Third World by Louis Shalako Page A

lit
up.
    “ That would be
wonderful.”
    “ Well then, I will come
a-calling for you.”
    “ Sure. How about seven
o’clock?”
    He agreed that that sounded just fine,
his heart pounding in his chest and his tongue suspiciously stiff
and wooden all of a sudden. He was having trouble getting enough
oxygen into his lungs but he hoped it would pass before she thought
of any further conversational gambits.
    With a grave nod and a last look at
another of the herders traipsing solemnly past on the fringes of
the heaving mass of meat, milk and cheese on the hoof, they turned
and headed back. Her mother would be missing them by now, and maybe
they could have a nice hot cup of tea before he went on
home.
     
    ***
     
    “ Go home, ya lousy screws.”
Someone in the back of the place yelled, but it didn’t matter one
way or another as they were leaving.
    One face in particular, flushed with
drink and resentment, caught his eye. The man made a rude gesture
of universal significance.
    Shapiro’s cheeks reddened but he nodded
pleasantly at the proprietor behind the bar.
    The fellow was studiously wiping down
the countertop which was pretty clean by any standards. The man
looked up.
    “ Thank you.” With a nod, his
section of troopers followed him out into the evening
gloom.
    They’d been very routine patrols, and
they had no intelligence so far, and no real problems
either.
    No one knew anything, or if they did,
they weren’t saying. Inordinate persuasion wasn’t in his mission
brief. Making a point, showing the flag, exercising sovereignty,
all of the preceding was stated or implied in his orders. That and
grab some deserters if you can find them.
    Hernandez giggled, as relieved as
anyone at not finding any action, but he was allowing greater and
greater informality, most times. When he was giving instructions,
he expected strict attention to all facets of a briefing, no matter
how routine or trivial it might seem. Policy was his to make, as he
put it.
    “ Don’t take it too personal,
ladies and gentlemen.”
    They were patrolling in broad daylight
today, showing themselves, being remembered.
    Someone snickered in the headset, and
he had to agree with that.
    A gaggle of small kids of various sizes
and ethnic backgrounds followed his small patrol as they headed
south towards the hotel along a major thoroughfare, one with wide
walkways and a boulevard treed in ornamental Earth types down the
middle. Most of the boys and girls had sports or cycling helmets,
and they all carried sticks and toy guns at the ready position.
Their leader was a real ham, barking out orders and making dramatic
hand signals whenever the Imperial troops did anything at
all.
    Newton had to grin, taking a quick look
back, engaging his squad in the best kind of unspoken
communication. He gestured and a couple looked
rearwards.
    There were chuckles and muted sounds in
his headpiece. All of their patrols had been routine, the heckling
in the last place slightly unusual, in that it wasn’t too
expletive-ridden.
    It was sobering to discover
that they weren’t always well-liked or well-received, but then the
local twenty-two man police force probably wasn’t the most popular
bunch either. There was always that small minority. It was always
the way. People had a few drinks and consequently a few things to
say when authority showed up. They were just flexing their muscles,
knowing this sort of social humiliation would soon have to pack up
and go home. And they couldn’t get away, he thought soberly.
    He understood their point, for small as
the place was they were taxed just like anyone else and the
benefits were likely illusory at best for the average man in the
street. But this was the capital. The hinterland would be even
worse in terms of taxation versus visible benefits. This was just
one more unspoken aspect of the mission.
    There was a scattering of footsteps as
the pack of little people broke from cover in doorways and alleys
behind them, racing past to