I thought about that. For a long moment.
Dr. Obama waited expectantly. Her eyes were patient. I said, suddenly, "But Shorty never looked at all."
She was surprised. "He didn't?"
"Only the first time," I replied. "He didn't look when we saw the child and he didn't look to confirm it was Chtorr."
Dr. Obama grunted. She was writing something on a note pad. I was relieved to have her eyes off me even for a moment. "Well, that's Shorty's prerogative. He's seen too many of these-" She finished the note and looked at me again. "It was enough that he saw the enclosure. But it's you we're concerned with at the moment. You have no doubt, do you, that what you saw was Chtorr?"
"I've never seen a Chtorran, ma'am. But I don't think this could have been anything else."
"Good. Then let's have no more of this nonsense." She pushed the report across the desk. "I'll take your signature on the bottom line."
"Dr. Obama, if you please-I'd like to know why it was necessary to kill that little girl."
Dr. Obama looked startled again, the second time since the interview began. "I thought you knew."
I shook my head. "That's what this whole thing is about. I don't. "
She stopped. "I'm sorry ... I really am sorry. I didn't realize - No wonder I couldn't sandbag you. . . ." She got up from her desk and crossed to a filing cabinet. She unlocked it and pulled out a thin folder-it was lettered SECRET in bright red-then returned to her seat. She held the folder thoughtfully in her hands. "Sometimes I forget that most of what we know about the Chtorr is restricted information." She eyed me carefully. "But you're a scientist-"
She was flattering me, and we both knew it. Nobody was anything anymore. To be accurate, I was a student on leave, temporarily contracted to the United States Armed Services, Special Forces Operation, as a full-time exobiologist.
"-so you should be entitled to see these things." But she still didn't pass them over. "Where are you from?" she asked abruptly.
"Santa Cruz, California."
Dr. Obama nodded. "Nice town. I used to have some friends just north of there-but that was a long time ago. Any of your family still alive?"
"Mom is. Dad was in San Francisco when it-when it-"
"I'm sorry. A lot of good people were lost when San Francisco went under. Your mother still in Santa Cruz?"
"I think so. Last I heard, she was helping with the refugees."
"Any other relatives?"
"I have a sister near L.A."
"Married?"
"Yes. She's got a daughter, five." I grinned at the thought of my niece. The last time I had seen her, she had been barely beyond the lap-wetting stage. I went sad then, remembering. "She used to have three. The other two were boys. They would have been six and seven."
Dr. Obama nodded. "Even so, she's very lucky. So are you. Not many people had that many members of their family survive the plagues." I had to agree with her.
Her face went grim now. "Have you ever heard of a town called Show Low?"
"I don't think so."
"It's in Arizona-it was in Arizona. There's not much left of it now. It was a nice place; it was named after a poker game-" Dr. Obama cut herself short; she laid the folder on the desk in front of her and opened it. "These pictures-these are just a few of the frames. There's a lot more-half a disk of high-grain video-but these are the best. These pictures were taken in Show Low last year by a Mr. Kato Nokuri. Mr. Nokuri apparently was a video hobbyist. One afternoon he looked out his window-he probably heard the noise from the street-and he saw this. " Dr. Obama passed the photographs across.
I took them gingerly. They were color eight-by-tens. They showed a small-town street-a shopping center-as seen from a third-story window. I flipped through the pictures slowly; the first showed a wormlike Chtorran reared up and peering into an automobile; it was large and red with orange markings on its sides. The next had the dark shape of another climbing through a drugstore window; the glass was just shattering around it. In the third, the largest Chtorran of all was doing something to a-it looked like a body-
"It's the last picture in the bunch I want you to see," said Dr. Obama. I flipped to it. "The boy there is only thirteen."
I looked. I almost dropped the picture in horror. I looked at Dr. Obama, aghast, then at the photograph again. I couldn't help myself; my stomach churned with sudden nausea.
