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"Administrative, sir." Duncan breathed an internal sigh of relief at being given the opportunity.
"Very smart of you, Sergeant, but it's well known that you're smart. Very well, sixty days' restriction, forty-five days' extra duty, one month's pay over sixty days and one stripe." The colonel had effectively thrown the book at him. "Oh, and Sergeant, I understand you were up for sergeant first class." The officer paused. "It will be a cold day in hell. Dismissed."
Sergeant Black snapped to attention, barked "Right face!" and marched Sergeant Duncan out of the office.
"Sergeant Major!"
The sergeant major entered the office after escorting the NCOs from the building. "Yes, sir."
"Get with the first sergeants and the S-4. We don't understand this equipment and we don't have time to mess with the booby traps in it right now. With Expert Infantry Boards coming up we need to concentrate on basic infantry skills; the scores on the latest round of core training processes were abysmal.
"I want every bit of GalTech equipment locked down, right now. Put all that will fit in the armories and the rest under lock and key in the supply rooms, especially those damn helmets and AIDs. And as for Duncan, I think he's been in the battalion too long, but we're critically short on NCOs so I can't rotate him out. What do you think?"
The stocky blond sergeant major worked his protuberant lips in and out as he thought. "Bravo could use a good squad leader in their third platoon. The platoon sergeant is experienced but he's spent most of his career in leg units. I think Duncan would be a real asset and Sergeant Green should know how to handle problem children."
"Do it. Do it today," the officer snapped, washing his hands of the matter.
"Yes, sir."
"And get that crap under lock and key."
"Yes, sir. Sir, when do you anticipate an ACS training cycle? I'll be asked." He had been asked already and repeatedly by the company first sergeants. Bravo company's first sergeant, in particular, was crawling all over his ass on a daily basis.
"We've got ninety days after EIB before we're scheduled to lift for Diess," Youngman said, sharply. "We'll do an intensive training cycle then. I've already submitted for the budget."
"Yes, sir."
"Dismissed." The colonel picked up a report and started to a
9
New York, NY Sol III
1430 November 20th, 2001 AD
"My name is Worth, I have an appointment."
The office was on the 35th floor of a fifty-story building in Manhattan, a totally unobtrusive location were it not for the occupants. The sign on the door stated simply "Terra Trade Holdings." However, it occupied the entire floor and was the de jure trade consulate of the Galactic Federation.
The startlingly beautiful receptionist gestured wordlessly at the couch and chairs set to one side of the large and airy anteroom and returned to puzzling out her new computer.
Mr. Worth, instead of sitting, wandered around the reception area admiring the artwork. He considered himself a co
As he passed among these trophies he began to notice that the furniture might also be originals; each piece appeared to be a genuine Louis XIV antique. Which made his mind return to the receptionist. If everything else in the room was original, a sincere possibility, a true collector would require some extraordinary level of originality for the receptionist. It only followed. He glanced surreptitiously her way, but was, frankly, stumped. As her console chimed she looked up and noticed the covert glance; it obviously affected her less than a puff of wind.
"The Ghin will see you now, Mr. Worth."
He stepped through the slowly opening doors and into shadow. Across a cavernous office was a desk the size of a small car. Behind the desk, silhouetted by the limited light from the curtained windows, sat a figure that could be mistaken for a human.
"Come in, Mr. Worth. Be seated," said the Darhel in its sibilant tones, gesturing languidly at the seat across from it.
Mr. Worth walked slowly across the office, trying to focus on the silhouetted figure. Since First Contact, the Darhel had been everywhere and nowhere. They were, apparently, either in person or represented at all important governmental meetings and functions. They seemed to understand that more business is decided over canapús than in all the meetings in the world, but usually they were either swathed in robes for protection against the strong Earthly sun, or represented by paid consultants. Mr. Worth realized that he was about to be one of the fortunate few who saw one face-to-face.
Still unable to get more than a hint of saturnine head shape, Mr. Worth sat in the offered chair.
"You might, as the saying goes, be wondering why I asked you to come here today."
The tones were so mellifluous, Worth felt himself caught in a sort of spell. He shook his head. "Actually, I was wondering how you got my number at all. Very few people have it and as far as I know it is not recorded anywhere." He steeled himself against the sound of the Ghin's voice, waiting for a response.
"It is, in fact, recorded in at least three databases, two of which we have ready access to." The figure shook slightly in what might have been laughter in a human. There was a faint acrid smell, sharp and ozonelike; it might have been breath or a Darhel version of cologne.
"Oh. Would you care to illuminate?"
"Your number, and a general, shall we say, job description, is recorded in CIA files, Interpol files and a database belonging to the Corleone family."
"That is most unfortunate." He made a mental note to discuss his data security with Tony Corleone.
"Actually, I should say they did record that datum. There are now certain inaccuracies." There was a pause. "You have no comment?"
"No." Worth had noted that there were times to keep one's mouth firmly shut. He suddenly decided that this was one of those times.
"The Darhel are a business concern, Mr. Worth. As in any business concern, there are issues which are soluble and those which are insoluble. There are also issues which, while soluble, require a certain subtlety of approach." The Ghin paused, as if choosing his words very carefully.
"And you would be interested in retaining my services to . . . deal with these subtleties?"
"We would be interested in retaining services," the Darhel said, very carefully. There was another quiver from the figure.
"My services?"
"Were you to submit invoices for reasonable expenditures," another shudder and a pause. The Darhel seemed to shake itself and took a long, deep breath. Then he continued. "If someone were to submit invoices for reasonable expenditures, in the interests of resolving issues related to Darhel interests which might come to light, either through casual conversation with Darhel or through your own intelligence," there was another pause. After a moment the Darhel continued, his cultured voice now strained and squeaky. "There would be fair remuneration." The sentence ended on a high strangled note. The Darhel turned its head to the side and shook it hard, breath shuddering.
Mr. Worth realized that his new, employer? client? control? was not just unwilling, but virtually unable to be specific.
"And these would be submitted how? And paid how?" Being circumspect was one thing, but business was business.