Personally I would have questioned the wisdom of my employer's use of the confidence course as a means of establishing or reestablishing the self-esteem of the individuals under his command . . . had I been asked. After reviewing their files, not to mention experiencing the dubious pleasure of viewing and meeting them in person, I would have had serious doubts as to their ability to successfully tie their own shoelaces, much less negotiate an obstacle-excuse me, confidence course. From what I have gleaned of their comments on their first attempts at this exercise, my appraisal was not far from accurate.

Uncomfortable silence reigned in the small group of observers watching the company run the confidence course . . . or attempting to. Of the four, only the commanding officer seemed to be studying the scene with a neutral intensity. Brandy, the Amazonian first sergeant, stood in a relaxed parade rest, openly sneering her disdain at the antics on the course, while the two lieutenants alternated between averting their eyes in embarra.s.sment and exchanging uneasy glances, united by their mutual discomfort, at least temporarily.

Surely the captain had known what would happen when he ordered this exercise . . . hadn't he? He had every warning that his troops habitually performed at a level far below even the loose standards of the Legion. Still, he had given no indication that his expectations were anything but high. He had even issued new orders modifying the conditions under which the course would be run. Rather than the time being recorded for each individual as they were run through in small groups of half a dozen, the unit would be judged and rated on their performance as a whole. That is, the timer would be started, and not stopped until the last Legionnaire crossed the finish line. What was even worse, he insisted that the Legionnaires run the course in full combat gear, complete with weapons and packs, an announcement met with a mixture of horror and grumbling by the company. Already aghast at the idea of having to run the course at all, the new conditions robbed them of whatever energy and enthusiasm they might have been able to muster. For the moment, at least, their minds were one, even if the binding thought was the delightful fantasy of lynching their new CO.

The result was, predictably, chaos. While most of the company could manage at least a few of the obstacles, none could negotiate all of them with any semblance of poise or skill, the vast majority floundering even when they cast dignity to the winds. In no time at all, the course was littered with knots and clumps of Legionnaires bunched together at the more difficult obstacles or simply muttering together darkly while glaring at the knoll where the observers stood.

Even though Armstrong and Rembrandt had antic.i.p.ated all this and gone to some lengths to point it out to their new commander, they were still haunted by a vague uneasiness. Phule had read them the riot act upon taking command, pointing out that the company was their personal responsibility. While he shared that responsibility, it was doubtful he would acknowledge any hand in the development of the Legionnaires prior to his arrival. In short, despite the apparent camaraderie they had experienced during the skull sessions regarding the individual Legionnaires, the lieutenants saw themselves as holding the bag for the company's current condition. Though more than a little resentful of this burden, they were still plagued by small voices of guilt as they watched the fiasco on the course.

Should they have run the company through this course more often themselves under normal conditions? Perhaps if they had insisted on daily calisthenics in an effort to improve the physical conditioning of the Legionnaires, today's showing might not be so grim. Of course, they were aware that if they had tried to implement such a program, they would have probably been shot in the back accidentally at the first opportunity (a possibility that still existed, and made them more than a little uneasy when Phule issued weapons and ammo to the Legionnaires for today's effort). The fact remained, however, that they hadn't even tried.

Well, the past was past and there was nothing they could do now except watch glumly as the situation on the course deteriorated. Trying to shut out the overall horror, they began focusing on individual activities.

Super Gnat, the little tomboy Legionnaire, was just approaching the three-meter board wall. This was a particularly challenging obstacle, one that daunted all but the most athletic Legionnaires. Because of this, there was a small path around it to enable the downhearted to bypa.s.s this test after a few tries before they became terminally depressed. Needless to say, the bulk of the company chose this route after a token run at the board, and many didn't even bother pretending to try. Not so with Super Gnat.

Putting on a quick burst of speed, she threw herself at the wall, only to hit barely halfway to the top with an impact that could be heard by, and drew winces from, the watchers at the nearby knoll. It was a sincere, if futile, effort. One which easily should have earned her the walk-around so flagrantly taken by so many of the others. It seemed, however, that Super Gnat was of a different mind.

Picking herself up from the dust, she paused only long enough to resettle her gear, then hurled herself at the obstacle again with a savagery that, if anything, surpa.s.sed that of her first effort . . . with the same unfortunate results. Again she charged the barricade, and again the sound of her body hitting the wall floated up the knoll to the observers. And again . . .

Other Legionnaires streamed past her, but still she continued her dogged a.s.sault on the wall. The lieutenants grimaced and winced sympathetically with each impact, and even the hardhearted Brandy shook her head in wonder over the little Legionnaire's tenacity. Phule's reaction, however, was as different as it was unexpected.

