THE CHEMICALLY PURE WARRIORS BY ALLEN KIM LANG They conquered the planet and they owned it outright. The trouble was--they didn't dare set foot on it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] From the head of the platoon Lieutenant Lee Hartford signaled Sergeant Felix, busy policing up stragglers at the rear, that he was taking over. Hartford tongued the volume-setting of his bitcher to "Low" and softly sing-songed to his three dozen troopers: "_Your girlfriend's just an hour away; there's a time to soldier and a time to play._ Pick it HUP, HUP, HUP! 'Toon, tain-HUT.' HUP, twop, threep, furp; HUP, HUP; HUP, twop, threep, furp. Mondrian, pick up the cadence; you're marching like a man with a paper pelvis. _Swing 'em six to the front and three to the rear; When you sing to your Daddy, sing it loud and clear._" Hartford turned up the volume. "_Three weeks in the woods, eating squeeze-tube beans; We'd be better off in the Fleet Marines. Sound off!_" "ONE, TWO," boomed the voice of the Terrible Third, sounding from the bitchers at the chests of thirty-six safety-suits. Dust slapped up from marching-boots. A flock of scarlet blabrigars settled on the road ahead, chattering and watching like small boys. "_Sound hoff!_" "THREE, FOUR!" The road led uphill toward Stinkerville; they were some three miles from First Regiment Barracks. Three miles from now these troopers could shed their safety-suits and helmets, shower off three weeks of sweat, drink a beer and leer at the short-skirted, taut-haltered girls of the Service Companies. "_Who are we?_" Hartford chanted. "COMPANY C," the troopers blatted back. The blabrigars, fluttering up from the roadway, chanted too: "Who are we? Company See. Who, we? See, see. Company See Are Wee See See." These wild birds didn't memorize human speech as well as their captive cousins; they garbled their mockeries immediately. The flock settled into the sunflowers beside the road; and were joined by a pair of wild camelopards, chewing sunflower-leaf cud as they peered at the marching Axenites. Hartford looked about, but there were no Stinkers--Kansans--in sight. These natives didn't care to watch the occupying regiment stir up their homeland's dust. "_What platoon?_" Hartford called, his voice magnified by the bitcher till the whole column could hear him. "THIRD PLATOON," the men bellowed back, singing against the percussion of their boots. "'Toon, click, click, click; 'toon, click, third platoon, click," mocked the blabrigars in ragged chorus, reflecting both the words and the marching feet. "_Best platoon?_"