An assessment of the damages later showed that in the battle of Webster versus the Band, Webster was the victor. It took a hack saw to get the trombone player out of the wrappings of his trombone. Several other players were wearing their instruments too. And Third Officer Webster became Sixth Officer Webster.
But you can't keep a good man down. In three months he was up again.
The second incident wasn't his fault, at all. He was leaving the Post Delicatessen one night after buying cold cuts. As he approached his runabout he saw someone fiddling with the controls, apparently about to drive off in it. With a roar he heaved his package at the dimly-seen figure. The package burst open from the jet-like power of his huge hand and various objects sped toward the intruder like a charge of buck-shot. One of them found its mark. But Webster wasn't so proud of his aim a moment later when he pounced on the man. Webster had conked himself an Admiral. The Admiral struggled groggily to his feet. He had been hit squarely in the mouth with three feet of whistling liverwurst. It took the medics two days to make the Admiral a new set of teeth. But it only took the Board fifteen minutes to make Webster a Fifth.
It was along about then that Webster's friends began kidding him about never getting beyond Third. He didn't mind—not too much. And the next time he got up to Third he kept an eye on himself. So did half the Fleet. But it didn't do any good.
He was standing at the bar one night chatting with a few friends. He'd had a couple of drinks, but nothing much. None of the Spacemen drank much. Anyhow a group of eleven men gathered behind him and began needling him. He good-naturedly parried their remarks for awhile. Then one of them called him a cave man.
Webster's great hands were resting on the bar. His muscles tightened. He spun around and charged right through his tormentors. Since he happened to be carrying the top of the bar at the time, the fight ended right there. But the Board took a dim view of a man that destroyed property. So Webster was reduced to Seventh.
There was no doubt about it. There was a jinx riding on the Third Officership as far as Webster was concerned. He couldn't overcome it. Every time he got there those two drag-buckets he used for hands would push him back. And there was no way to overcome it. He was living in the wrong kind of world.
Webster was a man built for violent action. If he could have joined Count Raymond IV on the First Crusade the other eight probably wouldn't have been necessary. Or if he could have stood with the Housecarles at Hastings that October day in 1066, Harold would have been king of England, not William. Webster should have lived in the days when a brilliant man with a powerful body could carve himself out an empire if he wanted to.
But he didn't. Instead he lived in a world that hadn't seen a war in over a hundred years. Violence was dead. Even sports calling for physical contact had vanished. Weapons were unknown except in museums. The only competition to be found anywhere was in such sports as track or swimming or tumbling. Webster excelled in those but it wasn't enough. Something deep in his nature called for more. And unfortunately the call always seemed to come when Webster's superiors were considering moving him from a Third to a Second. But after surveying the wreckage they always changed their minds and moved him the other way. Webster was a man born a thousand years too late. And the only place he could even begin to use his talents was with the Space Fleet. He was almost happy there.