His audience shifted uneasily as their imaginations went to work.
“There’ll be casualties, of course,” Handy went on, perhaps disappointed by a lack of favor-able response. “There may even be heavy casualties before the enemy turns tail and flees, but the annals of military history are full of similar glorious episodes. Just think of the charge of the Light Brigade.”
Benger raised his hand. “Sir, I saw a movie about the charge of the Light Brigade. Didn’t they all get killed? Wasn’t it all a big mistake?”
“Ten tweaks, Benger,” Merriman ordered, his mouth sliding about with displeasure like a spotlight playing on a backdrop of teeth. Glad of the diversion, most of the audience turned to watch and listen to Benger sapping himself, but at that moment a shell exploded close by and they threw themselves flat. The shrapnel from it chittered through the vegetation, and when Peace sat up again he noticed that one man, only a few metres from him, was writhing in silent agony. Two others with Red Cross armbands picked him up and retreated as quickly as they could.
“I hope you all saw that,” Captain Handy said crisply. “I hope you all saw that and were comforted and encouraged. Thanks to their refusal to stay in the progressive interstellar society of the Federation the Ulphans are forced to rely on their obsolete projectile weapons. You soldiers of proud Terra, on the other hand, are armed with the finest radiation rifles available. Weapons of unlimited range and unsurpassed accuracy, each one worth a dozen of the enemy’s pathetic machine guns.
“Now I want you to go out there and use them. Use them well. Go out there, walking proud and tall and unafraid, and kill as many dirty Ulphans as you can and make the galaxy a fit place for all right-thinking beings to live in, that is, in which to live … er … in.”
Lieutenant Merriman, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was unnecessary, paddled his hands in the manner of a man damping down applause. “Men, I’m sure that, just as I am, you’re inspired and uplifted by those words from Captain Handy. But now, men, the time for talking is over—it’s time to go over the top.”
“It’s all right for him,” Peace muttered, an icy coldness growing in his stomach. “While we’re going over the top he’ll be back here.”
“No, he won’t,” Dinkle said, tightening the chinstrap of his helmet. “Those young loonies who’ve been through military academy lead all the charges. That’s why they don’t last long—I’ve never seen one older than about twenty.”
“What makes them do it?”
“Tradition, I guess. They’re all the same— crazy as loons.”
“That’s great,” Peace said bitterly as he watched Lieutenant Merriman get to his feet, give his windmill signal with one arm and scramble over the bank of churned earth. The sound of gunfire intensified immediately. Peace thought briefly about crouching down and refusing to move, but the invisible wire brushes went to work inside his head and, before he really knew what was happening, he was on his feet and running towards the Ulphan positions.
As before, the excessive roominess of his footwear made progress difficult and he saw the rest of his unit disappear into the smoke ahead of him. He curled his toes in an effort to hold the boots in place, and one of the odd interior projections he had noticed earlier moved downwards slightly. An instant later he was sailing through the air, like an Olympic ski-jumper making a fantastic leap, borne by the upwards pressure of his boots. Too astonished to cry out, Peace fought to maintain his balance and to keep his legs together as the boots tried to go off in different directions, threatening to pull him apart. They carried him, unseen, in a precarious parabola far above the heads of his companions, and for a few seconds he lost sight of the ground altogether. Suddenly the planet was rushing up to meet him and he landed with an undignified, one-legged, arm-swirling skid which ended when he pitched sideways into a clump of tobacco plants.
Winded and totally unnerved by his experience, he sat up and examined the red-and-gold boots with awe. The supply clerk at Fort Eccles had called them Startrooper Sevenleague boots, and Peace was belatedly realizing why—each had a miniature antigravity machine built into it. He was wondering if it would be safe to stand up again when a twig snapped some distance ahead of him. Peace looked up and saw a man in a tan uniform advancing cautiously through the haze. He was carrying an old type of firearm, which at once identified him as an Ulphan soldier, and he seemed almost as lost and bewildered as Peace felt.
Appalled and sickened by what he was doing, yet unable to disobey the command implanted in his mind, Peace raised his own vastly superior weapon. Anxious to give the Ulphan a quick, clean death, he aimed for the heart and pulled the trigger, unleashing a bolt of lethal radiation. A part of his mind was praying he would miss, but the deadly purple ray found its mark. The Ulphan clapped a hand to his chest, at the same time emitting a yelp of pain and surprise, then he spun round, levelled his rifle and squeezed off a burst of automatic fire in Peace’s direction.
Unable to understand why his supposed dinosaur gun had been unable to knock over a medium-sized man, Peace hunkered down into cover. There was no time for speculation about what had gone wrong, because—obsolete or not —the Ulphan soldier’s rifle was rapidly scything down his screen of vegetation, and it could only be a matter of seconds before a bullet ended Peace’s brief career in the Legion. He decided, in desperation, that the Sevenleague boots which had got him into this predicament represented his only hope of escape.
Making himself ready for flight, he began wiggling his toes and felt the control buttons click downwards.
Peace snatched a deep breath as the antigrav units came into operation, but—in place of the dizzy ascent he had been expecting—the boots propelled him directly forward in a flat trajectory. The Ulphan’s jaw sagged as he saw Peace, still in an undignified squatting position, zooming towards him through the murk. Dismayed by the further wayward behaviour of his footwear, Peace tried to stay on an even keel, but the boots surged ahead of his centre of gravity, tilting him backwards in the process. He felt a fierce impact on his behind and an instant later found himself rested squarely on the enemy soldier’s chest. His red-and-gold boots were dislodged in the collision and, relieved of any load, soared off into the sky like frightened parakeets. He watched with mixed feelings as they disappeared towards the zenith, then became aware that he no longer had his rifle and was probably in mortal danger. He made a belated grab for his opponent’s throat, but released it apologetically when he saw that the Ulphan, badly winded and unable to move, was gazing up at him in abject terror.
“Don’t try anything,” Peace said, getting to his feet. He located the two fallen rifles and was picking them up when the figures of Dinkle, Ryan and Farr emerged from the surrounding smoke.
“Warren! How did you get ahead of us? I thought you were…” Ryan’s eyes widened as he noticed the recumbent form of the Ulphan soldier. “Is he dead?”
“No.” Peace looked curiously at the Ulphan’s tan uniform and saw only a faint scorch mark on the left side of the chest. He turned to Dinkle and proffered his radiation rifle. “Do you see anything wrong with this? I shot him from about twenty metres and all it did was make him mad.”
Dinkle shrugged. “That always happens.”
“But we were told the rifles had unlimited range and…”
“Not in smoke—too much energy absorption by particles in the air. And it’s the sarnie in fog.”
Dinkle savored the morose pleasure that comes from imparting bad news. “In fact, any time there’s a touch of mist you could defend yourself better with a croquet mallet. And when there’s smoke…”