Frederik Pohl - The Coming of the Quantum Cats

The colonel looked at me hard, then gave me a frosty grin. "You're a good company man, DeSota," he said, and tapped his empty cup with a fingernail. It rang out, like the bell at the end of a round. It was the very best china.

I was willing to let the argument stop there. The colonel was right. But he was also wrong: we'd taken over Sandia with no casualties at all, not counting one guard with a broken arm because one of Selikowitz's MP's had been a little too rough with the hand-to-hand combat. If we'd stormed the White House, there would have been people dead. On the other hand—

On the other hand, there were too many other possibilities for me to figure out. The weaponry these people had! If we could just take back that submarine—or some of those multiwarhead and cruise missiles— But we didn't have the power, on this side of the portal, for anything that big. We could take blueprints, sure. Even any of the weapons, part by part. But sooner or later the Russians were going to take a closer look at that big hole in the desert we'd called an archaeological survey site, and if they saw weaponry .

"Major?" The pretty private who was filling the coffee cups was also distributing flimsies to some of us. "These came while you were eating," she said.

"Thanks," I said, and couldn't help grinning. There was only one for me, but it was a TWX from the President of the United States!

It said:

On behalf of the American people I commend you

and the officers and enlisted personnel of the 456

Special Detachment, A.U.S., for meritorious service

over and beyond the call of duty.

I looked around the table, grinning in spite of myself. No matter that all the others were grinning too—they'd got their own commendations, no doubt. Never mind that the President probably—no, undoubtedily!—hadn't written it himself, doubtless didn't even know my name; it was a canned citation from the War Department, of course. Never mind that the President was the weak-kneed jerk he was—I never voted for the son of a bitch. All the same! A commendation, by name, from the President was going to look very good in my 201 file. And there was more. Six medals! A Legion of Merit for me. A Bronze Star for Sergeant Sambok. Four others to pass out to whoever I chose to name.

It was not a bad morning's haul; and the only thing wrong with it was that Bill Selikowitz had got more than the rest of us. He was frowning over something the orderly had muttered in his ear, and when he looked up it was to me. "Dom? My patrols have just picked up one of your guys, coming toward the base at ninety miles an hour in a stolen car, with an Albuquerque cop right behind him. Private Dormeyer. He took off for town without leave, and it looks like he tried to kill a civilian."

What I wanted was Sergeant Sambok, because she knew the whole detachment. I couldn't have her. She was on the other side of the portal, escorting the prisoners, and there was some technical malfunction and the portal was down.

What I had was my adjutant, Lieutenant Mariel, fresh out of OCS and about as much use as two tails on a cow. She was waiting for me in my office. "What—what are we going to do?" she managed to get out, and remembered to add, "Sir?"

"We're going to clean this up," I told her. "Damn it, Lieutenant! I wanted Dormeyer brought back quietly!"

"They couldn't find him," she said abjectly. "I- sent Privates Weimar and Milton to his home address, but he wasn't there-and you know, sir, the city's real messed up, with some of our troops guarding communications points, and nobody knows if the enemy's going to react—"

"Save the excuses, Lieutenant," I ordered. I'd forgotten that Dormeyer was a local boy—in our time, anyway. That wasn't too good; a commanding officer is supposed to know his troops. "An adjutant's supposed to know the troops," I told her. "Was Dormeyer acting suspicious in any way before he took off?"

"No, sir! Not that I know, sir. He did get a seven-day compassionate about a month ago, sir—wife was killed in a car smash. I suggested dropping him from the unit because he'd missed training, but you said to keep him in—"

"Get him in here," I said. "I'll talk to him. No, wait a minute— let me talk to the cop first."

I didn't need this. I didn't want my commendation spoiled. I didn't want old General Ratface Magruder getting on my case because some asshole private got himself into trouble. The one good thing I knew was that Bill Selikowitz turned the whole thing over to me; there wouldn't be anything on paper—

Provided I could handle it. And when I saw Officer Ortiz that began to look possible. He was a big, square, old-time cop who wore his Smokey the Bear hat as if it had grown there and looked around my office as though he owned it. "Never been here before, Major," he said. "I guess you know there's a lot of questions being asked about what you guys are doing."

At least he hadn't come in breathing fire and demanding the perpetrator. I said, easy man-to-man talk, "I guess guys like you and me just have to follow orders and let the people on top worry about why, right? Have a cigar." When he took two I could see the talk was going the right way. I had more than half expected that he would give us an argumen ton the basis of local law, or jurisdiction, or anything that would make enough trouble so I couldn't deal with the poor slob Dormeyer's troubles myself. I needn't have worried. Ortiz was used to getting along with whoever had the reins of power. He was forty or so, twenty years on the force; he'd seen everything and been fazed by none of it. He'd got a call while patrolling in his radio car in a part of Albuquerque our troops hadn't bothered with, so he entered the home of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Dingman. He found the elder Dingman's away, their daughter Gloria Dingman hysterical, a Mr. William Penderby groggily coming to on her bed, where he'd been just about strangled by our own Private Dormeyer. It wasn't too big a deal. What made it touchy for Officer Ortiz was that on the way in he'd walked right by Private Dormeyer, sitting dazed at the wheel of the Dingrnan girl's car, and by the time Ortiz figured out that that was the man to arrest, Dormeyer had jumped the ignition and was on his way back to base. And, no, he wouldn't mind waiting around while I interviewed the perpetrator, only would it be all right if he phoned in to let the station know where he was?

Certainly I wouldn't mind. I didn't slap him on the back, but I walked him to the door, and ordered Lieutenant Mariel to get him to a phone as soon as she got Private Dormeyer into my office.

Give him that much, he wasn't a bad soldier. He'd come out of whatever craziness had driven him up the wall. He stood at a brace and answered all my questions clearly and briefly. Yes, he'd gone AWOL. Reason? Well, he'd been really shaken up by his wife's death and somebody told him that there was an exact copy of every one of us in this time-so he'd gone looking for his copy of her . . . and finding her there, and alive-and with this other guy in her bed!— had been more than he could handle. No, he hadn't killed the man. Gloria had dragged him away and he'd gone outside to sit in the car and cry. And when Officer Ortiz reported that the victim was no worse than bruised I saw daylight.

I sent Dormeyer back to duty with a warning. I did, this time, pat Officer Ortiz on the back; and I turned him over to Selikowitz's MP corporal. "Escort Officer Ortiz back to his car and let him go," I ordered. "Make sure he knows we're here as friends, not invaders." And to Ortiz, with half a wink, "You mind a suggestion, Officer? You'll be the first from your side to come out from our occupied zone, so you're going to get a lot of attention from the TV news people. Don't let them get you for nothing!" And I watched him go with satisfaction, and turned back to the real world.