Uniform of a Man
By Dave Dryfoos
Illustrated by Rudolph Palais
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of ScienceFiction March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
In the village clearing, under the diffuse red sun of Hedlot, ChetBarfield listened intently. Mostly he heard the villagers, the Agvars,noisy with the disregard for sound that comes of defective hearing.
But above their clamor was another note. No ... Yes! There it wasagain—the swish-roar-scream of a spaceship!
Chet's heart lifted to the altitude of that ship. Rescue! Rescue was athand for him, after three years as a prisoner.
Thought of it momentarily overcame the passivity that years ofstarvation had made his habit. He even forgot himself enough to walkerect a few steps, staring skyward—heavenward!—within cupped hands.
But the dense hardwood chain on his ankle brought him up short. When ittightened, he remembered, and slouched to all fours again, moving withthe gorilla-like gait of the Agvars toward the unshaded post he waschained to.
He'd been observed. Pawfulls of dirt stung his bent and whip-scarredback, and a treble chorus stung his ears and nerves. The village boyswere chanting derisively. Chet had never been able to learn thelanguage, but the tone of voice was unmistakable.
He huddled against the post, knees to chin, hands clasped around hismatted hair, awaiting the inevitable sticks and slops. He heard thechildren's voices fade as they scattered throughout the village ofhaphazard lean-tos in search of especially sickening things to throw.For a few minutes, then, he'd have a breather. But not for long—theywouldn't forget....
No. But the fellows hadn't forgotten him, either. He could stand thisfor a day or two more. A week or a month, even. It didn't matter. Thiswould end—soon.
His turn would come! He'd make these devils suffer as he had suffered.He swore it!
He was glad he'd stayed alive for this. It had been a fight to live, astruggle he'd often thought futile while he made it. Learning to eatwhatever he could get, training himself to breathe the local atmospherein the special rhythm its composition required, accepting degradationstoo cruel for a captive animal, avoiding the resistance that would havebrought merciful murder.... All that, yet it felt strange, now, to be soglad he was alive.
He heard the children returning, and crouched lower. A few clots ofgarbage spattered against the post—teasers, to make him angry, so he'dturn to howl his rage, and offer his face as a target.
Good memories, these little beasts had. It was almost a year since he'dlast done that....
Well, he had a memory, too. And while they pelted him—from fairly closerange, now, with sharp rocks among the wads of filth—he could takerefuge in the memory of those last glorious days on Earth.
Remembrance was itself a change brought by the roaring ship; usually hemoped in a vegetative daze. But now he recalled how he'd looked in thetight white uniform: six feet of well-fed muscle accentuated by thegarment's lines, the blue stars on each lapel just matching his eyes,the peak of his cap harmonizing with the straight line of his jaw.
He remembered how he'd sounded, speaking words of nonchal