“It is of course within the jurisdiction of this court to try a case in the manner so prescribed, but it is also necessary to quote the pertinent article of precedent before judgment is passed.” The president sighed and sat down again. “I wish you wouldn't try to be so difficult, Captain, you know the regulations just as well as I do. But if you insist. Pablo, read it to them.” The law officer flipped through a thick volume on his desk, found his place with his finger, then read aloud.
“Articles of War, Military Regulations, paragraph, page, etc. etc…… yes, here it is, paragraph 298-B… `If any enlisted man shall absent himself from his post of duty for over a period of one standard year he is to be judged guilty of desertion even if absent in person from the trial and the penalty for desertion is painful death.” “That seems clear enough. Any more questions?” the president asked.
“No questions; I would just like to quote a precedent” O'Brien had placed a high stack of thick books before him and was reading from the topmost one. “Here it is, Buck Private Lovenvig versus. the United States Army Air Corps, Texas, 1944. It is stated here that Lovenvig was AWOL for a period of fourteen months, then was dicovered in a hiding place above the ceiling of the mess hall from whence he descended only in the small hours of the night to eat and to drink of the stores therein and to empty his potty. Since he had not left the base he could not be judged AWOL or be a deserter and could receive only company punishment of a most minor kind.” The officers of the court had seated themselves again and were all watching the law officer, who was flipping quickly through his own books. He finally emerged with a smile and a reference of his own.
“All of that is correct, Captain, except for the fact that the accused here did absent himself from his assigned station, the Transit Rankers' Center, and was at large upon the planet Helior.” “All of which is correct, sir,” O'Brien said, whipping out yet another volume and waving it over his head. `But in Dragsted versus the Imperial Navy Billeting Corps, Helior, 8832, it was agreed that for purposes of legal definition the planet Helior was to be defined as the City of Helior, and the City of Helior was to be defined as the planet Helior.” “All of which is undoubtedly true,” the president interrupted, “but totally beside the point. They have no bearing upon the present case and I'll ask you to snap it up, Captain, because I have a golf appointment.” “You can tee off in ten minutes, sir, if you allow both those precedents to stand. I then introduce one last item, a document drawn up by Fleet Admiral Marmoset-” “Why, that's me!” the president gasped.
“-at the onset of hostilities with the Chingers when the City of Helior was declared under martial law and considered to be a single military establishment.
I therefore submit that the accused is innocent of the charge of desertion since he never left this planet, therefore he never left this city, therefore he never left his post of duty.” A heavy silence fell and was finally broken by the president's worried voice as he turned to the law officer. “Is what this bowb says true, Pablo? Can't we shoot the guy?” The law officer was sweating as he searched feverishly through his law books, then finally pushed them from him and answered in a bitter voice. “True enough and no way out of it. This Arabic-Jewish-Irish con man has got us by the short hair. The accused is innocent of the charges.” “No execution…?” one of the court officers asked in a high, querulous voice, and another, older one dropped his head onto his arms and began to sob.
“Well he's not getting off that easily,” the president said, scowling at Bill.
“If the accused was on this post for the last year then he should have been on duty. And during that year he must have slept. Which means he slept on duty.
Therefore I sentence him to hard labor in military prison for one year and one day and order that he be reduced in rank to Fuse Tender Seventh Class. Tear off his stripes and take him away; I have to get to the golf course.
Chapter 2
The transit stockade was a makeshift budding of plastic sheets bolted to bent aluminum frames and was in the center of a large quadrangle. MPs with bayoneted atomrifles marched around the perimeter of the six electrified barbed-wire fences. The multiple gates were opened by remote control, and Bill was dragged through them by the handcuff robot that had brought him here. This debased machine was a squat and heavy cube as high as his knee that ran on clanking treads and from the top of which projected a steel bar with heavy handcuffs fastened to the end. Bill was on the end of the handcuffs. Escape was impossible, because if any attempt was made to force the cuffs the robot sadistically exploded a peewee atom bomb it had in its guts and blew up itself and the escaping prisoner, as well as anyone else in the vicinity. Once inside the compound the robot stopped and did not protest when the guard sergeant unlocked the cuffs. As soon as its prisoner was freed the machine rolled into its kennel and vanished.
“All right, wise guy, you're in any charge now, and dat means trouble for you, “ the sergeant snapped at Bill. He had a shaven head, a wide and scar-covered jaw, small, closeset eyes in which there flickered the guttering candle of stupidity.
Bill narrowed his own eyes to slits and slowly raised his good left right arm, flexing the biceps. Tembo's muscle swelled and split the thin prison fatigue jacket with a harsh, ripping sound Then Bill pointed to the ribbon of the Purple Dart which he had pinned to his chest.
“Do you know how I got that?” he asked in a grim and toneless voice. “I got that by killing thirteen Chingers singlehanded in a pillbox I had been sent into. I got into this stockade here because after killing the Chingers I came back and killed the sergeant who sent me in there. Now-what did you say about trouble, Sergeant?” “You don't give me no trouble I don't give you no trouble,” the guard sergeant squeaked as he skittered away. “You're in cell 13, in there, right upstairs…
. “ He stopped suddenly and began to chew all the fingernails on one hand at the same time, with a nibbling-crunching sound. Bill gave him a long glower for good measure, then turned and went slowly into the building.
The door to number 13 stood open, and Bill looked in at the narrow cell dimly lit by the light that filtered through the translucent plastic walls. The double-decker bunk took up almost all of the space, leaving only a narrow passage at one side. Two sagging shelves were bolted to the far wall and, along with the stenciled message BE CLEAN NOT OBSCENEDIRTY TALK HELPS THE ENEMY!, made up the complete furnishings. A small man with a pointed face and beady eyes lay on the bottom bunk looking intently at Bill. Bill looked right back and frowned.
“Come in, Sarge,” the little man said as he scuttled up the support into the upper bunk. “I been saving the lower for you, yes I have. The name is, Blackey, and I'm doing ten months for telling a second looey to blow it out…” He ended the sentence with a slight questioning note that Bill ignored. Bill's feet hurt. He kicked off the purple boots and stretched out on the sack.
Blackey's head popped over the edge of the upper bunk, not unlike a rodent peering out the landscape. “It's a long time to chow-how's about a Dobbinburger?” A hand appeared next to the head and slipped a shiny package down to Bill.
After looking it over suspiciously Bill pulled the sealing string on the end of the plastic bag. As soon as the air rushed in and hit the combustible lining the burger started to smoke and within three seconds was steaming hot. Lifting the bun Bill squirted ketchup in from the little sack at the other end of the bag, then took a suspicious bite. It was rich, juicy horse.