PART TWO: LEGIONNAIRE

5.

Captain Chachu completed the briefing and barked: "Corporal Gaal, remain. The rest are dismissed."

After the other platoon leaders had filed out, the captain, swiveling in his chair and whistling the old soldier's song "Cool It, Mama," studied Guy for some time. Captain Chachu bore no resemblance to Captain Tolot. He was stocky and swarthy, with a large bald spot, much older than Tolot and, not long ago, had fought in eight coastal actions. He had received the Fiery Cross and three other medals for bravery under fire. People still talked about his fantastic duel with a white submarine: his tank had received a direct hit and caught fire, but he continued firing until he lost consciousness from severe bums. It was said that his entire body was covered by skin transplants. Three fingers were missing from his left hand. He was blunt and coarse, a real fighter. Unlike the reserved Captain Tolot, he never thought it necessary to conceal his emotions from his subordinates or superiors. When he was in a good mood, the entire brigade knew it, but when he was out of sorts and whistled "Cool It, Mama," well, watch out.

Looking him straight in the eye, Guy was dismayed by the thought that he had somehow disappointed and angered this remarkable man. He quickly reviewed in his mind all his own minor offenses and those of his platoon but could recall nothing that hadn't been dismissed with a careless wave of the captain's crippled hand and a throaty, grumpy response: "OK, that's what the Legion's all about. The hell with it!"

The captain stopped swiveling and whistling.

"I don't like a lot of talk and scribbling," he said. "Either you recommend Candidate Sim or you don't. Which is it?"

"Yes, sir, I recommend him," said Guy quickly. "But..."

"No 'buts,' corporal! Do you or don't you?"

"I do, sir."

"Then what's the meaning of these two pieces of paper?"

The captain pulled some papers from his pocket and unfolded them on the desk, holding them down with his crippled hand. "Here it says: 'I recommend the aforementioned Mac Sim, a loyal and capable person' -- well, that's clear -- 'for appointment to the noble calling of candidate in the ranks of the Fighting Legion.' And here's your second note: 'In connection with the aforementioned, I feel it is my duty to call the attention of the command to the need for a thorough check of the designated candidate for the Fighting Legion, Mac Sim.' Massaraksh! What the hell do you really mean, corporal?"

"Captain!" Guy was very agitated. "I really don't know what to say. I know Candidate Sim is a loyal citizen, devoted to the Legion's ideals. I'm sure that he will have much to contribute. But since only men of impeccable integrity belong in the Legion, I thought -- "

"You thought!" the captain snapped. "Corporal, here's what you'll do. You'll take one of these two notes right now and tear it up. You must understand that I cannot go to the brigadier with two statements. It's got to be either yes or no. This is the Legion, corporal, not a philosophy department! You have two minutes to think it over."

The captain took a thick folder from a drawer and disgustedly tossed it on the desk. Guy looked at his watch despondently. It was a difficult decision to make. It was dishonest and unworthy of a legionnaire to conceal from the authorities his incomplete knowledge of the man he was recommending, even if it was Mac. On the other hand, it was dishonest and unworthy of a legionnaire to avoid responsibility by shifting the decision onto the captain, who had seen Maxim only twice, and then only in formation. "Well, all right, I'll go over it again. Points in favor: He has accepted the Legion's ideals heart and soul; he passed the physical without a hitch; he was sent by Captain Tolot and Doctor Zogu to some top-secret institution, evidently for a thorough investigation, which he passed. True, I'm taking Maxim's own word for this last statement -- he claims he lost all his documents. And last, he's a brave, natural-born fighter. He made short work of Ratso's gang, single handed. He's open in his dealings with others, good-natured, and absolutely unselfish. And extraordinarily gifted. Points against: We've absolutely no idea who he is and where he came from; either he remembers nothing of his past or he refuses to tell us. And he doesn't have any documents. But why should that bother us? After all, the government now controls only the borders and the central region. Two-thirds of our country is still torn by anarchy and plagued by starvation and epidemics. People are fleeing those areas and none of them have documents -- the younger ones don't even know what documents are. And how many of them have lost their memory! And how many degens! But we know one thing for sure, the most important -- Maxim is not a degen."

"Well, corporal?" asked the captain.

"Yes, sir!" said Guy rather recklessly. "May I?"

He picked up the note containing his suggestion that Maxim be checked and tore it up slowly.

"Cor-rect decision! Well done, legionnaire! Notes, reports, checks -- rubbish! Combat will be the proving ground! When we get into our tanks and head for the atomic trap zone, we'll find out damn quick who is with us and who isn't."

