"Yeah, well, maybe you're right," admitted Do-Wop. He bent over and looked over Sushi's shoulder at the readout, then said, "But what if this signal's as bogus as the others? You can't get anywhere if all you've got is phony signals that disappear right after you discover 'em."

"I spent last night putting in a refinement to the system," said Sushi. "Last night, when you were sleeping like a log. Now, with any luck, I can get a fix on these signals before they fade out. In fact..." He reached out and pushed a button on the console. A light started blinking.

"What's that?" said Do-Wop.

"You should've paid more attention when we were setting this thing up," said Sushi. "It's a recording disc, and with the information we'll have saved on it, we can pinpoint the origin of this signal, even if it fades out."

"Oh yeah? Where's it from?"

Sushi looked at his readouts. "I have to do the math to be sure, but at a guess, I'd say just about halfway between here and the Zenobian capital city. Right on the captain's course."

The opening in the wall had revealed only two dishes containing food and two cups of water. The food was warm, if a bit bland. One dish could have been passed off as mashed potatoes with a dash of cinnamon, and another was a sort of meat that tasted remarkably like...baked chicken. The water was cool and fresh. At least their captors did not intend to starve them.

The question remained: What kinds of creatures had taken them prisoner, and why? The evidence remained scanty; even the dishes were of unexceptional design, made of a ceramic material that could have been produced on any of a hundred worlds. And they had still seen nothing of the creatures who made them.

"It's amazing that the Hidden Ones have managed to avoid detection by the Zenobians," said Phule. "Why, they must have been right under their noses-"

"Not necessarily, sir," said Beeker. "If you remember, the Zenobians avoid the dryer areas of the planet. They're no more familiar with them than humans are with the polar regions of our own worlds. We've sent out a few exploring parties, but we can hardly claim to know them intimately. An alien race adapted to arctic conditions that landed near the South Pole of Landoor or Haskin's Planet could escape notice for many years. In fact, on many worlds, there are reports from sparsely inhabited areas of large animals that have not yet been seen by scientists."

"Large animals are one thing," said Phule. "An invasion by a space-going race is something else entirely."

"In theory, sir, I agree," said Beeker. "But if the aliens were not aggressive, there might be a considerable interval before they interacted. Especially if the invaders find the swampy areas of this world as unattractive as the natives do the deserts, there is no reason they would have come into contact before now."

Phule grimaced. "They're welcome to the swamps and deserts both," he said, fanning himself with his hat. "Anyhow, we know for a fact they're here, just not what they look like. Now, if we can get them to return us to the hoverjeep, we can use the translator instead of trying to communicate by gestures and guesses. Any ideas how we can do that?"

Beeker leaned his chin on the back of his right hand. "We appear to need the translator to communicate, yet we cannot communicate to our captors that we require it. This is the sort of circular logic puzzle that one might find diverting if one were to read about it in a story."

"Maybe you like that kind of puzzle, but it's driving me crazy," said Phule. "If you find it so diverting, you're welcome to solve it yourself."

"Alas, sir, I have already devoted considerable thought to it," said Beeker imperturbably. "As yet, I have not obtained a satisfactory result. I continue to ponder the question."

"Ponder faster, Beek," said Phule. "Getting out of this cell may depend on it. Not to mention getting something better to eat..." He pointed at the remains of their meal.

Beeker shrugged. "I find it as bland as you, sir. But for all we know, from our captors' point of view, this may be the equivalent of five-star cuisine."

"Nobody gives prisoners five-star cuisine," said Phule. "Not even the condemned man's last meal." He stopped and looked at his butler with sudden apprehension. "I wish I hadn't thought of that."

"One would not expect an alien race to be cognizant of that tradition," said Beeker. "We need not fear on that account, sir. Nor, I think, do we need to fear that they are fattening us for the slaughter."

"Beeker, you can't imagine what a relief it is to hear that," said Phule. "My whole outlook on life just brightened, you know? Why, I can almost reconcile myself to spending the rest of my days locked up in this...whatever it is."

"You really shouldn't attempt sarcasm unless you have a proper sense how to deploy it, sir," said Beeker. "Sarcasm ought to come from a position of assured superiority. It undermines the entire effect to end a sentence with a phrase that so openly admits one's ignorance as `whatever it is.' "

Phule stared at the butler a moment, then sat down in a corner of the enclosure. "The ironic thing is, I've just figured out what this place is, five seconds too late to get any use out of it."

"Really, sir?" Beeker's eyebrow went up a notch. "What, pray tell, would you call this place, then?"

"A torture chamber. What else would you call a place you have to share with somebody who corrects every remark you make?"

"Perhaps you are right, sir," said Beeker. "I hadn't seen it in quite that light. And after all, it does work both ways."

Phule looked up. "Both ways? What do you mean?"

"What else would you call a place where your only companion is constantly making remarks that cry out for correction?"

"Where is Captain Jester?" demanded Major Botchup. His tone suggested that anyone who couldn't answer was in trouble. "Mr. Snipe tells me the fellow's come sneaking back. Why hasn't he reported to me?"

"Yes, sir, the captain has returned," said Armstrong. "His hoverjeep malfunctioned out in the desert, and he walked into camp-"

The new officer grunted. "Malfunctioned, hey? Sounds as if somebody's slacking off in your motor pool, Lieutenant." It was clear he considered it Armstrong's fault.

"Oh, no, sir," said Armstrong, beginning to sweat. "Our motor pool is up to Legion standards-"

"We'll see about that, " said the major. "When the CO's personal jeep breaks down in the boonies, what kind of attention are the other vehicles getting, I wonder? Omega Company's not drawing soft barracks duty anymore, Lieutenant. This planet's at war, you know."

"Not exactly a war, is it, sir?" said Armstrong meekly. "We were asked in to help the locals find out-"

"Not a war?" the major stopped and turned on his heel to face Armstrong. "That's naive of you, Lieutenant, wouldn't you say? These lizards bent over backward to get into the Alliance, and the ink was barely dry on the treaty when they asked for this outfit-which they seem to think is some sort of elite company, God help 'em-to come in as military advisers. What other than a war could be so urgent, hey?"

"Preventing one might be, Major," said a new voice, calm and genial. "That'd be at the top of my list of priorities, anyway."

Major Botchup whirled. "Captain Jester!" he said. He drew himself up to military posture and said, "I'm surprised it's taken you so long to report, Captain. As you must have heard, I have been assigned by Legion Headquarters to take over command of this company. Frankly, I don't like what I've seen so far."

His glower made it obvious that he included Phule in this assessment. The captain was wearing a white dinner jacket with a plaid bow tie and matching cummerbund-appropriate attire for greeting customers at the Fat Chance Casino, but a bit out of place in the field. And he was carrying a martini glass in his left hand. The major's eyes settled on it in an instant, and radiated disapproval.