“Yes, Sergeant Brandy!” said Mahatma, with a beatific smile on his round, bespectacled face. “We have all heard that Headquarters is sending Omega Company a medic.”

“That’s the truth, I got it straight from Mother,” said someone else in the formation-Slayer, thought Brandy, who had learned to recognize the voices of the legionnaires in her training squad even when they muttered, or when several were speaking at once.

“Yes, we’re getting a medic,” said Brandy. “It’s a step up from the autodoc-a lot more personal treatment.”

“But the autodoc is very good,” said Mahatma. “I have used it, and so have most of the company. I don’t think anyone has complained that it didn’t heal us.“

“No, I don’t remember any complaints,” said Brandy. If past history was any indicator-and Brandy would have given good odds that it was-Mahatma was working his way slowly up to some still-unstated point. Just what the point was probably wouldn’t be clear until he got there. There probably wasn’t any way to hurry him, but still… “What are you getting at, Mahatma?” she asked.

The little legionnaire continued to smile, his round face and round glasses giving the effect of a bright-beaming sun. “If the autodoc does such a good job, there should not be any reason for us to get a medic,” he said. Heads around him nodded; Brandy had to give Mahatma points for persuasiveness. That, in fact, was the main problem of having him in her squad. She seemed to spend half her time trying to refute his points.

“Uh, the captain told us that this particular medic had requested assignment to Omega,” said Brandy. “So there isn’t any reason to go hunting for other reasons,” she concluded, realizing even as she said it that it sounded unconvincing even to her.