Naked to the Stars by Dickson Gordon R

Author:Dickson, Gordon R. [Dickson, Gordon R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Start Science Fiction
Published: 2013-12-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

At the end of the ten weeks Cal graduated from Contacts School along with Washun and the rest of the predicted ten per-cent of the entering class. The rest took their new Lieutenant’s tabs off on an eight-day leave. Cal made an appointment to see General Scoby the following day.

The thin, clear sun of September was cutting squarely across?the papers on the desk in Scoby’s office as Cal stepped into it this second time. The year had turned the part of the planet around Denver into mountain autumn, since they had first met;and the point of that meeting lay many millions of miles back along the Earth’s path through that space which is also time. Scoby sat as he had sat before, but the cheetah, Limpari, this time lay alongside the desk, at desk-top level, forelegs stretched out so that the light-colored puffs of her paws rested barely against the sleeve of Scoby’s shirt, feline head laid upon those forelegs. Her animal eyes turned to Cal as he entered, but nothing else about her moved. Scoby looked up.

“Well, Lieutenant,” he said. “Sit down.”

Cal sat.

“You said to come see you, General,” he said, “after I got through Contacts School.”

“That’s right.” Scoby reached for his pipe and began to fill it, considering Cal coolly. “So you got through all right.” Something about the question operated against the relative peace of mind Cal had discovered during the later days at the Contacts School. An old defensiveness came back, an old, sharp edge unsheathed itself in him:

“The General didn’t expect me to?”

“Now there,” said Scoby, striking a light to his pipe and puffing on it, “is why I want you for the job I have in mind and I’m afraid of you at the same time.”

“Sir?”

“You’re management training material,” said Scoby. “I want you as high up in my organization as you can climb. But I don’t want you coming along faster than you’re ready to. Tell me about the Paumons. What’d you learn about them at Contacts School?”' Cal frowned.

“Very humanlike,” he said. “Human enough to get by in a crowd of us, almost. Stripped, of course, you’d notice differences. But with clothes, they’d look sort of like eskimos with sunburns.”

“Ah...” Scoby closed his eyes. “What’s the name for them?”

“Sir?”

“The mulebrains and anybody else who knows about them. What’re they calling these Paumons people?”

“Oh,” said Cal. “Progs.”

“Standing for what? What d’you call them?”

“Standing for what?” echoed Cal. “I don’t know, sir. Myself, sometimes I call them Progs. Or Paumons. Depends on who I’m talking to.”

“Yeah,” said Scoby. “You got a ways to go yet. What about their culture?”

“Industrial. They get their power from volcanic taps.”

“Art? Philosophy?”

Cal stared at the older man.

“Art?” he said slowly. “Philosophy? School didn’t give us anything on that.”

“And of course you didn’t go look it up on your own. What’s the job the Contacts Service is supposed to do? Can you tell me that?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Cal. “Just as the Armed Services’ job is to subdue the enemies

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