It just goes to show you can’t believe everything that’s burned on a chip. I mean, America could never have been that ass-backward.

For the next couple hours, Metzger danced with his date and got talked to by important-looking people. I drank too much free champagne, listened to the band, and watched Crissy giggle and nearly fall out of her dress.

Metzger had been visiting with our host, Aaron Grodt. Grodt came and sat between Crissy and me, in Metzger’s empty chair. The producer laid his hand on my shoulder. “Captain Metzger tells me your military experience hasn’t been good lately.”

Experience? If the man could read a chest, he’d see the only thing on mine was the oft-awarded, seldom-earned

Expert Rifle badge and a ninety-day-service ribbon. I shrugged.

“We have a number of military-based projects in development I need technical advisors.” He raised his eyebrows.

“You mean I’d get assigned—”

He shook his head. “I need independent advice. I know people who could arrange your discharge.”

I stiffened. Behind Grodt, Crissy’s eyes were wide as she nodded rapidly and repeatedly.

Grodt squeezed my shoulder. “The pay would seem spectacular after the military.”

“I—” How could I explain to someone who hadn’t been there what it was to feel committed to service?

“Look, you seem like a nice kid. Captain Metzger thinks you deserve a break. The world is going down the toilet, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. You can spend the years you have left digging mud, or you can spend them like this.” He spread his arm like he was sowing glitter on his guests.

“If you want the job, let me know before you leave. If not, there’s a waiting list.” He stood and smiled like nobody sane would turn him down.

After he left, Crissy squeezed my hand. “My God! Jason! Aaron Grodt just offered you a job !”

Committed? To what? Why? Two days before, I had been ready to desert rather than continue in the army. If Grodt was as connected as he seemed to be, he could not only get me out of the army legally, he probably could square my departure with Judge March, too. The opportunity of a lifetime spread before me. So why was I wondering what to do?

As I pondered, Crissy led me back into the house, up-stairs and down a carpeted hallway that seemed as long as a company street. Moans and the sweet smell of dope, the illegal kind, leaked from behind closed doors.

“Aaron has, like, forty bedrooms. There’s anything you want.” At the moment, the one thing I wanted was to solve mysteries under her dress. She wobbled from the champagne as she opened a door and led me into a pink room with a canopy bed. She hopped on the bed, her Himalayas heaving, drained her champagne, and stretched to set the empty flute on a nightstand. Her hem rode halfway up her thigh, and she rolled on her back and patted the silk beside her. I sat and wondered why I doubted Grodt’s job offer.

“Think about whatever it is tomorrow, Jason.” She reached up and traced my ear with her finger.

I hadn’t so much as smelled a woman in months. And the last one who had touched my ear was a doctor when I had an earache before I turned twelve. I breathed faster. Think about what tomorrow?

She breathed into my ear. “Very hard?”

“Huh?”

“Your training.”

“It is. Was.”

She scooted closer, slid up her dress, and snapped off tiny, pink lace undies with promising athleticism. I froze. If I moved, she might vanish.

She drew back and pouted. “‘M I boring you?”

“No. God, no!” I shrugged. “It’s just—I have responsibilities.”

She fingered the ninety-day-service ribbon on my tunic. “Jason, get real! Metzger’s got responsibilities. You’re a grunt!”

Then she cocked her head. “Unless—Are you going for The Force?”

If The Force was anywhere between her knees and her collarbone, I surely was. “What?”

“Didn’t you watch the news?”

Not in the back of a truck.

“It’s on everywhere.” She passed her palm above a remote, and Grodt’s holo fired with no hint of dust-induced static. One more thing money could buy.

A newsreader stood on the carpet before us while the Holo News Network logo swirled around her.

“Already, volunteer applications for the UN’s Ganymede Expeditionary Force are piling up. The world’s best soldiers are clamoring to be selected. Officials conceded only today that plans for a massive spaceship to transport thousands of Infantry troops and carry the fight to Jupiter’s largest moon are far advanced.”

I shook my head and wished I wasn’t so drunk.

The newsreader continued. “The ship’s keel may be laid as soon as next spring, at a location undisclosed for security reasons. Speculation centers on the Arizona desert or the Sahara.”

Her coanchor nodded from the corner of the room. “Any timetable?”

“Sources expect to embark trained Infantry troops within five years. Hopeful news.”

The Vegas line was even money the human race would be extinct in four years. Hopeful, my ass.

Crissy waved off the holo. “You’re upset, Jason.”

My head spun as much from the news as from the champagne. Infantry. There was a chance for Infantry to make a difference in the world. There was a chance for me to make a difference. Or there had been until I screwed it up. Jacowicz had said I’d get crap assignments. The Ganymede Expeditionary Force was going to be the toughest ticket in military history. This was the Mother of All Screwings. I ground my teeth.

“Jason?”

“Huh?”

Crissy grasped my zipper between manicured fingers and slid it down. “Whatever it is, I can make it better.”

No, she couldn’t. The only thing that could was me getting assigned to the Ganymede Expeditionary Force, and that wasn’t her department.

However, Little Jason was doing my thinking, and he had urgent ideas. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her to me.

She giggled. “Izzat a pistol in your pocket, soldier?”

Her lines weren’t original, but her attitude was flawless.

Rap! Rap!

The door knocks barely died before it swung open.

“Specialist Wander?” Two buck-sergeant MPs stepped through the doorway in black berets, shoulder bands with MP lettered in white, and plink white gloves.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Caught in an opium den, drunk and underage. My fake ID lay in Ord’s personal-property envelope back at Indiantown Gap. And it had to be illegal to get lucky with a tanked woman this prime.

The MPs gaped at Chrissy while the first one said, “You gotta report back, Specialist.”

I shook my head. “I’m on leave.”

MP Number One waved old-fashioned paper, unsmiling. “Canceled.”

Crissy pulled a sheet across herself and pouted.

“Report where?”

“Nearest post. Canaveral.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Okay. Gimmee a few minutes.” I jerked my head toward Crissy.

“ Now , Specialist!” The MP hooked a thumb in his belt He wore a sidearm.

I spread my arms, palms open. “Guys! I’ve been sleeping in a barracks with fifty hairy-butt privates for three months! Ten minutes—”

“The army doesn’t care if you sleep with yaks. Move!” He stepped forward.

Quitting in wartime is desertion. The army can execute a GI summarily, ignoring trifles like the Bill of Rights. And I hadn’t exactly built a reservoir of goodwill lately. I looked once more at his pistol, sighed, tucked in, and zipped up.

Crissy groaned and rolled on her side, facing the wall.

I stood. “How’d you find me?”

MP Number One tapped his chest with the index finger of one hand while he pointed skyward with the other. “Dogtag.”

I nodded. At induction, every soldier gets an identity chip implanted beneath his or her breastbone. One purpose is graves registration. That’s why the implant goes in the middle of the biggest piece of meat likely to be intact. The chip’s also detectable by global-positioning satellites, just like everybody’s car and bike. The Thirty-Eighth Amendment forbids satellite-tracking of natural persons, but it’s just one more civil right GIs waive. I think they’re called “dogtags” because the army tested the implants on canines. I heard another explanation, but it was stupid.