STRAIN
By L. Ron Hubbard
The essence of military success is teamwork—the
essence of that is absolute reliability of every
man, every unit of the team, under any strain that
may be imposed. And the duty of a good general—?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was unreasonable, he told himself, to feel no agony of apprehension.He was in the vortex of a time whirlwind and here all stoodprecariously upon the edge of disaster, but stood quietly, waiting andunbreathing.
No man who had survived a crash, survived bullets, survived theparalyzing rays of the guards, had a right to be calm. And it was notlike him to be calm; his slender hands and even, delicate features werethose of an aristocrat, those of a sensitive thoroughbred whose nervescoursed on the surface, whose health depended upon the quietness ofthose nerves.
They threw him into the domed room, and his space boots rang upon themetal floor, and the glare of savage lights bit into his skull scarcelyless than the impact from the eyes of the enemy intelligence officer.
The identification papers were pushed across the desk by this guard andthe intelligence officer scanned them. "Hm-m-m." The brutish, Saturniancountenance lighted and became interested. The slitted eyes flickedwith satisfaction from one to the other of the two captured officers.
"Captain Forrester de Wolf," said the man behind the desk. "Which oneof you?"
He looked steadily at the Saturnian and was a little amazed to findhimself still calm. "I am he."
"Ah! Then you are Flight Officer Morrison?"
The captain's companion was sweating and his voice had a tremor in it.His youthful, not too bright face twitched. "You got no right to doanything to us. We are prisoners of war captured in uniform in line ofcombat duty! We treat Saturnians well enough when we grab them!"
This speech or perhaps its undertone of panic was of great satisfactionto the intelligence officer. He stood up with irony in his bearing andshook Captain de Wolf by the hand. Then, less politely but with moreinterest, bowed slightly to Flight Officer Morrison. The intelligenceofficer sat down.
"Ah, yes," he said, looking at the papers. "Fortunes of war. Youcame down into range of the batteries and—well, you came down. Yougentlemen don't accuse the Saturnians of a lack in knowing the rulesof war, I trust." But there was false candor there. "We will give youevery courtesy as captured officers: your pay until the end of the war,suitable quarters, servants, good food, access to entertainment anda right to look after your less fortunate enlisted captives." Therewas no end to the statement. It hung there, waiting for an additionalqualification. And then the intelligence officer looked at themquickly, falsely, and said, "Of course, that is contingent upon yourwillingness to give us certain information."
Flight Officer Morrison licked overly dry lips. He was young. Hehad heard many stories about the treatment, even the torture, theSaturnians gave their prisoners. And he knew that as a staff officerthe Saturnians would know his inadvertent possession of the battle planso all-important to this campaign. Morrison flicked a scared glance athis captain and then tried to assume a blustering attitude.
Captain de Wolf spoke calmly—a little surprised at himself that hecould be so calm in the knowledge that as ai