Bill 3 - on the Planet of Bottled Brains (2 page)

“Hear, hear!” cried the other officers, hastily tossing down their drinks.

“And anyhow,” the major said, “if something on Tsuris can deflect a ship millions of miles off its course, that's a force that would be of considerable importance to us. We need to know how it works, and if the Tsurisians or whoever lives down there intend to use it against us.”

“If so,” the white-haired colonel pointed out, “we've got to kick the crap out of them Tsurisians before they get a chance to do it to us.”

“Maybe it would be safer,” a captain of Shock Troopers said, “to kick the crap out of them even if they don't have any bad intentions.”

“Hear, hear!” the other officers chanted.

They all looked at Bill, waiting for him to say something. Bill tried to look intelligent, even though he was feeling very dim. “Have you tried putting a scout ship on the planet? That way you could look around and things.”

The major concealed his disgust with a fake smile. “Many times, my dear trooper,” he said. “As you might very well imagine, they never come back, never report.”

“That's not so good,” Bill bubbled alcoholically. Then he was seized by bloodthirsty ambitions. “Why not just stand back and wing atomic torpedoes at them until one gets through? Blast them! Destroy them!”

“We thought of that ourselves,” the major said. “But it is against the rules of war, that is what the commy lefty papers say, and our bleeding heart candidates in the up and coming local elections wouldn't like it. They need to have it all legal. Declaration of war and all that nonsense. As soon as they are not elected we go back to doing just what the hell we want, but for the moment our hands are tied. Our missiles in the silos. Our noses in our glasses drowning our sorrows.”

“Well...” Bill thought for a while. “Why not declare war on them?”

The officers nodded at each other in approval. “You've got the right instincts, trooper. But not until after the elections. Then we can bomb the mothers into the next dimension. But until that happens we have to give some illusion of lawfulness. But the trouble is that we can't even find anyone to talk to on Tsuris. In fact, we're not entirely sure there's anyone there.”

“Then the answer is plain,” the colonel said. “I'm sure you thought of it yourself. If we can get a drone scout ship down to the surface of the planet, with someone aboard carrying a message from the Admiral-in-Chief, at least we could get the Tsurisians talking. Then we could make demands which they'd refuse. And then we'd have a chance to plead 'irreparable insult demanding unctuous apology' as a cause of war.”

“Unless the Tsurisians are able to apologize fast enough to forestall the invasion,” the colonel said.

“Speed is everything in modern warfare,” the major pointed out. “What do you think, Bill?”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Bill said. “Now, if you could direct me to the Medical section...”

“No time for that now, trooper,” the major said. “We want to congratulate you, then explain how your drone ship works.”

“Wait a minute,” Bill said. “What has this got to do with me?”

“My dear fellow,” the major said, “by walking through this door you have volunteered for the job of going on the drone ship to Tsuris.”

“But I didn't know! The computer told me to come here!”

“That's right. The computer volunteered you.”

“Can it do that?”

The major scratched his head. “I don't know, really. Why don't you ask it?” He chuckled evilly as Bill tried to leap woozily to his feet and felt the automatic shackles lock hard around his ankles.

Brownnose looked terrible. It was true that he had been through a lot recently, having had all of his buddies beating him up because he was so helpful and considerate of others, and that is not the troopers' way. The first lesson a real trooper learns is that it is always Bowb-your-Buddy week. The military psychiatrist had diagnosed him as having a severe case of the Shmidas Touch, the mirror opposite of the Midas Touch where everything you touch turns to gold. But one of the psychiatrist's colleagues, Major Doctor Smellenfuss, disagreed. He said that Brownnose presented a classical case of Loser Psychosis, complicated by self-destructive tendencies. All Brownnose knew was, life kept on getting worse for him. And all he wanted to do was make people happy!

Take now, for example. Of course he didn't look good. What man could look good pushed back against the uncomfortably hot boiler in the laundry room where Bill, ham-like fist raised in the air, was threatening to take him apart?

“Bill, wait!” Brownnose cried as Bill's eyes narrowed, preparatory to driving Brownnose's head through the half-inch mild steel of which the boiler was composed. “I did it for you!”

