"There's an old saying," said Zigger's mother. "'Be careful what you wish for-you just might get it.' I hope the Legion is everything you want it to be. And if not, there's always Harevard."

But Zigger wasn't listening anymore.

"Sergeant Brandy, may I ask a question?"

It took all of Brandy's self-control not to permit herself a deep sigh. "What is it, Mahatma?" she asked: She knew even before she heard the question that it was going to take all her resources to come up with an answer. Mahatma could twist almost anything she said into a refutation of all the discipline and authority the Legion depended on: But that was just part of a day's work for the Top Sergeant of Omega Company.

"We have been on Zenobia nearly six months," said the young legionnaire, smiling beatifically-it was his invariable expression. If she hadn't known better, Brandy would have assumed Mahatma was on some kind of meds, legal or otherwise. (In this outfit, it was most likely otherwise.) Brandy waited for Mahatma; he hadn't asked any question yet, so she knew he wasn't done. The silence lingered.

Finally, as the rest of the training squad fidgeted, she said, as calmly as she could manage, "That's right, Mahatma. We've been here six months." Sometimes she thought half that time had been spent with her answering Mahatma's questions, but she carried on with only a hint of impatience. "Now, what was your question?"

Mahatma's smile never wavered. "When we had finished our job on Landoor, we were Sent to this planet. You told us it was because we had done a good job there." He paused again.

"That's right," said Brandy, not letting the pause stretch out this time. "What did you..."

"Have we not done a good job here?" Mahatma broke in. "Or have we not finished the job we came to do?"