Future Wars . . . and Other Punchlines

by Hank Davis

  Blick grinned again. “Not if the suit was powered. If a man were to go up into the tower of the arsenal and pick the lock of the little door labeled ‘Danger! Absolutely No Admittance,’ he might find a whole stack of shiny little cubes that look suspiciously like the illustrations of power packs in the tech manuals.”

  “That he might,” agreed the colonel.

  Blick shifted back in his chair. “Aren’t worried, are you?”

  Colonel Harris shook his head. “I was for a moment when I thought you’d told the rest of the staff, but I’m not now.”

  “You should be! When the I.G. arrives this time, I’m going to be inside that suit. There’s going to be a new order around here, and he’s just what I need to put the stamp of approval on it. When the Inspector General talks, nobody questions!”

  He looked at Harris expectantly, waiting for a look of consternation to sweep across his face. The colonel just laughed.

  “Blick,” he said, “you’re in for a big surprise!”

  “What do you mean?” said the other suspiciously.

  “Simply that I know you better than you know yourself. You wouldn’t be executive officer if I didn’t. You know, Blick, I’ve got a hunch that the battalion is going to change the man more than the man is going to change the battalion. And now if you’ll excuse me—” He started toward the door. Blick moved to intercept him. “Don’t trouble yourself,” chuckled the colonel. “I can find my own way to the cell block.” There was a broad grin on his face. “Besides, you’ve got work to do.”

  There was a look of bewilderment in Blick’s face as the erect figure went out the door. “I don’t get it,” he said to himself. “I just don’t get it!”

  VIII

  Flight Officer Ozaki was unhappy. Trouble had started two hours after he lifted his battered scout off War Base Three and showed no signs of letting up. He sat glumly at his controls and enumerated his woes. First there was the matter of the air conditioner which had acquired an odd little hum and discharged into the cabin oxygen redolent with the rich, ripe odor of rotting fish. Secondly, something had happened to the complex insides of his food synthesizer and no matter what buttons he punched, all that emerged from the ejector were quivering slabs of undercooked protein base smeared with a raspberry-flavored goo.

  Not last, but worst of all, the ship’s fuel converter was rapidly becoming more erratic. Instead of a slow, steady feeding of the plutonite ribbon into the combustion chamber, there were moments when the mechanism would falter and then leap ahead. The resulting sudden injection of several square millimicrons of tape would send a sudden tremendous flare of energy spouting out through the rear jets. The pulse only lasted for a fraction of a second, but the sudden application of several Gs meant a momentary blackout and, unless he was strapped carefully into the pilot seat, several new bruises to add to the old.

  What made Ozaki the unhappiest was that there was nothing he could do about it. Pilots who wanted to stay alive just didn’t tinker with the mechanism of their ships.

  Glumly he pulled out another red-bordered IMMEDIATE MAINTENANCE card from the rack and began to fill it in.

  Description of item requiring maintenance: “Shower thermostat, M7, Small Standard.”

  Nature of malfunction: “Shower will deliver only boiling water.”

  Justification for immediate maintenance: Slowly in large, block letters Ozaki bitterly inked in “Haven’t had a bath since I left base!” and tossed the card into the already overflowing gripe box with a feeling of helpless anger.

  “Kitchen mechanics,” he muttered. “Couldn’t do a decent repair job if they wanted to—and most of the time they don’t. I’d like to see one of them three days out on a scout sweep with a toilet that won’t flush!”

  iX

  It was a roomy cell as cells go but Kurt wasn’t happy there. His continual striding up and down was making Colonel Harris nervous.

  “Relax, son,” he said gently, “you’ll just wear yourself out.”

  Kurt turned to face the colonel who was stretched out comfortably on his cot. “Sir,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “we’ve got to break out of here.”

  “What for?” asked Harris. “This is the first decent rest I’ve had in years.”

  “You aren’t going to let Blick get away with this?” demanded Kurt in a shocked voice.

