Harry Turtledove - Down to Earth

“We always knew we’d be up against that,” Stone said.

Johnson nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “But we didn’t figure we’d be up against it so hard so soon. Stupid goddamn Nazis.”

“Those bastards seem bound and determined to go out in a blaze of glory, don’t they?” Stone said.

“They’ve sure got a wild hair up their ass about Poland, anyhow, if half of what we hear on the radio is true,” Johnson said. “And I’ll tell you something else: I wouldn’t give you a plug nickel to be aboard the Hermann Goring right now, either.”

Stone’s chuckle was not a happy sound. “Me, neither. Can you say ‘bull’s-eye’? How many missiles do you suppose the Lizards have aimed at that baby?”

Remembering his conversation with Mickey Flynn, Johnson answered, “Enough to do the job-and probably about another ten more besides.”

“That sounds about right,” Stone agreed. “The Race doesn’t like doing things by halves-which is one reason it’s God’s own miracle they didn’t finish the fight back in the Forties.”

“It was a question of who’d finish who,” Johnson said. “They wanted the colonization fleet to have a planet worth landing on.” His chuckle didn’t show much in the way of good humor, either. “So now they can blow things up with the colonists here. Hot damn.”

“Hot damn is right,” Stone said. “Real hot.”

“What worries me is, they might decide to go after us if they’re going after the Hermann Goring ,” Johnson said. “In for a penny, in for a pound, you know what I mean? As long as they’ve got a war on their hands…”

“It’d be a lot bigger one if they’re fighting us, too,” Stone said. “Yeah, but if you’re a Lizard, the other question is, how big is too big if you’re already fighting the Nazis?” Johnson said. “The only answer I can think of is, if it’s big enough to blow up the planet, it’s probably too big. Otherwise, who knows?”

Walter Stone looked at him. “You’re in a nice, cheerful mood today, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you be, the way things are now?” Glen Johnson returned. “Remember, you spent all the time before we left learning to fly the Lewis and Clark. I spend a lot of my duty time in orbit, watching the Race and the Nazis and the Russians. I know how fast things can go wrong. They almost did a few times.”

“You tried to help make things go wrong, poking your nose in where it didn’t belong,” Stone said.

“And look what it got me,” Johnson said. “I’m stuck for life with people like you.” Before Stone could answer, a bell chimed the hour. Johnson sighed. “And I’m stuck on an exercise bicycle for the next hour.”

“Have fun,” Stone said. “I already did my bit today.”

“Fun,” Johnson said, as if it were a four-letter word. But he didn’t have time to do any more complaining than that, not if he wanted to get to the gym on time. He didn’t give two whoops in hell about getting to the gym on time, but he didn’t want to listen to the lecture he’d get for missing some of his exercise period, either. And so he swung out of the control room and down the halls to the gymnasium. When he got there, he signed the sheet to log in, changed into sweat clothes in the little men’s room off the gym, and then got onto a bike and got to work.

One of the main-engine technicians who’d started exercising before him grinned and said, “You sure you’re really here, sir?”

“I think so, Bob,” Johnson answered, grinning back. “I look like I’m here, don’t I?”

“You never can tell,” Bob said, and they both laughed. The joke was only funny if you looked at it the right way. Not very long before, the Lewis and Clark had gone through its first really juicy scandal. A good many people, including several of high rank, had got in the habit of signing their names on the sheet and then going off and doing something else instead of getting in their work. Brigadier General Healey had not been happy when word of what they were doing finally got to him. And when the commandant wasn’t happy, nobody else was happy, either.

“One thing you’ve got to give Healey,” Bob said: “he’s fair. He came down on everybody, and who didn’t matter.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Johnson’s considered opinion was that the commandant hated everybody impartially, and that the crew of the Lewis and Clark returned the favor. He realized he wasn’t objective, but he didn’t much care. As far as he was concerned, Healey didn’t rate objectivity.

Johnson’s legs pumped hard as he did his best to keep calcium in his bones. He didn’t want to think about gravity, not any more. The idea of having weight, of moving his muscles against resistance, seemed alien and repugnant. He pedaled on anyhow. When his body was working hard, he could stop thinking about the troubles back on Earth and, indeed, about everything else. Exercise wasn’t as much fun as sex, but it did the job of distraction almost as well.

Thinking about sex made him think about Lucy Vegetti-and thinking about her was certainly more enjoyable than not thinking about anything at all. Trouble was, he couldn’t do anything but think about Lucy right now. She was down on Ceres, helping to set up a habitat there. He missed her. He hoped she missed him. If she didn’t, she could find plenty of guys to take his place.

He wondered if she’d taken her bottle of Cutty down to the surface of the asteroid. A jolt of scotch was almost enough to tempt him into some breaking and entering-almost, but not quite.

And then, before he let himself get more tempted than he should have, the intercom came to noisy life. “Lieutenant Colonel Johnson! Lieutenant Colonel Glen Johnson! Report to the commandant’s office immediately! Lieutenant Colonel Glen Johnson! Report to the-”

“I’m coming,” Johnson muttered. “Keep your shirt on.” The intercom went right on bellowing.

“Lucky son of a gun,” Bob said.

“Going to see the commandant?” Johnson shook his head. “I’d sooner keep exercising.”

He unhooked the belt that tethered him to the bicycle and pushed off toward the nearest handhold. He didn’t bother changing out of his exercise togs. If Healey wanted him immediately, that would be how the commandant got him. And if he was a little sweaty, a little smelly, what better proof he’d been doing his work like a good little boy?

He sailed right past Brigadier General Healey’s adjutant and into the commandant’s office, catching himself on a handhold there. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said, saluting.

“Yes.” Healey eyed him. “There are times when you find following orders to the letter more amusing than others, aren’t there, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Johnson said with the air of a maiden whose virtue had been questioned.

“Tell me another one,” Healey said. “I shanghaied you, and you’ve been trying to make me sorry ever since. Sometimes you’ve even done it. But not today. This doesn’t bother me, not a bit.”

Johnson shrugged. “That’s the way it goes, sir.” If he was disappointed-and he was, a little-he’d be damned if he’d admit it. “Did you want me for anything else besides seeing how fast I could get here?”

Brigadier General Healey, unlike Mickey Flynn, had the stereotypical Irishman’s fair skin. When he got angry, he turned red. Johnson watched him flush now, and carefully pretended not to notice a thing. Biting off his words one at a time, the commandant said, “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“All right, sir,” Johnson said. “What is it?”

Healey leaned forward across his desk, for all the world as if he were back on Earth. Nobody else aboard the Lewis and Clark was so good at pretending weightlessness didn’t exist. He said, “You’re the one with the orbital patrol experience. If the Germans and the Lizards start slugging it out, which way do you think the Russians are likely to jump?”