Fifty-Fifty O'Brien by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

think it was—Napoleon? Listen, mon sergent— ”
    â€œShut up!” rapped Schnapp. “You know nothing about this. I know you were a detective somewhere else, but that makes you just a private here. Shut up!”
    Hardesty shoved his kepi over his eye, gnawed at a tattered cigarette and shoved his hands in his pockets. His red face grew redder and his small eyes spun with anger.
    â€œGet up on the embrasures!” ordered Schnapp. “Who told you to leave that gun, hein ?”
    Hardesty went, very sullenly. Once more he straddled the seat of the machine gun and listened to the squabble below.
    â€œThose Berbers,” growled Schnapp, “caught him when he was out on reconnoiter, yes. They took him apart like this and left him here for us to see. Those Berbers want this post, yes. If they get this post they will run their guns down here, yes. They think they can scare us out, hein ?”
    Corporal Bereaux’s regulation voice came up to Hardesty. “But they can’t be allowed to get away with this. We ought to tear out there and wipe them up.”
    â€œThat’s a good idea. Teach those pigs a lesson, hein ? Yes, corporal, that’s a good idea. Trumpeter! Sound aux armes . Squads one and three—”
    Hardesty snorted in disgust and fumbled with the loading handle. By leaning out a little he could see the spot where the body had lain; he could see the red stains in the sand.
    Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Russian, Kaslov, shoulder stolidly past Bereaux, head down, scowling. Kaslov stared up at the embrasure, glared at Hardesty and walked on into the squad room.
    Hardesty watched squads one and three depart down the pass, loaded with rifles, Chauchats , grenades. Vengeance was all right, guessed Hardesty, but it was feeble solace to his outraged professional training.
    At eight o’clock he went down to eat his breakfast, turning the machine gun over to his relief. At the rough table he slapped down his pannikin and canteen cup and began to eat.
    Presently a Legionnaire known as Tou-Tou, onetime sewer rat of Paris, seated himself across the board. “So the lieutenant got his, eh?”
    Hardesty bobbed his head.
    â€œI was across the fort when it happened,” said Tou-Tou. “I couldn’t leave my post, you see.”
    Hardesty looked up, frowning a little. “No, you couldn’t at that, could you?”
    â€œNo, of course not. The conceit of those Berbers is pretty awful, isn’t it?” said Tou-Tou. “I see by the marks on the top of the gate that they tried to lift him over the edge, leaving him right in the compound. But the lieutenant slipped back, I guess.”
    â€œYes, guess so,” replied Hardesty, eating. But his red face was unnaturally flushed and his eyes were restless.
    â€œFunny you didn’t hear it,” said Tou-Tou with a knowing smile. “But then, none of us liked the lieutenant, hein ? But it’s a pity, it’s a pity.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” snapped Hardesty, scowling.
    â€œSome say you get money from the United States,” replied Tou-Tou, his bitter face wreathed into a greasy smile.
    Hardesty very carefully picked up his pannikin. Without any warning whatever he pitched it, contents and all, into Tou-Tou’s face.
    The former apache yelled shrilly, leaping back. But before he could get to his knife, Hardesty launched himself across the table and grabbed him. Bodily, Hardesty pitched the squirming Tou-Tou out through the door.
    Hardesty wiped his hands on his khaki pants and turned to the popeyed cook. “Get me another plate of grub,” ordered Hardesty.
    The cook, for the first time in legion history, complied, without a word.
    At eight that night, Hardesty went on duty again. He seated himself on the machine-gun saddle, gnawing on a cold cigarette, and watched the pearly radiance of the upcoming moon.
    He lifted his kepi on the side, replaced it and gave it