Success Story

By EARL GOODALE
Illustrated by WOOD
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 a moderately low-ranking member of the Haldorian Empire. Or should I say I was a member of the lower income group? No, definitely low-ranking, because in a warrior society, even one with as high a technological level as a statistician sits low on the totem pole. He is handed the wrong end of the stick—call it what you will; he's the one who doesn't acquire even one wife for years and he hasn't a courtesy title. He's the man they draft into their Invasion Forces—the Haldorians are always invading someone—and turn him into a Fighter Basic in a third of a year.
Look, I'd complained to the burly two-striper in the Receiving Center, 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 the service. So if Haldor needs me in the service it's only sensible that I should work in statistics.
The Hweetoral looked bored, but I've found out since that all two-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 a directive down on all you paper-pushers. Every one of you from now on out 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 they yelled for mercy—and grabbing a new chunk of sky for the Empire. Haldor! That's the life! He glanced modestly down at his medalled chest.
Yes, Sir, I said, it sure is. But look at my examination records you have right there. Physically I'm only a 3 and you have to have a 5 to go to Basic Fighter. And besides, I threw in the clincher, though I was a bit ashamed of it, my fighting aptitude only measures a 2!