Hartford grimaced. Contaminated humans must lead disgusting lives. They smelled of ferments, were bloated with bacterially elaborated gases, suffered rot in their very teeth. Their corpses—poor forefathers!—suffered corruption that would never touch an Axenite, whose unembalmed cadaver would last longer than the best-mummified Pharaoh.

Whatever mysterious errand it had been that had taken Piacentelli outside the Barracks, it had killed him. It was over.

Hartford marched the Terrible Third into position facing the graves, cut into the soil at the base of the hundred-foot flagpole. The entire regiment, less only the handful of men and women necessary to secure the Barracks, was on the Parade Ground. Colonel Nef, his scarlet safety-suit brilliant in the light of the setting sun, stood beside the graves, a finger of his right gauntlet inserted to mark his place in the black Book of Honors and Ceremonies.

The regiment stood at parade-rest as a truck brought the bodies of two comrades through its ranks. As the improvised hearse halted and twelve blue-suited casket-bearers stepped forward to lift the flag-draped boxes, Nef called the regiment to attention. The bearers slow-marched the caskets to the graves and placed them on the lowering-devices.

Nef's words of funeral were few. He spoke of the dedication of the two Axenites being laid to rest and bitterly accused the Stinkers—this word seemed rude, in so formal a setting—of having murdered the young couple. He spoke of condign justice, and of revenge.

This done, he called: "Escort, less firing-party. Present, HAHMS! Firing-party, FIRE THREE VOLLEYS!"

The shots of the Dardick-rifles echoed down the plateau to the smoldering village below. The Regimental Bugler, standing between the heads of the graves, flicked on his instrument. As the last volley spat from the muzzles of the rifles, the bugler played Taps.

Four men stepped forward to recover and fold the green-silk Pioneer colors, and the caskets were lowered to corruption in alien earth. The banner crept down the flagstaff, and the funeral was over.

Bone-weary, Hartford went from the Syphon to the refresher-room, where he checked his safety-suit and hung it.

Another officer was there, still in his blue safety-suit. Hartford wondered sleepily why he'd so long postponed unsuiting. Even the fellow's helmet was 

 Prev. P 26/56 next