Bill hesitated, fist poised for the killing blow. “How do you figure?”

“Because volunteering you for this mission will bring you a medal, a sizeable bonus, a year's supply of VD pills and most important, an immediate honorable discharge!”

“A discharge?”

“Yes, Bill! You could go home!”

Bill was visited by a wave of nostalgia as he thought of his home world, Phigerinadon, and how much he wanted to see it.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course I'm sure. Just go to the recruiting officer when you get back. He'll set everything in motion for you.”

“That's just great,” Bill said. “The only trouble is, this is a suicide mission and I'm unlikely to come back from it. And if I don't come back, no discharge, right?”

“You will come back,” Brownnose said. “I guarantee it.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because, after I volunteered you, I also volunteered myself. So I could look after you, Bill.”

“You can't even look after yourself,” Bill pointed out. He sighed. “I guess it was pretty nice of you to want to help me, Brownnose, but I wish you hadn't.”

“I realize that now, Bill,” Brownnose said, extricating himself from Bill's grasp and slinking away from the boiler, which had been growing uncomfortably torrid. He could see that the moment of immediate danger was over. Bill got hot under the collar sometimes, but if you could just avoid instant mayhem, he soon cooled off again.

“Anyhow,” Bill said, “how could you volunteer me? Only I can volunteer me.”

“You've sure got a point there,” Brownnose said. “Maybe you should take it up with the computer.”

“Hello again,” the military computer said. “You were in here recently, weren't you? Excuse me for asking but the old eyesight's not what it used to be. My image orthicon is wearing out. Not that anyone or anything cares.” It snivelled mechanically, a repellent sound.

“I came in here about my foot,” Bill said loudly, disgusted at all the electronic self-pity.

“Your foot? I never forget a foot! Let me see it.”

Bill displayed his foot to the computer's vision plate.

“Hooee,” the computer said. “That's a beauty of an alligator's tootsy. But I've never seen that foot before. I told you, I never forget a foot.”

“Of course you remember it,” Bill whined. “Because you looked at it when I was in here before. What kind of computer could forget that?”

“I didn't say I forgot, computers can't forget, it's just that I haven't thought about it lately,” the computer said. “Just a minute, let me consult my data banks. I never forget a reference to a foot, either.... Yes, here it is. You're right, you did say something about your foot. And I directed you to the Officer's Ready Room.”

“That's right. And the officers there said that by coming in I had volunteered for hazardous duty.”

“Yes, that's all correct,” the computer said. “When they asked me for a volunteer, I sent them the first one who came in.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“But I didn't volunteer.”

“Tough titty. I mean I am so sorry, but you did. Inferentially.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I inferred that you would have volunteered if asked. We have special circuits that allow us to use inferences.”

“But you could have asked me!” Bill shouted angrily.

“Then what would be the use of inferential circuitry with which I have been fitted out at great expense? Anyhow, it was clear to me that a fine upstanding military type like you would be happy to volunteer for hazardous duty, despite the minor impairment to your foot.”

“You were wrong,” Bill said.

A ripple passed across the computer's vision plate, almost like a shrug. “Well,” it said, “mistakes happen, don't they?”

“That's not good enough!” Bill shouted, thumping the computer's vision plate with a large fist. “I'll tear out your lying transistors.” He thumped the vision plate again. This time it flashed red.

“Trooper,” the computer said in a gruff voice. “Stand to attention.”

“What?” said Bill.

“You heard me. I am a military computer with the veritable rank of full colonel. You are an enlisted man. You have to address me in a respectful manner or you'll be in a lot worse trouble than you are already.”

Bill gulped. Officers were all alike, even when they were computers.

“Yes sir,” he said, and stood to attention.

“Now, since you don't think the procedure was fair, what do you suggest we do?”

“Let's draw for it,” Bill said. “Or you pick a volunteer at random from all the men in the base.”

“That would satisfy you?”

“Yes, it would.”

“OK, here goes.” The computer's vision screen lit up in a jagged lightning bolt of conflicting colors. Names flashed by on the screen. There was a sound like a roulette ball rolling around a croupier's wheel.

