bony, fragile-looking boy sitting in the second row between his father and mother. A good strong wind would knock that kid to the ground, he decided, but he paused, examining the boy’s pale gray eyes. He thought he recognized something in those eyes-determination, cunning, willpower-that he remembered from pictures of himself at that age, when he was a fat, clumsy slob that his Air Force captain father had kicked in the ass at every opportunity.
Of all of them sitting before me, he thought, that skinny kid might have a chance. The others were dogmeat.
He braced himself and started giving the orientation speech with as much enthusiasm as if he were digging a latrine ditch.
As Colonel Macklin spoke Roland Croninger examined him with intent interest. The colonel was a lot heavier than the photographs in Soldier of Fortune, and he looked sleepy and bored. Roland was disappointed; he’d expected a trim and hungry war hero, not a used car salesman dressed up in military duds. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had shot down three MiGs over the Thanh Hoa Bridge to save a buddy’s crippled plane and then had ejected from a disintegrating aircraft.
Rip-off, Roland decided. Colonel Macklin was a rip-off, and he was beginning to think Earth House might be a rip-off, as well. That morning he’d awakened to find a dark water stain on his pillow; the ceiling was leaking from a crack two inches wide. There had been no hot water from the shower head, and the cold water was full of grit and rust. His mother had thrown a fit about not being able to get her hair clean, and his father had said he’d mention the problem to Sergeant Schorr.
Roland was fearful of setting up his computer because the air in his bedroom was so damp, and his first impression of Earth House as a neat-o medieval-type fortress was wearing thin. Of course, he’d brought books to read-tomes on Machiavelli and Napoleon and a study of medieval siege warfare-but he’d counted on programming some new dungeons for his King’s Knight game while he was here. King’s Knight was his own creation-128K of an imaginary world shattered into feudal kingdoms at war with one another. Now it looked as if he was going to have to read all the time!
He watched Colonel Macklin. Macklin’s eyes were lazy, and his face was fat. He looked like an old bull that had been put out to pasture because he couldn’t get it up anymore. But as Macklin’s eyes met his and held for a couple of seconds before they slid away again, Roland was reminded of a picture he’d seen of Joe Louis when the boxing champion had been a Las Vegas hotel greeter. In that picture, Joe Louis looked flabby and tired, but he had one massive hand clasped around the frail white hand of a tourist, and Joe Louis’ eyes were hard and dark and somewhere far away-maybe back in the ring, remembering the feel of a blow slammed against another man’s midsection almost to the backbone. Roland thought that the same distant stare was in Colonel Macklin’s eyes, and, just as you knew Joe Louis could’ve smashed the bones in that tourist’s hand with one quick squeeze, Roland sensed that the warrior within Colonel Macklin was not yet dead.
As Macklin’s address continued the wall telephone beside the display map buzzed. Sergeant Schorr got up and answered it; he listened for a few seconds, hung the receiver up and started back across the platform toward the colonel. Roland thought that something in Schorr’s face had been altered in the time he was on the telephone; Schorr appeared older now, and his face was slightly flushed. He said, “Excuse me, Colonel,” and he placed his hand over the microphone.
Macklin’s head snapped around, his eyes angry at the interruption.
“Sir,” Schorr said quietly, “Sergeant Lombard says you’re needed in Perimeter Control.”
“What is it?”
“He wouldn’t say, sir. I think… he sounded pretty damned shaken.”
Crap! Macklin thought. Lombard got
Of all of them sitting before me, he thought, that skinny kid might have a chance. The others were dogmeat.
He braced himself and started giving the orientation speech with as much enthusiasm as if he were digging a latrine ditch.
As Colonel Macklin spoke Roland Croninger examined him with intent interest. The colonel was a lot heavier than the photographs in Soldier of Fortune, and he looked sleepy and bored. Roland was disappointed; he’d expected a trim and hungry war hero, not a used car salesman dressed up in military duds. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had shot down three MiGs over the Thanh Hoa Bridge to save a buddy’s crippled plane and then had ejected from a disintegrating aircraft.
Rip-off, Roland decided. Colonel Macklin was a rip-off, and he was beginning to think Earth House might be a rip-off, as well. That morning he’d awakened to find a dark water stain on his pillow; the ceiling was leaking from a crack two inches wide. There had been no hot water from the shower head, and the cold water was full of grit and rust. His mother had thrown a fit about not being able to get her hair clean, and his father had said he’d mention the problem to Sergeant Schorr.
Roland was fearful of setting up his computer because the air in his bedroom was so damp, and his first impression of Earth House as a neat-o medieval-type fortress was wearing thin. Of course, he’d brought books to read-tomes on Machiavelli and Napoleon and a study of medieval siege warfare-but he’d counted on programming some new dungeons for his King’s Knight game while he was here. King’s Knight was his own creation-128K of an imaginary world shattered into feudal kingdoms at war with one another. Now it looked as if he was going to have to read all the time!
He watched Colonel Macklin. Macklin’s eyes were lazy, and his face was fat. He looked like an old bull that had been put out to pasture because he couldn’t get it up anymore. But as Macklin’s eyes met his and held for a couple of seconds before they slid away again, Roland was reminded of a picture he’d seen of Joe Louis when the boxing champion had been a Las Vegas hotel greeter. In that picture, Joe Louis looked flabby and tired, but he had one massive hand clasped around the frail white hand of a tourist, and Joe Louis’ eyes were hard and dark and somewhere far away-maybe back in the ring, remembering the feel of a blow slammed against another man’s midsection almost to the backbone. Roland thought that the same distant stare was in Colonel Macklin’s eyes, and, just as you knew Joe Louis could’ve smashed the bones in that tourist’s hand with one quick squeeze, Roland sensed that the warrior within Colonel Macklin was not yet dead.
As Macklin’s address continued the wall telephone beside the display map buzzed. Sergeant Schorr got up and answered it; he listened for a few seconds, hung the receiver up and started back across the platform toward the colonel. Roland thought that something in Schorr’s face had been altered in the time he was on the telephone; Schorr appeared older now, and his face was slightly flushed. He said, “Excuse me, Colonel,” and he placed his hand over the microphone.
Macklin’s head snapped around, his eyes angry at the interruption.
“Sir,” Schorr said quietly, “Sergeant Lombard says you’re needed in Perimeter Control.”
“What is it?”
“He wouldn’t say, sir. I think… he sounded pretty damned shaken.”
Crap! Macklin thought. Lombard got
Similar Books
