"Maybe I had better try to find out. How much time do I have? When are we sailing?" I quickly amended this to: "Or are we sailing? Maybe Colonel Rachel has a handle on some APVs."

"Uh... damn it, how much classified do you expect for a lousy seventy stars?"

I thought about it. I didn't mind spending money but I needed to be certain of the merchandise. With troops moving upriver smugglers would not be moving, at least not this week. So I needed to move with the traffic available.

But not as an officer! I had talked too much. I took out two more ten-spots, fiddled with them. "Sarge, are you going upriver yourself?"

She eyed the bank notes; I dropped one of them in front of her. It disappeared. "I wouldn't miss it, deane. Once I close down this office, I'm a platoon sergeant."

I dropped the other note; it joined its twin. I said, "Sarge, if I wait and talk to your colonel, if she signs me on, it will be as personnel adjutant, or logistics and supply, or something dreary like that. I don't need the money and don't want the worry; I want a holiday. Could you use a trained private? One you could brevet to corporal on even buck sergeant once you get to shaking down your recruits and see what vacancies you need to fill?"

She looked sour. "That's all I need, a millionaire in my platoon!"

I felt sympathy for hen; no sergeant wants a cashiered officer in his/her ranks. "I'm not going to play the millionaire; I just want to be one of the troops. If you don't trust me, stick me in some other platoon."

She sighed. "I ought to have my head examined. No, I'll put you where I can keep an eye on you." She reached into a drawer, pulled out a form headed "Limited Indenture." "Read this. Sign it. Then I swear you. Any questions?"

I looked it over. Most of it was routine trivia about slop chest and toke money and medical benefits and guild pay rate and bounty- but interlined was a provision postponing payment of bounty to the tenth day after enlistment. Understandable. To me it was a guarantee that they really were going in harm's way and at once-i.e., upriver. The nightmare ruining every mercenary paymaster's sleep is the thought of bounty jumpers. Today, with all recruiters active, it would be possible for a veteran soldier to sign up five or six ways, collect a bounty from each, then head for the banana states-unless the indentures were worded to stop it,

The commitment was to Colonel Rachel Danvers personally or

to her lawful successor in case of her death or disability, and it required the signer to carry out her orders and those of officers and noncommissioned officers she placed over me. I agreed to fight faithfully and not to cry for quarter, according to international law and the usages of war.

It was so vaguely worded that it would require a squad of Philadelphia lawyers to define the gray areas... which did not matter at all because a difference in opinion when it counted would get the signer shot in the back.

The period was, as the sergeant had represented, ninety days with the Colonel's option to extend it ninety days on payment of another bounty. There was no provision for additional extension, which gave me pause. Just what sort of a political bodyguard contract could it be that would run for six months and then stop cold?

Either the recruiting sergeant was lying or someone had lied to her and she wasn't bright enough to spot the illogicality. Never mind, there was no point in quizzing her. I reached for a pen. "Do I see the medical officer now?"

"Are you kidding?"

"How else?" I signed, then said, "I do," when she read off rapidly an oath that more or less followed the indenture.

She peered at my signature. "Jones, what does F stand for?"

"Friday."

"That's a silly name. On duty, you're Jones. Off duty, you're J onesie."

"Whatever you say, Sergeant. Am I on duty now, or off?"

"You'll be off duty in a moment. Here are your orders: Foot of Shrimp Alley is a godown. Sign says WOO FONG AND LEVY BROTHERS, INK. Be there by fourteen o'clock, ready to leave. Use the back door. You're free from now till then to wind up your private affairs. You are free to tell anyone of your enlistment but you are strongly admonished under penalty of disciplinary action not to make conjectures as to the nature of the duty on which you are embarking." She read off the last rapidly as if it were a recording. "Do you need lunch money? No, I'm sure you don't. That's all, Jonesie. Glad to have you aboard. We'll have a good tour." She motioned me toward her.

I went to her; she put an arm around my hips, smiled up at me. Inwardly I shrugged as I decided that this was no time to be getting my platoon sergeant sore at me. I smiled back, leaned down, and kissed her. Not bad at all. Her breath was sweet.

XVIII

The excursion boat Skip to M'Lou was a real Mark Twainen, much fancier transportation than I had expected-three passenger decks, four Shipstones, two for each of twin screws. But she was loaded to the gunwales and it seemed to me that a stiff breeze would swamp hen. At that we were not the only troopship; the Myrtle T Hanshaw was a few lengths ahead of us, carving the river at an estimated twenty knots. I thought about concealed snags and hoped that their radar/sonar was up to the task.

The Alamo Heroes were in the Myrtle as was Colonel Rachel, commanding both combat teams-and this was all I needed to nail down my suspicions. A bloated brigade is not a palace guard. Colonel Rachel was expecting field action-possibly we would disembark under fire.

We had not yet been issued weapons and recruits were still in mufti; this seemed to indicate that our colonel did not expect action at once and it fitted in with Sergeant Gumm's prediction that we were going upriver at least as far as Saint Louis-and of course the rest of what she said about our becoming bodyguard to the new Chairman indicated that we were going all the way up to the capital-

-if the new Chairman was in fact at the seat of government. -if Mary Gumm knew what she was talking about. -if someone didn't turn the river around while I was not looking. Too many "ifs," Friday, and too little hard data. All I really knew was that this vessel should be crossing into the Imperium about now-in fact I did not know which side of the border we were on or how to tell.

But I did not care greatly because sometime in the next several days, when we were close to Boss's headquarters, I planned to resign informally from Rachel's Raiders-before action, by strong preference. I had had time to size up this outfit and I believed strongly that it could not be combat-ready in less than six weeks of tough field training at the hands of tough and blooded sergeant instructors. Too many recruits, not enough cadre.

The recruits were all supposed to be veterans... but I was certain that some of them were farm girls run away from home and in some cases about fifteen years old. Big for their age, perhaps, and "when they're big enough, they're old enough," as the old saw goes-but it takes more than massing sixty kilos to make a soldier.

To take such troops into action would be suicide. But I did not worry about it. I had a belly full of beans and was settled on the fantail with my back against a spool of cordage, enjoying the sunset and digesting my first meal as a soldier (if that is the word) while contentedly contemplating the fact that, about now, the Skip to M'Lou was crossing into, or had crossed into, the Chicago Imperium.

A voice behind me said, "Hidin' out, trooper?"

I recognized the voice and turned my head. "Why, Sergeant, how could you say such a thing?"

"Easy. I just asked myself, 'Where would I go if I was goldbricking?'-and there you were. Forget it, Jonesie. Have you picked your billet?"