Phule returned his somewhat exaggerated salute and studied him for a few moments before speaking.

"Without meaning to break the rule against prying into backgrounds, Sergeant, am I correct in assuming from your name that you're of Philippine descent?"

The little sergeant bobbed his head in quick acknowledgment, the smile never wavering.

"I've always heard that the Filipinos were some of the best cooks and some of the fiercest fighters on Old Earth."

That earned the commander a modest shrug, though the smile broadened slightly.

"Then perhaps you can tell me why the food in the mess isn't better. "

Phule had planned the phrasing of that question very carefully. According to his record, Sergeant Escrima had attacked people who criticized his cooking on three separate occasions, hospitalizing two of them. It was therefore important to be sure to say only that the food could be better, not that it was bad.

Even with the added precaution, the cook's dark eyes glittered for a moment. Then the look passed and he gave another of his shrugs.

"Mmmm... I am given a menu by the Legion. They say... they tell me I should cook what it says. And the meat they give me... is, how you say, stiff... tough. I tell the supply sergeant, I say to him, 'How can I cook with this meat? Look at it! Here, you show me!' but he just shrug and say, 'That's all the Legion budget can afford. Do the best you can.' So I do the best I can with the meat he gives me... and the Legion menu... but..."

The sergeant let his oration die off with a more exaggerated shrug and a meaningful jerk of his head at Phule.

"I see. Well, forget about the budget... and the menu. I want the company to eat well, and we don't pay them enough for them to eat out all the time. While I'm commander and you're the cook, I want this to be the best-fed company in the Legion. "

Escrima bobbed his head in quick accord.

"Good," he said curtly. "It's about time."

"Then I'll consider the matter handled." The commander nodded, crossing off an item on his notepad. "That will be all for now, Sergeant. "

Once again the sergeant gave his exaggerated salute, which Phule started to return when another thought struck him.

"Oh... one more thing. Am I also correct in assuming you would not have taken your name, Escrima, from the Philippine stick-fighting form unless you were skilled at it?"

The modest smile and shrug flashed past again.

"Then I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd consent to teach it to the interested members of the company, myself included. I don't know that much about it, but any stick form that can take out Magellan and his men while they were armed with swords, and armored to boot, is worth studying."

"Have a seat, Sergeant... Chocolate Harry, isn't it?"

"Just 'Harry' will do, Captain," the sergeant said, easing his massive bulk carefully into the indicated chair. " 'C.H,' to my friends. "

"All right. We'll make it C. H."-Phule nodded, jotting a quick note on his pad-"seeing as how I think we're going to become fast friends over the next couple months."

"Now, how do you figure that?" The sergeant frowned suspiciously. "No offense... sir... but to my recollection officers aren't noted for chummin' around with us enlisted types."

"Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself," the commander answered absently, flipping through his notes. "That was assuming you're as crooked and conniving as I think you are.

The supply sergeant's eyes narrowed, all but disappearing into his fleshy face as he leaned back in his chair.

"You know, Captain, that remark could be taken as more than a little racist. Are you sayin' that you think all us colored folk steal?"

As might be implied by his name, Chocolate Harry was black, though his skin tended toward a soft brown rather than the deeper black sometimes associated with his race. He was also hairy, but it was in the form of a fierce, bristly beard, offsetting his close-cropped hairstyle. A pair of thick-lensed spectacles pushed up onto his forehead completed the picture he presented as he regarded his commander with a scowl that on a smaller person would have looked melodramatic.

"Hmmm?" Phule said, looking up from his notes at last. "Oh. Not really, C. H. I was basing my assumption on the fact that your files show that you're well above average in intelligence. My thinking is that anyone with even half a brain in charge of supplies for this outfit would be supplementing his pay by at least dabbling in the black market. If I'm wrong, you of course have my apologies. "

Harry smiled broadly. "Thank you, Cap'n. An apology from an officer is something a grunt like me don't get every day."

"Excuse me, Sergeant," the commander interrupted, returning the smile tooth for tooth, "but 'l said 'if I'm wrong.' Before I'd feel right about extending that apology, I'd have to ask you to wait here while your files were confiscated and the supply warehouse padlocked so that an item-by-item physical inventory and audit could be performed to determine whether or not I was wrong."

The supply sergeant's smile vanished like a mouse at a cat show, and he licked his lips nervously while his eyes darted from the commander to the door.

"That... won't be necessary, Captain," he said carefully. "I'm willing to admit, just between the two of us, of course, that there might be a few items that have been, shall we say, misplaced over the last few months. If you want, I can see if the missing equipment can be found again in the next couple of weeks."

"That wasn't what I had in mind, C.H." Phule smiled.

"Okay, then." Harry hunched forward conspiratorially in his chair. "I suppose you and I can work out some kind of profit-sharing agreement..."

The commander gave a short bark of laughter, cutting the sergeant short.

"Excuse me, Harry, but you're getting the wrong message here. I'm not trying to shut you down... or shake you down, for that matter. If anything, what I want is the exact opposite. I want you to expand your operation, and I think I can help you do that. You can start by clearing out most of the stock you've got in the warehouse right now."

The supply sergeant scowled. "How do you figure that, Captain? I mean, I sure do like your style, but it occurs to me that if we clean this outfit out, someone's bound to notice. You got some plan to hide the fact I'll be sittin' on an empty warehouse?"

"First of all, we're not going to try to hide it. " Phule grinned. "We'll be doing this strictly by the book... specifically Section 954, paragraph 27, which states: 'The supply sergeant may dispose of any surplus or outdated equipment by destroying or selling such equipment'; and Section 987, paragraph 8: 'The commanding officer shall determine if any item of the company's equipment is suitable for repair or upgrade, or if it is to be deemed scrap and disposed of.' Now, to my eye the bulk of our equipment is more suitable for a museum than a fighting force, so I figure your work is going to be cut out for you."

Harry nodded. "Very nice. I might even say 'sweet'... 'cept for one thing. That still leaves me with an empty warehouse. "

"Not really. I think you'll find that the gear that'll be arriving over the next few weeks will more than fill the empty space. As I told the company, I've taken the liberty of upgrading the quality of our equipment... at my own expense, of course."

"Of course," the sergeant echoed, leaning back in his chair to study the commander through half-slitted eyes. "That brings up another question completely, Captain. Now, if you're near as rich as you let on, I'm not exactly sure why it is you need me. I mean, what with you buyin' up the store for this outfit, why is it you want to fool around raising money havin' me sell off our surplus?"