"The quality of the photography is pretty good," she remarked. "Especially when you consider the subject matter. How that man retained the presence of mind to take these pictures I'll never know, but that telephoto shot is the best one we have of a Chtorran feeding."
Feeding! It was rending the child limb from limb! Its gaping mouth was frozen in the act of slashing and tearing at his struggling body. The Chtorran's arms were long and double-jointed. Bristly black and insectlike, they held the boy in a metal grip and pushed him toward that hideous gnashing hole. The camera caught the spurt of blood from his chest frozen in midair like a crimson splash.
I barely managed to gasp, "They eat their-their prey alive?"
Dr. Obama nodded. "Now, I want you to imagine that's your mother. Or your sister. Or your niece."
Oh, you monster- I tried not to, but the images flashed across my mind. Mom. Maggie. Annie-and Tim and Mark too, even though they were seven months dead. I could still see the boy's paralyzed expression, the mouth a silent shriek of why me? startlement. I could see that expression superimposed on my sister's face and I shuddered.
I looked up at Dr. Obama. It hurt my throat to swallow. "I-I didn't know."
"Few people do," she said.
I was shaking and upset-I must have been white as a scream. I pushed the pictures away. Dr. Obama slid them back into the folder without looking at them; her eyes were studying me. She leaned forward across her desk and said, "Now, about that little girl--do you have to ask why Duke did what he did?"
I shook my head.
"Pray that you never find yourself in the same situation-but if you do, will you hesitate to do the same thing? If you think you will, take another look at the pictures. Don't be afraid to ask; any time you need to remember, come to my office and look."
"Yes, ma'am." I hoped I wouldn't need to. I rubbed my nose. "Uh, ma'am-what happened to Mr. Nokuri, the photographer?"
"The same thing that happened to the boy in the picture-we think. All we found was the camera-"
"You were there-?"
"-the rest of the place was a mess." Dr. Obama focused on something else for a moment, something very far away. ". . . There was a lot of blood. All over everything. A lot of blood. ... " She shook her head sadly. "These pictures-" She straightened the folder on her desk meaningfully. "-an incredible legacy. This was our first real proof. The man was a hero." Dr. Obama looked at me again and suddenly snapped back to the present. "Now you'd better get out of here. I have work to do-oh, the report. Take it with you and read it again. Bring it back when you've signed it."
I left. Gratefully.
THREE
I WAS lying on my bunk when Ted, the other fellow up from the university, came gangling in. He was a lanky smart-aleck with a New England twang. "Hey, Jim boy, chow's on."
"Uh, no thanks, Ted. I'm not hungry."
"So? You want me to call the doc?"
"I'm okay-I'm just not in the mood to eat."
Ted's eyes narrowed. "You still brooding about what happened yesterday?"
I shrugged where I lay. "I dunno."
"You talk to Obie about this yet?"
"Yeah."
"Ah, that explains it-she gave you the shock treatment."
"Well, it worked." I turned on my side and faced the wall. Ted sat down on the bunk facing mine; I could hear the springs creak.
"She showed you the Arizona pictures, didn't she?" I didn't answer.
"You'll get over it. Everybody does."
I decided I didn't like Ted. He always had almost the right thing to say-as if he took his lines from a movie. He was always being ju
st a little too wonderful. Nobody could be that cheerful all the time. I pulled the blanket over my head.
He must have gotten tired of waiting for a response, because he stood up again. "Anyway, Duke wants to see you." He added, "Now. "
I turned around, but Ted was already out the door.
So I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. After a moment, I slipped on my shoes and went looking for Duke.
I found him in the recreation room talking to Shorty; they were sitting on one of the couches going over some maps together. There was a pot of coffee on the table before them. They looked up as I approached. "Be with you in a minute," said Duke.
I hung back politely, keeping my attention focused on the opposite wall. There was an old photograph on it, a faded magazine shot of President Randolph Hudson McGee; I studied it with no interest at all, the square jaw, the shiny gray hair, and the campaign-convincing blue eyes. Finally, Duke mumbled something to Shorty and dismissed him. To me he said, "Sit down." I did so, nervously.
