"Well I'd rather be buried if I get killed than burned into a little pile of ashes and sent home in a jar. And that's what they do. There's not enough land on Venus to bury everybody every year, and they sure aren't going to go to the trouble of hauling a bunch of corpses out into the ocean just to dump 'em. Not when they can burn 'em up, anyway, right here." "Burn 'em up?" Mike said, feeling funny in his stomach. "Alive?" "Not often, I guess. Only when there's a mistake and they don't notice it in time. Or if there haven't been enough guys killed to make the year's quota. Then they take unconscious ones. That's what my father told me once, anyway." "Suppose--suppose you're just hurt bad? Do they--" "Not if they've made the quota. If you end up hurt they take you to the other land mass--there's a big hospital there. I've never seen it, but my father says it's the biggest single building ever made." "How long are you kept there?" "Until you're recovered, of course. The longest case on their records was my cousin's. He got a broken neck when he was hit in the face by a mace, and lost both eyes. They repaired the cut nerves, gave him two new eyes, and fixed his neck in about a month. They can do anything, so you don't have to worry. I got a broken back myself last year--I was out walking in two weeks." * * * * * The recreation area was almost in view. Already they were able to hear the clash of metal on metal, as though a great tangled mass of scythes was being shaken by some huge, clumsy hand which could not break them apart. "Jon...." The section leader was quickening his pace. "Yes?" "How in heck do they know about the quota? How do they know if they should pick you up if you're hurt, or just leave you there?" "The tab ships take care of it. There's a whole fleet of 'em, and they cover each area where there's fighting. They tabulate everything that happens with things called telescanners, and they keep in constant communication with the Quadrate's ship. Any time during the fighting, they know if they're ahead of the quota rate or behind it in their own area. And all the time, the Quadrates are comparing the figures they get from the tab ships with each other so they can keep a running record of the quota rate for all four quadrants. As long as the rate's right, or high, the medical ships keep landing and picking up the wounded, and flying 'em back. When the tabulations show the rate's lagging, the medical ships take it easy until they get the word to get to work again." "They wouldn't have so much work to do if we could use guns instead of these things," Terry said. "I think guns would be more fun, don't you?" "That's what your father thinks, isn't it?" "Gosh, no, he doesn't--"