"Gentlemen: as you know we have been engaged for some time in what is essentially a war game-simulated combat. This type of fighting was agreed upon in the early phases of the war as both sides sought to reduce the cost of replacing equipment and troops lost in combat. Through the use of IBM belt computers and Sony 'kill suits,' it became unnecessary to actually kill a man or blow up an installation, but merely prove that you could have done it."

Fred began fidgeting with his beer can as she droned on. He wondered where this history lesson was leading.

"The only condition placed on the use of 'mock weapons' was that if the effectiveness of a weapon was challenged, the side employing the weapon had to be able to produce a functioning model to support its claims."

She looked up from her notes to smile toothily at the assemblage.

"Of course, the close adherence of the mercenary forces to the mock combat rules may be at least partially attributable to the knowledge that at the first sign of flagrant violation, the old style of 'live ammo' fighting would be immediately reinstated."

A small titter rippled through the room. Fred wondered how many of them had ever been shot at with live ammo.

"So far this system has proved more than an adequate method for allowing us to settle our differences while keeping costs at a minimum. However, it has been recently brought to our attention that there is a major shortcoming to this system."

Fred was suddenly attentive. Behind the sleepy fat-man exterior he used, a little computer clicked on in his mind. Major policy change...initial proposal and justifications...record and analyze. Of course he was not alone. An intense silence blanketed the room as Judy continued.

"The problem, gentlemen, is one of logistics. One of the oldest techniques of military intelligence is to watch the enemy's supplies. By watching the amount of supplies drawn and the direction in which they are transported, it's possible to second-guess the next attack and institute countermoves before the attack is actually launched."

One of the closed circuit screens on Fred's console lit up, indicating an oncoming note from one of his teammates. He ignored it. No sense speculating on what she was about to say next when by waiting for a few more seconds you could hear it. Instead, he centered his attention on her presentation.

"Then, too, there's the guns and butter choice where limited supplies are available. Ammo dumps aren't bottomless. If you've only got a million rounds of ammunition, you can't hit three major targets in one night. You have to choose which one you want the most and how much you're willing to venture on the attack. What we've done with our 'simulated war' is grant the field commanders carte blanche to fight as often as they want, wherever they want. Oil maintains that this is one of the major reasons neither side is able to win this war. We've made it too cheap, too easy to prolong."

There was a low murmur going around the room now, occasionally accented by ill-muffled curses. She ignored it and continued.

"Frankly, gentlemen, we're tired of having the same quote, bomb, unquote dropped on us a hundred times in three different locations four nights a week. To alleviate that problem, we propose the following: to effectively simulate the actual logistics problems found in any war, it ought to be necessary to establish a one-for-one depletion of ammunition and equipment lost in combat. That is, at the end of each conflict, an accurate count must be determined of each side's losses, and an equivalent amount of live ammo or real equipment destroyed. Furthermore, each side has to establish and maintain ammo dumps, and 'replenishment supplies' must be physically transported to the actual site of combat."

"Mr. Chairman!"

It was one of the negotiators for Communications. The Chairman nodded his recognition and the battle was joined.

"We might as well go back to using live ammo. This proposal not only duplicates the cost of a live ammo war, it increases it because of all the necessary records-keeping and controls."

"Not really!" Ivan fielded the challenge for Oil. "In a live ammo war, men are lost, and we all know how expensive they are to recruit and train."

Fred jumped into the fray.

"I don't suppose you have any rough figures handy as to how much this proposal would cost if accepted?"

"That all depends on how straight your men can shoot and how effectively they're deployed. That and how much money Communications is willing to spend to win the war."

"How much ammunition has Oil already stockpiled prior to the proposal of this change in the agreed-upon rules?"

"Those figures are not available at this time."

Fred leaned back and shut his eyes thoughtfully as the battle raged around him. That was that. If Oil had already stockpiled, they'd never back down from this proposal. They couldn't, or all the money spent stockpiling would have to be written off as a loss. Communications would be starting with a handicap, but one thing for sure, they wouldn't let themselves be bought out of the war. It was more than pride-it was survival!

If word ever got out that Communications let themselves be run out of a clash because of high costs, the other corporations would be all over them like wolves on a sick caribou. Everything would suddenly cost triple because the opposition would be trying to back them down on costs. No, they couldn't back out. And the accountants thought that costs-to-date on this war were high now! They hadn't seen anything yet. Fred's only hope was that they could stall accepting the proposal long enough to let Communications catch up a bit on the stockpiling. If they didn't, their forces in the field would be caught short of ammo and overwhelmed.

Move to adjourn!" he interrupted without opening his eyes.

The bar was clearly military, highclass military, but military nonetheless. One of the most apparent indications of this was that it offered live waitresses as an option. Of course, having a live waitress meant your drinks cost more, but the military men were one of the last groups of holdouts who were willing to pay extra rather than be served the impersonal hydrolift of a Servo-Matic.

Steve Tidwell, former major, and his friend Clancy were well entrenched at their favorite corner table, a compromise reached early in their friendship as a solution to the problem of how they could both sit with their backs to the wall.

"Let me get this round, Steve," ordered Clancy, dipping into his pocket. "That severance pay of yours may have to last you a long time."

"Hi Clancy, Steve," their waitress smiled, delivering the next round of drinks. "Flo's tied up out back, so I thought I'd better get these to you before you got ugly and started tearing up the place."

"There's a love," purred Clancy, tucking a folded bill into her cleavage. She ignored him.

"Steve, what's this I hear about you getting cashiered?"

Tidwell took a sudden interest in the opposite wall. Clancy caught the waitress's eye and gave a minute shake of his head. She nodded knowingly and departed.

"Seriously, Steve, what are you going to do now?"

Tidwell shrugged.

"I don't know. Go back to earning my money in the live ammo set, I guess."

"Working for who? In case you haven't figured it out, you're blacklisted. The only real fighting left is in the Middle East, and the Oil Combine won't touch you."

"Don't be so sure of that. They were trying pretty hard to buy me away from the ITT-iots a couple of months ago."

Clancy snorted contemptuously.

"A couple of months. Hell, I don't care if it was a couple days. That was before they gave you your walking papers. I'm telling you they won't give you the time of day now. 'If you're not good enough for Communications, you're not good enough for Oil.' That'll be their attitude. You can bet on it."