"Entropy is a bitch," Alan said. "We've got theories to back that one up."

"There is one piece of evidence that suggests that they'll improve us no matter what," I said.

"Tell me quickly," Harry said. "Tom's theory of the galaxy's oldest army is ruining my appetite."

"That's just it," I said. "If they couldn't fix our bodies, they wouldn't be giving us food with a fat content that could kill most of us within the month."

"That's very true," Susan said. "You make an excellent point, there, John. I feel better already."

"Thank you," I said. "And based on this evidence, I have such faith in the Colonial Defense Forces to cure me of all my ills, that now I'm going back for seconds."

"Get me some pancakes while you're up," Thomas said.

"Hey, Leon," I said, giving his flabby bulk a push. "Get up. Sleepy time is over. You've got an eight o'clock appointment."

Leon lay on his bed like a lump. I rolled my eyes, sighed and bent down to give him a harder push. And noticed his lips were blue.

Oh, shit, I thought, and shook him. Nothing. I grabbed his torso and pulled him off his bunk to the floor. It was like moving dead weight.

I grabbed my PDA and called for medical help. Then I kneeled over him, blew into his mouth, and pumped on his chest until a pair of Colonial medical staffers arrived and pulled me off of him.

By this time a small crowd had gathered around the open door; I saw Jesse and reached out to bring her in. She saw Leon on the floor and her hand flew to her mouth. I gave her a quick hug.

"How is he?" I asked one of the Colonials, who was consulting his PDA.

"He's dead," he said. "He's been dead for about an hour. Looks like a heart attack." He put the PDA down and stood up, glancing back down at Leon. "Poor bastard. Made it this far just to have his ticker crap out."

"A last-minute volunteer for the Ghost Brigades," the other Colonial said.

I shot a hard stare at him. I thought a joke at this moment was in terribly bad taste.

"Okay, let's see," the doctor said, glancing at his rather large PDA as I entered the office. "You're John Perry, correct?"

"That's right," I said.

"I'm Dr. Russell," he said, and then looked me over. "You look like your dog just died," he said.

"Actually," I said, "it was my roommate."

"Oh, yes," he said, glancing down at his PDA again. "Leon Deak. I would have been working on him right after you. Bad timing, that. Well, let's get that off the schedule, then." He tapped the PDA screen for a few seconds, smiled tightly when he was through. Dr. Russell's bedside manner left something to be desired.

"Now," he said, turning his attention back to me, "let's get you looked at."

The office consisted of Dr. Russell, me, a chair for the doctor, a small table and two crèches. The crèches were shaped for human contours, and each had a curving transparent door that arched over the contoured area. At the top of each crèche was an arm apparatus, with a cuplike attachment at the end. The "cup" looked just about large enough to fit on a human head. It was, quite frankly, making me a little nervous.

"Please go ahead and make yourself comfortable, and then we'll get started," Dr. Russell said, opening the door to the crèche nearest to me.

"Do you need me to take anything off?" I said. As far as I remembered, a physical examination required being looked at physically.

"No," he said. "But if it makes you feel more comfortable, go right ahead."

"Does anyone actually strip if they don't have to?" I asked.

"Actually, yes," he said. "If you've been told to do something one way for so long, it's a hard habit to break."

I kept my togs on. I set my PDA on the table, stepped up to the crèche, turned around, leaned back and settled in. Dr. Russell closed the door and stepped back. "Hold on one second while I adjust the crèche," he said, and tapped his PDA. I felt the human-shaped depression in the crèche shift, and then conform to my dimensions.

"That was creepy," I said.

Dr. Russell smiled. "You're going to notice some vibration here," he said, and he was right.

"Say," I said while the crèche was thrumming gently underneath me, "those other fellows who were in the waiting room with me. Where did they go after they came in here?"

"Through the door over there." He waved a hand behind him without looking up from his PDA. "That's the recovery area."

"Recovery area?"

"Don't worry," he said. "I've just made the examination sound much worse than it is. In fact, we're just about done with your scan." He tapped his PDA again and the vibration stopped.

"What do I do now?" I asked.

"Just hold tight," Dr. Russell said. "We've got a little more to do, and we need to go over the results of your examination."

"You mean it's done?" I said.

"Modern medicine is wonderful, isn't it," he said. He showed me the PDA screen, which was downloading a summary of my scan. "You don't even have to say, 'Aaahhhh.'"

"Yeah, but how detailed can it be?"

"Detailed enough," he said. "Mr. Perry, when was your last physical examination?"

"About six months ago," I said.

"What was the prognosis from your physician?"

"He said I was in fine shape, other than my blood pressure being a little higher than normal. Why?"

"Well, he's basically right," said Dr. Russell, "although he seems to have missed the testicular cancer."

"Excuse me?" I said.

Dr. Russell flipped the PDA screen around again; this time it was showing a false-color representation of my genitals. It was the first time I'd ever had my own package waved in front of my face. "Here," he said, pointing to a dark spot on my left testicle. "There's the nodule. Pretty big sucker, too. It's cancer, all right."

I glared at the man. "You know, Dr. Russell, most doctors would have found a more tactful way to break the news."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Perry," Dr. Russell said. "I don't want to seem unconcerned. But it's really not a problem. Even on Earth, testicular cancer is easily treatable, particularly in the early stages, which is the case here. At the very worst, you'd lose the testicle, but that's not a significant setback."

"Unless you happen to own the testicle," I growled.

"That's more of a psychological issue," Dr. Russell said. "In any event, right here and right now, I don't want you to worry about it. In a couple of days you'll be getting a comprehensive physical overhaul, and we'll deal with your testicle then. In the meantime, there should be no problems. The cancer is still local to the testicle. It hasn't spread to the lungs or the lymph nodes. You're fine."

"Am I going to drop the ball?" I said.

Dr. Russell smiled. "I think you can hold on to the ball for now," he said. "Should you ever drop it, I suspect it will be the least of your concerns. Now, other than the cancer, which as I say isn't really problematic, you're in as good a shape as any man of your physical age could be. That's good news; we don't have to do anything else to you at this point."

"What would you do if you'd found something really wrong?" I asked. "I mean, what if the cancer had been terminal?"

"'Terminal' is a pretty imprecise term, Mr. Perry," Dr. Russell said. "In the long run, we're all terminal cases. In the case of this examination, what we're really looking to do is to stabilize any recruits who are in imminent danger, so we know they'll make it through the next few days. The case of your unfortunate roommate Mr. Deak isn't all that unusual. We have a lot of recruits who make it to this point just to die before assessment. That's not good for any of us."

Dr. Russell consulted his PDA. "Now, in the case of Mr. Deak, who died of a heart attack, what we probably would have done would be to remove the plaque buildup from his arteries and provide him with an arterial wall-strengthening compound to prevent ruptures. That's our most common treatment. Most seventy-five-year-old arteries can use some propping up. In your case, if you had had advanced stage cancer, we would have trimmed back the tumors to a point where they didn't pose an imminent threat to your vital functions, and shored up the affected regions to make sure you wouldn't have any problems over the next few days."