"Yes, sir," said Guy without particular conviction. He understood the old soldier, but he felt that the hero of the coastal actions was mistaken. Combat, of course, was important, but one's integrity was something else. Anyway, the question had nothing to do with Maxim's case. Maxim was honest to the core.

"Massaraksh!" barked the captain. "The Health Department certified him and the rest is our business." He looked at Guy angrily and added: "A legionnaire has complete trust in his friend. If he doesn't, he's certainly no friend and he ought to kick him out. I'm surprised at you, corporal. OK, back to your platoon. There's very little time left. I'll watch the candidate myself during the operation."

Guy clicked his heels and left. Safely outside, he smiled. The old soldier had taken the responsibility on himself after all. Now, with a clear conscience, he could consider Maxim his friend. Mac Sim. His real surname was a mouthful. Either he had imagined it in a delirious state or he actually was related to those mountain people. H'm, what was the name of their ancient king. Zaremichakbeshmucaray. Guy walked over to the parade ground and scanned it for his platoon. Tireless Pandi was driving the men through the top-floor window of a dummy three-story building. They were soaked from the effort, and with only an hour left before the operation, that wasn't so good.

"As you were!" shouted Guy from afar.

"As you were!" yelled Pandi. "Fall in!"

The platoon fell into formation quickly.

"Attention!" Pandi shouted. He marched up to Guy smartly and reported: "Corporal, the platoon is learning to take a town by assault."

"Stand at attention," ordered Guy, trying to express disapproval by his tone of voice, as Corporal Serembesh was so skilled at doing. He strode back and forth in front of the formation, hands clasped behind his back, looking into the familiar faces of his men.

Bulging eyes -- gray, brown, blue -- followed his every movement, ready to execute his orders. Ibis was his life, these twelve strong men -- six full privates of the Fighting Legion on the right flank and six candidates aspiring to be regular privates on the left flank; all wearing smart black jump suits with shiny buttons, glistening combat boots, and berets tipped jauntily over their right eyebrows. And in the center of the formation, on the candidates' right flank, lowered Maxim, his favorite, even though it was wrong for a platoon leader to single out one over the others. "Hey, what's this? Those strange brown eyes of his aren't rigid like the others. Well, all right, he'll learn that in time... And what's this?"

Guy went up to Maxim and jabbed at his open top button. Then, standing on tiptoe, he adjusted his beret. "Damn, there goes that stupid grin again. Well, give him time, he'll outgrow it. After all, he is the youngest recruit in the platoon."

To avoid any semblance of favoritism, Guy straightened the buckle on Maxim's neighbor, although it was unnecessary. Then he stepped back three paces and ordered the platoon to stand at ease.

"Men," said Guy, "today we're going to take part in a regular operation as part of the company. We're going to neutralize the agents of a potential enemy. The operation will be conducted according to Plan Thirty-three. I know that you regular privates remember your part, but I think it would help to refresh the memories of those candidates who neglect to fasten all their buttons. Each platoon is assigned one entrance to the building. The platoon divides into four teams: three teams of three for the inside job, and a backup team outside. The inside teams of two privates and one candidate will go through all the apartments systematically, and remember, without making a commotion. After a patrol has entered an apartment, it will do as follows: the candidate will guard the front door; a private will occupy the rear entrance and not permit anything to divert him: and the team leader will inspect the apartment. The outside backup team of three candidates commanded by the platoon leader -- in this case, me -- will remain below at the building's entrance, prepared to render immediate assistance to any inside team requiring it. You know the makeup of the inside teams and the backup teams. Attention!" He withdrew one step. "Fall into teams!"

After a brief shuffling, the platoon regrouped into teams. Each man stood in his proper place. No one had fumbled with his submachine gun, slipped, or lost his beret, as usually happened during exercises. Maxim, with a broad grin on his face again, lowered above the backup team's right flank. An absurd thought suddenly occurred to Guy -- that Maxim viewed the entire operation as an amusing game. Damn it, it couldn't be true! It was just that damn idiotic smile.

"Not bad," grumbled Guy, giving Pandi an approving look. The old man had done a fine job -- really drilled the men. "Attention! Platoon, fall in!"

A brief shuffling again, neat and precise -- beautiful -- and the platoon stood before him in a straight row. Good! Simply remarkable! A shiver ran through him. Hands clasped behind his back, he strode up and down in front of the platoon.

