“No,” I admitted.
“Most people think that all it takes is two hands and two feet and a stupid mind. Maybe so, for cannon fodder. Possibly that was all that Julius Caesar required. But a private soldier today is a specialist so highly skilled that he would rate ‘master’ in any other trade; we can’t afford stupid ones. So for those who insist on serving their term — but haven’t got what we want and must have — we’ve had to think up a whole list of dirty, nasty, dangerous jobs that will either run ‘em home with their tails between their legs and their terms uncompletedor at the very least make them remember for the rest of their lives that their citizenship is valuable to them because they’ve paid a high price for it. Take that young lady who was here — wants to be a pilot. I hope she makes it; we always need good pilots, not enough of ‘em. Maybe she will.
But if she misses, she may wind up in Antarctica, her pretty eyes red from never seeing anything but artificial light and her knuckles callused from hard, dirty work.”
I wanted to tell him that the least Carmencita could get was computer programmer for the sky watch; she really was a whiz at math. But he was talking.
“So they put me out here to discourage you boys. Look at this.” He shoved his chair around to make sure that we could see that he was legless. “Let’s assume that you don’t wind up digging tunnels on Luna or playing human guinea pig for new diseases through sheer lack of talent; suppose we do make a fighting man out of you. Take a look at me — this is what you may buyif you don’t buy the whole farm and cause your folks to receive a ‘deeply regret’ telegram. Which is more likely, because these days, in training or in combat, there aren’t many wounded. If you buy it at all, they likely throw in a coffin — I’m the rare exception; I was luckythough maybe you wouldn’t call it luck.”
He paused, then added, “So why don’t you boys go home, go to college, and then go be chemists or insurance brokers or whatever? A term of service isn’t a kiddie camp; it’s either real military service, rough and dangerous even in peacetimeor a most unreasonable facsimile thereof. Not a vacation. Not a romantic adventure. Well?”
Carl said, “I’m here to join up.”
“Me, too.”
“You realize that you aren’t allowed to pick your service?”
Carl said, “I thought we could state our preferences?”
“Certainly. And that’s the last choice you’ll make until the end of your term. The placement officer pays attention to your choice, too. First thing he does is to check whether there’s any demand for left-handed glass blowers this week — that being what you think would make you happy. Having reluctantly conceded that there is a need for your choice — probably at the bottom of the Pacific — he then tests you for innate ability and preparation. About once in twenty times he is forced to admit that everything matches and you get the jobuntil some practical joker gives you dispatch orders to do something very different. But the other nineteen times he turns you down and decides that you are just what they have been needing to field-test survival equipment on Titan.” He added meditatively, “It’s chilly on Titan. And it’s amazing how often experimental equipment fails to work. Have to have real field tests, though — laboratories just never get all the answers.”
“I can qualify for electronics,” Carl said firmly, “if there are jobs open in it.”
“So? And how about you, bub?”
I hesitated — and suddenly realized that, if I didn’t take a swing at it, I would wonder all my life whether I was anything but the boss’s son. “I’m going to chance it.”
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t try. Got your birth certificates with you? And let’s see your I. D.’s.”
Ten minutes later, still not sworn in, we were on the top floor being prodded and poked and fluoroscoped. I decided that the idea of a physical examination is that, if you aren’t ill, then they do their darnedest to make you ill. If the attempt fails, you’re in.