“OK,” the computer said. “We got a winner.”

“Fine,” Bill said. “Can I go now?”

“Sure. Good luck, soldier.”

Bill opened the door. Outside there were two extremely large and beetle-jawed MPs. They took Bill by either arm.

“As you may have gathered,” the computer said, “you won the second drawing, too.”

Not long after that, a large trooper with a small claw at the end of one foot, could be seen struggling in the arms of two MPs. The trooper was brought to a reviewing stand where several generals were standing, waiting for something to review.

Bill opened up his mouth to scream. One of the MP's drove his elbow into Bill's kidneys.

The other MP went for the liver.

When Bill recovered consciousness a few seconds later, in response to having his nose tweaked violently, the first MP leaned over him and said, “Look, buddy, you're going on that ship. The only question is, do you go on in one piece or do we cripple you first so you won't make a scene in front of the brass?”

“They hate scenes,” the second MP said. “We do, too.”

“They blame us when the volunteers make a fuss,” the first MP said.

“Maybe we should just cripple him and not take any chances,” the first MP said.

“Maybe we could just fracture his voice box.”

“No, he could still make obscene gestures.”

“I guess you're right.” Both MPs paused to roll up their sleeves.

“Don't bother,” Bill said. “Just put me aboard the ship.”

“First you got to go up to the reviewing stand and shake the generals' hands and tell them how glad you was to volunteer.”

“Let's get it over with,” Bill said.

The drone ship was small, about the size of a launch, built of cheap plastic and aluminized cardboard since it was not expected to return. One of the MPs pulled open the main hatchway and growled in anger as the handle came off in his hand.

“Never mind that,” the other MP said. “The inner parts still work all right.”

“Why don't they build them better?” Bill whined, then shrieked with pain. He was being carried in a crunched and uncomfortable manner by the two MPs.

“Why should they bother?” the first MP said. “These ships are specially constructed for one-way trips to only the most dangerous places.”

“You mean I'm not expected to return?” Bill whimpered, wallowing in self-pity.

“I don't mean anything of the sort! Well, maybe. Anyhow, the real crafty advantage of sending a volunteer, is that, if you should not return, as is confidently expected, the military will probably send a fully-fledged expeditionary force to Tsuris, even declare war as they sincerely want to.”

“You said probably?”

“It has to be probably, since the military can always change its teeny-tiny mind. But that's what will probably happen.”

“Yipe!” Bill yiped. “What the bowb are you doing with my ear?”

“I'm fastening a translating device to your ear, so if you find any Tsurisians on Tsuris you can talk to them.”

“Tsuris! The place nobody ever comes back from?”

“You catch on fast. That's the whole point of the operation. Your non-return will give us the excuse to invade.”

“I don't think I like this.”

“You don't have to like it, trooper. Just follow orders and shut up.”

“I refuse! Cancel the orders!”

“Shut up.” They wrestled Bill into the ship and strapped him into the pilot's command chair. It was beautifully padded and comfortable. Bill was not. He opened his mouth to protest again and the neck of an open bottle was shoved into it. He gurgled and gasped.

“What...was that?”

“Apathia 24. With a double shot of Extasis Tricarbonate. One hundred and fifteen proof.” The MP nodded as Bill gurgled down some more. “That's the stuff. You can keep the bottle.”

It was really good stuff. So good that Bill never noticed when the MPs left and the hatch closed. The ship must have taken off, he could not remember when, because he saw by the vision plate that he was in space. Lots of little stars and such. And what looked like a planet down below. He admired the great storms sweeping across its surface as he drained the bottle. Lightning crackled balefully through the purple-black clouds and his radio crackled with static.

Radio? He fiddled with the knobs until a voice came through clearly. At least it sounded clear although it did not make much sense.

“No gliggish in hut overstep galoshes.”

He sneered at this and was reaching to turn it off when a voice buzzed in his ear. He blinked rapidly at this — then slowly remembered the translator had been attached just inside his left ear. “What did they say?”

“Just a minute,” the translator said testily. “All right, I think I've got it now. They're definitely speaking Tsurisian. The question is, is it High Garpeiean dialect or Someshovish.”