"Legionnaires!" he said. "We are the strength and hope of the All-Powerful Creators. In fulfilling their great mission they have only us to rely on." This was the truth, the real truth; and there was a certain fascination in it. It gave one a sense of superiority to the rest of society. "The Fighting Legion is the iron fist of history. It has been called upon to sweep aside all obstacles on our proud path. The sword of the Fighting Legion has been tempered in fire; it burns in our hands, and only streams of the enemy's blood can cool it. The enemy is cunning. He is cowardly, but stubborn. The All-Powerful Creators have commanded us to smash this treacherous resistance, to tear out by the roots those forces that drag us down into chaos and depraved anarchy. That is our duty and we are happy to fulfill it. We make many sacrifices. We disturb the tranquillity of our mothers, brothers, and children We deprive the honest worker, the honest civil servant, the honest tradesman and industrialist of much deserved rest. They know why we must invade their homes, and they welcome us as their best friends, as their protectors. Remember this, and do not let anything divert you from your mission. A friend is a friend, but an enemy is an enemy. Are there any questions?"

"No!" bellowed the platoon.

"Attention! Thirty minutes to rest and check your equipment. Dismissed!"

The platoon scattered and headed for the barracks in twos and threes. Guy followed slowly, and Maxim, smiling, waited for him a short distance away. "Guy, how about a fast round of the word?"

Guy groaned to himself. He'd have to shut this kid up! Gag him! God, imagine a candidate bugging his corporal with such idiotic nonsense a half-hour before an operation.

"This isn't the time for games," he said as coldly as possible.

"Are you upset about something?" asked Maxim sympathetically.

Guy shook his head in exasperation. What the hell could he do with him? It was utterly impossible to silence such a good-natured giant, who was on top of everything else his sister's savior and a man far superior to himself in everything but military drill. Guy glanced around and then pleaded: "Listen, Mac, you're putting me in a damned awkward position When we're in the barracks, I'm your boss, I give the orders, and you obey. I've been pounding that into your dumb head."

"But I am ready to obey you. Go ahead, give an order! I know what discipline is."

"I already have. Check your equipment."

"Excuse me Guy. But that isn't the order you gave us. You ordered us to check equipment and rest. Have you forgotten? Well I've checked my equipment and now I'm resting. So, how about the word game? I've thought up a good one."

"Mac, get this! A subordinate has the right to address his superior officer only according to regulations. And only in regard to military matters."

"Yes, I remember. Paragraph Nine. But that's only when we're on duty. At the moment, we're resting."

"How do you know I'm resting?" asked Guy. They stood behind an enclosure, where, thank God, they could not be seen. No one could see this tower leaning against the fence and tugging his corporal by the buttons. "Look, Mac, I rest only at home, but even there I would never permit a subordinate to... now let goof my buttons and button up your own."

Maxim fastened his buttons.

"Guy, I don't understand you. On duty you behave one way at home another. Why?"

"Let's not go into that again. I'm sick of telling you the same thing over and over. And that grin of yours -- when are you going to stop smiling in formation?"

"There's nothing in the regulations that says you can't smile," replied Mac slowly. "As far as repeating the same thing over and over to me, Guy, there's something I want to tell you. Now, don't be offended at what I'm going to say. I know you're not a -- speecher -- a reciter..."

"A what?"

"You're not a person who can speak beautifully."

"Orator?"

"Orator. Yes, that's the word. You're not an orator. But that doesn't matter. Today you made a speech to us. You spoke the right words, good words. But at home when you spoke about the Legion and the job it had to do and about conditions in your country, it was very interesting. It came from you, it was really you speaking. But here you repeat the same thing over and over and it's not really you speaking. Everything you say here is true, but it's always the same. And very boring. You're not offended, are you?"

No, of course Guy wasn't offended, but a fine icy needle had just pricked his ego: until now he had thought he had always presented things to his men as smoothly and convincingly as Corporal Serembesh. And the captain, too, had been repeating the very same speech for three years. There was nothing surprising or disgraceful about it. After all, nothing had really changed in the country's domestic or foreign policy in the past three years.

"And where does it say, Mac, that a subordinate should reprove his superior?"

"The regulations say just the opposite," admitted Maxim. "I think that's wrong. Look, you take my advice when you're trying to solve ballistics problems, and you accept my suggestions when you make a mistake in your calculations."

"But that's at home! Anything goes at home."

"Well, suppose you give us the wrong sighting during gunnery practice? Suppose you miscalculate the wind factor? What then?"

"Under no circumstances do you question a superior's orders."

"Even in such a case?"

"You fire as ordered," said Guy sternly. "Mac, you've said enough in the past ten minutes to put you in the stockade for two months. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't. But, suppose, in combat...?"

"Suppose what in combat?"

"You give a wrong sighting? What then?"

Guy had never commanded a platoon in combat. He suddenly recalled how Corporal Bakhtu had read the map incorrectly during a reconnaissance in force. The entire platoon was driven within firing range of an adjoining company. He himself had remained behind and sent half the platoon to their death. They knew damn well that he was wrong but no one dreamed of correcting him.