  “Why not?” said the colonel. “He’s the exec, isn’t he? If something happened to me, he’d have to take over command anyway. He’s just going through the impatient stage, that’s all. A few days behind my desk will settle him down. In two weeks he’ll be so sick of the job he’ll be down on his knees begging me to take over again.”

  Kurt decided to try a new tack. “But, sir, he’s going to shut down the Tech Schools!”

  “A little vacation won’t hurt the kids,” said the colonel indulgently. “After a week or so the wives will get so sick of having them underfoot all day that they’ll turn the heat on him. Blick has six kids himself, and I’ve a hunch his wife won’t be any happier than the rest. She’s a very determined woman, Kurt, a very determined woman!”

  Kurt had a feeling he was getting no place rapidly. “Please, sir,” he said earnestly, “I’ve got a plan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Just before the guard makes his evening check-in, stretch out on the bed and start moaning. I’ll yell that you’re dying and when he comes in to check, I’ll jump him!”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” said the colonel sternly. “Sergeant Wetzel is an old friend of mine. Can’t you get it through your thick head that I don’t want to escape? When you’ve held command as long as I have, you’ll welcome a chance for a little peace and quiet. I know Blick inside out, and I’m not worried about him. But, if you’ve got your heart set on escaping, I suppose there’s no particular reason why you shouldn’t. Do it the easy way though. Like this.” He walked to the bars that fronted the cell and bellowed, “Sergeant Wetzel! Sergeant Wetzel!”

  “Coming, sir!” called a voice from down the corridor. There was a shuffle of running feet and a gray scalp-locked and extremely portly sergeant puffed into view.

  “What will it be, sir?” he asked.

  “Colonel Blick or any of the staff around?” questioned the colonel.

  “No, sir,” said the sergeant. “They’re all upstairs celebrating.”

  “Good!” said Harris. “Unlock the door, will you?”

  “Anything you say, Colonel,” said the old man agreeably and produced a large key from his pouch and fitted it into the lock. There was a slight creaking and the door swung open.

  “Young Dixon here wants to escape,” said the colonel.

  “It’s all right by me,” replied the sergeant, “though it’s going to be awkward when Colonel Blick asks what happened to him.”

  “The lieutenant has a plan,” confided the colonel. “He’s going to overpower you and escape.”

  “There’s more to it than just that!” said Kurt. “I’m figuring on swapping uniforms with you. That way I can walk right out through the front gate without anybody being the wiser.”

  “That,” said the sergeant, slowly looking down at his sixty-three inch waist, “will take a heap of doing. You’re welcome to try though.”

  “Let’s get on with it then,” said Kurt, winding up a roundhouse swing.

  “If it’s all the same with you, Lieutenant,” said the old sergeant, eyeing Kurt’s rocklike fist nervously, “I’d rather have the colonel do any overpowering that’s got to be done.”

  Colonel Harris grinned and walked over to Wetzel.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready!”

  Harris’ fist traveled a bare five inches and tapped Wetzel lightly on the chin.

  “Oof!” grunted the sergeant cooperatively and staggered back to a point where he could collapse on the softest of the two cots.

  The exchange of clothes was quickly effected. Except for the pants—which persisted in dropping down to Kurt’s ankles—an
d the war bonnet—which with equal persistence kept sliding down over his ears—he was ready to go. The pants problem was solved easily by stuffing a pillow inside them. This Kurt fondly believed made him look more like the rotund sergeant than ever. The garrison bonnet presented a more difficult problem, but he finally achieved a partial solution. By holding it up with his left hand and keeping the palm tightly pressed against his forehead, it should appear to the casual observer that he was walking engrossed in deep thought.

  The first two hundred yards were easy. The corridor was deserted and he plodded confidently along, the great war bonnet wobbling sedately on his head in spite of his best efforts to keep it steady. When he finally reached the exit gate, he knocked on it firmly and called to the duty sergeant.

  “Open up! It’s Wetzel.”

