Read Bill 7 - the Galactic Hero for Free Online Page B

thought some more. “There's the chaplain's sacramental wine, but he's an officer, and officers don't share, and the lock to the wine cabinet is kept in a cage with the chaplain's sacramental rattlesnakes. I think that's out.” He looked at Bill for confirmation.
    Bill weighed the matter carefully: on the one hand, wine; on the other, virtually certain death. After some time, he reluctantly agreed with Child.
    While the mess sergeant was thinking some more, Bill interrupted him. “Surely you could do something? Some leftover vegetables, a little sugar, yeast, water, heat, and if you want to get fancy, a distillation coil?” Bill was no chemistry whiz, but over the years he had picked up a few basic survival skills.
    Child looked shocked. Bill knew that look well, having been severely shocked not long ago himself, and looked around for loose wiring. He didn't find any, so he looked back at the mess sergeant, who said, “Moi? Make illicit alcohol? Never. I would never consider such an idea. It would violate all my dearest principles. 'Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine,' so forget about kissing me, too.” He would have gone on in this vein for some time if not for the arrival of a trooper in a full dress desert camouflage apron, bearing two buckets of potato peelings.
    “Got yer makings here, Sarge. Want me to dump 'em right in the still?”
    “Still?” Bill trilled, thrilled. “You have got a still!”
    “No, no,” the sergeant demurred, signaling to the aproned trooper to keep his mouth shut or certain death awaited. “He said swill, didn't you, Brownknows? We're having swill for lunch today, made with genuine vegetable peelings from the officers' dining room. It's a big favorite with the men. Bill, you can tell the General that all the troopers love their swill. Yes, indeed.”
    “Why would I tell the General?”
    Brownknows snickered as he put down the buckets.
    Bill glowered at him. Brownknows glowered back.
    The ritual completed, Bill asked again, “Why should I tell the General?”
    “You are his spy, aren't you?” Child insisted.
    “Bowb no!” Bill denied.
    “Come on,” Brownknows cajoled, “you must be. Most of us on the Heavenly Peace are spies of some sort,” he admitted.
    “And if you aren't a spy for the Chingers,” the sergeant reasoned, “you must be a spy for General Weissearse.”
    Brownknows nodded agreement. “Yeah. You haven't contacted any of the other spy cells on board. The only person you've spent any time with is the General. And if he thought you were a Chinger spy, you'd be dead. And you're not. Therefore, you're his spy.”
    Bill considered this deeply, and analyzed his priorities and loyalties. “If I were a spy for the Chingers,” he offered, “and I'm not saying that I am, mind you, just say if I was would I be able to get a drink then?”
    “Well,” Child conceded, “on the basis of your being a Chinger spy I would have no objection to finding you a drink — of which there isn't any on the ship because our beloved General has forbidden it to enlisted men. But then, if you were working for the Chingers, then Brownknows here would have to arrest you, because he is a spy for the Imperial Office of Anti-subversive Activities. Isn't that right?”
    “Not exactly,” Brownknows corrected. “My assignment here is to spy on the officers, not on the enlisted men. I also steal scraps from the dining hall for the still that we would have if the General permitted it. But there's nothing in my orders about Chingers or Chinger spies. Or enlisted men, for that matter. What about you?”
    “I have nothing to do with Chingers,” the Mess Sergeant demurred. "I'm spying for the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Morality. SPAM has been infiltrating mess halls for centuries, restraining the natural hedonistic tendencies of troopers and making sure that they don't get overstimulated by their food.
    “On the side,” he continued, "I get a stipend from the Desert