Fritz”
“P.S. The play was an artistic success — and Loeen is cuddly.”
Thorby stored his Sisu belongings; he was trying to be a Guardsman and they made him uncomfortable. He discovered that the Guard was not the closed corporation the People were; it required no magic to make a Guardsman if a man had what it took, because nobody cared where a man came from or what he had been. The Hydra drew its company from many planets; there were machines in BuPersonnel to ensure this. Thorby’s shipmates were tail and short, bird-boned and rugged, smooth and hairy, mutated and superficially unmutated. Thorby hit close to norm and his Free Trader background was merely an acceptable eccentricity; it made him a spaceman of sorts even though a recruit.
In fact, the only hurdle was that he was a raw recruit “Guardsman 3/c” he might be but a boot he would remain until he proved himself, most especially since he had not had boot training.
But he was no more handicapped than any recruit in a military outfit having proud esprit de corps. He was assigned a bunk, a mess, a working station, and a petty officer to tell him what to do. His work was compartment cleaning, his battle station was runner for the Weapons Officer in case phones should fail — it meant that he was available to fetch coffee.
Otherwise he was left in peace. He was free to join a bull session as long as he let his seniors sound off, he was invited into card games when a player was needed, he was not shut out of gossip, and he was privileged to lend jumpers and socks to seniors who happened to be short. Thorby had had experience at being junior; it was not difficult.
The Hydra was heading out for patrol duty; the mess talk centered around “hunting” prospects. The Hydra had fast “legs,” three hundred gravities; she sought action with outlaws where a merchantman such as the Sisu would avoid it if possible. Despite her large complement and heavy weapons, the Hydra was mostly power plant and fuel tanks.
Thorby’s table was headed by his petty officer. Ordnance-man 2/c Peebie, down as “Decibel.” Thorby was eating one day with his ears tuned down, while he debated visiting the library after dinner or attending the stereo show in the messroom, when he heard his nickname: “Isn’t that right. Trader?”
Thorby was proud of the nickname. He did not like it in Peebie’s mouth but Peebie was a self-appointed wit — he would greet Thorby with the nickname, inquire solicitously, “How’s business?” and make gestures of counting money. So far, Thorby had ignored it.
“Isn’t what right?”
“Why’n’t y’keep y’r ears open? Can’t you hear anything but rustle and clink? I was telling ’em what I told the Weapons Officer: the way to rack up more kills is to go after ’em, not pretend to be a trader, too scared to fight and too fat to run.”
Thorby felt a simmer. “Who,” he said, “told you that traders were scared to fight?”
“Quit pushin’ that stuff! Whoever heard of a trader burning a bandit?”
Peebie may have been sincere; kills made by traders received no publicity. But Thorby’s burn increased. “I have.”
Thorby meant that he had heard of traders’ burning raiders; Peebie took it as a boast “Oh, you did, did you? Listen to that, men — our peddler is a hero. He’s burned a bandit all by his own little self! Tell us about it. Did you set tire to his hair? Or drop potassium in his beer?”
“I used,” Thorby stated, “a Mark XIX one-stage target-seeker, made by Bethlehem-Antares and armed with a 20 megaton plutonium warhead. I launched a timed shot on closing to beaming range on a collision-curve prediction.”
There was silence. Finally Peebie said coldly, “Where did you read that?”
“It’s what the tape showed after the engagement I was senior starboard firecontrolman. The portside computer was out — so I know it was my shot that burned him.”
“Now he’s a weapons officer! Peddler, don’t peddle it here.”
Thorby shrugged. “I used to be. A weapons control officer, rather. I never learned much about ordnance.”