Starship Troopers

"Uh -- " I thought of trying to explain Mother's not-angry-but-terribly-terribly-hurt routine when you tried to buck her on something she had her mind made up about. But I gave up. "No, sir."

"Mmm... have you ever seen a neodog?"

"Uh, once, sir. They exhibited one at the Macarthur Theater two years ago. But the S. P. C. A. made trouble for them."

"Let me tell you how it is with a K-9 team. A neodog is not just a dog that talks."

"I couldn't understand that neo at the Macarthur. Do they really talk?"

"They talk. You simply have to train your ear to their accent. Their mouths can't shape ‘b,' ‘m,' ‘p,' or ‘v' and you have to get used to their equivalents -- something like the handicap of a split palate but with different letters. No matter, their speech is as clear as any human speech.

But a neodog is not a talking dog; he is not a dog at all, he is an artificially mutated symbiote derived from dog stock. A neo, a trained Caleb, is about six times as bright as a dog, say about as intelligent as a human moron—except that the comparison is not fair to the neo; a moron is a defective, whereas a neo is a stable genius in his own line of work."

Mr. Weiss scowled. "Provided, that is, that he has his symbiote. That's the rub. Mmm... you're too young ever to have been married but you've seen marriage, your own parents at least. Can you imagine being married to a Caleb?"

"Huh? No. No, I can't."

"The emotional relationship between the dog-man and the man-dog in a K-9 team is a great deal closer and much more important than is the emotional relationship in most marriages. If the master is killed, we kill the neodog—at once! It is all that we can do for the poor thing. A mercy killing. If the neodog is killed... well, we can't kill the man even though it would be the simplest solution. Instead we restrain him and hospitalize him and slowly put him back together." He picked up a pen, made a mark. "I don't think we can risk assigning a boy to K-9 who didn't outwit his mother to have his dog sleep with him. So let's consider something else."

It was not until then that I realized that I must have already flunked every choice on my list above K-9 Corps—and now I had just flunked it, too. I was so startled that I almost missed his next remark. Major Weiss said meditatively, with no expression and as if he were talking about someone else, long dead and far away: "I was once half of a K-9 team. When my Caleb became a casualty, they kept me under sedation for six weeks, then rehabilitated me for other work. Johnnie, these courses you've taken -- why didn't you study something useful?"

"Sir?"

"Too late now. Forget it. Mmm... your instructor in History and Moral Philosophy seems to think well of you."

"He does?" I was surprised. "What did he say?"

Weiss smiled. "He says that you are not stupid, merely ignorant and prejudiced by your environment. From him that is high praise—I know him."

It didn't sound like praise to me! That stuck-up stiff-necked old—

"And," Weiss went on, "a boy who gets a ‘C-minus' in Appreciation of Television can't be all bad. I think we'll accept Mr. Dubois' recommendation. How would you like to be an infantryman?"

I came out of the Federal Building feeling subdued yet not really unhappy. At least I was a soldier; I had papers in my pocket to prove it. I hadn't been classed as too dumb and useless for anything but make-work.

It was a few minutes after the end of the working day and the building was empty save for a skeleton night staff and a few stragglers. I ran into a man in the rotunda who was just leaving; his face looked familiar but I couldn't place him.

But he caught my eye and recognized me. "Evening!" he said briskly.

"You haven't shipped out yet?"

And then I recognized him—the Fleet Sergeant who had sworn us in. I guess my chin dropped; this man was in civilian clothes, was walking around on two legs and had two arms. "Uh, good evening, Sergeant," I mumbled.

He understood my expression perfectly, glanced down at himself and smiled easily. "Relax, lad. I don't have to put on my horror show after working hours—and I don't. You haven't been placed yet?"

"I just got my orders."

"For what?"

"Mobile Infantry."

His face broke in a big grin of delight and he shoved out his hand. "My outfit! Shake, son! We'll make a man of you—or kill you trying. Maybe both."

"It's a good choice?" I said doubtfully.

" ‘A good choice'? Son, it's the only choice. The Mobile Infantry is the Army. All the others are either button pushers or professors, along merely to hand us the saw; we do the work." He shook hands again and added, "Drop me a card -- ‘Fleet Sergeant Ho, Federal Building,' that'll reach me. Good luck! And he was off, shoulders back, heels clicking, head up.

I looked at my hand. The hand he had offered me was the one that wasn't there -- his right hand. Yet it had felt like flesh and had shaken mine firmly. I had read about these powered prosthetics, but it is startling when you first run across them.