Same way now. Just as soon as I had that girl’s voice blocked out, there we were on the fifteenth floor (“Final Interviews and Shipping”) and the kid and I had to get out.
He was real green. A definite sag around the knees, shoulders sloping forward like his clavicle had curled. Again I was grateful to him. Nothing like having somebody to take care of.
“Come on, Commander,” I whispered. “Up and at ’em. Look at it this way: for characters like us, this is practically a family reunion.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He looked at me as if I’d punched his face. “No thanks to you for the reminder, Mister,” he said. “Even if we are in the same boat.” Then he walked stiffly up to the receptionist.
I could have bitten my tongue off. I hurried after him. “I’m sorry, kid,” I told him earnestly. “The words just slid out of my big mouth. But don’t get sore at me; hell, I had to listen to myself say it too.”
He stopped, thought about it, and nodded. Then he gave me a smile. “OK. No hard feelings. It’s a rough war, isn’t it?”
I smiled back. “Rough? Why, if you’re not careful, they tell me, you can get killed in it.”
The receptionist was a soft little blonde with two wedding rings on one hand, and one wedding ring on the other. From what I knew of current planet-side customs, that meant she’d been widowed twice.
She took our orders and read jauntily into her desk mike: “Attention Final Conditioning. Attention Final Conditioning. Alert for immediate shipment the following serial numbers: 70623152, 70623109, 70623166, and 70623123. Also 70538966, 70538923, 70538980, and 70538937. Please route through the correct numbered sections and check all data on TAF AGO forms 362 as per TAF Regulation 7896, of 15 June, 2145. Advise when available for Final Interviews.”
I was impressed. Almost exactly the same procedure as when you go to Ordnance for a replacement set of stern exhaust tubes.
She looked up and favored us with a lovely smile. “Your crews will be ready in a moment. Would you have a seat, gentlemen?”
We had a seat gentlemen.
After a while, she got up to take something out of a file cabinet set in the wall. As she came back to her desk, I noticed she was pregnant—only about the third or fourth month—and, naturally, I gave a little, satisfied nod. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid make the same kind of nod. We looked at each other and chuckled. “It’s a rough, rough war,” he said.
“Where are you from anyway?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound like a Third District accent to me.”
“It isn’t. I was born in Scandinavia—Eleventh Military District. My home town is Goteborg, Sweden. But after I got my—my promotion, naturally I didn’t care to see the folks any more. So I requested a transfer to the Third, and from now on, until I hit a scrambler, this is where I’ll be spending my furloughs and Earth-side hospitalizations.”
I’d heard that a lot of the younger sling-shotters felt that way. Personally, I never had a chance to find out how I’d feel about visiting the old folks at home. My father was knocked off in the suicidal attempt to retake Neptune way back when I was still in high school learning elementary combat, and my mother was Admiral Raguzzi’s staff secretary when the flagship Thermopylae took a direct hit two years later in the famous defense of Ganymede. That was before the Breeding Regulations, of course, and women were still serving in administrative positions on the fighting perimeters.
On the other hand, I realized, at least two of my brothers might still be alive. But I’d made no attempt to contact them since getting my dotted Y. So I guessed I felt the same way as the kid—which was hardly surprising.
“Are you from Sweden?” the blonde girl was asking. “My second husband was born in Sweden. Maybe you knew him—Sven Nossen? He had a lot of relatives in Stockholm.”
The kid screwed up his eyes as if he was thinking real hard. You know, running down a list of all the Swedes in Stockholm. Finally, he shook his head. “No, can’t say that I do. But I wasn’t out of Goteborg very much before I was called up.”
She clucked sympathetically at his provincialism. The baby-faced blonde of classic anecdote. A real dumb kid. And yet—there were lots of very clever, high-pressure cuties around the inner planets these days who had to content themselves with a one-fifth interest in some abysmal slob who boasted the barest modicum of maleness. Or a certificate from the local sperm bank. Blondie here was on her third full husband.
Maybe, I thought, if I were looking for a wife myself, this is what I’d pick to take the stink of scrambler rays out of my nose and the yammer-yammer-yammer of Irvingles out of my ears. Maybe I’d want somebody nice and simple to come home to from one of those complicated skirmishes with the Eoti where you spend most of your conscious thoughts trying to figure out just what battle rhythm the filthy insects are using this time. Maybe, if I were going to get married, I’d find a pretty fluffhead like this more generally desirable than—oh, well. Maybe. Considered as a problem in psychology it was interesting.
I noticed she was talking to me. “You’ve never had a crew of this type before either, have you, Commander?”
“Zombies, you mean? No, not yet, I’m happy to say.”
She made a disapproving pout with her mouth. It was fully as cute as her approving pouts. “We do not like that word.”
“All right, blobs then.”
“We don’t like bl—that word either. You are talking about human beings like yourself, Commander. Very much like yourself.”
I began to get sore fast, just the way the kid had out in the hall. Then I realized she didn’t mean anything by it. She didn’t know. What the hell—it wasn’t on our orders. I relaxed. “You tell me. What do you call them here?”
The blonde sat up stiffly. “We refer to them as soldier surrogates. The epithet ‘zombie’ was used to describe the obsolete Model 21 which went out of production over five years ago. You will be supplied with individuals based on Models 705 and 706, which are practically perfect. In fact, in some respects—”
“No bluish skin? No slow-motion sleepwalking?”
She shook her head violently, Her eyes were lit up. Evidently she’d digested all the promotional literature. Not such a fluffhead, after all; no great mind, but her husbands had evidently had someone to talk to in between times. She rattled on enthusiastically: “The cyanosis was the result of bad blood oxygenation; blood was our second most difficult tissue reconstruction problem, The nervous system was the hardest. Even though the blood cells are usually in the poorest shape of all by the time the bodies arrive, we can now turn out a very serviceable rebuilt heart. But, let there be the teeniest battle damage to the brain or spine and you have to start right from scratch. And then the troubles in reconstitution! My cousin Lorna works in Neural Alignment and she tells me all you need to make is just one wrong connection—you know how it is, Commander, at the end of the day your eyes are tired and you’re kind of watching the clock—just one wrong connection, and the reflexes in the finished individual turn out to be so bad that they just have to send him down to the third floor and begin all over again. But you don’t have to worry about that. Since Model 663, we’ve been using the two-team inspection system in Neural Alignment. And the 700 series—oh, they’ve just been wonderful.”