A Company of Heroes Book Five: The Space Cadet

by Ron Miller

  “I didn’t know you hung around with this group.”

  “I don’t,” he replied to her infinite relief. “This whole affair is Pomfret’s idea.”

  “That explains the company then.”

  “Well, there’s no reason why we still can’t have some fun. The quarry’s big enough for everyone.”

  There were implications and innuendos to that statement that were not lost upon a crackerjack mind such as Judikha’s. Rhys was deliberately suggesting they consider themselves as something apart from the rest of the group. A separate unit unto themselves. Oh my! Now what should I do? She had no answer; her Rhysocentric fantasies had never dared go so far as this.

  “I hate it when it’s this hot this late in the day,” he said. “I’m covered with dust. It’s all over the inside of my mouth. Feels like ground glass. Let’s go for a swim and wash off before we eat, otherwise everything’ll taste like mud.”

  “All right,” she agreed shakily, barely able to speak. “Practically everyone’s left the pool anyway. We can have it almost to ourselves.”

  They had circled the pit to a point diametrically opposite the others, about five hundred feet distant, where there was a sort of little cove, a cup of dark green water. Rhys immediately began to shed his clothing and Judikha, with much more self-consciousness than she had ever thought she possessed, did the same. For some reason she found unaccountable, she tried to resist the temptation to look at the rapidly denuding boy although a few minutes earlier she would have said it was one of her fondest wishes. Fortunately, good sense won out against such unfamiliar modesty and she was almost dizzied by the lean, pale figure. Where in the world did someone like him ever get muscles like that? and how has he been managing to hide them? It must come from living on a farm, wrestling cows and heaving bales of hay or whatever it is they do there. Those hard, flat muscles look like slate shingles. Great Musrum almighty, I hope he doesn’t look at me!

  To her disappointment she got her wish as Rhys plunged into the pool without as much as a backward glance, which was a little disconcerting. Didn’t he want to look? Judikha didn’t hesitate another second before following. Even though the metallic water stung her eyes, she opened them, looking around for Rhys. There he was, not ten feet ahead, shooting for the surface like a silvery torpedo. They broke into the air together.

  “Ptuh!” he spat. “This water tastes like medicine!”

  “I’m told it’s great for getting rid of lice and such.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not that I was suggesting for a moment that...”

  He dived under before her apology had reached its full clumsiness. She felt one of her ankles grasped and before she could react was jerked under. She kicked, broke free and grappled for her sleek attacker. Instead, she found herself enfolded from behind by long, hard arms that pressed against her breasts, was conscious of a warm body that touched her from shoulders to buttocks. She spun in his grasp, wriggling like an eel, felt her breasts flattening against his chest, his hands filling the convex arch of her back. Something brushed against her pubes, and somewhere within her loins there was a sudden rush of warmth, a pressure, a kind of convulsion like a fist clenching. She broke from Rhys’ grasp with a violence that took both of them by surprise.

  For half an hour more they played like otters, but with their touches now discrete, brief, tentative, self-conscious.

  They clambered from the water and, backs silently turned to one another with that illogical modesty encouraged by familiarity, dressed. Judikha was conscious that this new discretion indicated that something between them had changed. But what was it? And was it for good or for ill?

  The sky had grown purple since they had begun their swim and the Ring was a ghostly rainbow while the lambent, swirling glow of the furnaces reflected from the low clouds.

  “Let’s sit over here,” Rhys suggested, gesturing toward a flat rock that overlooked the pool. While she squatted there hugging her knees, he knelt beside her and fumbled open the paper bag he’d brought. First he took out a square of newspaper which he spread neatly on the rock, smoothing it flat with his hands. In the center of this he placed a half-loaf of bread that did not appear to have gone entirely stale, a chunk of hard, orange cheese and a bottle of wine. Judikha picked this up with some admiration.

  “Where did you get wine?”

  “Oh, well—” He was actually blushing, Judikha noticed, considerably charmed. “Well—I’ve been saving up for something special. It was nothing, really.”

  In reply Judikha reached inside her folded jacket and, with a magician’s gesture, brought forth a sausage as big as both her fists together.

  “Where did you get that?” Rhys asked in amazement.

  “I picked it up on the way here.”

  “On the way? I was with you the whole time. You never stopped anywhere or picked anything up.”

  “Well—” Damn it, now she felt herself blushing. “It’s just something I’m good at, that’s all.”

  Rhys was silent for a moment, apparently chewing on a thought as though it were a bit of mental gristle. “You mean you stole it?”

  Judikha bristled. “Did I ask you so many questions?”

  “I’m sorry. Never mind. Here, you open the bottle while I get a knife for the cheese and, uh, sausage.”

  They ate and drank in silence. The sun was well behind the fuming barricade of the Transmoltus; the quarry was filling with indigo shadows. She noticed that some of the boys and girls were slipping into the spreading pools of darkness, not that it did them any good—she could see perfectly well what they were doing. She hoped—perversely—that Rhys did not notice what was going on around them, or, rather, that she was noticing.

