“Things are looking worse,” Ryan whispered in his ear. “I may not even stay long enough to complete basic training.”
“Now that we know exactly where we stand,” Toogood said, “which one of you upset Sergeant Cleet?”
Peace considered keeping quiet and remaining within the comradely protection of the group, but there was an immediate return of the sandpapering effect on the surface of his brain.
Simultaneously, the group—apparently feeling no desire to go into the comradely protection business—shoved him forward with a collective hand.
Trying to look as though he had advanced of his own accord, he fluttered his fingers and said, “I did it, sir. Private Peace. I didn’t mean to…”
“Full marks, Peace,” Toogood interrupted. “What you did shows courage and a quick grasp of the situation— I think you’ll be a useful man in the front line.”
He directed his stern gaze at the other recruits. “The thing which Peace realized immediately— but which the rest of you were too slow to grasp— is that the non-commissioned officer is an anachronism, a virtually useless appendage in the modern army. In the old days his function was that of enforcing discipline, acting as an interface between officers and rankers. But, now that we have the command enforcer and mental conditioning techniques, corporals, sergeants, warrant officers and all others of that ilk are almost redundant. They still exist to carry out the most menial tasks, but no man is given the rank of sergeant until he has proved he’s too stupid or cowardly to serve in any other capacity.”
Toogood drew delicately on his cigarette and his eyes became even harder. “Looking at you men, my first impression is that—with the exception of Private Peace—the Legion has just acquired a bunch of potential NCOs.”
Stung by the insult, the rest of the group stirred uneasily and Peace, still mindful of their lack of solidarity, was unable to resist giving them a smug glance.
” Don’t get too full of yourself, Peace,” Toogood continued, withdrawing his approval.
“Sergeant Cleet has locked himself in the toilets. He’s probably crying, which means he’ll be good for nothing for the rest of the day—and that throws extra work on to me. I’m going to overlook it this time, but you’d all better remember that being tough on sergeants and upsetting them is misconduct which calls for considerable sapping.
“A few of you may already have been introduced to the tweak, but I assure you it’s nothing compared to some of the saps I specialize in.” Toogood smiled unpleasantly through plumes of smoke.
“That settles it,” Ryan muttered to Peace. “I’m not going to stay in this outfit—I’ll take my chances outside with the law.”
“Stop talking and follow me,” Toogood ordered, leading the way to a table on which sat a square metal box. He removed the lid of the box, revealing a greenish interior glow which showed it was a molecular disintegrator of the type used for domestic garbage disposal. The seven recruits glanced at each other nervously and Toogood’s smile broadened into a grin.
“This is the bit I always enjoy most,” he said. “In every batch of rookies there are always a few smart alecs who think they can beat the system. And how do they plan to beat the system?
Why, by hiding little memory-joggers somewhere on their persons. Little notes. Little tape recordings. Mi-crodots.” Toogood was still grinning, but his gaze raked the group like machine-gun fire.
“Listen closely to the following order. Any of you who have such mementos tucked away will now produce them, and—without attempting to read their contents—drop them in here.” He illustrated his command by flicking the stub of his cigarette into the disintegrator. The glow within brightened momentarily as the cigarette end was converted to invisible dust.
Toogood’s words were followed by a deathly silence which lasted perhaps three seconds, although it seemed to Peace to go on forever. He glanced at Ryan and Fair. Their faces were horribly contorted and he guessed both men were enduring the agonies of cerebral sandpapering as their wills clashed with their mental conditioning. Finally, Ryan took a small envelope from the pocket of his sparkling green suit and, with trembling fingers, dropped it into the waiting box. Fan-did the same with a scrap of paper removed from his left sock, while others in the line fumbled similar items out of their underwear and from beneath wristwatch straps. The disintegrator cast a Mephistophelian glow over Toogood’s features as it devoured the souvenirs of forgotten crimes and follies.
“That’s better,” he said benignly. “You’ll feel a deep inner peace and contentment now that you’ve rid yourselves of temptation, now that you know you’re fully committed to the Legion.
How about you, Ryan? You feel better already, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan gritted. For a man who was supposed to be enjoying deep inner peace and contentment he looked strangely ill.
Toogood nodded. “Again, full marks to Private Peace—he was the only one of you who came here today with the honest intention of devoting his life to the Legion. I like that. Do you come from a military family, Peace?”
Peace blinked at him. “I don’t know, sir.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I don’t know what sort of family I come from. My memory’s all been wiped out.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t remember anything that happened before I came round in that chair.”
Toogood looked impressed. “You must have been a monster, Peace. Your whole life must have been steeped in crime and guilt.”
“Yes, sir,” Peace said unhappily. Repeated assurances that he had been some kind of Anti-Christ in his former existence were beginning to have a bludgeoning effect on him. He wished Toogood would drop the subject and let him forget that he had nothing to remember.
“It’s funny, but you don’t look like a monster.” Toogood approached Peace and stared intently into his face. “Or do you? Wait! I think I… Has your picture been in the papers?”
“How would I know?” Peace snapped, losing his patience.
“Don’t get prickly with me, Peace.” Toogood tapped the lump on his throat as he spoke. “Remember this. You’re in the Legion now—with no gang of thugs and murderers to back you up.”
“Hold on a minute,” Peace protested. “I hadn’t any gang.”
“How do you know? Can you remember not having one?”
“Ah … no.”
“There you are,” Toogood said triumphantly.
Recognizing the same kind of logical ploy that had been used on him by Captain Widget, Peace made up his mind to avoid arguing with officers who had years of practice in dealing with amnesiacs. He glanced hopefully past the lieutenant towards the middle of the hall.
Toogood, as though taking the hint, gave orders for the group to pass along the central counter, where they would be issued with uniforms and equipment. Ryan and Farr, recovering their powers of speech, immediately began to whisper recriminations over the failure of their scheme. Peace moved away from them and approached a clerk who was sitting under a sign marked: UNIFORMS.
The clerk examined him with baleful yellowish eyes, went to a rack and returned with a plastic helmet and a smaller cup-like object fitted with narrow elasticated straps. He pushed both items towards Peace through a space in the mesh screen, sat down again and appeared to go into a coma. Peace prodded the hollowed-out artifact and saw that it was an athlete’s protective cup. “Excuse me,” he said. “What’s this?” Light slowly returned to the clerk’s eyes.
“That’s your uniform.”