"Wellll . . . if you're sure all that stuff is still within the paid-for poundage. Just don't expect me to load it for you."

"Certainly not," Phule soothed. "Now if you'll direct the porters, they'll take care of everything."

Beeker hefted the two suitcases that contained their necessities for the trip and started up the gangplank.

"I'll go ahead and start unpacking, sir," he called back over his shoulder.

"Now, who's that!?" the pilot snarled.

"That's Beeker. He's my butler and traveling companion."

"You mean he's coming with us? No way! The Legion hired me to transport one-count it, one-person and you're it!"

"Not surprising, as Mr. Beeker is not enlisted in the Legion. He's attached to me personally. "

"Fine. That means he's not going."

Phule studied his fingernails.

"Actually, if you care to check the weights, you'll find that the extra poundage I purchased includes allowance for Beeker. "

"Oh yeah? Well, there's a big difference between baggage and transporting a person."

The Legionnaire was studying the ship.

"That's a Cosmos 1427, isn't it, Captain? I believe it sleeps six comfortably. Realizing this is a charter flight and there are no other pa.s.sengers, I'm sure we can find room for Beeker somewhere. "

"That's not the point," the pilot insisted. "It takes paperwork and clearances to transport a person to another planet. I got no orders for this Beeker guy."

"As a matter of fact," Phule said, reaching into his jacket pocket, "I have the necessary paper right here."

"You do?"

"Certainly. I couldn't expect you to break regulations on my say-so, could I?"

He dropped something onto the pilot's clipboard. "Hey! This isn't . . .

"Study it carefully, Captain. I'm sure you'll see that everything's in order."

The pilot stared in silence, which wasn't surprising. In fact, Phule found it was the usual reaction of laymen when suddenly confronted with a thousand-credit note.

"I . . . guess this will cover the necessary clearances," the pilot said slowly, unable to take his eyes from the money.

"Good." Phule nodded. "Now, if you'll just show the porters where to stow my luggage, we can be under way."

Journal File #007

In reviewing my entries so far, I notice that the comments regarding my employer's preparations for his new a.s.signment seem less than complimentary. Please realize that we are two separate people with different modes of setting priorities. While we more than occasionally disagree, my noting of those differences is not intended as criticism, but rather an effort for completeness. The fact that I am the one keeping this record gives me a certain advantage in stating my opinions and preferences, and while I shall endeavor to keep my observations as impartial as possible, there is an understandable slanting where my own role in the proceedings is concerned. I trust you will take that into account in your readings.

In actuality, my employer is far more extensive in his research than I-once he gets around to it. My earlier concern was whether he would get around to it in time for it to be useful upon a.s.suming command, and acting on that concern had prepared myself to be able to give him at least a basic briefing should time run out. As it turned out, the flight allowed more than ample time for him to complete his preparations.

Speaking of time, you may have noticed that I am merely keeping this journal in sequential sequence, occasionally noting the lapse of time between entries. Dates and times tend to become meaningless to travelers . . . particularly when one travels between planets or solar systems. For specific reference points to your local timeline, simply check in your local library for media coverage of the various events I record.

Glancing up from his lap computer, Phule noticed that Beeker had apparently fallen asleep in the cabin chair. In many ways, this wasn't surprising. There was a sense of timelessness to s.p.a.ce travel . . . days and nights being defined by when you turned the lights on or off. For Phule, this was ideal, as it allowed him to set his own work schedule, pausing only occasionally for a meal or a nap. Beeker, however, was less flexible in his need for regular sleep patterns, so it was not unusual that the two men often found themselves on different cycles. Normally this was no problem. At the moment, however, Phule found that he wanted to talk.

After struggling with his conscience for several moments, he decided on a compromise.

"Beeker?" he said as softly as he could.

If the butler was really asleep, the words would go unnoticed. To Phule's relief, however, Beeker's eyes flew open in immediate response.

"Yes, sir?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No, sir. Just resting my eyes for a moment. May I be of a.s.sistance?"

That reminded Phule of how tired his own eyes were. Leaning back, he ma.s.saged his temples gently with his fingertips.

"Talk to me, Beek. I've been staring at these files so long they're starting to run together in my head. Take it from the top and give me your thoughts."

The butler frowned as he mentally organized his own reactions to the a.s.signment. It was far from the first time that his employer had asked for his opinion on key matters, though there was never any doubt as to who had the final responsibility for any action or decisions. Still, Beeker was gratified to know that Phule respected his counsel enough to ask for it from time to time.

"The settlement on Haskin's Planet is self-sufficient and numbers about one hundred thousand," he began slowly. "That in itself has little to do with our a.s.signment, other than the potential of providing us with a bit of culture on our off-duty hours.