  “Have you seen Pomfret?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I haven’t seen Pomfret around yet. Have you?”

  “I haven’t made any particular effort to notice anyone, least of all him.”

  “Well, this was his idea, after all.”

  Well, thank you very much.

  “Though I’m awfully glad he suggested it,” he continued, and she was glad that she’d kept her thought to herself.

  “I’m glad, too,” she ventured.

  “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. That was awfully personal.”

  “No, no. That’s all right.”

  “It’s really none of my business.”

  “I didn’t mind at all.”

  “If you’re sure...?”

  “It’s all right. No, I don’t have a boyfriend. It’s certainly no secret. In fact, I’ll tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t mind. I’d like to.”

  “Well, it’s entirely up to you.”

  “It’s just that...well, being here with you and all.”

  “You can tell me anything you want.”

  “That’s just what I mean. I trust you.”

  “Thank you very much. That’s a fine compliment.”

  He had no idea how much of a compliment it was; indeed, it was a two-fold compliment: she had never told anyone such a thing in all her life—she never told anyone anything for that matter— nor had she ever before placed her trust in another human being. She herself couldn’t believe what she had just said.

  “I’ve never had any boyfriends—before now,” she added boldly, glancing sideways quickly to see if that subtlety had missed him. Apparently it had.

  “I’m really surprised,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, you’re not at all bad-looking.”

  “There’s a laugh!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, just look!”

  “I am looking.”

  “Oh come on! I’m a string bean! I’m as flat-chested as an ironing board and I have a big nose!”

  “I always thought you looke
d kind of lithe and aristocratic.”

  “Oh, right!”

  “Well, I’d say that my opinion counts for more than yours because I have to look at you more often than you do. Therefore, if I like what I see, your opinion isn’t really relevant. Besides, do you really want to look like those pudgy, cow-faced girls? They make my skin crawl. I’m really surprised you don’t think you’re good-looking. You’re, well, you’re very unusual-looking.”

  “I know that much.”

  “No. I mean—how can I say this? Most things that are really beautiful have something unusual about them, something different. There was something some old philosopher said...I can’t remember...oh, yes! ‘There is no great beauty that hath not some strangeness in its proportion.’”

  “Yeah, I’m strange all right.”

  “You have beautiful eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so large. And they’re so dark I can see my reflection in them—they’re like drops of black oil. And you have those black, hooked eyebrows that look exactly like a pair of circumflex accent. They make you look like you’re questioning or doubting everything. And you’ve got cheekbones that look like those slate ledges over there.”

  “So what about my nose, then?”

  “It’s like the gnomon on a sundial.”

  “My lips are too thin.”

  “But you have a charming smile. And your teeth—”

  “Are too small.”

  “—are like two strands of pearls, all exactly alike.”

  “I’m awfully tall and scrawny.”

  “You’re as supple and graceful as a boa constrictor.”

  “You’re turning me into a poem!” she laughed.

  “I wish you laughed more often. You’re definitely very pretty when you laugh.”

  “You’re very sweet, Rhys, to say all of this. But I know what I am.”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong and eventually you’ll stop being so stubborn and admit that I’m right.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have to convince me.”

  “I thought that’s what I was just now trying to do.” He suddenly grew serious, almost solemn. He looked at his hands, which were wringing themselves in his lap, with some surprise, as though he hadn’t expected to find them there. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Judikha.”

  Holy Musrum! Is this going to be it? She felt a wave of dizziness. Stop it! for heaven’s sake—you’re going to embarrass yourself!

  “Wha—what’s that?”

  “Well, this might seem awfully personal—I mean, we’ve barely gotten to know one another...”

  “But we’re fixing that now, aren’t we?”

  “True. I have to admit I respect your levelheadedness and practical outlook more than ever. Look here, Judikha, I can be big enough to confess that I’ve been a snob—I looked down on you. There. I’ve said it. I thought less of you just because, because of, well, just because of who you were, where you came from. Oh, this is coming out all wrong!”

  “Never mind. Go ahead. Please.” It was becoming hard to breath. What was happening? Was she having some sort of asthmatic fit? Had the water of the pool finally poisoned her?

  “Well—it’s not right to think less of someone just because they’ve lived differently than you or have different standards or whatever. I finally got off my high horse and realized that in spite of appearances you really were a very decent person. Not at all like those,” he said, gesturing into the surrounding, grunting, giggling shadows.

  “Thanks.”

  “Well—there’s no one else I’d rather turn to for advice.”

  “Advice?”

  “Yes. Well—I might as well blurt it out and get it over with. Everyone in the school probably knows anyway—what do you think of Bettina?”

  “Bettina?”

  “Yes. Bettina Henlopen. I think she’s just wonderful. I know the two of you are pretty close; you’re probably her best friend. What do you think my chances would be if I asked to see her? Be as honest as you can. Say! Where are you going? Judikha? Where are you going?”