"Want some coffee?"
"No, thanks."
"Have some anyway-be polite." Duke poured out a cup and set it before me. "You've been here a week, right?"
I nodded.
"You've talked to Obie?"
"Yes."
"Seen the pictures?"
"Yes."
"Well, what do you think?"
I said, "I don't know. What am I supposed to think?"
"Never answer a question with a question, for one thing."
"My father used to tell me that's the only way to answer a rhetorical question."
Duke slurped his coffee and grimaced. "Ugh. It gets worse every day. But don't tell Sergeant Kelly I said so." He looked at me speculatively. "Can you operate a flamethrower?"
"Huh?"
"I'll assume that's a `no.' How fast can you learn? By the end of the week?"
"I don't know. I guess so. Why?"
"I need a backup man. I thought you might want the job." I started to protest-Duke ignored it. "This time it's not just a scouting foray; it's a search and destroy. We're going back to do what we should have done yesterday. Burn some worms." He waited for my answer.
"I don't know," I said at last.
His eyes were steady. "What's the problem?"
"I don't think I'm much of a military type; that's all."
"No, that isn't all." He fixed me with his steely gray eyes and waited.
I felt transparent before him. I tried to glance away, but I felt drawn back to his face. Duke was grim, but not angry-just patient.
I said slowly, "I came out here to study the worms. This ... doesn't exactly fit my expectations. Nobody told me I'd have to be a soldier."
Duke said, "You're getting military credit for it, aren't you?"
"Service credit," I corrected. I'd been lucky. My biology background had qualified as a "needed skill"-but just barely.
Duke made a face. "So? Out here we don't draw lines that thin. There's no difference."
"I beg your pardon, Duke, but there's a lot of difference."
"Eh? How so?"
"It's in my contract. I'm attached as a scientist. Nowhere does it say I have to be a soldier."
Duke leaned back in his chair. "Better take another look at that contract, boy-the `special duties' clause."
I quoted from memory-we had studied it in school; Duke raised his eyebrows, but let me continue. " `In addition, the employee may be required by the employer, as represented by his/her immediate, or otherwise, superiors, to perform any special or unique duties for which he is properly and duly equipped, whether by training, nature or other; and which relate or pertain to the basic obligation as herein detailed-' " Duke smiled. I continued, " '-except where those duties are in direct conflict with the intent of this contract.' "
Duke was still smiling. "That's right, McCarthy-and the duties I'm asking of you are not in direct conflict. You're not under a `peaceful intention' clause, are you?"
"Uh, I don't know."
"You're not. If you were, you'd have never been sent up. Every man here has two jobs-his own and killing worms. Do I have to say which one takes priority?"
I said slowly, "What does that mean?"
"That means," said Duke, "that if the mission is military, everyone is a soldier. We can't afford to watch out for deadheads. I need a backup man. You want to study worms, learn how to operate a flamethrower."
"That's what you mean by `special duties,' huh?"
He said calmly, "That's right. You know I can't order you, McCarthy. Any operation requiring a risk to life has to be entirely voluntary. And not the old-fashioned `I'll take you, you, and you' kind of volunteering either." Duke put down his coffee cup. "But I'll make it easy on you. You have till tomorrow to choose. When you do, go see Shorty. Otherwise, you're shipping out on Thursday's chopper. Got that?"
I didn't answer. "Did you get it?"
"I got it!" I snapped.
"Good." Duke stood up. "You already know what you're going to choose, Jim-there's no question about that. So quit obsessing over it and get on with the job. We don't have the time."
He was right, and I knew it, but it wasn't fair, his pressuring me.
He caught the meaning of my silence and shook his head. "Get off it, Jim. You're never going to be any readier than you are now."
"But I'm not ready at all!"
"That's what I meant. If you were, we wouldn't need to have this conversation. So ... what is it?" I looked up at him. "Yes...?"
