"Live chicken?" Escrima wrinkled his nose fastidiously. "Sure-it'll cost a bit, but I can get it. What would I want it for, though? There's not a man in the outfit-me included-who can taste any difference between ClonoBird cutlets and the stuff you have to peel the feathers off of. I can even get ClonoBird with bones, if the recipe calls for it. So why stretch the budget for the old-fashioned stuff?"

"It's not a man we're looking to feed," said Lieutenant Rembrandt, looking every bit as fussy as the Mess Sergeant. "And there's no recipe. It's for that Leftenant Qual, the Zenobian. He's used to live food."

One of Escrima's subcooks looked up from the mouth of the oven, which she'd been loading with trays of croissants. "Live food?" she said. "Eeuww!"

"My reaction exactly," said Rembrandt. "But the captain wants to make a special effort for Leftenant Qual. He's here as a military observer from his planet, and apparently his word on how we treat him could make a difference in whether they sign a treaty or decide to fight us."

Escrima leaned over the counter, his hands and lower arms covered with flour. "Is the lizard going to eat his live birds right in the mess hall?" he asked. He was not smiling.

"I hope not," said Rembrandt, shaking her head. "That stunt he pulled yesterday, running around and making people chase him, made him unpopular enough."

"I heard the Zenobian is a spy," chimed in the subcook. "That's why the brass sent him here-they figure he'll get caught, and it'll give the captain a black eye."

"How will it give the captain a black eye if we catch the Zenobian spying?" said Escrima, turning around to face her. He looked down at the open oven door and said, "Better get the rest of those trays in-we want 'em all ready at the same time. Your job's cooking, not counterspying."

"Yes, Sarge," said the subcook, and resumed her task.

"She's right about one thing, though, Escrima," said Rembrandt. "The Zenobian asked to be sent here because we were the first human outfit he encountered, back when he came exploring for new worlds and landed on Haskin's Planet where we were stationed. Qual figures he'll get a friendlier reception from the captain than he would somewhere else. Maybe he figures he can spy on us more easily. He even said that part of his mission was to study our tactics. That sure sounds like spying-especially if he goes back home and gives his general staff chapter and verse on how we fight."

"Somebody could arrange it so he doesn't go back home," suggested Escrima. His fingers brushed the handle of a cleaver, perhaps accidentally, but Rembrandt noticed and shook her head.

"That kind of accident would put the captain in even hotter water," she said firmly. "Qual spelled it out plain and clear at our dinner last night. We've got to play along with him, because his report could make or break the treaty negotiations. He can saunter around and take notes to his heart's content, and we can't do a thing about it."

"So we're right between the frying pan and the heating unit," said Escrima. "Tell me again why I should go out of my way to get this lizard special, tasty food while he's spying on us?"

"Captain's orders," said Rembrandt glumly. "I don't like it much myself, to tell you the truth, Escrima-either we ruin the whole company's appetite so one alien envoy can eat as he pleases, or we risk going to war because we won't give him his favorite dish. The captain thinks we're better off treating with Qual in good faith, which is why I'm here. Get us those live birds-I'll do what I can to make sure he eats them where none of us have to watch it. And Escrima-make sure your people keep this quiet. The Zenobian's unpopular enough as it is. No point throwing more fuel on the fire."

"You got it, Lieutenant," said Escrima. He favored Rembrandt with a crooked grin. "You know me better than to think I'm going to spread stories about how some tasteless alien prefers live bait to my delicious cooking, don't you?"

"I guess so," said Rembrandt, chuckling. "It was bad enough having to eat in the hotel restaurant last night. Maybe if this Zenobian gets a taste of your stuff he'll switch to human food and never look back."

"He will, he will," said Escrima, with the confidence of a true artist. "And the first taste is free!"

"Excuse me, do you belong to the Legion company?"

Flight Leftenant Qual looked up at the two humans. "Most assuredly," he said. "It gives me great satisfaction to affiliate myself with the notorious band of Captain Clown."

The taller human-Qual had trouble telling them apart, they were so similar-said, "It is the captain we need to ask you about. I am Special Agent Peele, and this is my partner, Special Agent Hull." He showed an identification card that meant nothing to Qual, although the Zenobian could see that the holo on the card matched the face in front of him.

"You may ask as you wish," said Qual, displaying his teeth in the friendly gesture humans called a smile. "Ignorance can be remedied. Such is my reason for being here."

"Very well," said Peele, gesturing to Hull, who opened her briefcase and took out a compact multicorder. "We have reliable reports that your captain has been concealing large amounts of income. Our preliminary investigation suggests that the casino operation here generates substantially more revenue than its competitors. Is that true?"

"I certainly hope so," said Qual, looking back at the casino, which towered over the three of them out on the public street. "It is a distinct pleasure to see one's benefactors prosper. Is that a recording device?"

"Yes, regulations require us to make accurate records of all our interviews," said Peele. "Do you have any information that would indicate that the captain has skimmed off a portion of the profits for his personal use?"

"I really have not been here long enough to know that," said Qual. "Does your recorder register images as well as sounds? My people would be interested in such a device."

"It's a standard, government-issue multicorder," said Hull, somewhat defensively. "We are not authorized to discuss our equipment with civilians."

"I see," said Qual, smiling again. "But you recognize, I am not a civilian, but a soldier, hence the uniform. Is it not so?"

"The distinction is complex, and your conclusion is in this case inaccurate," said Special Agent Peele. "Besides, we are here to discuss your captain's finances, not our equipment. Now, if you don't mind..."

"I could utilize such a recorder in my work," said Qual, reaching for the unit in question. "Will you sell it to me? I have many of your dollars."

"It is against regulations to sell government equipment," said Hull, pulling the recorder away from the Zenobian's eagerly extended claws. A frown came over her face-the first semblance of an expression she had shown.

"Ah, regulations, of course," said Qual. "Do you always obey these regulations?"

"Be careful what you say," said Peele, holding up a hand. "It is a serious offense to solicit government agents to violate regulations. Do not pursue this line of inquiry, or we shall be obliged to report you to our superiors."

"I should enjoy very much to meet your superiors," said Qual, his teeth still on display. "Are they here on Lorelei?"

"Unfortunately not," said Hull. "This entire station is a notorious haven for tax-dodgers, and the local authorities have managed to minimize the influence of the IRS here. The casino owners are required to distribute a declarations form to bettors winning large amounts, but very few of those forms are ever filed. And we seriously doubt the accuracy of those we do receive."

"Proof that Captain Jester-or Mr. Phule, to use his other alias-is evading taxes could give the IRS the leverage to establish a permanent presence here. Then we could begin to build cases against the other casino owners," said Peele. "Our mission is the thin end of the wedge, so it is very important that we play strictly by the regulations. There's a great deal at stake here."