ruefully.
“You were supposed to get a full itinerary for today,” another twin said.
“You're going to be interviewed on ENN,” said another — or maybe the first again.
“But first,” said some twin, maybe one who had already spoken and maybe not, “we've set up a photo opportunity.”
“You're going to meet our President.”
“You mean?” said Bill.
“Yes,” all the twins said in unison. “Millard Grotsky himself.”
Bill's emotions were in turmoil. Without his ever knowing it, so much of his life had been shaped by this nefarious Millard Grotsky.
Millard Grotsky had started this war, without which Bill would be — well, actually, he'd be fighting someone else, namely the Chingers. But he was supposed to hate Chingers; hating humans who weren't officers was something new, and hard to learn.
Millard Grotsky had made him a celebrity, which hadn't paid off in any concrete terms just yet but might at any moment. Bill knew about groupies, and had never expected to acquire any, but now they seemed to be almost within his grasp. Metaphorically, anyway. Physically, all that was almost within his grasp was his bodyguards.
Because of Millard Grotsky, Bill had met General Weissearse, who, now that he could do Bill no harm, seemed much less crazy than a lot of officers Bill had known, and a lot more colorful.
Millard Grotsky was still worth a half-million points in TAIL GUNNER!, which would go a long way toward a twelve-hour pass if Bill ever got repatriated.
Millard Grotsky was, according to Bill's friend and mentor (absence and distance do make the heart grow fonder, and particularly quickly in one as slow on the uptake as Bill) General Weissearse, the root of all vileness, the most evil man since whoever the last one had been.
Bill was profoundly ambivalent about meeting the President of Eyerack.
All the way over to the Presidential Palace, he wrestled with what was, for him, a deep and complex moral question: Do I take the chance and try to off this guy, or what?
Grotsky had thoughtfully sent over this honor guard to bring him, and that was nice. But he didn't meet Bill at the entrance to the palace, and that wasn't nice. He provided a nifty motorized wheelchair to get Bill through the halls of the palace, and that was nice; but then Grotsky's people wouldn't let Bill race the wheelchair around, and that wasn't nice.
So Bill was still uncertain what to do when he reached the President's private office, down in the fourteenth subbasement of the palace.
He spun around in the chair a few times while he and his escort and the team of photographers waited for the security checks to be completed, and for the blast-proof doors to open. Then a voice came from inside: “Bill, why don't you come in alone for a moment first, so we can talk?”
Bill knew that this had the potential to be a great moment. As he rolled through the doorway, he knew that he had the opportunity to justify General Weissearse's faith in him. He could surpass his previous status as a generic galactic hero and become one of the greatest galactic heroes of this year, and maybe last year too!
He was alone in a sealed room with the leader of the enemy. It would be relatively simple to kill Grotsky right there. And that would put an end to the war, right?
His strong right hands twitched with the urge to close around Grotsky's throat. He swiveled around to face the man. His arms reached out —
And encountered something hard and round and cold.
“Would you like a beer, Bill?”
Bill paused only long enough to note that the cap was already off the bottle. After a long swallow he put the empty on the desk, held out his hand again, and said, “Yes, please.”
The second beer took the edge off his thirst, and with the third in hand he relaxed and looked around.
The office was tiny, by the standards of the Empire: smaller, even, than an officers' latrine. It lacked the opulent decorations of an Imperial office, or latrine, as well.
“You were supposed to get a full itinerary for today,” another twin said.
“You're going to be interviewed on ENN,” said another — or maybe the first again.
“But first,” said some twin, maybe one who had already spoken and maybe not, “we've set up a photo opportunity.”
“You're going to meet our President.”
“You mean?” said Bill.
“Yes,” all the twins said in unison. “Millard Grotsky himself.”
Bill's emotions were in turmoil. Without his ever knowing it, so much of his life had been shaped by this nefarious Millard Grotsky.
Millard Grotsky had started this war, without which Bill would be — well, actually, he'd be fighting someone else, namely the Chingers. But he was supposed to hate Chingers; hating humans who weren't officers was something new, and hard to learn.
Millard Grotsky had made him a celebrity, which hadn't paid off in any concrete terms just yet but might at any moment. Bill knew about groupies, and had never expected to acquire any, but now they seemed to be almost within his grasp. Metaphorically, anyway. Physically, all that was almost within his grasp was his bodyguards.
Because of Millard Grotsky, Bill had met General Weissearse, who, now that he could do Bill no harm, seemed much less crazy than a lot of officers Bill had known, and a lot more colorful.
Millard Grotsky was still worth a half-million points in TAIL GUNNER!, which would go a long way toward a twelve-hour pass if Bill ever got repatriated.
Millard Grotsky was, according to Bill's friend and mentor (absence and distance do make the heart grow fonder, and particularly quickly in one as slow on the uptake as Bill) General Weissearse, the root of all vileness, the most evil man since whoever the last one had been.
Bill was profoundly ambivalent about meeting the President of Eyerack.
All the way over to the Presidential Palace, he wrestled with what was, for him, a deep and complex moral question: Do I take the chance and try to off this guy, or what?
Grotsky had thoughtfully sent over this honor guard to bring him, and that was nice. But he didn't meet Bill at the entrance to the palace, and that wasn't nice. He provided a nifty motorized wheelchair to get Bill through the halls of the palace, and that was nice; but then Grotsky's people wouldn't let Bill race the wheelchair around, and that wasn't nice.
So Bill was still uncertain what to do when he reached the President's private office, down in the fourteenth subbasement of the palace.
He spun around in the chair a few times while he and his escort and the team of photographers waited for the security checks to be completed, and for the blast-proof doors to open. Then a voice came from inside: “Bill, why don't you come in alone for a moment first, so we can talk?”
Bill knew that this had the potential to be a great moment. As he rolled through the doorway, he knew that he had the opportunity to justify General Weissearse's faith in him. He could surpass his previous status as a generic galactic hero and become one of the greatest galactic heroes of this year, and maybe last year too!
He was alone in a sealed room with the leader of the enemy. It would be relatively simple to kill Grotsky right there. And that would put an end to the war, right?
His strong right hands twitched with the urge to close around Grotsky's throat. He swiveled around to face the man. His arms reached out —
And encountered something hard and round and cold.
“Would you like a beer, Bill?”
Bill paused only long enough to note that the cap was already off the bottle. After a long swallow he put the empty on the desk, held out his hand again, and said, “Yes, please.”
The second beer took the edge off his thirst, and with the third in hand he relaxed and looked around.
The office was tiny, by the standards of the Empire: smaller, even, than an officers' latrine. It lacked the opulent decorations of an Imperial office, or latrine, as well.
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