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hour of need! And with thy divinely guided hand on my tail gun, we cannot faileth!”
    Bill gave up on trying to explain to the General that he didn't know how to operate a tail gun. Why bother? What he really needed was to keep his ass covered and find whoever on this ship was running the illicit still. Someone always was. And the tail gunner's turret would be an ideal place to hide a few bottles; no one in his right mind would go there if he didn't have to.
    He groveled his way out of the General's cabin. Bill wasn't sure that the General even noticed; he was busy in some kind of religious-military ecstasy.
    Since the General's ship, the Heavenly Peace, wasn't a normal flagship, but a scout, it didn't have the normal accouterments of combat command. The General's cabin took up less than a full deck, for example, and didn't even have the standard private gym; the General had to use the same one as the other officers, and share the steam bath and masseuse. The ship was so small that there was only one dining hall, for the officers, and one mess hall for the enlisted men which was really the engine room with tables over the pipes. It got so hot that most Troopers couldn't eat; which was OK since the food was inedible in the first place. The chef in the dining hall would have access to the wine cellar, of course, so he wouldn't bother with a still. Bill went to visit the mess-hall cook.
    He steered his way through the rows of dented metal tables and pipes. The tables had carefully been arranged in a pattern about halfway between zigzag and random, so the troopers had to keep their eyes down and their wits about them in order to get across the room without slicing up their knees and ankles. Fortunately, the place was empty — breakfast was just over, and most of the crew was on line at sick call — so he could walk on the tables for some of the more complicated parts.
    “Closed. Bowb off,” the cook growled.
    “And a good morning to you as well,” Bill placated. “Would there be a cup of something dark and hot for a new member of the crew?”
    The cook grabbed a cup and dipped it into the sink where a KP robot was washing pots. “Here.”
    Bill swallowed hard, then took a sip of the liquid. “Yummies!” he lied. “That's much better than the pseudo-coffee at Camp Buboe!” He drained the cup, grinned, and held it out to the cook. “Please, sir, may I have some more?”
    The cook frowned and glared and grumbled, but he took the cup and dipped it again. This time he tasted it himself.
    “You know, you're right. This is better than the usual stuff. And cheaper, too. With the money I save, maybe I'll be able to buy Mom that wooden leg.”
    “Aww.” Bill had once had a Mom too, and maybe even still did. The mail didn't get through too regularly, so he couldn't be sure. “Your mom lost a leg? That's too bad. I could recommend a place that's real good for feet, though.” He hoisted the Swiss Army Foot up onto the counter.
    “No, no, she's got all her parts. She just collects artificial limbs.” The cook took a closer look. “That's a real nice foot, I must say. You wouldn't be willing to part with it by any chance?”
    “Sorry. It's the only one I've got with me. I could give you the address of the mailorder...”
    “Well that would be real fine. Now you've done me two favors, and I haven't even introduced myself. Julius Child, Mess Sergeant.”
    “Bill, fusetender first class and God's own tail gunner.”
    “God's own tail gunner? Then you've already met the General. What can I do for you, Bill?”
    Bill looked around slyly and lowered his voice. “You wouldn't know where I could get some alcohol, would you?”
    Sergeant Child looked thoughtful. “Hmmm.” He looked at the racks and cupboards over the stoves and sinks as though he was going through an inventory in his mind. “There's the wood alcohol they use to clean the torpedo tubes, but that'll kill you, and besides, they lace it with saltpeter.” He