"Looking you over, stud," Jeff said.

John naff-grinned. Objectively, he knew he was good-looking enough; tall like his father, with yellow-blond hair and a square-chinned face. And he kept himself in good enough shape… but they don't know. His foot twinged.

He punched his brother on the arm, "Like Doreen down in the canteen?" he said. They sat on the grass and passed a towel back and forth. 'Thank me for it, bro. If I hadn't gotten you into this weird Chosen stuff you'd still be a weed and skinny. She's eating you with her eyes, my man."

Jeffrey Farr had filled out, although he'd always be slimmer than the son of his foster-mother. Only a trace of adolescent awkwardness remained, and his long bony face was firming towards adulthood.

"Doreen? Afl she'll do is look. Her folks are Reformed Baptist, you know; I've got about as much chance of seeing her skirt up as I do of getting die Archbishop flat. I tried pinching her butt and she mashed my toe so hard I dropped my tray."

John clucked nis tongue. "The Archbishop's butt? Hefl, I didn't know you had a taste for older women… Pax, pax!"

Jeffrey lit a slightly sweat-dampened cigarette. Those things will kill you," John said, refusing the offered pack.

"And the other Officer's Training Corps cadets will think I'm a pansy if I don't smoke," Jeffrey said, leaning his elbow on his knee and looking out over the city. "Ill admit, the phys ed side of it is easier because of all this exercise shit you talked me into."

"How's Maurice taking you going into die army?"

Jeffrey shrugged. "Dad's just surprised, is all. Every Fair for five generations has been navy."

"Since the days of wooden ships and iron men," John agreed.

The Republic hadn't had a major land war in nearly seventy years, and the army was tiny and ill-funded The navy was another matter, since it had always been policy not to let the Empire gain too big an edge.