Bossing the whole scene was the cargo officer and her assistants. They watched to see that each cargo container and load pallet went aboard ship in computer-directed order that facilitated stowage and ensured proper mass balance for launch. Conspicuous m their khaki uniforms and peaked, black-billed caps, two port officials also watched from the blue-black shadows of the ship's hull and made cryptic entries on their handheld computer pads. Except for dark patches of sweat along their spines and underarms, these khaki-clad officials remained immaculate in the heat.

Camouflaged in mottled grays and greens, a 20-ton Stingermoved with surprisingly graceful sweeps of mechanical legs and arms across the heat-beaten field toward the DropShip's Number One ‘Mech Bay. Four ‘Mechs were already on board. Two more remained in the service area undergoing final touch-ups by Techs wielding torches, polyepox, and spraytanks of green-gray paint. Everywhere the men of the mercenary unit to which the ship belonged worked at an unrelenting pace to ready their equipment for final boarding and boost.

Grayson Carlyle double-checked the cargo manifest, which ran on interminably: fuel and spare parts; enough provisions to last nearly two hundred people for months; technicians' tools and repair assemblies; seven BattleMechs and the small mountain of spares, parts, supplies, and ammo that kept them combat-ready; and the larger mountain of military stores their new patron was shipping outbound with them.

"Everything in order, Captain," one of the port officials said, handing Carlyle a stylus. The gold piping on his collar indicated that he was a lieutenant, and the expression on his face marked him as a bored one. "Your manifest checks and your port fees are paid. All you need now is final clearance for boost."

Grayson glanced up to read the ID badge pinned to the man's khaki tunic. "Right, Lieutenant Murcheson." He scrawled his name across the compad's screen, pressed the enter key, and handed pad and stylus back to the PA officer. "We're just waiting to hear from our patron. My First Officer is working out some last-minute details with him. Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink in the meantime?"

Murcheson manipulated the touch plates that transmitted authorization to Galatean Control Center. "Thanks, no. On duty, y'know." The officer was looking up, squinting against the light of the brilliant sky. High overhead, two men in the basket of a cherrypicker gantry were putting the finishing touches on to a coat of paint that obscured the DropShip's name arid numbers. "So, you're going out covert, Captain?" Showing polite interest in response to Carlyle's hospitality, Murcheson's voice was carefully neutral but friendly. The officials on Galatea cared nothing about where a ship bearing supplies enough to start a small war was bound—or why.

Still, Grayson answered carefully.

"Just afresh coat of paint, Lieutenant. No sense in having Phobosshow her years to our new employer, eh?"

"Well, if you say so." The man's tone suggested that he did not believe the young mercenary commander, but also that it did not concern him one way or the other. "Request clearance for final boost on the port control frequency when you're ready, Captain Carlyle. And good mission to you - whatever it is."

Grayson watched the PA men walk toward the skimmer that had brought them out from the Galaport Control Tower, then glanced back up at the men on their way down in the cherrypicker basket. The weathered letters that had identified the ship as Phobos,Number Two

DropShip of the free trader Invidious,had been painted out. A new name and ID would not be added until the ship was safely out in space, far from any prying eyes. The PA man had been right. This wouldbe a covert flight, and the fewer who knew the ship's new identity, the happier Grayson would be.

He dropped his eyes to the men and women hard at work in the harsh sun, and his hands knotted at his sides. Grayson was not certain that all the security measures in the book would be enough to see them through this mission. The problem was not security, but what awaited them at their destination.

Damn,he thought. Just what have I gotten us into?Devic Erudin had better be right about enemy positions on his home world, or the Gray Death's career would likely end abruptly and bloodily with its second campaign.

"Captain?"

Grayson turned to see Sergeant Ramage. The small, wiry, and dark native of Trellwan was one of the men who had joined him when the Gray Death finally left that world. Senior to all of the unit's support infantry in both age and experience, Ramage was Grayson's head NCO in command of the Legion's ground troops.

"Yes, Ram." The sergeant's one Trell name had been even further abbreviated to the inevitable nickname. "How's the boarding going?"

"On schedule, Captain. But some of the boys are a little...well...worried. There's a lot of scuttlebutt making the rounds."

"If there's anything to tell, I'll pass it on. You might remind them that they're free to stay here if our arrangements don't suit them."

Ramage grinned. "That's one thing we don't have to worry about, Captain! Hell, the thought of being left herewould be enough to make 'em volunteer to assault Fortress Luthien itself!"

The sound of a ground vehicle brought Grayson’s attention back to the field. A tall, attractive young woman in a worn and faded military tunic climbed out, paid the driver, and strode toward Grayson. Grayson's second in command, Lori Kalmar had proven her considerable aptitude for ‘Mech combat during her stubborn defense at Thunder Rift on Trellwan. At the moment, however, trouble clouded her face.

"Problems?" he asked.

Lori shook her head sharply. "No. He had the money. Everything is arranged through ComStar. All we need now is final port clearance, and we're set."

So. They were committed. Grayson had never doubted Erudin's word. He'd seen the samples of the tight, malleable, gray-white metal, heard Erudin’s explanation that vanadium was fairly common on some worlds, but nonexistent on Galatea. A ComStar proctor had already assayed the shipment Erudin and his people had smuggled out of Verthandi, and quoted them an open market valuation of almost a million C-bills. Part of that had gone to buy weapons and military equipment desperately needed by the revolution on Verthandi, equipment that Tor would ship to that world along with the Gray Death Legion. Grayson assured the owl-eyed man that what was left was enough to hire the Legion and Tor's ship. With the final contract signed and deposited with the money at the ComStar offices on Galatea, they had cleared the last hurdle and the mission was go.

Lori was clearly not happy about it, though. For that matter, neither was Grayson. What tormented him still were doubts about the Legion's chances once they grounded on Verthandi. The Invidiouswould have to drop them from the Norn system's jump point, then high-tail for another system, leaving the Legion utterly on its own. If the revolution succeeded, well and good. But if it failed....

Grayson lifted his eyes again toward the brassy, hot sky of Galatea. House Kurita was not known for its leniency toward mercenaries captured while backing an opponent, especially ah opponent that dared to rebel against the Lord of the Draconis Combine. The Verthandi contract was, in every sense of the phrase, a win-all, lose-all proposition.

It was a chance, Grayson knew, but that was about all it was. What would the others think when he told them? Then again, what was he leading them into? Would they even follow? Though no military unit can afford the luxury of democratic organization, mercenary groups usually allowed its members a bit more discussion of assignments than did regular forces. Many a contract had been voided and wars lost because a mercenary army refused the job, even after its leader had arranged the deal. The reason Grayson worried now was that Devic Erudin's proposal sounded less like a joke and more like a suicide pact.