shivers.”
“Hmm . . . do you psychologists do such things often?”
“I never have. But it’s in the literature . . . and this lad’s case parallels it. He’s undergone a series of traumatic experiences in his formative years, the latest of which was yesterday. He’s confused and depressed. Like that dog, he may snarl and bite at any time. He ought not to be exposed to new pressures; he should be cared for where he can be given psychotherapy.”
“Phooey!”
The psychological officer shrugged. Colonel Brisby added, “I apologize, Doctor. But I know something about this case, with all respect to your training. This lad has been in good environment the past couple of years.” Brisby recalled the farewell he had unwillingly witnessed. “And before that, he was in the hands of Colonel Richard Baslim. Heard of him?”
“I know his reputation.”
“If there is any fact I would stake my ship on, it is that Colonel Baslim would never ruin a boy. Okay, so the kid has had a rough time. But be has also been succored by one of the toughest, sanest, most humane men ever to wear our uniform. You bet on your dogs; I’ll back Colonel Richard Baslim. Now . . . are you advising me not to enlist him?”
The psychologist hesitated. Brisby said, “Well?”
Major Stein interrupted. “Take it easy, Kris; I’m overriding you.”
Brisby said, “I want a straight answer, then I’ll decide.”
Dr. Krishnamurti said slowly, “Suppose I record my opinions but state that there are no certain grounds for refusing enlistment?”
“Why?”
“Obviously you want to enlist this boy. But if he gets into trouble — well, my endorsement could get him a medical discharge instead of a sentence. He’s had enough bad breaks.”
Colonel Brisby clapped him on the shoulder. “Good boy, Kris! That’s all, gentlemen.”
Thorby spent an unhappy night. The master-at-arms billeted him in senior P.O.s quarters and he was well treated, but embarrassingly aware of the polite way in which those around him did not stare at his gaudy Sisu dress uniform. Up till then he had been proud of the way Sisu’s dress stood out; now he was learning painfully that clothing has its proper background. That night be was conscious of snores around him . . . strangers . . . fraki — and he yearned to be back among People, where he was known, understood, recognized.
He tossed on a harder bed than he was used to and wondered who would get his own?
He found himself wondering whether anyone had ever claimed the hole he still thought of as “home.” Would they repair the door? Would they keep it clean and decent the way Pop liked? What would they do with Pop’s leg?