Ryan stepped back. “I’ll be buggered!”
“Language!” Merriman said, frowning, then his brow cleared. “Don’t worry, Ryan—it’s within my discretion to allow you and Peace some extra rest and recreation time as a reward for loyal service, and that’s what I’m going to do. You’re going to enjoy the maximum leave period with the rest of the unit. Four hours.”
“Four hours,” Ryan whispered. “I don’t believe this. It’s too much.”
“No—you’ve earned it, and you’ll be even more pleased to hear that it doesn’t include travelling time.” Merriman swelled with benevolence as he beamed at Ryan. “Your four hours won’t even begin until you step off the ship on Aspatria.”
Peace, who had been listening to the conversation with considerable interest, felt his heart give a wild lurch at the mention of Aspatria. He resolved to do nothing which might attract undue attention and, simultaneously, his fingers opened of their own accord and allowed his bowl of gruel to upend itself in his lap. Lieutenant Merriman stared at him with distaste as he got to his feet and tried to brush the porridge off his ragged hose.
“What are you getting so excited about, Peace?” Merriman said. “You aren’t hoping to desert on Aspatria, are you?”
“Of course not, sir.” Peace simpered at him in a manner he hoped would be expressive of total loyalty and devotion to duty.
“That’s good, because …” Merriman fingered the lump on his throat, “… I’m giving you all a direct order to be back at the Legion field and on board ship—ready to leave—not more than four hours after we reach Touchdown City. Now, line up and collect your pay packets and leave suits.”
Peace queued with the rest of the unit and was issued with an envelope bearing his name, -together with a two-piece suit of a material which resembled crepe paper. He was grateful for the Legion’s consideration in providing clean clothing until he opened his packet and found that, of the three hundred monits due to him, a hundred had been deducted for the paper suit and a further forty had been put into the regiment’s retirement fund. The latter item, considering the average life expectancy of a legionary, suggested corruption in high places, but at least he still had the price of a good meal in the Blue Toad.
And, with luck, during the two hours or so that it would take to consume it he would pick up a vital clue to his past. He had no clear idea of what he was hoping to find—perhaps a waiter who remembered him, perhaps his name and address on a creditputer card—but this was the only chance he had and he was determined to grasp it with both hands. It would be necessary for him to hide out when his desertion was noticed by the Legion, but in its three centuries of existence Touchdown City had grown large enough to house a population of four million, and he was confident he could remain undiscovered for weeks or months. That, hopefully, would be ample time in which to follow up any clues he found. There was always the possibility that he had never actually been near Aspatria, that he had found or been given the little plastic souvenir, but this did not bear contemplation and he pushed the idea out of his mind.
Lieutenant Merriman led his depleted band to a waiting ship, which proved different from the type Peace already knew in that the passenger compartment was larger and included a locker room with toilet and shower facilities. As soon as the klaxon had sounded, and the vessel had begun its inertialess flight, he went into the locker room where the sergeant, who also served as toilet attendant, gave him the option of a cold shower for five monits or a hot one for twenty. Peace chose the expensive luxury, but economized by not renting a shaver to remove the short red-gold beard he had grown during his month of service. The face which gazed back at him in the mirror was leaner, harder and more mature than the one he remembered.
“What do you think of the beard?” he said to Ryan, who was donning his paper suit close by.
“It gives you a certain je ne sais quoi,” Ryan replied, “but I don’t know what it is.”
Peace stared at his companion. “Another of your so-called jokes?”
“What do you mean so-called?” Ryan said indignantly. “You’re lucky to have me around to cheer you up.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” It dawned on Peace that he had developed a real affection for Ryan, the only friend he could remember having, and that if his plans worked out they would shortly be parting for ever. It was ironic that he, who had begun by earnestly committing his life to the Legion, was about to make an early escape, while Ryan—who had joined in the spirit of somebody taking a week at a health farm—was doomed to soldier on until he died. Peace thought about the matter for a few seconds and decided to take a dangerous risk. He glanced around the room to make sure nobody could see what he was doing, then he took Ryan’s plastic helmet out of his locker and replaced it with his own.
Ryan looked perplexed. “What’s the idea, Warren?”
“I’m giving you my built-in hi-fi.” Peace pointed at the command neutralizer before concealing it by turning the helmet over. “I won’t need it any more.”
“But what about when you come back?” Ryan’s voice faded as he saw that Peace was shaking his head. “Warren, are you saying what I think you’re saying? I knew you were a bright boy, but this is too—”
Peace signalled him to keep quiet and in a confidential whisper explained how his invention operated. “It’ll help you to stay alive till you get a good chance to duck out,” he concluded.
“Do it in a battle zone, if possible, and they’ll write you off as missing, presumed dead. They won’t even bother to look for you.”
“Why aren’t you doing that?”
“I’ve got business on Aspatria,” Peace said. “At least, I think I have. Perhaps I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so. And I hope you find what you’re looking for, Warren.”
The two men shook hands and, feeling quite distressed, Peace hurried out into the passenger compartment and dropped on to a bench beside Private Dinkle, who was staring dully at the floor. At the impact of Peace’s arrival, Dinkle started violently, crossed himself and sank back into his gloomy torpor.
“Cheer up, Bud,” Peace said. “You’re going on leave!”
Dinkle stirred slightly. “On Aspatria? You can keep it.”
“Bad scene, is it?”
“Not any more, it isn’t—not since we beat hell out of the Aspatrians back in ‘83.”
“But you’re not happy about going there?”
Dinkle nodded slowly. “Too many memories.”
“My trouble is I haven’t enough.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever had to shoot a buddy who had a throwrug over him. There oughta be a limit to what a man has to do.”
Peace felt an inexplicable chill. His brief spell in the Legion had made him conversant with many unpleasant ways of entering the hereafter, but the scene described by Dinkle always had the effect of making his blood corpuscles turn into millions of tiny clunking ice cubes. He shivered slightly and tried to offer a little comfort.
“What’s done,” he said, “is done.”
Dinkle fixed him with a leaden eye. “Is that some advanced philosophy? Have you just extended the boundaries of human thought?”
“There’s no need to take it like that,” Peace said, offended. “All I meant was … the past’s over and done with.”
“The Oscar’s aren’t over and done with, sonny.” Dinkle crossed himself once more.
The strange dread returned to Peace in full force, but his curiosity was aroused. “What are these Oscars you keep talking about?”
“Supermen, sonny. Big guys with bald heads and muscles all over the place. They look like they’re made out of polished bronze.”