  Unfortunately, just then he grew careless and let go of his headgear. As the door swung open, the great war bonnet swooped down over his ears and came to rest on his shoulders. The result was that where his head normally was there could be seen only a nest of weaving feathers. The duty sergeant’s jaw suddenly dropped as he got a good look at the strange figure that stood in the darkened corridor. And then with remarkable presence of mind he slammed the door shut in Kurt’s face and clicked the bolt.

  “Sergeant of the guard!” he bawled. “Sergeant of the guard! There’s a thing in the corridor!”

  “What kind of a thing?” inquired a sleepy voice from the guard room.

  “A horrible kind of a thing with wiggling feathers where its head ought to be,” replied the sergeant.

  “Get its name, rank, and serial number,” said the sleepy voice.

  Kurt didn’t wait to hear any more. Disentangling himself from the headdress with some difficulty, he hurled it aside and pelted back down the corridor.

  Lieutenant Dixon wandered back into the cell with a crestfallen look on his face. Colonel Harris and the old sergeant were so deeply engrossed in a game of “rockets high” that they didn’t even see him at first. Kurt coughed and the colonel looked up.

  “Change your mind?”

  “No, sir,” said Kurt. “Something slipped.”

  “What?” asked the colonel.

  “Sergeant Wetzel’s war bonnet. I’d rather not talk about it.” He sank down on his bunk and buried his head in his hands.

  “Excuse me,” said the sergeant apologetically, “but if the lieutenant’s through with my pants, I’d like to have them back. There’s a draft in here.”

  Kurt silently exchanged clothes and then moodily walked over to the grille that barred the window and stood looking out.

  “Why not go upstairs to officers’ country and out that way?” suggested the sergeant, who hated the idea of being overpowered for nothing. “If you can get to the front gate without one of the staff spotting you, you can walk right out. The sentry never notices faces, he just checks for insignia.”

  Kurt grabbed Sergeant Wetzel’s plump hand and wrung it warmly. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he stammered.

  “Then it’s about time you learned,” said the colonel. “The usual practice in civilized battalions is to say ‘thank you.’ ”

  “Thank you!” said Kurt.

  “Quite all right,” said the sergeant. “Take the first stairway to your left. When you get to the top, turn left again and the corridor will take you straight to the exit.”

  Kurt got safely to the top of the stairs and turned right. Three hundred feet later the corridor ended in a blank wall. A small passageway angled off to the left and he set off down it. It also came to a dead end in a small anteroom whose farther wall was occupied by a set of great bronze doors. He turned and started to retrace his steps. He had almost reached the main corridor when he heard angry voices sounding from it. He peeked cautiously around the corridor. His escape route was blocked by two officers engaged in acrimonious argument. Neither was too sober and the captain obviously wasn’t giving the major the respect that a field officer usually commanded.

  “I don’t care what she said!” the captain shouted. “I saw her first.”

  The major grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back against the wall. “It doesn’t matter who saw her first. You keep away from her or there’s going to be trouble!”

  The captain’s face flushed with rage. With a snarl he tore off the major’s breechcloth and struck him in the face with it. The major’s face grew hard and cold. He stepped back, clicked his calloused heels together, and bowed slightly.

  “Axes or fists?”

  “Axes,” snapped the captain.

  “May I suggest the armory anteroom?” said the major formally. “We won’t be disturbed there.”

  “As you wish, sir,” said the captain with equal formality. “Your breechcloth, sir.” The major donned it with dignity and they started down the hall toward Kurt. He turned and fled back down the corridor.

  In a second he was back in the anteroom. Unless he did something quickly he was trapped. Two flaming torches were set in brackets on each side of the great bronze door. As flickering pools of shadow chased each other across the worn stone floor, Kurt searched desperately for some other way out. There was none. The only possible exit was through the bronze portals. The voices behind him grew louder. He ran forward, grabbed a projecting handle, and pulled. One door creaked open slightly and with a sigh of relief Kurt slipped inside.

