"Yes, ma'am." I hoped I wouldn't need to. I rubbed my nose. "Uh, ma'am-what happened to Mr. Nokuri, the photographer?"

"The same thing that happened to the boy in the picture-we think. All we found was the camera-"

"You were there-?"

"-the rest of the place was a mess." Dr. Obama focused on something else for a moment, something very far away. ". . . There was a lot of blood. All over everything. A lot of blood. ... " She shook her head sadly. "These pictures-" She straightened the folder on her desk meaningfully. "-an incredible legacy. This was our first real proof. The man was a hero." Dr. Obama looked at me again and suddenly snapped back to the present. "Now you'd better get out of here. I have work to do-oh, the report. Take it with you and read it again. Bring it back when you've signed it."

I left. Gratefully.

I WAS lying on my bunk when Ted, the other fellow up from the university, came gangling in. He was a lanky smart-aleck with a New England twang. "Hey, Jim boy, chow's on."

"Uh, no thanks, Ted. I'm not hungry."

"So? You want me to call the doc?"

"I'm okay-I'm just not in the mood to eat."

Ted's eyes narrowed. "You still brooding about what happened yesterday?"

I shrugged where I lay. "I dunno."

"You talk to Obie about this yet?"

"Yeah."

"Ah, that explains it-she gave you the shock treatment."

"Well, it worked." I turned on my side and faced the wall. Ted sat down on the bunk facing mine; I could hear the springs creak.

"She showed you the Arizona pictures, didn't she?" I didn't answer.

"You'll get over it. Everybody does."

I decided I didn't like Ted. He always had almost the right thing to say-as if he took his lines from a movie. He was always being just a little too wonderful. Nobody could be that cheerful all the time. I pulled the blanket over my head.

He must have gotten tired of waiting for a response, because he stood up again. "Anyway, Duke wants to see you." He added, "Now. "

I turned around, but Ted was already out the door.

So I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. After a moment, I slipped on my shoes and went looking for Duke.

I found him in the recreation room talking to Shorty; they were sitting on one of the couches going over some maps together. There was a pot of coffee on the table before them. They looked up as I approached. "Be with you in a minute," said Duke.

I hung back politely, keeping my attention focused on the opposite wall. There was an old photograph on it, a faded magazine shot of President Randolph Hudson McGee; I studied it with no interest at all, the square jaw, the shiny gray hair, and the campaign-convincing blue eyes. Finally, Duke mumbled something to Shorty and dismissed him. To me he said, "Sit down." I did so, nervously.

"Want some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Have some anyway-be polite." Duke poured out a cup and set it before me. "You've been here a week, right?"

I nodded.

"You've talked to Obie?"

"Yes."

"Seen the pictures?"

"Yes."

"Well, what do you think?"

I said, "I don't know. What am I supposed to think?"

"Never answer a question with a question, for one thing."

"My father used to tell me that's the only way to answer a rhetorical question."

Duke slurped his coffee and grimaced. "Ugh. It gets worse every day. But don't tell Sergeant Kelly I said so." He looked at me speculatively. "Can you operate a flamethrower?"

"Huh?"

"I'll assume that's a `no.' How fast can you learn? By the end of the week?"

"I don't know. I guess so. Why?"

"I need a backup man. I thought you might want the job." I started to protest-Duke ignored it. "This time it's not just a scouting foray; it's a search and destroy. We're going back to do what we should have done yesterday. Burn some worms." He waited for my answer.

"I don't know," I said at last.

His eyes were steady. "What's the problem?"

"I don't think I'm much of a military type; that's all."

"No, that isn't all." He fixed me with his steely gray eyes and waited.

I felt transparent before him. I tried to glance away, but I felt drawn back to his face. Duke was grim, but not angry-just patient.

I said slowly, "I came out here to study the worms. This ... doesn't exactly fit my expectations. Nobody told me I'd have to be a soldier."

Duke said, "You're getting military credit for it, aren't you?"

"Service credit," I corrected. I'd been lucky. My biology background had qualified as a "needed skill"-but just barely.

Duke made a face. "So? Out here we don't draw lines that thin. There's no difference."

"I beg your pardon, Duke, but there's a lot of difference."

"Eh? How so?"

"It's in my contract. I'm attached as a scientist. Nowhere does it say I have to be a soldier."

Duke leaned back in his chair. "Better take another look at that contract, boy-the `special duties' clause."

I quoted from memory-we had studied it in school; Duke raised his eyebrows, but let me continue. " `In addition, the employee may be required by the employer, as represented by his/her immediate, or otherwise, superiors, to perform any special or unique duties for which he is properly and duly equipped, whether by training, nature or other; and which relate or pertain to the basic obligation as herein detailed-' " Duke smiled. I continued, " '-except where those duties are in direct conflict with the intent of this contract.' "

Duke was still smiling. "That's right, McCarthy-and the duties I'm asking of you are not in direct conflict. You're not under a `peaceful intention' clause, are you?"

"Uh, I don't know."

"You're not. If you were, you'd have never been sent up. Every man here has two jobs-his own and killing worms. Do I have to say which one takes priority?"

I said slowly, "What does that mean?"

"That means," said Duke, "that if the mission is military, everyone is a soldier. We can't afford to watch out for deadheads. I need a backup man. You want to study worms, learn how to operate a flamethrower."

"That's what you mean by `special duties,' huh?"

He said calmly, "That's right. You know I can't order you, McCarthy. Any operation requiring a risk to life has to be entirely voluntary. And not the old-fashioned `I'll take you, you, and you' kind of volunteering either." Duke put down his coffee cup. "But I'll make it easy on you. You have till tomorrow to choose. When you do, go see Shorty. Otherwise, you're shipping out on Thursday's chopper. Got that?"

I didn't answer. "Did you get it?"

"I got it!" I snapped.

"Good." Duke stood up. "You already know what you're going to choose, Jim-there's no question about that. So quit obsessing over it and get on with the job. We don't have the time."

He was right, and I knew it, but it wasn't fair, his pressuring me.

He caught the meaning of my silence and shook his head. "Get off it, Jim. You're never going to be any readier than you are now."

"But I'm not ready at all!"

"That's what I meant. If you were, we wouldn't need to have this conversation. So ... what is it?" I looked up at him. "Yes...?"

"Uh-I'm scared," I admitted. "What if I screw up?"

Duke grinned. "There's a very simple test to know if you've screwed up. If you have, you've been eaten. Everything else is success. Remember that."

He picked up his coffee cup to carry it back to the kitchen. "I'll tell Shorty to expect you. Wear clean underwear." Then he turned and left, leaving me staring after him.