"On the surface, the a.s.signment seems simple enough," he continued. "Though the mineral content of the swamps on Haskin's Planet is too low to warrant full commercial exploitation, there is a handful of individuals who eke out a living by mining those swamps. There are no major dangers in the native flora and fauna, mind you, but a swamp is a swamp and hazardous enough that it's impossible to keep watch and concentrate on mining at the same time, so the miners banded together and hired a company of Legionnaires to give them protection while they work."

Beeker pursed his lips and paused before launching into the next portion of his summary.

"To make the job even easier, pressure from various environmental groups requires that the miners only work the swamp one day a week . . . and that within strict limitations. As an aside, though it's never stated in so many words, I suspect the a.s.signment is actually of a duo nature: guarding the miners and policing them to be sure they remain within the environmental guidelines. Whatever the case may be, the Legionnaires are actually only required to stand duty once a week . . . which I consider to be the first sign of serious trouble. While it may sound like easy duty, I suspect that having that much free time on their hands is not a good thing for the Legionnaires posted there."

"Which brings us to the subject of the Legionnaires," Phule said grimly.

The butler nodded. "Quite so. It has never been a secret that with its open-door policy, the Legion is made up, to a large extent, of criminals who choose the service as a preferable alternative to incarceration. After examining the personnel files of your new command, however, one is forced to a.s.sume that this outpost has more than the expected percentage of . . . um . . ."

"Hard cases?"

"No. It goes beyond that," Beeker corrected. "Even without reading between the lines, it becomes obvious that the company can be divided into two major groups. One, as you note, is comprised of those rougher elements who do not take easily to military life, regardless of what they signed on enlistment. The second group is at the other extreme. If anything, they are pacifistic by nature or choice-a trait which also makes them difficult or impossible to absorb into a normal military structure. I think, however, it is necessary to note that apparently all of your new command falls into one or the other of those groups. In short, it's my considered opinion that you've been a.s.signed to a force comprised entirely of . . . well, losers and misfits, for lack of better t.i.tles."

"Myself included. Eh, Beeker?" Phule smiled wryly.

"It would appear that you are viewed as such in certain quarters," the butler said with studied indifference.

Phule stretched his limbs.

"I agree with your a.n.a.lysis, Beek, except for one thing."

"Sir?"

"When you refer to them as falling into one of two groups . . . I'm not seeing any of the cohesion necessary for a group, either in the categories you mentioned or in the company itself. It's a cl.u.s.ter of individuals with no real sense of 'group' or of 'belonging."'

"I stand corrected. 'Group' was simply a convenient label."

Phule was leaning forward now, his eyes bright despite his obvious fatigue.

"Convenient labels are a trap, Beek. One I can't afford to fall into. As near as I can tell, convenient labels are what got the bulk of the personnel transferred into this company as . . . what did you call them?"

"Losers and misfits, sir."

"That's right, losers and misfits. I've got to mold them into a group, a cohesive unit, and to do that I've got to see them as individuals first. People, Beeker! It always comes down to people. Whether we're talking business or the military, people are the key!"

"Of course, you realize, sir, that not everyone in your command falls under the category of 'people,"' the butler commented pointedly.

"You mean the nonhumans? That's right, I've got three of them. What are they? Let's see . . .

"Two Sinthians and a Volton. That is, two Slugs and a Warthog. "

"I'll have none of that, Beeker." Phule's voice was sharp. "Species slurs are the worst kind of convenient label, and I won't tolerate it . . . not even from you, not even in jest. Whoever they are, whatever they are, they're Legionnaires under my command and will be treated and referred to with proper courtesy, if not respect. Is that clear?"

The butler had long since learned to distinguish between his employer's occasional irritated temper flares, which were quickly forgotten, and genuine anger. While he had been previously unaware of this particular area of sensitivity, he made a mental note of it.

"Understood, sir. It won't happen again."

Phule relaxed, confident that the matter was settled.

"I'll admit," he mused, "that of the three nonhuman species that we've made alliances with, I'm surprised to find individuals from those two species in my command. I suppose it would have been too much to hope for to get a Gambolt or two."

Beeker almost said "The Cats?" but caught himself in time.

"I believe that members of that species inclined to enlist usually sign onto the Regular Army," he commented instead. "In fact, I've heard there's an entire company of them."

"It figures." Phule grimaced. "With their combat reflexes and abilities, they can pretty much pick their a.s.signments."

"Certainly a different breed of . . . a different caliber material than you've been given to work with," the butler agreed readily. "Tell me, sir, do you really think you can mold such a . . . diverse collection of individuals into an effective unit?"

"It's been done before. Specifically the Devil's Brigade . . . the first Special Service force, which eventually became . . ."

