Heinlein, Robert A Citizen of the Galaxy

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"How's that?"
"It won't be necessary. We enlist him to fill vacancy in complement We send in records to
BuPersonnel. They make the routine check, name and home planet -- Hekate, I suppose, since we got
him here. By then we're long gone. They don't find him registered here. Now they turn it over to
BuSecurity, who sends us a priority telling us not to permit subject personnel to serve in sensitive
capacity. But that's all, because it's possible that this poor innocent citizen never got registered. But they
can't take chances, so they start the very search you want, first Tycho, then everywhere else, security
priority. So they identify him and unless he's wanted for murder it's a routine muddle. Or they can't
identify him and have to make up their minds whether to register him, or give him twenty-four hours to get
out of the Galaxy -- seven to two they decide to forget it -- except that someone aboard is told to watch
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him and report suspicious behavior. But the real beauty of it is that the job carries a BuSecurity cost
charge."
"Pay, do you think that Security has agents in this vessel I don't know about?"
"Skipper, what do you think?"
"Mmm . . . I don't know -- but if I were Chief of Security I would have! Confound it, if I lift a civilian
from here to the Rim, that'll be reported too -- no matter what I log."
"Shouldn't be surprised, sir."
"Get out of here! I'll see if the lad will buy it." He flipped a switch. "Eddie!" Instead of sending for
Thorby, Brisby directed the Surgeon to examine him, since it was pointless to pressure him to enlist
without determining whether or not he could. Medical-Major Stein, accompanied by Medical-Captain
Krishnamurti, reported to Brisby before lunch.
"Well?"
"No physical objection. Skipper. I'll let the Psych Officer speak for himself."
"All right. By the way, how old is he?"
"He doesn't know."
"Yes, yes," Brisby agreed impatiently, "but how old do you think he is?"
Dr. Stein shrugged. "What's his genetic picture? What environment? Any age-factor mutations? High
or low gravity planet? Planetary metabolic index? He could be as young as ten standard years, as old as
thirty, on physical appearance. I can assign a fictional adjusted age, on the assumption of no significant
mutations and Terra-equivalent environment -- an unjustified assumption until they build babies with data
plates -- an adjusted age of not less than fourteen standard years, not more than twenty-two."
"Would an adjusted age of eighteen fit?"
"That's what I said."
"Okay, make it just under that -- minority enlistment."
"There's a tattoo on him," Dr. Krishnamurti offered, "which might give a clue. A slave mark."
"The deuce you say!" Colonel Brisby reflected that his follow-up dispatch to "X" Corps was justified.
"Dated?"
"Just a manumission -- a Sargonese date which fits his Story. The mark is a factor's mark. No date."
"Too bad. Well, now that he is clear with Medical, I'll send for him."
"Colonel."
"Eh? Yes, Kris?"
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"I cannot recommend enlistment."
"Huh? He's as sane as you are."
"Surely. But he is a poor risk."
"Why?"
"I interviewed subject under light trance this morning. Colonel, did you ever keep a dog?"
"No. Not many where I come from."
"Very useful laboratory animals, they parallel many human characteristics. Take a puppy, abuse him,
kick him, mistreat him -- he'll revert to feral carnivore. Take his litter brother, pet him, talk to him, let him
sleep with you, but train him -- he's a happy, well-behaved house pet. Take another from that same litter,
pet him on even days and kick him on odd days. You'll have him so confused that he'll be ruined for
either role; he can't survive as a wild animal and he doesn't understand what is expected of a pet. Pretty
soon he won't eat, he won't sleep, he can't control his functions; he just cowers and shivers."
"Hmm . . . do you psychologists do such things often?"
"I never have. But it's in the literature . . . and this lad's case parallels it. He's undergone a series of
traumatic experiences in his formative years, the latest of which was yesterday. He's confused and
depressed. Like that dog, he may snarl and bite at any time. He ought not to be exposed to new
pressures; he should be cared for where he can be given psychotherapy."
"Phooey!"
The psychological officer shrugged. Colonel Brisby added, "I apologize, Doctor. But I know
something about this case, with all respect to your training. This lad has been in good environment the
past couple of years." Brisby recalled the farewell he had unwillingly witnessed. "And before that, he was
in the hands of Colonel Richard Baslim. Heard of him?"
"I know his reputation."
"If there is any fact I would stake my ship on, it is that Colonel Baslim would never ruin a boy. Okay,
so the kid has had a rough time. But be has also been succored by one of the toughest, sanest, most
humane men ever to wear our uniform. You bet on your dogs; I'll back Colonel Richard Baslim. Now . .
. are you advising me not to enlist him?"
The psychologist hesitated. Brisby said, "Well?"
Major Stein interrupted. "Take it easy, Kris; I'm overriding you."
Brisby said, "I want a straight answer, then I'll decide."
Dr. Krishnamurti said slowly, "Suppose I record my opinions but state that there are no certain
grounds for refusing enlistment?"
"Why?"
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"Obviously you want to enlist this boy. But if he gets into trouble -- well, my endorsement could get
him a medical discharge instead of a sentence. He's had enough bad breaks."
Colonel Brisby clapped him on the shoulder. "Good boy, Kris! That's all, gentlemen."
Thorby spent an unhappy night. The master-at-arms billeted him in senior P.O.s quarters and he was
well treated, but embarrassingly aware of the polite way in which those around him did not stare at his
gaudy Sisu dress uniform. Up till then he had been proud of the way Sisu's dress stood out; now he was
learning painfully that clothing has its proper background. That night be was conscious of snores around
him . . . strangers . . . fraki -- and he yearned to be back among People, where he was known,
understood, recognized.
He tossed on a harder bed than he was used to and wondered who would get his own?
He found himself wondering whether anyone had ever claimed the hole he still thought of as "home."
Would they repair the door? Would they keep it clean and decent the way Pop liked? What would they
do with Pop's leg?
Asleep, he dreamt of Pop and of Sisu, all mixed up. At last, with Grandmother shortened and a raider
bearing down. Pop whispered, "No more bad dreams, Thorby. Never again, son. Just happy dreams"
He slept peacefully then -- and awoke in this forbidding place with gabbling fraki all around him.
Breakfast was substantial but not up to Aunt Athena's high standards; however he was not hungry.
After breakfast he was quietly tasting his misery when he was required to undress and submit to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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