THE RECRUIT
BY BRYCE WALTON
It was dirty work, but it would
make him a man. And kids had a
right to grow up—some of them!
[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.]
Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.
The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.
The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone."
"But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time."
"Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough."
Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.
"We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books."
"But he's unhappy."
"Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late."
Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo.
How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland.
But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ.
"Well, dear, if you say so," Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.
They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.
"Relax," Wayne said. "You're not going anywhere tonight."
"What, son?" his old man said uneasily. "Sure we are. We're going tothe movies."
He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent.
"Okay, go," Wayne said. "If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket."
"But we promised the Clemons, dear," his mother said.
"Hell," Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. "I just got mydraft call."
He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. "Oh, my dear boy," Mother criedout.
"So gimme the keys," Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.
"Do be careful, dear," his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ra