"The Special Forces," Beeker finished. "Yes, I'm familiar with the unit. If I might point out, however, that was a joint U.S.-Canadian force. At the beginning, the Americans provided a motley a.s.sortment of rejects and criminals, as opposed to the Canadians, who donated a crack fighting unit. While you definitely have your allotment of criminals, I fear you're lacking the offsetting crack fighting unit to serve as an example. "

"Touche." Phule laughed easily. "I should know better than to try to reference military history in front of you, Beeker. Okay. To answer your question, I don't know if it can be done, or more to the point, if it can be done by me. I do know I'm going to give it my best shot."

"Which is all anyone can ask and definitely more than they deserve." The butler stretched and yawned. "For now, however, unless there is something else . . . ?"

He let the question hang in the air.

"Go ahead and turn in, Beek," Phule said, reaching for his lap computer. "Sorry to keep you up, but I appreciate the talk."

Beeker paused, eyeing the terminal.

"And yourself, sir? You'll want to be well rested when we arrive at Haskin's Planet."

"Hmmm? Oh. Sure . . . in a bit. I just want to do a little checking on who's who in that settlement. I'd like to know what I'm up against."

The butler shook his head as he watched Phule hunch over the computer again. He knew all too well the kind of detail his employer required when researching business rivals-credit checks, educational background, family, police records-and a.s.sumed he'd settle for nothing less in this new campaign he was undertaking. There would be hours, if not tens of hours, of painstaking work involved, work begun long after most men would have collapsed from fatigue. Still, he knew it was pointless to try to cajole or jolly Phule from his chosen path once he was on a roll. All Beeker could do was to be there to support this extraordinary person when and if he did wobble.

Still shaking his head, he left for his cabin.

CHAPTER TWO.

Journal File #013

I was not personally present at the a.s.sembly where my employer first addressed his new command. Though I had complete knowledge of the Legionnaires' personnel files, and was later to get to know many of them intimately, not being officially in the Legion would have made it inappropriate for me to attend the meeting.

I therefore took it upon my self to eavesdrop on the proceedings by tapping into the compound's two-way paging system. This is merely a high-tech improvement of the time-honored tradition of listening at key-holes. While one's employer is ent.i.tled to his privacy, it is next to impossible to meet, much less antic.i.p.ate, his requirements without proper knowledge of his activities and the pressures at work in his life.

(Admittedly I have never discussed this openly with my employer, but while I have often acted on information I was not given directly, he has never commented on or chastised me for my having that knowledge.) The company recreation hall, though the largest room in the compound, was usually virtually deserted evenings. At one time it had merely been depressing in its lifelessness, but over the last several months the Legionnaires had stopped picking up after themselves, and a litter of moldy, half-eaten food added a new air to the environs. More simply put, it stank.

Tonight, however, it was full to capacity. Word had been pa.s.sed that the new company commander wanted to address the troops, and the possibility that a roll call might be taken was sufficient threat to guarantee everyone's attendance.

There were not enough seats to go around, even including the perching points on the pool table and radiators, and the pecking order among the company could be readily seen by who yielded their spot to whom as the room slowly filled. Though they tried to maintain an air of bored cynicism, the Legionnaires were nonetheless curious about the new commander, and that subject dominated the conversation, particularly among the younger, more clean-cut segment of the group.

"It's sure taken him long enough to call this meeting," one such was grumbling. "He's been in residence almost a week and hasn't talked to anyone . . . just keeps sending that butler of his to the mess hall for food or into town on errands."

"Anyone ever hear of an officer having his own butler?"

"Who cares? They're all spoiled rich kids, anyway. Whatdaya expect in an outfit where ya gotta buy a commission?"

"What do you think he's going to say?"

This last comment proved to be too tempting to pa.s.s on for the company's first sergeant, who had been lounging nearby, eavesdropping on the 'conversation.' She was a rough-complexioned woman in her early thirties, and of normal enough proportion that it wasn't until she stood up that one realized how large she was.

"I'll tell you what he's going to say," she announced with theatric boredom.

"What's that, Brandy?"

Aside from her rank and size, the first sergeant had an easy smoothness and confidence in her movements that earned her deferential treatment and attention whenever she chose to speak.

"It'll be the same as any CO would say taking over a new outfit," she said. "First, he'll tell a joke. I think it's written in the Officer's Manual that you have to open with a joke when you're addressing enlisted personnel. Anyway, he'll start with a joke, then tell us that whatever's happened before is in the past, that he's going to make this the best unit in the Legion. Of course, he won't say how, just that he's going to do it . . . which means we get drills and inspections for a few weeks until he gives up on this ragtag bunch and starts trying to pull strings to get transferred out."