SUCCESS STORY
By EARL GOODALE
Illustrated by WOOD
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine April 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Terra resounded to the triple toast of the
Haldorian hordes: For Haldor! For Glory!
And for Heaven's sake, let us out of here!
Once my name was Ameet Ruxt, my skin was light blue, and I was amoderately low-ranking member of the Haldorian Empire. Or shouldI say I was a member of the lower income group? No, definitely"low-ranking," because in a warrior society, even one with as high atechnological level as a statistician sits low on the totem pole. Heis handed the wrong end of the stick—call it what you will; he'sthe one who doesn't acquire even one wife for years and he hasn't acourtesy title. He's the man they draft into their Invasion Forces—theHaldorians are always invading someone—and turn him into a FighterBasic in a third of a year.
"Look," I'd complained to the burly two-striper in the ReceivingCenter, "I'm a trained statistician with a degree and...."
"Say Sir, when you address me."
I started over again. "I know, Sir, that they use statisticians in theservice. So if Haldor needs me in the service it's only sensible that Ishould work in statistics."
The Hweetoral looked bored, but I've found out since that alltwo-stripers looked bored; it's because so many of them have attained,at that rank, their life's ambition. "Sure, sure. But we just got adirective down on all you paper-pushers. Every one of you from now onout is headed for Fighter Basic Course. You know, I envy you, Ruxt.Haldor, what I wouldn't give to be out there with real men again!Jetting down on some new planet—raying down the mongrels till theyyelled for mercy—and grabbing a new chunk of sky for the Empire.Haldor! That's the life!" He glanced modestly down at his medalledchest.
"Yes, Sir," I said, "it sure is. But look at my examination records youhave right there. Physically I'm only a 3 and you have to have a 5 togo to Basic Fighter. And besides," I threw in the clincher, though Iwas a bit ashamed of it, "my fighting aptitude only measures a 2!"
The Hweetoral sneered unsubtly and grabbed a scriber with heavyfingers. A couple of slashes, a couple of new entries, and lo, I wasnow a 5 in both departments. I was qualified in every respect.
"See," he said, "that's your first lesson in the Service, Ruxt.Figures don't mean a thing, because they can always be changed. That'ssomething a figure pusher like you has to learn. So—" he shovedout that ponderous hand and crushed mine before I could protectmyself—"good luck, Ruxt. I know you'll get through that course—alive,I mean." He chuckled heartily. "And I know men!"
He was right. I got through alive. But then, 76.5 per cent of drafteesdo get through the Basic Fighter Course, alive. But for me it took adrastic rearrangement of philosophy.
Me, all I'd ever wanted was a good life. An adequate income, art andmusic, congenial friends, an understanding wife—just one wife was allI'd ever hoped for. As you can see, I was an untypical Haldorian onevery point.
After my first day in Basic Fighter Course I just wanted to stay alive.
"There's two kinds of men we turn out here," our Haldor told us aswe lined up awkwardly for the first time (that scene so loved byvision-makers). We new draftees called our Trontar our Haldor becausehe actually had the pow