Bill 7 - the Galactic Hero by Harry Harrison Read Free Book Online

Monsoon Foundation for not serving any Eyerackian delicacies, which might undermine the morale of our troops.
    “But,” Child insisted, “none of this has anything to do with you, Bill, because you have already denied being a Chinger spy.”
    “Exactly,” Bill claimed. “Isn't that what I would do if I really was a Chinger spy?”
    “Possibly,” Brownknows waffled.
    “But not necessarily,” Child refuted.
    Bill wanted to continue the argument, but he couldn't think of any more synonyms for “said.” Instead he wandered off to find the tail gun and see if an earlier tail gunner had left a bottle behind.
    Word spread rapidly on the Heavenly Peace. None of the other crew he saw wanted to talk to him, not even to tell him where to go, or, for that matter, where the tail gun was. They wouldn't even talk to him when he offered them hot sauce from his combat foot.
    On the other hand, that left him with few distractions, and within a couple of hours he was snugly fitted into the tail gunner's bubble turret.
    Bill had seen something like this before, but only once, and a long time ago. In fact, the last time was what had gotten him here, the time that made him a galactic hero. Since he'd been heroic and wounded and on the verge of passing out, and was never any too bright to start with, his memory of the gun turret on the Fanny Hill was pretty hazy. There had been a joystick with a red button on it, and a screen with red and green lights, and no instructions.
    This one was much more elaborate. The sides of the turret were all covered with garish paintings of Chingers and tanks and bridges exploding under a banner reading, “Nintari Electronics Presents: TAIL GUNNER!” The chair swiveled around and tilted back and forth. Instead of a joystick there was a yoke, like the controls for a hovercar, and it had two buttons, one red and the other black. The black one had a little label that said STRAFE. The red one had a little label that said BOMB.
    When Bill strapped himself into the seat, the screen lit up with a full-color computer-animated portrait of the Emperor, eyes wandering gaily and separately about. After a minute that picture was replaced with one of General Weissearse in his desert camouflage muumuu. This picture said “What's your name, Trooper?”
    Bill said, “Bill.”
    Across the bottom of the screen scrolled TROOPER BIL.
    “No,” Bill said. “Two L's.” But the screen ignored him.
    “You are a new gunner, TROOPER BILL,” said the animated General. “Do you want a training session?”
    “Sure,” said Bill.
    The screen ignored him again. “Press the red button for live fire, or the black button for training,” it said.
    Bill thumbed the black button.
    “Deposit a coin now,” directed the computerized Weissearse. A digital clock materialized beside him and started ticking down from ten seconds.
    With combat-trained reflexes, Bill reached down to the coin dispenser in his Swiss Army Foot and pulled out a quarter-credit coin. As he expected, the slot was just below the screen. He got the coin in with four seconds to spare.
    A list of targets and point values lit up the screen, with a picture of each type of target. They ranged from one point for a single enemy soldier up to a million points for a little man with black hair, a bushy moustache, and a very bad complexion. The little man was labeled ENEMY LEADER. EXTRA TIME AT 500,000 POINTS scrolled across the bottom.
    Somewhere, as though from a great distance (although nothing here was more than six feet away), Bill thought he heard a choir singing “The Trooper's Hymn,” but he shook his head and it went away.
    The image of General Weissearse returned, holding a pointer and standing in front of a chart. “The black button, marked STRAFE, will destroy little things.” He indicated pictures of a soldier, a tent, and a tank, and each one blew up in turn. “The red button, marked BOMB, will blow up big things.” He pointed to pictures of a bridge, a