  There were no torches here. The great hall stood in half-darkness, its only illumination the pale moonlight that streamed down through the arching skylight that formed the central ceiling. He stood for a moment in awe, impressed in spite of himself by the strange unfamiliar shapes that loomed before him in the half-darkness. He was suddenly brought back to reality by the sound of voices in the anteroom.

  “Hey! The armory door’s open!”

  “So what? That place is off limits to everybody but the CO.”

  “Blick won’t care. Let’s fight in there. There should be more room.”

  Kurt quickly scanned the hall for a safe hiding place. At the far end stood what looked like a great bronze statue, its burnished surface gleaming dimly in the moonlight. As the door swung open behind him, he slipped cautiously through the shadows until he reached it. It looked like a coffin with feet, but to one side of it there was a dark pool of shadow. He slipped into it and pressed himself close against the cold metal. As he did so his hipbone pressed against a slight protrusion and with a slight clicking sound, a hinged middle section of the metallic figure swung open, exposing a dark cavity. The thing was hollow!

  Kurt had a sudden idea. Even if they do come down here, he thought, they’d never think of looking inside this thing! With some difficulty he wiggled inside and pulled the hatch shut after him. There were legs to the thing—his own fit snugly into them—but no arms.

  The two officers strode out of the shadows at the other end of the hall. They stopped in the center of the armory and faced each other like fighting cocks. Kurt gave a sigh of relief. It looked as if he were safe for the moment.

  There was a sudden wicked glitter of moonlight on ax-heads as their weapons leaped into their hands. They stood frozen for a moment in a murderous tableau and then the captain’s ax hummed toward his opponent’s head in a vicious slash. There was a shower of sparks as the major parried and then with a quick wrist twist sent his own weapon looping down toward the captain’s midriff. The other pulled his ax down to ward the blow, but he was only partially successful. The keen obsidian edge raked his ribs and blood dripped darkly in the moonlight.

  As Kurt watched intently, he began to feel the first faint stirrings of claustrophobia. The Imperial designers had planned their battle armor for efficiency rather than comfort and Kurt felt as if he were locked away in a cramped dark closet. His malaise wasn’t helped by a sudden realization that when the men left they might very well lock the door behind them. His decision to change his hiding place was hastened when a bank of dark clouds swept across the face of the moon. The flood of light poured down thro
ugh the skylight suddenly dimmed until Kurt could barely make out the pirouetting forms of the two officers who were fighting in the center of the hall.

  This was his chance. If he could slip down the darkened side of the hall before the moon lighted up the hall again, he might be able to slip out of the hall unobserved. He pushed against the closed hatch through which he entered. It refused to open. A feeling of trapped panic started to roll over him, but he fought it back. “There must be some way to open this from the inside,” he thought.

  As his fingers wandered over the dark interior of the suit looking for a release lever, they encountered a bank of keys set just below his midriff. He pressed one experimentally. A quiet hum filled the armor and suddenly a feeling of weightlessness came over him. He stiffened in fright. As he did so one of his steel shod feet pushed lightly backwards against the floor. That was enough. Slowly, like a child’s balloon caught in a light draft, he drifted toward the center of the hall. He struggled violently, but since he was now several inches above the floor and rising slowly it did him no good.

  The fight was progressing splendidly. Both men were master ax-men, and in spite of being slightly drunk, were putting on a brilliant exhibition. Each was bleeding from a dozen minor slashes, but neither had been seriously axed as yet. Their flashing strokes and counters were masterful, so masterful that Kurt slowly forgot his increasingly awkward situation as he became more and more absorbed in the fight before him. The blond captain was slightly the better axman, but the major compensated for it by occasionally whistling in cuts that to Kurt’s experienced eye seemed perilously close to fouls. He grew steadily more partisan in his feelings until one particularly unscrupulous attempt broke down his restraint altogether. “Pull down your guard!” he screamed to the captain. “He’s trying to cut you below the belt!” His voice reverberated within the battle suit and boomed out with strange metallic overtones.

  Both men whirled in the direction of the sound. They could see nothing for a moment and then the major caught sight of the strange menacing figure looming above him in the murky darkness.