Fatigue was of no importance, thirst equally so—although both were present and sending imperative messages. To be ignored. Rank has its privileges and we were not going to enjoy ours until we assumed the trappings. I shook Morton until his eyes opened and he biinked dully at me.

“One last effort, Mort. We are going to the PX, about whose heady joys we have heard, and there we will spend some money. When that has been done we will be free spirits and will eat and drink and relax. Are you ready?”

“No. I’m beat, shagged, dead. I cannot move. You go on. I can’t make it…”

“Then I’ll just have to turn you over to Sergeant Klutz who has just arrived and is standing right behind you.”.

He sprang into the air with a shriek of agony, feet already running before he hit the ground. I held on to him.

“Sorry about that. No Klutz here, A ruse to get your adrenaline flowing. Let’s go.”

We went. Quickly before this burst of energy faded. It got him as far as the post exchange where I leaned him against the wall near the cashier and handed him my sheaf of papers.

“Stand there, recruit, and do not move and do not let go of those papers or I will skin you ahve or worse.”

, I slammed the papers into his limp hands and whispered, “What size jacket do you take?” After much blinking on his part, and reiteration on mine, I extracted the needed information.

I made my purchases from a bored clerk, added some stripes and a tube of superglue, paid for everything with some of Gow’s money, thank you corporal, and ledMorton farther into the reaches of the PX. To the latrine, empty this time of day.

“We’ll use the booth one at a time,” I said. “We don’t want anyone making improper conclusions. Take off those fatigues and slip into this uniform. Move it.” While he changed I glued the new sergeant’s stripes over the corporal’s on my sleeves. When Morton had flushed and emerged I straightened his necktie and glued his promotion to his sleeve. His fatigues went into the rubbish, along with the sheaf of papers, and we went into the noncoms’ bar.

“Beer—or something stronger?” I asked. “I don’t drink.”

“You do now. And curse. You’re in the army. Sit there and sneer like a corporal and I’ll be right back.” I ordered two double neutral grain spirits and some beers, dumped the ethyl alcohol into the beer, sipped it to make sure it had not gone off) then went back to our table. Morton drank as ordered, widened his eyes, gasped, then drank again. Color returned to his cheeks as I drained half of my glass and sighed happily.

“I don’t know how to thank you, what to say…”

“Then say nothing. Drink up. What I did was to save my own hide and you just came along for the ride.”

“Who are you, Jak? How do you know how to do those things you did?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was a spy sent here to seek out the military secrets?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m not. I’m just a draftee like yourself. Though I will have to admit that I come from a lot further away than Pensildelphia. That’s it, drain the glass, you’re learning fast. Ill get a couple more drinks and some food. I saw they had catwiches. I’ll get a couple of those.” Food and drink helped, as did the stripes on our arms. Morton tore into his rations. I ate more slowly, finding myself already thinking about the next step. Cigars followed, Gow’s wallet was bottomless, and more drink.

“Thish is really great, Jak, really great. You’re really great, really great.”

“Sleep,” I said as his eyes unfocused and his head hit the table with a thump. “You will awake a new man.” I sipped lightly at my ow” drink for I wanted only the stimulation of the alcohol and not the oblivion. The club was almost empty, only one other table occupied, the noncom there just as asleep as Morton. Probably as drunk as well. The simple pleasures of military life. I sipped and thought of my previous military career on Spiovente, and of The Bishop, now dead, and of the man who was responsible for his death.

“I haven’t forgotten you. Captain Garth, not at all,” I said softly to myself. The bartender polished a glass and yawned. Well acquainted with customers who talked to themselves and drank themselves into extinction. “For the last few days it has been survival only. Now I pick up your trail. We’re in the same army, on the same base.” I felt suddenly dizzy and put the glass down. It had been a long day and I was as tired as Morton. Country and coal-mining music was grating enchantingly from the jukebox: the world about was at peace. For the moment. I was aware of a light scratching sound and glanced down at the boxes that leaned against the wall. Something moved in the darkness behind them. I watched in silence as a twitching nose and whiskers emerged. Then the head, the bar lights reflected in the rat’s eyes. It appeared to be looking up at me.

“Get lost,” I said, “before you end up in the stew.” I cackled at my own witticism.

“Jim diGriz, I must talk with you,” the rat said in a deep voice.

It had really been one of those days. Too much. I had not realized it but the strain was so great that I had cracked.

“Go away,” I hissed. “You are a figment of my imagination and not a real rat at all.” I gulped the rest of my drink in a single swallow. The rat climbed up onto the box and looked at me.

“Of course I am not a real rat. I am Captain Varod of the League Navy.”

Gently, so as not to awaken Morton—this was my hallucination and I wanted to keep it for myself—1 pried his drink from his slack fingers and drained it as well as my own.

“You’ve shrunk a bit since the last time I talked with you, captain,” I smirked.

“Stop playing the idiot, diGriz, and listen to me. This spyrat is controlled from our base. You were recognized and identified.”

“By who? The rat?”

“Shut up. This communication is limited because there is a chance their detectors will pick up the spyrat’s broadcast signal. We need your help. You have penetrated their military base, the first agent to do so. . .”

“Agent? I thought I was the criminal you were shipping home for trial and persecution?”

“I said we need your help. This is vital. There are lives at stake. The generals are planning an invasion. We know that much from intercepting their communications. But we don’t know where the landing will take place. Brastyr is a big continent and they might be attacking anywhere. There could be a lot of deaths. We must find out where they •plan to…”

The door to the bar burst open and a gun-waving ofiicer burst in, followed by a technician weighted with electronic equipment.

“The signal is coming from that direction, sir,” the man shouted and pointed directly at me.

“What is that cagal-head private doing in the noncoms’ bar?” I shouted, leaping to my feet and kicking the box as I did. The rat fell to the floor and I stamoed on it. Hard.

“Don’t get your cagal in an uproar, sergeant,” the offi-

cer said.’ “This is a priority investigation . – .”

“Signal has stopped, sir,” the technician said, fiddling with his dials.

“Cagal!” the officer said, stuffing, his gun back into the holster. “These alcoholics don’t have a transmitter.”

“Could be the street outside, other side of the wall, A moving vehicle.”

“Let’s go!”

The door slammed shut behind them. The barman wiped his glass. “This happen very”often around here?” I asked. “Yeah. This is sure an uptight base.”

Morton snored heavily and I poked the crushed remains of the stainless steel rat with my toe. An omen? A gear wheel rolled out and rattled on the floor.

“Set them up again,” I called out. “And take one yourself since the rest of these cagal-kopfs are in dreamland.”

“You’re all heart, sarge. Just ship in?”

“Today.”

“An uptight base like I say—”