Seymour was beginning to warm up. "What sort of a trade?" he inquired. "Guns are my business."

"Guns?" Seymour laughed softly. "You think guns are our business?"

Bolan ignored the parry. "I can build them, I can modify them, I can repair them, I can make the ammo for them, and I can shoot them."

Seymour was still clucking. "Even supposing that we are what you think we are, you have your eras confused. This isn't Chicago of the twenties and thirties. This is Pittsfield of the sixties." He shook his head. "You've got us all wrong, Sergeant"

Bolan nodded his head toward a background man who was positioned in the shadow of a poolside cabana. "He's wearing a gun," he said, then stabbed his finger toward the diving platform, and added, "so's that one. I counted five gun-bearers the instant I stepped onto this property. You've got a civilian army here. And you've got vacancies. And I need a job."

"You planning on deserting from the Army?" Turrin put in.

The soldier soberly shook his head. "You know what an ROTC billet is, Turrin? It's a cream-pie duty."

"Tell us about it," Seymour said interestedly.

That's my humanitarian reassignment. To the ROTC unit out here at Franklin High. The Army supplies instructors for these programs. It's cream-pie duty for any soldier. We get a housing allowance, we work regular hours, just like any teacher, and we live like any civilian."

These regular hours-how do you figure to work two jobs at once?"

Bolan grinned. "I'm not the regular instructor. I'm just padded on to give me an official duty station. There's already a guy out there. I'll just be an odd hand. Maybe I'll give a few lectures on gun handling, maybe I'll help out a little on the rifle range. But I was given to understand that I'd be more or less free to come and go as I please."