But whatever indecision he felt in private-or in my company, which amounted to the same thing-he had learned not to show it to subordinates. And now, when there seemed to be half a dozen crises coming to a head at once, I thought the time was more than ripe for him to take the bit in his teeth.

Thus, I was not surprised when he took me aside and began to talk through appropriate responses to his current problems. What did surprise me was his perception of the relative priority to be assigned to each of them. Needless to say, it differed considerably from mine...

Phule looked around the room at the four others there-his brain trust, a politician might have called it. There were his three direct subordinates in the chain of command: Lieutenants Rembrandt and Armstrong, and Top Sergeant Brandy, as well as his butler and personal confidant, Beeker. Beeker was perhaps the captain's most valuable asset-not only on account of his complete detachment from military matters, but because of his ability to go anywhere and speak to anyone in absolute confidence. The troops knew he wouldn't snitch, and so they told him everything.

Phule got straight to the point. "As you all know, there's trouble brewing in several areas at once. Let me make this clear at the outset: There's nothing happening that we can't handle-in fact, taken singly, none of these problems is any great threat to the company."

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," said Lieutenant Armstrong. "It's been a very confusing day."

"Confusing ain't the word for it," said Brandy, who'd been in the thick of the action all afternoon. "Between Sushi going AWOL, the Zenobian playing spy, and the FUBAR at the hotel desk, I've had my hands full. And now I have to break in these recruits-though the Gambolts shouldn't be much trouble."

"Those aren't the worst problems," said Armstrong. He somehow managed to maintain an exemplary posture even sitting in an easy chair. "Chocolate Harry's digging in for a siege. Unless he's gone completely off the beam, I think we're going to see some fighting."

"Oh, C.H. has a phobia about those bikers," said Rembrandt, scoffing. "A few legionnaires should be enough to brush them aside."

"Take a walk down to supply depot and you'll change that tune," retorted Armstrong. "From the way Harry's fortified the place, he's not expecting us to brush them aside, and I think he knows what he's up against."

"Well, he did ride with the Outlaws," agreed Brandy. "If somebody's put a scare into him, I won't take 'em too lightly. But this isn't a street fight, here. Those bikers are on course to do battle with the best damn Legion company I've ever seen. Unless they've brought a few hundred armed Renegades onto the station with them, I can't see how they pose any real threat."

"The threat isn't to us, but to our operation," Phule pointed out. "Good as they may be at street fighting, it'd be suicide for them to meet us in a pitched battle. But we can't carry on combat operations in the middle of an entertainment complex without serious consequences. An occasional fistfight or two is inevitable in any place that serves liquor. But I don't want to try to tell a court-martial how the casino's customers-civilians-were caught in a cross fire between my troops and an attacking biker gang."

"No argument with that," said Brandy. "So if we can't outgun 'em, what do we do? I hear they've been nursing this grudge for years-and they wanted Harry's hide bad enough to spring for space-liner tickets to one of the most expensive resorts in the galaxy when they found out he was here. If they're that mad, we aren't going to buy 'em off just by having Harry come out and say, `Sorry, guys, it won't happen again.'"

"Oh, I agree," said Phule. "But let's put this problem aside for a minute. It's one of several things we're looking at here, and I think we need to go after them in the right order. Once we've got the first couple of pieces in place, the rest of the puzzle will sort itself out."

"That's as good an approach as any," said Rembrandt, who had shown in Phule's absence her ability to make tough decisions under pressure. "Where do we start? C.H. and the Renegades? Sushi's disappearance? The Zenobian spy?"

"The Renegades are the big problem," said Armstrong bluntly. "If we don't shut them down, they're likely to start shooting."

"I'm not so sure," said Rembrandt, knitting her brows. "If Sushi is collaborating with the Yakuza, he could give them a lot of dangerous information. He could be the brightest man in the company, and I wouldn't be surprised if he understands a lot of what goes on at the command level without having been told. If he decided to sell us out, he'd be extremely dangerous."

"Dangerous? Hell, I'll tell you about dangerous," said Brandy. "That Qual may be a spy or he may not, but he's got half the troops convinced he is. That's no good for morale. You'd be smart to send him off somewhere where he can't do any harm-and where the troops won't be worried he's going to stab them in the back."

Beeker raised his hand and said, diffidently, "Sir, if I may be so forward, I would suggest that the difficulties with the Dilithium Express account ought to take precedence over all other problems. The person capable of manipulating that account is by a substantial margin your most dangerous adversary."

"That's a good point, Beeker," said Phule. The others in the room nodded. Despite Beeker's admitted ignorance of military matters, his grasp of broader issues had earned him their respect. He offered his opinion infrequently, but when he chose to do so, he was listened to.

"It's a very good point," Phule continued, "but I suspect it'll resolve itself in due time. Meanwhile, you're all overlooking our real mission."

"Say again, Captain?" asked Brandy. She had long ago come to the conclusion that Phule had memorized all the military textbooks ever written, and was systematically breaking every rule contained in them. His resounding success was proof positive that all those rules were utter nonsense. But of course, every sergeant knew that already. That didn't mean they didn't have to be enforced, of course. When you'd gotten your people trained to do exactly what you said, even though they all knew it was completely senseless, then you could get them to fight for you. Military organizations had worked that way since the dawn of time. Sometimes Brandy suspected that by the time Phule was finished, even that central tenet of the military might be revised...

She realized that the pause had been growing uncomfortably long, and that Phule was looking at her with expectation on his face. "Sergeant, we have new recruits," he said. "Don't you think you need to get busy showing them how we do things in the Legion?"

Armstrong was flabbergasted. "Sir, do you really intend to ignore these crises? Any one of them could destroy everything we're doing here."

"I don't intend to ignore them, Armstrong," Phule said quietly. "But unless everything goes wrong at once, these crises will be over in a matter of days. Our recruits will be with us a good deal longer than that-possibly for the rest of their careers. The continued success of this company depends on how well we train them. Lucky for us, we've gotten hold of them before they've been set on the wrong path by some other outfit."

"Captain, does that include the Gambolts?" asked Brandy. She'd seen Garbo capture the fleeing Zenobian, almost without effort. The Gambolt had been uncannily agile-and faster than any human she'd ever seen. "Everybody knows they're the best hand-to-hand fighters in the galaxy...

"They may be Gambolts, but they're untrained Gambolts, Brandy," said Phule patiently. "You should know that training is the difference between a military force and a mob. We've made our reputation by making great legionnaires out of other outfits' rejects. Now we've finally got a chance to train our people from the ground up. Why don't we all get to work turning them into legionnaires?"