Bowers turned on him sharply. "Mr. Flynn, I assure you I am capable of interpreting a military order. It is a precise, unadorned, quite literal description for a specific assignment which I have been trained to obey without question, without hesitation. Since my opinion is of no value, I see little reason in discussing it…especially with a person who is in no way related to the order in question. Is that quite clear?"

"Very clear, Mr. Bowers." Colonel Deneen stood in the doorway of the post commander's office. Lieutenant Woodside could be seen behind him. "And I might say unduly modest of you. Your opinion is worth…something."

He hesitated, his eyes roaming over the group in the outer office. He was a man of medium height, in his early forties, carefully dressed, from the trace of white showing above his collar to the highly polished black boots and silver spurs that chinged softly as he moved into the room. And though he took only a few steps, a faint limp was noticeable, a favoring of the right foot as he put his weight on it. One hand picked idly at the front of his tunic, as if removing invisible lint, and he looked at the three men closely, individually, as if to command their attention.

"At ease, Mr. Bowers." He nodded to Madora, who stood relaxed with thumbs in vest pockets, then his eyes went to Flynn and stopped there. Flynn had not moved his position. He leaned against the wall with a half-boot still hooked on the edge of the bench, his arm resting idly on the raised knee and the extended hand holding the stub of a cigarette. He drew on it as Deneen looked toward him.

"Don't get up, Flynn."

Dave Flynn returned his stare, looking up at the smooth features, dark hair well combed and shining. He dropped the cigarette then, but did not step on it. He glanced at Woodside, the post commander. "Don, good to see you again." Then back to Deneen-"How's the foot, Colonel?"