"Draftee, you know that some unfortunate men break down in training and that we have to take them out. Maybe you've already lost some that way. Suppose you were brought in here, gibbering, yowling, and drooling—I guess we'd have to cure you and send you back home as non-fighter material, eh?"
Someone up here liked me! Here was a tip on how to escape back to the old quiet life. I nodded agreeably.
"But you know, don't you," he said softly, "that first we run a thorough test on our drooling draftee? Say it's you...."
I nodded again.
"We most always detect fakers. And you know there's a death penalty for any Haldorian attempting to escape his duty." He smiled sadly, and reminiscently.
I nodded. Maybe someone up here didn't like me.
"So we'd shoot you dead with one of those primitive projectile weapons, as an object lesson for both you and the draftees we had remaining."
I nodded and tried to show by my countenance how much I approved of people being shot dead with primitive weapons.
"But suppose," he went on, "that you'd really cracked up or that you'd faked successfully?"
"Yes, Sir?" Hope returned, hesitantly and on tip-toes, ready to flee.