SUCCESS STORY By EARL GOODALE Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Terra resounded to the triple toast of the Haldorian hordes: For Haldor! For Glory! And for Heaven's sake, let us out of here! Once my name was Ameet Ruxt, my skin was light blue, and I was a moderately low-ranking member of the Haldorian Empire. Or should I say I was a member of the lower income group? No, definitely "low-ranking," because in a warrior society, even one with as high a technological level as a statistician sits low on the totem pole. He is handed the wrong end of the stick--call it what you will; he's the one who doesn't acquire even one wife for years and he hasn't a courtesy title. He's the man they draft into their Invasion Forces--the Haldorians are always invading someone--and turn him into a Fighter Basic in a third of a year. "Look," I'd complained to the burly two-striper in the Receiving Center, "I'm a trained statistician with a degree and...." "Say Sir, when you address me." I started over again. "I know, Sir, that they use statisticians in the service. So if Haldor needs me in the service it's only sensible that I should work in statistics." The Hweetoral looked bored, but I've found out since that all two-stripers looked bored; it's because so many of them have attained, at that rank, their life's ambition. "Sure, sure. But we just got a directive down on all you paper-pushers. Every one of you from now on out is headed for Fighter Basic Course. You know, I envy you, Ruxt. Haldor, what I wouldn't give to be out there with real men again! Jetting down on some new planet--raying down the mongrels till they yelled for mercy--and grabbing a new chunk of sky for the Empire. Haldor! That's the life!" He glanced modestly down at his medalled chest. "Yes, Sir," I said, "it sure is. But look at my examination records you have right there. Physically I'm only a 3 and you have to have a 5 to go to Basic Fighter. And besides," I threw in the clincher, though I was a bit ashamed of it, "my fighting aptitude only measures a 2!" The Hweetoral sneered unsubtly and grabbed a scriber with heavy fingers. A couple of slashes, a couple of new entries, and lo, I was now a 5 in both departments. I was qualified in every respect. "See," he said, "that's your first lesson in the Service, Ruxt. Figures don't mean a thing, because they can always be changed. That's something a figure pusher like you has to learn. So--" he shoved out that ponderous hand and crushed mine before I could protect myself--"good luck, Ruxt. I know you'll get through that course--alive, I mean." He chuckled heartily. "And I know men!" * * * * *