"Good Lord," thought Guy suddenly, "it never would have occurred to us to correct him. Maxim doesn't understand anything. Everything's simple, but he won't admit it. How many times have we gone through this! He takes the most self-evident facts and turns them upside down, and it's impossible to convince him that he's wrong. Instead, just the opposite happens: you begin to doubt yourself. Your head starts spinning and before you know it you're completely confused. Yet he's certainly not that stupid. He learned to speak our language in one month and mastered reading and writing in two days. Then read everything I own in two more days. Knows mathematics and mechanics better than our experts. Or take, for example, his discussions with Uncle Kaan.

"Lately, all the old man's discussions at dinner have been directed at Maxim. And he keeps insisting to us that Maxim is the only man alive today with such an unusual knowledge of fossil animals and such an interest in them. He sketched some weird looking animals for Maxim, and Maxim sketched some that were even weirder. And they argued about which was the more ancient, which descended from which, and why. Unc even brought in scientific books from his library, and still Maxim barely conceded a point to him. One minute, Unc was shouting himself hoarse -- the next, he was tearing the sketches to bits and stamping on them. He called Maxim an ignoramus, a bigger fool than Shapshu. Then he began to run his hands through the sparse gray hair at the back of his head and mumble with a nervous smile: 'Bold, massaraksh, bold. Young man, you certainly have an imagination!'

"He knows mathematics and mechanics; knows military chemistry very well; and paleontology? Who in this day and age knows paleontology? Draws like an artist, sings like a professional. And he's so generous, almost unnaturally generous. Drove off a gang of bandits, killed most of them, single-handed, with his bare hands. Anyone else caught in such a trap would have taken off like a rocket. He didn't give a damn about them, yet was upset, couldn't sleep, became annoyed when he was praised and thanked, and even blew up once. He turned white and shouted that it was wrong to praise someone for murder. And what a job it was to persuade him to join the Legion! He understood everything, agreed to everything, wanted to join, but, he said, he'd be required to shoot. At people. So I told him: not at people, at degens, at rabble, worse than thieves. We agreed, thank God, that at the beginning, until he got used to the idea, he would simply disarm his opponents. Amusing, yet somehow frightening. No wonder he's always blabbing about coming from another world. I know that world. Unc has a book about it: The Misty Land of ZartakThe Misty Land of Zartak. It says that Zartak is inhabited by a happy people and lies in the Alebastro Mountains. According to the book, they're all like Maxim. But if one of them leaves the valley, he immediately forgets where he came from and everything about his past life. He remembers only that he came from another world. Unc says that no such valley exists, that it's pure poppycock, that there is the Zartak range, but the range was so thoroughly blasted by superbombs during the war that the mountain people suffer from permanent loss of memory."

"Why so silent, Guy? Are you thinking about me?"

Guy looked away.

"Look here, Mac. I must ask you to do one thing for me. For the sake of discipline never show that you know more than I do. Watch how the others behave, and behave exactly as they do."

"I've been trying to," said Maxim sadly. He paused and added: "It's difficult to get used to the idea. We don't do things that way."

"By the way, how's your wound?" Guy tried to change the subject.

"It's healing quickly," replied Maxim absentmindedly. "Listen, Guy, let's go straight home after this operation. I miss Rada a lot. Don't you? We'll drop the others off at the barracks and then head for home in the truck."

Guy inhaled deeply. At that instant the loudspeaker's silver box, hanging almost above their heads, roared out the duty officer's command: "Sixth Company, fall out on the drill field! Attention, Sixth Company."

"Candidate Sim! No more talk!" Guy barked. "Get into formation!" Maxim started to rush off, but Guy caught him with the barrel of his gun. "Please, Mac, remember," he said. "Like the I others! No different! The captain himself is going to observe you today."

Within three minutes the company was in formation. It had grown dark, and searchlights played over the drill field.

Truck engines rumbled softly at the formation's rear. The brigadier, accompanied by Captain Chachu, reviewed the company in silence, inspecting every legionnaire, a procedure followed before the start of every operation. He was calm; his eyes were narrowed, and his lips were turned up at the corners in a rather kindly way. Then, without a word, he nodded to the captain and left. Waddling and waving his crippled hand, the captain planted himself before the formation and turned his swarthy face toward the legionnaires.

"Legionnaires!" he bellowed in a voice that sent shivers up and down Guy's spine. "You have a job to do. Do it well. Company, attention! To your trucks! Corporal Gaal, front and center!"

When Guy reached the captain and snapped to attention, the captain said softly: "Your platoon has a special assignment. When you arrive at your destination, remain in your vehicle. I myself will take command of your platoon."