"All right," he said. "That pretty much wraps up the old business for now. Are there any questions or comments before I move on to new business?"

"Yes, sir!"

Lieutenant Armstrong was on his feet, face rigid, in the classic position of attention. The captain noticed that several of the Legionnaires were grinning and nudging each other, but dismissed it as their normal amusement at Armstrong's Regular Army practices.

"Yes, Lieutenant? What is it?"

Instead of replying, the lieutenant literally marched to the front of the room, squaring his corners with parade-ground precision. Coming to a halt directly in front of the commander, he drew himself up with a crisp salute, which he held until Phule, puzzled by his antics, returned.

"Sir! The company has asked me to speak for them in voicing a complaint... sir!"

As he spoke, all the Legionnaires in attendance rose silently to their feet and assumed stances approximating Armstrong's textbook pose.

The commander avoided looking at them directly, but was both aware of and taken aback by their actions. Whatever was coming, it seemed to be unanimous. What the hell could it be?

"At ease, Lieutenant... and the rest of you, too. These are supposed to be informal meetings. Now then, what seems to be the problem?"

"Well, sir... the company is unhappy with the uniforms you've provided them with."

"I see. Which uniform specifically?"

"All of them, sir. We feel they lack color."

"Color?"

Phule couldn't keep himself from glancing at the assemblage. To a man, they were grinning at him.

"I don't think I understand. Black is the designated color of all Space Legion uniforms. While it may be unimaginative, I don't see any reason to change that, even if we could get approval from Headquarters... which I doubt."

"We don't want to change the color of the uniforms, sir... just request permission to add something for accent. Specifically..."

The lieutenant removed something from his pocket and held it out to Phule. "... we request the captain's permission to adopt and wear this flash patch as a designation for our unit... sir!"

The patch was a bright red, diamond-shaped piece of cloth. Embroidered on it, in black, was a skull wearing a belled jester's cap at a jaunty angle.

Phule studied it for a full minute as silence hung thick in the room. Then, still not trusting his voice, he removed the paper from the patch's adhesive backing and pressed it onto the sleeve of his uniform with his palm. With slow precision, he assumed the position of attention himself and raised his hand to salute the company.

As one, the Legionnaires returned his salute... then the room exploded in cheers and celebration.

"How do you like it, Captain?"

"Lieutenant Rembrandt did the art! Isn't it a beaut?"

"We all chipped in..."

As they crowded around him, the Legionnaires took time from babbling and slapping each other on the back to assist each other in installing the new patches on their sleeves. From the speed with which the decorations materialized, it was clear to the commander that the patches had been distributed in advance, with everyone carefully keeping them out of sight until they could spring the surprise on him together.

Phule was sitting alone in his room, staring at the patch on his just removed uniform, when his butler let himself in.

"Have you seen this, Beeker?"

"Yes, sir. If you'll look in your closet, you'll find that it has been added to all your uniforms."

"So you were in on it, too, eh?"

"I was asked to keep it confidential, sir. They wanted it to be a surprise."

The commander shook his head in amazement.

"It certainly was. I never dreamed they were cooking up anything like this."

I think you should take it as a compliment. It's my impression that they wish to show their appreciation for your efforts on their behalf, as well as pledging their support."

"I know. It's just... I didn't know what to say, Beek. Still don't, for that matter. I had to sneak out of the party early before I made a fool of myself trying to find a way to say thanks. "

"I believe your own acceptance of the patch is sufficient, sir. Rather like a father showing appreciation for his children by hanging their artistic efforts on the wall of his office."

Phule shook his head again, more emphatically this time.

"It goes way beyond that. Even my best-case scenario didn't cover how fast the crew is coming together. I'll tell you, Beeker, I couldn't be more proud of them if they were my own kids."

"Well, sir, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. How did they take the announcement that the Regular Army is arriving tomorrow?"

"I never made it." The commander sighed, sagging slightly in his chair. "They sprang this on me before I got around to it, and I couldn't bring myself to change the mood once they got rolling. I decided to let them celebrate tonight... tomorrow will come soon enough."

It might be of interesting historical note to some that use of the expression "hookers" as a designation for prostitutes originated during the Old Earth American Civil War. At that time, General Hooker maintained an entourage of "soiled doves" who accompanied him on his campaigns. If anyone visiting his encampment happened to ask one of the soldiers who these "ladies" were, they were simply informed, "They're Hooker's," and the phrase took root.

Realizing this, it should come as no surprise that when the Legionnaires under my employer's command roamed the streets of the settlement, they were explained by the locals by the simple expression "They're Phule's"-a nickname that was to follow them for some time.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Journal #122

While I have noted that my employer is not immune to surprises, it should be mentioned that upon occasions, he has also been known to outsmart himself. Though normally he excels at dealing with the media, it is his particular love of coverage that more often than not leaves him vulnerable.

A marked air of nervousness hung over the Legionnaires as they waited in full company formation for the arrival of the shuttlecraft. Though they were officially "at ease," meaning they could move one foot and talk with their neighbor, there was no conversation at all. Rather, they stood fidgeting anxiously in silence, each individual lost in his or her own thoughts.

"Are you sure this is such a good idea, Captain?"

The officers of the company were able to wander freely, though Phule forced himself to remain in front of the formation, trying to set a good example for the company by projecting calm rather than yielding to his natural desire to pace. He welcomed Lieutenant Rembrandt's soft question, however, as it gave him something to focus his attention on.

"Don't you think it's polite to be on hand to welcome our opposite number on their arrival, Lieutenant?" he said with mock severity.

"I suppose so, sir," Rembrandt returned, taking his statement seriously. "To be honest with you, though, I've never seen any politeness on the part of the Regular Army toward the Legion. "

"Neither have I," Phule admitted grimly. "For your information, Lieutenant, the real reason we're out here has nothing to do with courtesy."

"Sir?"

"Think about it. Everyone's nervous because they're afraid the Army's going to kick our butts in the upcoming competition. That's not surprising, considering how they've been conditioned into believing the Regular Army is manned by supermen, while the Space Legion scrapes the bottom of the barrel for their manpower. Well, if we're going to give a decent accounting of ourselves, we're going to have to shake that belief, and our presence here is the first step. I want everyone to see the competition as soon as possible, so they can realize that Army troops are human and put their pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. See my point?"