  That night, Judikha brought a cobblestone to her room and ground into powder every mirror she owned.

  Both Mr. Grun and the headmaster were waiting for Judikha the next morning. She looked at them with disinterested, dull red eyes. Without any explanation, she was escorted to the latter’s office. The headmaster sat behind his desk and Mr. Grun stood just to his left. They indicated with a gesture that Judikha was expected to take the single wooden chair that was placed in the center of the room, facing the heavy, sarcophagus-like desk. So far not a word had been spoken by anyone. She sat, demurely and quietly, not at all certain what was going on, yet not in the least apprehensive. She had too many other things on her mind to be particularly curious about whatever trivial problems the two men might have. She’d been in the headmaster’s office often enough before; she’d listen to whatever he had to say and then get back to class and her work. She knew that she never stepped so far over the bounds of propriety that there was ever anything to fear but the waste of her time.

  There was a very long silence. Then the headmaster spoke. His voice was grim and unfriendly.

  “You planned to take the Space Patrol Academy Entrance Examination, didn’t you, Miss Judikha?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This was important to you, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very important?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you characterize yourself as ambitious?”

  “I guess I would, sir. At least, I know that I have to get—must get into the Academy.”

  “How badly did you want to get in?”

  “I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything, sir.” She was dimly aware that the headmaster had used the past tense. Did. It hadn’t sounded right.

  “Would you say that you’d do anything to pass that exam?”

  “Yes, sir, I suppose so,” she replied and knew immediately that, for some reason, it was entirely the wrong answer. She was suddenly wide awake, wrenched from her self-absorption like a dozing cat startled by an unexpected noise. What was going on here?

  The headmaster reached into the top drawer of his desk and brought out a small blue book. He tossed it onto the geometrical center of his blotter. His expression was smug and Judikha knew that the punch line must be a good one.

  “Miss Judikha, do you know what that is?”

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  “You’ve never seen it before?”

  “No, sir.”

  Again the headmaster glanced at Mr. Grun. The teacher’s face was as expressionless as a snake’s.

  “Miss Judikha, I believe you know perfectly well what it is.”

  “Sir?”

  The headmaster leaned back into his chair, placed his fingertips together and sighed. Mr. Grun kept his silence, but—knowing that his superior could not see him—suddenly leered at her. The lascivious sneer lasted only a moment, like a rabid animal peeping from its hiding place, but Judikha saw it, as she was intended to, and it frightened her badly. Whatever was about to happen was going to be unique and it was going to be devastating. She was sure of that.

  “Miss Judikha,” continued the headmaster, “you and I both know what this book is: it’s the instructor’s copy of the Patrol examination. It was taken from Mr. Grun’s desk last night and returned this morning. It was cleverly planned that he would never notice its temporary disappearance, but that plan was not quite clever enough.”

  “Sir, if you’re suggesting that I took it...”

  “I’m ‘suggesting’ no such thing, young lady. There’s no ‘suggestion’ about it. I know, Mr. Grun knows and you know that you removed it.”

  “I did not!”

  “No? I think we have sufficient evidence to the contrary.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Oh? Do you think so because you believe you were too clever?”

  “I think so because I had noth
ing to do with it.”

  “Do you recognize this?” he asked, tossing another object onto the blotter. It was Judikha’s locket.

  “Well?” he urged.

  Her hand went to her throat and for the first time she realized that the locket was missing. It was a gesture she regretted making the moment her hand had begun to move.

  “Yes, I recognize it.”

  “Mr. Grun found it inside his locked desk drawer this morning. How do you suppose it got there?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Someone must have taken it and put it there.”

  “‘Someone must have taken it.’ Do you have any idea how feeble that sounds? How pitiful? How desperate?”

  “I can’t help that, sir. It must be true.”

  “No, Miss Judikha. The truth is much simpler than that.”

  “But, sir, just because Mr. Grun found my locket in his desk doesn’t mean anything. Someone could have taken it. You have to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I would be inclined to do so under any other circumstances, or for any other student. Admittedly, although your record is far from exemplary, and your behavior is not at all in keeping with the decorum expected—indeed, demanded—of a young lady your age, your grades have been excellent. And you’ve been in no really serious trouble—until now, no more trouble I must admit than any other child your age. Taken by itself, that would seem to indicate that there’d be no good reason for you to want to crib the examination.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “That is, if there weren’t corroborating evidence.”

  “Sir?”

  “Mr. Grun?”

  The teacher nodded and went to the door. He opened it an inch or two and spoke to someone on the other side. He turned back to face the headmaster as the door swung open and someone entered the room. Judikha risked a surreptitious glance and was amazed to see Pomfret, his face a pale mask, taking a seat to her right. What was he doing here? They never spoke, other than that one time the previous day, they never associated with one another. What could he know about this?