
"I don't know. Go back to earning my money in the live ammo set, I guess."
"Working for who? In case you haven't figured it out, you're blacklisted. The only real fighting left is in the Middle East, and the Oil Combine won't touch you."
"Don't be so sure of that. They were trying pretty hard to buy me away from the ITT-iots a couple of months ago."
Clancy snorted contemptuously.
"A couple of months. Hell, I don't care if it was a couple days. That was before they gave you your walking papers. I'm telling you they won't give you the time of day now. 'If you're not good enough for Communications, you're not good enough for Oil.' That'll be their attitude. You can bet on it."
Tidwell studied his drink in silence for a while, then took a hefty swallow.
"You're right, Clancy," he said softly. "But do you mind if I kid myself long enough to get good and drunk?"
"Sorry, Steve," apologized his friend. "It's just that for a minute there I thought you really believed what you were saying."
Tidwell lifted his glass in a mock toast.
"Well, here's to inferior superiors and inferior inferiors-the stuff armies are made of!"
He drained the glass and signaled for another.
"Really, Steve. You've got to admit the troops didn't let you down this time."
"True enough. But only because I gave them an assignment worthy of their talents: cannon fodder! 'Rush those machine guns and keep rushing until I say different!' Is it my imagination or is the quality of our troops actually getting worse? And speaking of that, who was that clown on guard with you?"
Clancy sighed.
"Maxwell. Would you believe he's one of our best?"
"That's what I mean! Ever since the corporations started building their own armies, all we get is superstars who can't follow orders and freeze up when they're shot at. Hell, give me some of the oldtimers like you and Hassan. If we could build our own force with the corporations' bankroll, if we could get our choice of the crop and pay them eighteen to forty grand a year, we could take over the world in a month."