"Uh-I'm scared," I admitted. "What if I screw up?"
Duke grinned. "There's a very simple test to know if you've screwed up. If you have, you've been eaten. Everything else is success. Remember that."
He picked up his coffee cup to carry it back to the kitchen. "I'll tell Shorty to expect you. Wear clean underwear." Then he turned and left, leaving me staring after him.
FOUR
LEGALLY, I was already in the army. Had been for three years. Sort of.
You were automatically enlisted when you showed up for your first session of Global Ethics, the only mandatory course in high school. You couldn't graduate without completing the course. And-you found this out only afterward-you hadn't completed the course until you'd earned your honorable discharge. It was all part of the Universal Service Obligation. Rah.
The instructor was somebody named Whitlaw. Nobody knew much about him. It was his first semester here. We'd heard some rumors though-that he'd once punched a kid for mouthing off and broken his jaw. That he couldn't be fired. That he'd seen active duty in Pakistan-and still had the ears of the men and women he'd killed. That he was still involved in some super-secret operation and this teaching job was just a cover. And so on.
The first time I saw him, I believed it all.
He stumped into the room and slammed his clipboard down onto the desk and confronted us. "All right! I don't want to be here any more than you do! But this is a required course-for all of us-so let's make the best of a bad situation!"
He was a squat bear of a man, gruff-looking and impatient. He had startling white hair and gun-metal gray eyes that could drill you like a laser. His nose was thick; it looked like it had been broken a few times. He looked like a tank, and when he moved, he moved with a peculiar rolling gait. He rocked from step to step, but he was surprisingly graceful.
He stood there at the front of the classroom like an undetonated bomb and looked us over with obvious distaste. He glowered at us-an expression we were soon to recognize as an all-purpose glower of intimidation, directed not at any of us individually, but at the class as a unit.
"My name is Whitlaw!" he barked. "And I am not a nice man!"
Huh-?
"-So if you think you're going to pass this class by making friends with me, forget it!" He glared at us, as if daring us to glare back. "I don't want to be your friend. So don't waste your time. It's this simple: I have a job to do! It's going to get done. You have a job to do too. You can make it easy on yourself and own the r
esponsibility-or you can fight it and, I promise you, this class will be worse than Hell! Understand?"
He strode to the back of the room then, plucked a comic book out of Joe Bangs's hands and ripped it up. He tossed the pieces in the trash can. "Those of you who think I'm kidding-let me disabuse you of that now. We can save ourselves two weeks of dancing around, testing each other, if you will just assume the worst. I am a dragon. I am a shark. I am a monster. I will chew you up and spit out your bones."
He was in motion constantly, gliding from one side of the room to the other, pointing, gesturing, stabbing the air with his hand as he talked. "For the next two semesters, you belong to me. This is not a pass-or-fail course. Everybody passes when I teach. Because I don't give you any choice an the matter. Most of you, when you're given a choice, you don't choose to win. That guarantees your failure. Well, guess what. In here, you don't have a choice. And the sooner you get that, the sooner you can get out." He stopped. He looked around the room at all of us. His eyes were hard and small. He said, "I am a very ugly man. I know it. I have no investment in proving otherwise. So don't expect me to be anything else. If there's any adapting to be done in this classroom, I expect you to do it! Any questions?"
"Uh, yeah-" One of the clowns in the back of the room. "How do I get out?"
"You don't. Any other questions?"
There were none. Most of us were too stunned.
"Good." Whitlaw returned to the front of the room. "I expect a hundred percent attendance, one hundred percent of the time. There are no excuses. This class is about results. Most of you use your circumstances as reasons to not have results." He looked into our eyes as if he were looking into our souls. "That's over, starting now! From now on, your circumstances are merely the things you have to handle so you can have results."
One of the girls raised her hand. "What if we get sick?"
"Are you planning to?"
"No."
"Then you don't have to worry about it."
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