With a smooth stride that had him off the knoll before the others knew he had started moving, the CO approached the obstacle himself. Timing his silent approach to match Super Gnat's rush, he stooped and put an impersonal hand under her rump, boosting her up and over the wall with her next jump. Though doubtlessly surprised at the a.s.sist, the Legionnaire did not so much as pause for a backward glance, but scurried off toward the next obstacle, blissfully unaware of whose hand it was that had propelled her to success.

The remaining trio on the knoll watched her go, then turned their gaze to their commander, only to be met with an angry, challenging glare as he rejoined them.

"If that's a loser," Phule snarled, "then I'm a bad credit risk!"

This time the first sergeant joined the exchange of startled glances as they all groped for something to say. Fortunately they were spared the effort as the CO continued, with a more level voice now.

"All right, Top," he said. "I think we've seen enough. Call 'em in. It's lecture time."

Brandy needed no more encouragement than that. Though still skeptical of the changes Phule was introducing, she secretly liked the wrist communicators and was glad of the opportunity to use hers. Depressing the General Broadcast b.u.t.ton with her fingertip, she addressed the company through the speaker.

"Abort exercise! Repeat. Abort! All personnel a.s.semble at the reviewing knoll! I mean now, Legionnaires! Gets move it!"

A few weak cheers drifted up from the course as she ended her announcement. Most of the company, however, broke off their efforts and trudged toward the knoll with downcast eyes. They had looked bad, and they all knew it. While clinging to their righteous indignation over what had been expected of them, no one relished the inevitable tongue-lashing that was to come.

Though Brandy made sure her face was set in an expression of grim annoyance as the company gathered, inwardly she was more than a little elated. It was clear to her that today's performance more than justified her low opinion that Phule had tried to dismiss as cynicism. If anything, she was looking forward to hearing him enumerate the shortcomings of the rabble he had been defending so staunchly.

"I don't have to tell you that was a pretty miserable showing," the CO announced as the last few stragglers joined the group. "I'm just wondering if anyone has the smarts or the courage to tell me what's wrong."

"We stink on ice!"

It was the now obligatory voice from the back of the crowd that was raised, though everyone seemed to be in agreement with it. Phule, it seemed, was not about to let it go at that, however.

"Who said that?" he demanded, peering in the direction the voice had come from.

Before his gaze, the ma.s.s of Legionnaires melted away, leaving one dark-haired, rat-faced individual to meet the challenge alone.

"I guess I did . . . sir," he admitted uncomfortably.

"It's Do-Wop, isn't it?" the commander said, recognizing the Legionnaire who had done communications a few days before.

"Yes, sir!"

"Actually it's De Wop," someone whispered loudly, and a snicker rippled through the a.s.semblage as the singled-out party flushed with annoyance and embarra.s.sment.

Phule ignored it all.

"Well, Do-Wop, I admire someone who speaks their mind . . . but you're wrong. Dead wrong."

The company frowned in bewilderment, except the first sergeant, who scowled openly as he continued.

"What's wrong is that you're down there, and we're"-his gesture encompa.s.sed all four observers on the knoll-"up here! I told you before that it's our job to work with you, to find ways to make you effective, not to stand up here and shake our heads while you flounder around getting discouraged by trial-and-error learning. If anything, I owe you an apology for putting you through that first round, but I felt it was necessary to prove a point. You have my promise it's the last time you'll face an exercise alone."

The company responded with thunderstruck silence as Phule came down off the knoll to join them on their own level, the rest of the observers trailing uneasily in his wake. Their expressions ranged from confused to disgusted, but there was little they could do but follow Phule's lead.

"Okay now," the CO said, motioning for those in the front rows to kneel down so those behind could see and hear, "I told you before, we're a team. All of us. The first mistake was that you were trying to run this course as individuals. There are obstacles out there, as well as in anything we'll ever want to do, that can flat out beat any one of us. But together, working as a team to help each other and to think out any problem, there's nothing we can't do. Nothing! Accept that as a given. Burn it into your minds and hearts that we can do anything. Then all that remains is working out the how, and that's where the team comes in."

The company was hanging on his words, caught up in his certainty and wanting him to be right.

"Let's get down to some specifics here and see how this works. The three-meter wall is a problem."

He pointed at the offending obstacle, and the Legionnaires nodded, a few grimacing wryly.

