'This bank. There he is now-see!'
They fished him out and had him spread out on the dock by the time the sergeant of the guard arrived. 'Alive, or dead?' he enquired.
'Dead, I think,' answered the one who was not busy giving artificial resuscitation.
The sergeant clucked in a manner incongruous to his battered face, and said, 'Too bad. I've ordered the ambulance; send him up to the infirmary anyhow.'
The nurse tried to keep him quiet, but MacKinnon made such an uproar that she was forced to get the ward surgeon. 'Here! Here! What's all this nonsense?' the medico rebuked him, while reaching for his pulse. Dave managed to convince him that he would not quiet down, not accept a soporific until he had told his story. They struck a working agreement that MacKinnon was to be allowed to talk-'But keep it short, mind you!'-and the doctor would pass the word along to his next superior, and in return Dave would submit to a hypodermic.
The next morning two other men, unidentified, were brought to MacKinnon by the surgeon. They listened to his full story and questioned him in detail. He was transferred to corps area headquarters that afternoon by ambulance. There he was questioned again. He was regaining his strength rapidly, but he was growing quite tired of the whole rigmarole, and wanted assurance that his warning was being taken seriously. The latest of his interrogators reassured him. 'Compose yourself,' he told Dave, 'you are to see the commanding officer this afternoon.'
The corps area commander, a nice little chap with a quick, birdlike manner and a most unmilitary appearance, listened gravely while MacKinnon recited his story for what seemed to him the fiftieth time. He nodded agreement when David finished. 'Rest assured, David MacKinnon, that all necessary steps are being taken.'
'But how about their weapon?'
'That is taken care of-and as for the Barrier, it may not be as easy to break as our neighbors think. But your efforts are appreciated. May I do you some service?'
'Well, no-not for myself, but there are two of my friends in there-'He asked that something be done to rescue Magee, and that Persephone be enabled to come out, if she wished.
'I know of that girl,' the general remarked. 'We will get in touch with her. If at any time she wishes to become a citizen, it can be arranged. As for Magee, that is another matter-'He touched the stud of his desk visiphone. 'Send Captain Randall in.'
A neat, trim figure in the uniform of a captain of the United States Army entered with a light step. MacKinnon glanced at him with casual, polite interest, then his expression went to pieces. 'Fader!' he yelled.
Their mutual greeting was hardly sufficiently decorous for the private office of a commanding general, but the general did not seem to mind. When they had calmed down, MacKinnon had to ask the question uppermost in his mind. 'But see here, Fader, all this doesn't make sense-'He paused, staring, then pointed a finger accusingly, 'I know! You're in the secret service!'
The Fader grinned cheerfully. 'Did you think,' he observed, 'that the United States Army would leave a plague spot like that unwatched?'
The general cleared his throat. 'What do you plan to do now, David MacKinnon?'
'Eh! Me? Why, I don't have any plans-'He thought for a moment, then turned to his friend. 'Do you know, Fader, I believe I'll turn in for psychological treatment after all. You're on the Outside -'
'I don't believe that will be necessary,' interrupted the general gently.
'No? Why not, sir?'
'You have cured yourself. You may not be aware of it, but four psychotechnicians have interviewed you. Their reports agree. I am authorized to tell you that your status as a free citizen has been restored, if you wish it.'
The general and Captain 'the Fader' Randall managed tactfully between them to terminate the interview. Randall walked back to the infirmary with his friend. Dave wanted a thousand questions answered at once. 'But Fader,' he demanded, 'you must have gotten out before I did.'
'A day or two.'
'Then my job was unnecessary!'
'I wouldn't say that,' Randall contradicted. 'I might not have gotten through. As a matter of fact, they had all the details even before I reported. There are others-Anyhow,' he continued, to change the subject, 'now that you are here, what will you do?'
'Me? It's too soon to say... It won't be classical literature, that's a cinch. If I wasn't such a dummy in maths, I might still try for interplanetary.'
'Well, we can talk about it tonight,' suggested Fader, glancing at his chrono. 'I've got to run along, but I'll stop by later, and we'll go over to the mess for dinner.'
He was out the door with speed reminiscent of the thieves' kitchen. Dave watched him, then said suddenly, 'Hey! Fader! Why couldn't I get into the secret ser -,
But the Fader was gone-he must ask himself.
Misfit
"... for the purpose of conserving and improving our
interplanetary resources, and providing useful, healthful
occupations for the youth of this planet."
Excerpt from the enabling act, H.R. 7118, setting up the
Cosmic Construction Corps.
"Attention to muster!" The parade ground voice of a First Sergeant of Space Marines cut through the fog and drizzle of a nasty New Jersey morning. "As your names are called, answer 'Here', step forward with your baggage, and embark.
"Atkins!"
"Here!"
"Austin!"
"Hyar!"
"Ayres!"
"Here!"
One by one they fell out of ranks, shouldered the hundred and thirty pounds of personal possessions allowed them, and trudged up the gangway. They were young -- none more than twenty-two -- in some cases luggage outweighed the owner.
"Kaplan!"
"Here!"
"Keith!"
"Heah!"
"Libby!"
"Here!" A thin gangling blonde had detached himself from the line, hastily wiped his nose, and grabbed his belongings. He slung a fat canvas bag over his shoulder, steadied it, and lifted a suitcase with his free hand. He started for the companionway in an unsteady dogtrot. As he stepped on the gangway his suitcase swung against his knees. He staggered against a short wiry form dressed in the powder-blue of the Space Navy. Strong fingers grasped his arm and checked his fall.
"Steady, son. Easy does it." Another hand readjusted the canvas bag.
"Oh, excuse me, uh" -- the embarrassed youngster automatically counted the four bands of silver braid below the shooting star -- "Captain. I didn't--"
"Bear a hand and get aboard, son."
"Yes, sir."
The passage into the bowels of the transport was gloomy. When the lad's eyes adjusted he saw a gunners mate wearing the brassard of a Master-at-Arms, who hooked a thumb toward an open airtight door.
"In there. Find your locker and wait by it." Libby hurried to obey. Inside he found a jumble of baggage and men in a wide low-ceilinged compartment. A line of glow-tubes ran around the junction of bulkhead and ceiling and trisected the overhead: the 50ft roar of blowers made a background to the voices of his shipmates. He picked his way through heaped luggage and located his locker, seven-ten, on the far wall outboard. He broke the seal on the combination lock, glanced at the combination, and opened it. The locker was very small, the middle of a tier of three. He considered what he should keep in it. A loudspeaker drowned out the surrounding voices and demanded his attention:
"Attention! Man all space details; first section. Raise ship in twelve minutes. Close air-tight doors. Stop blowers at minus two minutes. Special orders for passengers; place all gear on deck, and tie down on red signal light. Remain down until release is sounded. Masters-at-Arms check compliance."