Shelton, who had rapidly grown crimson in the face, now rasped at Grayder, "What you do with your crew is wholly your own business but I cannot permit my troops to exhibit themselves in nothing but boots."

Not wanting to let Morgan witness an unpleasant clash of authority, Grayder gave a shrug of resignation, glanced appealingly at the Ambassador.

That person immediately responded by saying, "My dear Colonel, we cannot grant shore-leave to the crew and refuse it to the troops. Privileges must be distributed without fear or favor. To differentiate between the personnel on this ship would be most reprehensible. It could create jealousy, resentment and destroy the cordial relations that exist between the Captain's men and yours."

"I am not denying leave to my men," insisted Shelton. "I am saying that they must go out in ceremonial uniform as prescribed by regulations."

"There are other regulations, Colonel. Captain Grayder has just said it's a strict rule that they must respect local customs. What have you to say to that?"

"It's an equally strict rule that they go out properly dressed."

"The proper dress here is a snazzy pair of sandals," said the Ambassador. "Short of those, we'll have to use boots. Do you accept the full blame for any trouble caused by your men's gross indecency?"

"Heaven!" Shelton burst out. "It is the Hygeians who are indecent."

"Their opinion is the opposite. It is their town that the men propose to visit."Perceiving that this argument could continue forever while the astounded Morgan listened pop-eyed, Grayder interrupted with, "Your Excellency, perhaps the Colonel would be good enough to accept your official order that his men go out undressed."

"Would you?" asked the Ambassador.

"Under strong protest," said Shelton, secretly glad to be rid of the responsibility.

"Very well." The Ambassador spoke to Morgan. "The roster is approved providing that the leave-takers go naked."

Picking up the list, Morgan said feebly, "I don't know what the men will say about this."

"Neither do I," remarked the Ambassador. "But their reactions should be interesting."

Morgan departed, slightly dazed.

Chapter 5.

Ambling morbidly toward the tail-end, Morgan met Gleed and said, "I've got news for you."

"Go ahead," invited Gleed. "Intrigue me."

"You're to get stripped."

"Eh?"

"If you go to town you do it in your pelt."

"Hah, funny," said Gleed.

"It's an order,'" Morgan asserted.

"Whose?-Grayder's? I don't take orders from him."

"It's a joint one issued by His Excellency, the Colonel and the Captain. I'm not

kidding you, either. All men who visit that town must do so wearing only their boots and some hair-lotion. You'd better go and prepare your buddies for the shock-I'll tell the crew."

He mooched away, sour-faced. Gleed had a moment of doubt, decided that Morgan was too self-important to descend to childish tricks. He hastened toward the troops' quarters, encountered Bidworthy at the halfway mark.

"Pardon, Sergeant Major," he began with great respect, "do you know anything about this order that men on leave must go out unclothed?"

Bidworthy looked him over very slowly from head to feet and with equal slowness from feet to head. "How much service have you put in?"

"Twenty years."

Nodding profoundly, Bidworthy went on, "Twenty years' service. Three stripes. A full-blown sergeant. And still you listen to barrackroom gab."

"First Mate Morgan told me about it," Gleed protested.

"Then he must have a warped sense of humor," said Bidworthy. "But at your age

and with your rank you should know better than to fall for it."

With low cunning, Gleed prompted, "Then it's your order that we go in ceremonial uniform?"

"It is not my order at all," denied Bidworthy. "It doesn't have to be. It's a rigid regulation of which everyone is well aware. What's more, I shall hold the usual inspection to ensure that it is obeyed. There will be trouble for the man I find sloppily dressed." He paused, added with menace, "Even if he happens to be a sergeant."

Before Gleed could think up an adequate reply a trooper stuck his head out of a nearby doorway and said, "Excuse me, Sergeant Major, the Colonel is calling for you on the intercom. Want to answer from here?"

"Yes."

Bidworthy hurried into the room leaving the door wide open. It was too great a temptation for Gleed who remained in the corridor and stretched his ears.

"Sir!" sounded Bidworthy's gruff tones. "Yes, sir. The first roster. What?" This was followed by a peculiar choking noise. "Do I hear you aright, sir? You mean actually nude? But, sir, the regulations--" More gargling. "I understand, sir. It's an order."

Came the click of a phone being cradled. A period of heavy breathing. When Bidworthy emerged he looked like a sleepwalker. His face somewhat apoplectic, he walked right past Gleed without seeing him.

A minute later Gleed charged into the first dormitory and looked it over with an authoritative eye. A few troopers were lying on their bunks absorbed in books. Several were playing cards. Others were brushing jackets and pressing pants. On the nearest bunk Trooper Piatelli was assiduously shining his heavy boots.

"You on the first roster?" inquired Gleed.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Then you'd better give those a polish like you've never given them before. Not just a good polish. Not even an excellent polish. Make it a superb polish."

