Fifty-Fifty O'Brien by L. Ron Hubbard

backward in its sheath. I wonder—”
    He sat down, straddling the saddle of the machine gun. Of course, he hadn’t had any right to question Kaslov. Doggone it, this instinct of his would get him into trouble yet. The High Atlas had no bearing on Chicago. And Detective-Sergeant Flaherty was a long ways back from Legionnaire Hardesty.
    He fidgeted with the loading handle, looking down the narrow pass. Sometimes the Berbers got funny ideas about dawn. The lieutenant ought to be up here by this time, looking things over.
    Wondering who could have attacked him so pointlessly, he shoved his kepi over his right eye and scratched his head. His face was very round. He did not tan at all; he burned raw. He certainly did not make a very impressive soldier. But then he had been trained to find men, not to kill them. Some day, he supposed, they’d tell him that politics had changed back home. When that happened, he could return. The last gang and their crooked frame had certainly been tough on his reputation.
    Ah, well, he guessed he’d better forget all that. Failing to see any non-coms about, much less the lieutenant, he searched out a cigarette, jabbed it in the corner of his mouth as though it were a cigar and started to light it.
    His roving eye caught sight of a sparkle on the span over the gate. He stared at it, frowning. The match burned down and singed his fingers. Without any exclamation whatever, he dropped it.
    â€œBlood,” he whispered. “For heaven’s sake—”
    Moving swiftly away from the machine gun he touched the red spot. It was almost solid, and when it had touched the place first it had been old.
    The pale daylight showed everything in clear detail now. He thrust his head over the wall and stared down.
    â€œA stiff!”
    Unconsciously, he gnawed on the cigarette, staring at the inert body. The thing down there was horribly slashed and mangled.
    Turning he saw that Corporal Bereaux had come out of the barracks. “Hey,” cried Hardesty. “Hey, corporal! There’s a stiff down there in front of the gate!”
    Bereaux, tall and dark, a perfect martinet, ran swiftly up the steps to Hardesty’s side. He stared down and his swarthy face went chalk-white.
    â€œDamn those Berbers!” snapped Bereaux. “Go get the sergeant, quick!”
    Hardesty blinked at the order and then ran across the compound toward Sergeant Schnapp’s quarters. He hammered loudly on the door.
    Presently, Schnapp’s hard face and chill eye appeared in the crack. “What is it you want, hein ?”
    â€œSergeant, there’s a stiff in front of the gate,” said Hardesty.
    â€œWell, why call me, hein ? Why not call the lieutenant?” A buckle jangled within and Sergeant Schnapp came forth, hitching his coat up over his beefy shoulders.
    Schnapp did not go to the embrasures. He took down the bars and opened the gates wide. His face did not change when he saw the object. He merely grunted and knelt down.
    By the grapevine operating in all military units, the men knew. They came pouring out of the squad rooms, across the bare compound, to stare over Schnapp’s shoulder.
    Schnapp grunted again and picked the body up.
    â€œWait a minute,” said Hardesty, urgently. “Don’t touch him!”
    Schnapp glared and shouldered through. “Want to get shot by the Berbers, hein ? What do you think they left this for, hein ? Get inside, you pigs!”
    The stiffened corpse was laid, not too tenderly, upon the bare stone. Schnapp ordered the gate closed and then stared up at the lieutenant’s office.
    Instantly, his eyes came back to the corpse. There was very little left of the face. The throat had been cut. The arms had been slit open and dried blood covered the uniform, obliterating its marking.
    â€œMy heavens!” cried Corporal Bereaux. “It’s the lieutenant!”
    â€œSure it is,” snapped Hardesty. “Who’d you