But my ambitions didn't soar that high. "It would be a dirty, rotten shame," I said, "if the Assassin flunked out," while thinking that it would be a dirty, rotten shame if I flunked out.

"He won't," Birdie answered cheerfully. "They'll sweat him through the rest if they have to put him in a hypno booth and feed him through a tube. Anyhow," he added, "Hassan could flunk out and get promoted for it."

"Huh?"

"Didn't you know? The Assassin's permanent rank is first lieutenant—field commission, naturally. He reverts to it if he flunks out. See the regs."

I knew the regs. If I flunked math, I'd revert to buck sergeant, which is better than being slapped in the face with a wet fish any way you think about it... and I'd thought about it, lying awake nights after busting a quiz.

But this was different. "Hold it," I protested. "He gave up first lieutenant, permanent grade... and has just made temporary third lieutenant... in order to become a second lieutenant? Are you crazy? Or is he?"

Birdie grinned. "Just enough to make us both M. I."

"But—I don't get it."

"Sure you do. The Assassin has no education that he didn't pick up in the M. I. So how high can he go? I'm sure he could command a regiment in battle and do a real swingin' job provided somebody else planned the operation. But commanding in battle is only a fraction of what an officer does, especially a senior officer. To direct a war, or even to plan a single battle and mount the operation, you have to have theory of games, operational analysis, symbolic logic, pessimistic synthesis, and a dozen other skull subjects. You can sweat them out on your own if you've got the grounding. But have them you must, or you'll never get past captain, or possibly major. The Assassin knows what he is doing."

"I suppose so," I said slowly. "Birdie, Colonel Nielssen must know that Hassan was an officer—is an officer, really."

"Huh? Of course."

"He didn't talk as if he knew. We all got the same lecture."

"Not quite. Did you notice that when the Commandant wanted a question answered a particular way he always asked the Assassin?"

I decided it was true. "Birdie, what is your permanent rank?"

The car was just landing; he paused with a hand on the latch and grinned. "PFC—I don't dare flunk out!"

I snorted. "You won't. You can't!" I was surprised that he wasn't even a corporal, but a kid as smart and well educated as Birdie would go to O. C. S. just as quickly as he proved himself in combat... which with the war on, could be only months after his eighteenth birthday.

Birdie grinned still wider. "We'll see."

"You'll graduate. Hassan and I have to worry, but not you."

"So? Suppose Miss Kendrick takes a dislike to me." He opened the door and looked startled. "Hey! They're sounding my call. So long!"

"See you, Birdie."

But I did not see him and he did not graduate. He was commissioned two weeks later and his pips came back with their eighteenth decoration—the Wounded Lion, posthumous.

CHAPTER 13

Youse guys think this deleted

outfit is a blankety-blank nursery.

Well, it ain't! See?

Remark attributed to a Hellenic

corporal before the walls of Troy,

1194 B. C.

The Rodger Young carries one platoon and is crowded; the Tours carries six -- and is roomy. She has the tubes to drop them all at once and enough spare room to carry twice that number and make a second drop. This would make her very crowded, with eating in shifts, hammocks in passageways and drop rooms, rationed water, inhale when your mate exhales, and get your elbow out of my eye! I'm glad they didn't double up while I was in her.

But she has the speed and lift to deliver such crowded troops still in fighting condition to any point in Federation space and much of Bug space; under Cherenkov drive she cranks Mike 400 or better—say Sol to Capella, forty-six lightyears, in under six weeks.

Of course, a six-platoon transport is not big compared with a battle wagon or passenger liner; these things are compromises. The M. I. prefers speedy little one-platoon corvettes which give flexibility for any operation, while if it was left up to the Navy we would have nothing but regimental transports. It takes almost as many Navy files to run a corvette as it does to run a monster big enough for a regiment—more maintenance and housekeeping, of course, but soldiers can do that. After all, those lazy troopers do nothing but sleep and eat and polish buttons -- do ‘em good to have a little regular work. So says the Navy.

The real Navy opinion is even more extreme: The Army is obsolete and should be abolished.

The Navy doesn't say this officially—but talk to a Naval officer who is on R & R and feeling his oats; you'll get an earful. They think they can fight any war, win it, send a few of their own people down to hold the conquered planet until the Diplomatic Corps takes charge.

I admit that their newest toys can blow any planet right out of the sky

I've never seen it but I believe it. Maybe I'm as obsolete as Tyrannosaurus Rex. I don't feel obsolete and us apes can do things that the fanciest ship cannot. If the government doesn't want those things done, no doubt they'll tell us.

Maybe it's just as well that neither the Navy nor the M. I. has the final word. A man can't buck for Sky Marshal unless he has commanded both a regiment and a capital ship—go through M. I. and take his lumps and then become a Naval officer (I think little Birdie had that in mind), or first become an astrogator-pilot and follow it with Camp Currie, etc.

I'll listen respectfully to any man who has done both.

Like most transports, the Tours is a mixed ship; the most amazing change for me was to be allowed "North of Thirty." The bulkhead that separates ladies' country from the rough characters who shave is not necessarily No. 30 but, by tradition, it is called "bulkhead thirty" in any mixed ship. The wardroom is just beyond it and the rest of ladies' country is farther forward. In the Tours the wardroom also served as messroom for enlisted women, who ate just before we did, and it was partitioned between meals into a recreation room for them and a lounge for their officers. Male officers had a lounge called the cardroom just abaft thirty.

Besides the obvious fact that drop & retrieval require the best pilots (i.e., female), there is very strong reason why female Naval officers are assigned to transports: It is good for trooper morale.

Let's skip M. I. traditions for a moment. Can you think of anything sillier than letting yourself be fired out of a spaceship with nothing but mayhem and sudden death at the other end? However, if someone must do this idiotic stunt, do you know of a surer way to keep a man keyed up to the point where he is willing than by keeping him constantly reminded that the only good reason why men fight is a living breathing reality?

In a mixed ship, the last thing a trooper hears before a drop (maybe the last word he ever hears) is a woman's voice, wishing him luck. If you don't think this is important, you've probably resigned from the human race.

The Tours had fifteen Naval officers, eight ladies and seven men; there were eight M. I. officers including (I am happy to say) myself. I won't say "bulkhead thirty" caused me to buck for O. C. S. but the privilege of eating with the ladies is more incentive than any increase in pay. The Skipper was president of the mess, my boss Captain Blackstone was vice-president—not because of rank; three Naval officers ranked him but as C. O. of the strike force he was de facto senior to everybody but the Skipper.

Every meal was formal. We would wait in the cardroom until the hour struck, follow Captain Blackstone in and stand behind our chairs; the Skipper would come in followed by her ladies and, as she reached the head of the table, Captain Blackstone would bow and say, "Madam President... ladies," and she would answer, "Mr. Vice... gentlemen," and the man on each lady's right would seat her.