"But you know, don't you," he said softly, "that first we run a thorough test on our drooling draftee? Say it's you...." I nodded again. "We most always detect fakers. And you know there's a death penalty for any Haldorian attempting to escape his duty." He smiled sadly, and reminiscently. I nodded. Maybe someone up here didn't like me. "So we'd shoot you dead with one of those primitive projectile weapons, as an object lesson for both you and the draftees we had remaining." I nodded and tried to show by my countenance how much I approved of people being shot dead with primitive weapons. "But suppose," he went on, "that you'd really cracked up or that you'd faked successfully?" "Yes, Sir?" Hope returned, hesitantly and on tip-toes, ready to flee. "Then we'd cure you," he said. "But the cure unfortunately involves the destruction of your higher mental faculties. And so there'd be nothing for it but to ship you off to one of the mining planets. That's standard procedure, if you didn't know. But I think you'll be all right now, don't you?" Hope fled. I assured him that I'd be just fine and reported back, on the double, to my training platoon. "Just in time, Ruxt," my Trontar greeted me. "Back for full duty, I take it? That's the Haldorian spirit!" He turned to the platoon which was lined up like three rows of sweaty statues. "Men, remember what I told you about taking cover when you're under fire--and staying under cover? Just suppose we suddenly came under fire--flat trajectory stuff--out here on this flat exercise ground with no cover except in that latrine pit over there. Would any of you hesitate to dive into that latrine pit? And once in there, safe and sound, would any of you not stay there until I gave the word to come out?" A perceptible shudder passed like a wave over the platoon. We knew the Trontar did not ask pointless questions. "Of course you wouldn't," he assured us, "and you'd even stay in there all day under this hot sun if you had to. Ruxt! You're rested and refreshed from visiting the hospital. You demonstrate how it's done." It was a long day, even though my Trontar kindly sent some sandwiches over to me at high noon. I didn't eat much. But I did do a lot of thinking. * * * * * There was one last hope. I wrote a letter to a remote clan relative who was supposed to have a small amount of influence. It was a moving letter. I told how my test results had been falsified, what beasts our trainers were, how the medics refused to retest me--very much the standard letter that new Haldorian trainees write. As I went out to mail this plea, one evening, I met two of my fellow trainees starting out on a night march in full field equipment. "How come?" I asked, instantly fearful that I'd missed some notice on the bulletin board. "We wrote letters," one of them said simply. "The Trontar censors all our mail," said the other. "Didn't you know? Oh, well, neither did we."