year 1900
and thus subscribing to the Universal Disarmament Pact between the
Sov-world and the West-world. It had taken the enemy forces a long
time to even locate him, a long time and half a dozen casualties that
Joe had coolly inflicted. The way to get to him, the only way,
involved exposure. Joe could see the enemy officers, through his
scope, at a distance just out of his range. They knew the situation,
being old pros. He found considerable satisfaction in the rage he knew
they were feeling. He was dominating a considerable section of the
front, due to the terrain, and there was but one way to root him out,
direct frontal attack.

They had sent in Rank Privates; Low-Lowers, most of them in their
first fracas. Low-Lowers, the dregs of society, seldom employed and
then at the rapidly disappearing, all but extinct, unskilled labor
jobs. Low-Lowers, most of them probably in this fracas in hopes of the
unlikelihood of so distinguishing themselves that they would be jumped
a caste, or at least acquire an extra share or two of common stock to
better the basic living guaranteed by the State. Rank Privates, most
in their first fracas, unknowledgeable about taking cover and not even
in the physical condition this sort of combat demanded.

They came in time and again, surprisingly courageous, Joe had to
admit, and time and again he decimated them. One by one, coolly,
seldom wasting a shot. Not that he had to watch his ammunition, he had
the squad's full supply. He estimated that before it was through he
had inflicted approximately thirty casualties. Hits in the head, in
the torso, the arms, legs. He had inflicted enough casualties to fill
a field hospital. And it had all ended, finally, when a senior officer
below had arrived on the scene, took in the irritating situation, and
sent a dozen noncoms and junior officers, experienced men, to dig Joe
out. Joe had remained only long enough for a few final shots, none of
them effective, at long range, and had then hauled out and followed
after his squad. He might possibly have got two or three more of his
opponents, but only at his own risk. Besides, already the irritation
and hate that he had built up while on the run, and while his squad
mates were copping wounds, had left him and there was nausea in his
belly at the slaughter he had perpetrated.

Or that time on the Louisiana Reservation in the fracas between Allied
Petroleum and United Oil. Joe had been a lieutenant then and--