Piatelli asked, "Why?"

"Because," informed Gleed, "those clompers are all you'll be wearing."

"All?" said Piatelli, mystified.

"All is what I said."

"You mean I've been taken off the roster? They've stopped my leave? I can't go

out? Why'd they pick on me? I've done nothing wrong."

By now the readers had dropped their books, the players put down their cards, the

pants-pressers ceased work. Everyone was staring at Piatelli. Self-consciously he gave the boots a couple of rubs before repeating his complaint.

"Why'd they pick on me?"

"Much as I hate to deprive you of your martyrdom," said Gleed, "I have to state

that everyone is picked on. Every mother's son of us. The order is that leave must be taken in the bare, front and back."

"No!" exclaimed the readers.

"No!" chorused the card-players.

"No!" shouted the pants-pressers.

"Yes!" insisted Gleed.

Piatelli flung his boots on the floor. "I'm not taking my leave. I refuse to go."

"Why?" asked Gleed. "Are you adorned with a vulgar tattoo?"

"There'll be lots of women in that town."

"What of it? Your mother was a woman, wasn't she? They can't see any more than she did."

"That's different," said Piatelli.

"If I remember aright," Gleed continued, "you were one of that squad whose physical examination was conducted by a woman. I don't recall you playing hell about it then."

"She was a qualified doctor. Mothers and doctors aren't the same as ordinary women."

"The Hygeian females aren't the same, either. They're a bunch of nakes. What's one more among a million of 'em?"

"I don't care," said Piatelli. "I don't go out without so much as my shorts."

"Cowardice in the face of the enemy," pronounced Gleed. "You surprise me, Piatelli. No spine, no guts."

"That's better than no clothes," Piatelli retorted.

Somebody called impudently, "You're on the first roster, Sarge. Are you going out?"

"Providing I've got company," Gleed said. "There's no fun in fooling around on one's own."

He left the dormitory amid a gabble of voices, went to the next one, gave them the same news. Then to the next and the next. By the time he had finished nobody had yet been informed by Bidworthy, that person having decided that it was bad enough having the accept a breach of regulations without also making himself the instrument of its transmission.

At ten in the morning eight men lined up in the mid airlock. They were decoy ducks for the two hundred others who had decided to postpone going out pending first-hand information on what it was like to stroll around town sans zoot. Five of the eight were former members of sunbathing societies, imperturbable because facing a familiar prospect. One was a physical culture practitioner only too willing to exhibit his beautiful body. One was doing it for a bet. The eighth was Gleed, determined to assert every man's right to shore-leave come what may.

Bidworthy arrived, his face flushed in manner suggesting a few preliminary nips at a bottle. Standing squarely before the first man, he shot a swift look of revulsion over the body, concentrated attention upon the boots. It was obvious that he was gravely handicapped by lack of helmets to be adjusted, belts to be tightened, buttons to be fastened. His attitude was the same right along the line until he came to Gleed. There at last he found something to criticize.

"How is it," he inquired with exaggerated politeness, "that I have not been informed of your precipitate demotion?"

Gleed eyed him blankly.

"Where are your stripes?" bawled Bidworthy.

"On my uniform, Sergeant Major," replied Gleed as soothingly as possible. "I am not wearing my uniform right now."

"Is that so? I am indebted to you for the information. I wouldn't have been aware of it if you hadn't drawn my attention to it." He fumed a bit, then roared, "Get those stripes on somehow, I don't care how. Paint them on if necessary. The fact that you're stark doesn't mean you've been discharged from the space service and have ceased to be an N.C.O." With that he marched irefully out, pausing only to look back and say, "God help us!"

"Something seems to be eating Ruthless Rufus," remarked the physical culture expert, expanding his chest and strutting around. "You coming with us, Sarge, or going on your own?"

"I'll have to put these stripes on first. How am I going to do it?"

"Go see Trooper O'Keefe in the fourth dorm," suggested one of the others. "He's got plenty of lipstick."

"All right wait for me, you fellows." Gleed went to the fourth dormitory, found O'Keefe sitting on his bunk practicing a conjuring trick with two colored balls and a silk handkerchief. The other occupants goggled at the nude arrival with complete lack of respect for rank. Ignoring this, Gleed asked, "Is it a fact that you have some lipstick?"

"Lipstick?" O'Keefe registered great pain. "What d'you think I am?" Extracting a box from under his bunk, he opened it, revealed a jumble of fake playing-cards, wire puzzles and similar stuff. From this mess he dug out a flat tray full of what appeared to be colored candles. "Theatrical greasepaint," he informed. He fished up a false beard, jet black and fluffy. "Want to disguise yourself?"

"No-I've got to show my stripes. I thought maybe you could mark them on my arm."

"Sorry," said O'Keefe, enjoying himself, "but as a common trooper I lack the authority to make you a sergeant."