"It's obvious just from looking at it that if you've got the height and the strength, you can go over it. But if you don't, you're stuck. That may be true for a pack of individuals, but we're not. We're a team, and we don't leave teammates behind or let them get stuck just because they aren't tall. Forget getting you over it and start thinking about getting us over it. If someone was to get on top and stay there to give a hand up to those coming after him, everyone could get over a lot easier. Better still, if some of you heavyweights were to make a staircase with your shoulders, we could go over this thing without breaking stride. Again, the idea is to maximize what you can do, not to let yourself get defeated by what you can't do."

There were smiles in the ranks now. The irrepressible energy of the captain was having its effect, and the Legionnaires were starting to believe they could beat the system.

"Another example," Phule continued. "Some of you are slower than others. The Sinthians in particular are not built for speed. Well, being slow is nothing to be ashamed of, especially when it's a factor of your physical build. They should no more have to suffer from not being fast than the rest of us have to be embarra.s.sed by not being able to fly. It's a problem to be dealt with. We help them deal with it because they're our teammates. If there's a situation like this course, where time is important and we don't want them to fall behind, help them along. Carry them if you have to, even if it means doubling up on some of the field packs. Remember, our goal is to be efficient, and we'll do whatever is necessary to get the job done. Now, let's take a look at some of these other obstacles . . ."

He strode off in the direction of the series of obstacles commonly referred to as "The Pits," with the rest of the company crowding along behind him. Reaching the first station, he turned back to the Legionnaires, and this time the front ranks dropped down without his signaling to them.

The obstacle consisted of a trench about four meters across filled nearly to the top with an evil-looking mixture of slime, algae, and muddy water. There was a framework constructed over the trench from which three heavy ropes hung. The Legionnaires were to swing across the trench on the ropes and continue on their way, a maneuver which was, in reality, much more difficult than it looked.

"I noticed that there was always a bottleneck at this station," Phule said. "While some of you had the right idea in giving your buddies a push to get their swing started, the real problem is that three ropes aren't enough to keep the traffic moving."

He paused and peered into the trench at the water.

"Now, I know you're all proud of your new uniforms, but these are supposed to be combat conditions, and combat is no time to worry about keeping your clothes clean. Does anyone know how deep this trench is?"

The Legionnaires looked at each other, but the CO didn't bother waiting for an answer.

"The most valuable thing in combat besides initiative is information. Intelligence. "Sergeant Brandy!"

"Sir?"

"Would you demonstrate for the company the fastest way to find out how deep this trench is?"

The company blinked in astonishment at the captain's audacity, but the much-feared top sergeant only hesitated the barest heartbeat before springing into action. Crisp uniform, spit-shined boots; and all, she took one long stride and leaped boldly into the trench. Then, finding that the muck barely reached the bottoms of her substantial b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she waded to the far side with as much dignity as she could muster, looking not unlike the Bismarck coming into port.

Lieutenant Armstrong, who had always envied the top sergeant's poise, did not bother to hide his grin as he elbowed Rembrandt in glee. Unfortunately Phule noticed the exchange.

"Lieutenants?"

"Sir?"

The junior officers cringed inside as their commander nodded pointedly at the trench, but they were compelled to match the sergeant's example. Two sets of officer's uniforms. .h.i.t the muck as the company looked on with delight.

"As you can see," the CO commented calmly, "it's actually quicker to simply wade through this obstacle than to stand in line for a rope. Now, if you'll follow me, we'll take a look at the next problem. Remember how deep this is and lend a hand to your shorter teammates."

With that, he turned and stepped off the edge of the trench himself, accepting a hand up from Brandy as he reached the other side. The company charged into the trench like lemmings behind him, eager to see what else their commander had up his sleeve.

The next station was much like the last, except that the trench was wider and spanned by three logs. This time, Phule didn't hesitate, but hopped immediately onto one of the logs and crossed to the far side, beckoning for the waterlogged Armstrong to join him.

"This one isn't too difficult," he called from the other side, "if you're reasonably agile. Of course, some of us aren't reasonably agile, and even for those that are, keeping your balance takes time. So again, we simply modify the world to fit our needs . . . Tusk-anini! Could you get the other end of this?"

At nearly seven feet, the big Volton was easily the strongest, most imposing figure among the Legionnaires, even if his stringy dark hair, protruding tusks, and misshapen head didn't give him the appearance of a cross between a warthog and Frankenstein's monster. Stepping forward, he grasped one end of the log as Phule and Armstrong got the other, and together they rolled it sideways until it rested against the center span. A few more moments, and the third log was shoved into place next to the others.

