Whatever is maimed can be reclaimed…I flexed my right arm inside my blue jumper sleeve. It felt like a part of me, always would feel like a part of me. And in a couple of years, assuming that I lived that long, the thin white scar that circled the elbow joint would be completely invisible. Sure. Whatever is maimed can be reclaimed. All except one thing. The most important thing.
And I felt less like going in than ever.
And then I saw this kid. The one from Arizona Base.
He was standing right in front of the sentry box, paralyzed just like me. In the center of his uniform cap was a brand-new, gold-shiny Y with a dot in the center: the insignia of a sling-shot commander. He hadn’t been wearing it the day before at the briefing; that could only mean the commission had just come through. He looked real young and real scared.
I remembered him from the briefing session. He was the one whose hand had gone up timidly during the question period, the one who, when he was recognized, had half risen, worked his mouth a couple of times and finally blurted out: “Excuse me, sir, but they don’t—they don’t smell at all bad, do they?”
There had been a cyclone of laughter, the yelping laughter of men who’ve felt themselves close to the torn edge of hysteria all afternoon and who are damn glad that someone has at last said something that they can make believe is funny.
And the white-haired briefing officer, who hadn’t so much as smiled, waited for the hysteria to work itself out, before saying gravely: “No, they don’t smell bad at all. Unless, that is, they don’t bathe. The same as you gentlemen.”