Phule chuckled. "Don't tell me where, I swear I don't want to know. Listen now, Brandy-I want you to secure the area so the civilians can get out of danger. Send the Gambolts to scout those rooftops, too. We can't stay pinned down here all day just because of one sniper."

"Will do, Captain. But stay behind cover until I tell you it's safe, OK? There might be more than one sniper out there, and they might be gunning for us."

Phule watched as a black-uniformed skirmish line moved quickly toward him, securing the spaceport and waiting for more shots. None came, but it was quite a while before they declared the area safe. And nobody found the sniper.

"I'm not used to having somebody shoot at me," said Phule, pacing restlessly. He and Beeker had been herded to a secure room inside the spaceport terminal while the Legion and Army troops made certain no shooters were waiting somewhere to take another shot at him. Somewhere else in the building, the representatives of the Landoor government-including the head of State Security, Colonel Mays-awaited them.

"If you'll pardon my saying so, sir, you might have thought of that before joining the Space Legion. It is hardly the vocation to choose if one is seeking to avoid being shot at," said Beeker. His expression showed no sympathy whatsoever for his employer.

"Well, we can't be certain they were shooting at me personally," said Phule in a hopeful voice. "They might have been aiming at almost anybody on the landing field."

"I would consider it highly unlikely, sir," said Beeker. "After all, Captain Larkin told you there'd been no trouble at all during her tour of duty. It is difficult not to draw the conclusion that today's shooting incident is directly related to our arrival."

"That doesn't make sense, Beeker. What could anyone on this world have against us? I've never set foot on it."

"That's rather disingenuous of you, sir," said Beeker. "You can't have overlooked the fact that this world was formerly New Atlantis. You should certainly remember how the civil war here ended, when a certain young Legion officer took it upon himself to have the peace conference strafed. I would think you might remember that incident, since you were subsequently court-martialed for it, and assigned to your present position."

Phule began pacing again. "I could hardly have forgotten that, Beeker. I understood all along why General Blitzkrieg had the company assigned here: It's the one place in the galaxy where I might have enemies."

"The one place in addition to Headquarters," Beeker noted dryly.

"Yes, I suppose so," said Phule. "One reason I accepted this assignment was as a way to make amends for that incident. Still, never having been to the capital, I didn't expect anyone here to recognize me-especially since I've changed my Legion name. Obviously, somebody's leaked that information."

Beeker nodded solemnly. "I wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn that the general himself had revealed your previous identity as Captain Scaramouche to certain local factions to whom it might be of interest."

"That's the way to bet-though it's probably pointless to try to prove it," said Phule. "More important is to find out which of those factions decided to start shooting the minute I landed here."

"I would think that would be easy enough to answer, sir," said Beeker. "Who suffered the most when you strafed the peace conference?"

"Other than myself, you mean?" said Phule, with an ironic grimace. "I suppose whatever faction lost the most in the eventual peace settlement. The former government, I suppose-especially the diehards who kept on fighting."

"My thought exactly. From their point of view, the strafing might appear as insult piled upon injury."

"That would be very narrow-minded of them." said Phule. "It really wasn't at all directed at them personally."

Beeker stared at his employer for a long moment. "That may be true, sir, but I suspect that many people would find the distinction rather esoteric. Even professional soldiers are likely to take being shot at as an invasion of their personal space, I'd think."

"Well, that really ignores the whole context," said Phule. "I was trying to exploit a military situation in wartime. That's hardly the same as assassinating someone-assuming that's what they were up to."

"I am glad you perceive a difference," said Beeker, mildly. "However, it seems apparent that not everyone is quite ready to forgive and forget."

"Well, we'll have to talk some sense into them," said Phule. "In a way, that's what we're here for, isn't it?"

"Sir, I was under the rather distinct impression that we had come here to get out of trouble. I suppose it was foolish of me to believe that. I shall have to learn to moderate my irrepressible optimism."

"I'd be just as happy if you'd learn to moderate your sarcasm," said Phule, "but I'd never recognize you without it. In any case, if the rebels really have taken my arrival as a pretext to reopen hostilities, it's going to jeopardize this company's peacekeeping mission. I don't intend to sit still for that."

"Not at all a wise policy with someone shooting at you," agreed Beeker.

"Exactly. So first we have to find the rebels and convince them I'm not their enemy. Any idea how we go about that?"

"Given today's events, I should think the rebels may not be especially interested in negotiating."

"Well, I'll have to do what I can to change that," said Phule. "Until then..."

The door opened and Lieutenant Armstrong stuck his head in. "Captain, it looks as if things are finally under control. If you'll follow me, the government people are ready to meet you."

"Good," said Phule. "Now let's hope they haven't decided to hold that shooting against me."

"Perhaps they won't, sir," said Beeker gloomily. "Always assuming they weren't the ones responsible for it." But Phule and his lieutenants had already left the room.

Phule followed Armstrong and Rembrandt down a corridor to an office complex, and into a large office, evidently commandeered for the purpose. The sign on the door read SPACEPORT MANAGER, and there were several harried-looking men and women in the outer office as the Legion contingent passed through. On the walls were framed photographs of beach scenes and sunsets, reminders that this island was a tropical paradise-at least, when there wasn't a war going on.

Inside the inner office, they were met by a big, bearded man, smoking an evil-smelling cheroot and wearing a dark green uniform with an impressive number of service stripes on the sleeve. To either side of him were two similarly uniformed men, both grim-faced. The window blinds were drawn. All three watched in silence as Phule and his officers stepped into the room.

Phule stepped up to the desk and stopped, standing at attention. "Colonel Mays, I am Captain Jester of the Space Legion, ordered here to supervise the administration of the peace treaty. Allow me to present my credentials." Lieutenant Armstrong stepped forward with the dossier and put it on the desk in front of the big man, then stepped back to a position flanking Phule.

Mays neither looked at it nor touched it. Instead, he took the cheroot out of his mouth, looked Phule directly in the eye, and said, "You are a man who requires no introduction on this planet, Captain Jester-or should I call you Captain Scaramouche?"

"I would much prefer the former, Colonel," said Phule. "The Space Legion has a tradition that a legionnaire leaves his past behind him when he joins-as symbolized by leaving his name behind him. Our former names and former ways of life aren't anyone's business."

"A very romantic tradition, I am sure," said Colonel Mays, with a hint of a sneer. "I am sure it gives you legionnaires great comfort to know that you can walk away from what you have done before, just by taking a new name and putting on a black uniform."