"This is easier to cross," Phule declared, walking out to the center of the makeshift bridge and jiggling it with his feet to check its steadiness, "but it's still a little wobbly if we're all going to cross it in a hurry. Anyone have any rope in your packs?"

n.o.body did.

"Well, I know you all have knives. They were issued to you, and while they aren't the best-quality cutlery, they'll do for the moment. Do-Wop?"

Here, Captain!"

"Grab a partner and go get us some rope to tie these logs together with."

"Sir?"

"Think, soldier! I believe you'll find some back at the last station. That is, of course, if you don't feel it will compromise your well-known principles to stoop to liberating something for the company's benefit."

Whoops and cheers went up from the Legionnaires at this, as Do-Wop could normally be relied on to requisition anything that wasn't nailed down solidly-and chained, to boot.

"While we're waiting," Phule called, waving them into grinning silence, "let's kick around some ideas of how to beat the next obstacle. Anyone have any ideas?"

As fate would have it, Bombest was not only on duty but in the lobby when the company blew into the hotel after their bout with the confidence course.

Do-Wop was the first in, though it was difficult to recognize him through the slime and drying mud that were caked on his uniform. He was in undeniably high spirits, though, as he tossed a wad of wet currency on-the front desk and scooped up an entire stack of newspapers from the counter.

"Hey, Super Gnat!" he called at the next figure through the door, recognizable only by her height, or lack thereof. "Give me a hand with this! You know what the captain said. If those baboons track up the lobby, we'll all have to pay for the cleanup out of our wages."

The manager watched with interest as the two of them laid a path with newspapers between the front door and the elevators, barely in time as the first wave of Legionnaires burst into view.

"Did you see Brandy's face when the captain said . . ."

"I'll tell you, I never thought I'd live to see . . ."

"Hey, Bombast! Better call the laundry service and have 'em send someone over for a pickup. We've got a little overtime for them!"

The hotel manager did his best to smile along with the general laughter that followed this comment despite the use of the hated nickname, but it came out looking like a thin-upped grimace.

"Me, I'm ready for a drink or five."

"Get cleaned up first. Can't have the civvies see us looking like this!"

One figure detached itself from the jubilant ma.s.s and approached the front desk.

"Say, Bombest! Could you send someone to open up the pool area? I think the crew is going to want to play a bit, and it's probably better for all of us if they do it in the pool instead of the bar and the restaurant."

The manager did not even try to keep the look of horror off his face this time. If it hadn't spoken, Bombest would never have recognized the mud-encrusted figure before him as Phule. His mind flatly refused to accept that anyone of Phule's social standing and training would stoop to wallowing in the muck with the common troops.

"The pool?" he echoed weakly, unable to tear his eyes away from the commander's soiled condition.

Phule caught his look, but misinterpreted it.

"Don't worry, Bombest." He grinned. "I'm sure everyone will shower before hitting the pool." He gestured at the newspaper-littered lobby. "If they're too cheap to pay to have the carpet vacuumed, they sure aren't about to spring to have a ring around the pool scrubbed off."

"I suppose not."

"Oh, and could you have room service send about three trolleys of beer to each of our floors? On my bill, of course."

"It's all on your bill, Mr. Phule," Bombest commented, beginning to recover his composure.

The commander had been starting to turn away, but instead he leaned on the desk, chatty in his enthusiasm.

"I know, Bombest, but this is special. Be sure they're told that it's with the commander's compliments. I'll tell you, I wish you could have seen them today. I'll have to check on it, but I don't think any outfit has run the confidence course in less time than they did."

"They do seem to be in high spirits," the manager agreed, wishing to maintain the friendly tone of the conversation.

"They should be. Do you know we ran that course over a dozen times today? They'd still be going at it if I hadn't called it a day."

"Why did you do that? I mean . . . it is still fairly early."

"The course has to be rebuilt first," Phule said proudly, his grin flashing through the dirt on his face. "That reminds me. I've got to call the construction crew and see if they can get someone out there today to get started on it."

"It . . . sounds like they're doing well."

"That they are. I am worried about the Sinthians, though. They're just not able to keep up without help. I've got to come up with some way to help them move faster before they get completely dispirited."

Bombest was groping for an appropriate answer when he noticed two figures approaching their conversation.

"Willard? Is that you?"

Phule turned, smiling as he recognized the reporter whose interview had resulted in the call from Headquarters. She was barely into her twenties with soft, curly brown hair and a curvaceous body that even the conservative lines of her office suit couldn't hide.

"Hi, Jennie. Surprised you recognized me like this."