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time."
    "Shoot, sir," Blandings said. "It's more efficient this way, y'know? We do one whole side, then we do the other. Get the job done in half the time."
    "Mmm. And how long has this Bolo been up on the jacks?" Blandings started to reply, and Donal spoke again, cutting him off. "I will be checking your maintenance logs, Sergeant, so give it to me straight."
    "Uh . . . about seven or eight days, sir."
    "For a job that normally logs thirty hours. Doesn't sound like half the time to me."
    "Well, it's not like there's a rush on, is it?" one of the men, a skinny kid who must still have been in his teens, piped up. "I mean, what's the hurry, huh?"
    Donal whirled on the kid, eyes blazing. "The hurry, son, is in whether or not we're gonna be ready if hostiles decide to jump us! What's your name?"
    "Uh . . . Kemperer, sir. Private First Len Kemperer."
    "Well, Private Kemperer, let me tell you something. Right now, this machine wouldn't be able to defend us from an army of little old ladies armed with tea pots and galoshes, much less a real threat."
    "Is there a threat?" the one they'd called Willard wanted to know. His eyes were wide. "I mean, sir, we haven't heard any—"
    "I suppose hostiles in this part of the Galaxy always warn you before they hit you, huh?"
    "Take it easy, Lieutenant," Sergeant Blandings said. Donal recognized the tone, that of a mother whose kids are being scolded by a stranger. These were Blandings' people, after all, and he would resent an outsider dressing them down or bringing them grief. "This isn't the Concordiat, y'know."
    Donal studied the sergeant for a moment. "No, Master Sergeant. It isn't. And I suppose you resent Concordiat officers being dropped on you like unpleasant surprise packages. But when it comes to Bolos, especially the higher Marks, like this one, Concordiat Bolo Command likes to make sure their property is being taken care of. Your Bolos are a loan , Master Sergeant. A very long-term loan, perhaps, with no payback . . . but those Bolos are still on the Concordiat military's records, and Bolo Command still feels a certain responsibility for them. That's why they insist that tactical officers like me are assigned to keep an eye on them. You have no idea how dangerous this machine could be if it is not properly maintained and serviced."
    "Shoot, sir," a short, skinny corporal with greasy black hair said. "Ol' Freddy here won't hurt us. We're buddies!"
    Donal stared the man down. "You don't really know what you're playing with, do you?" He jerked a thumb at the massive bogie wheel behind him. "With two megatons-per-second firepower, one of these Mark XXIV units could level Kinkaid in the blink of an eye, without even working up a sweat. If that AP cluster mounted up there above your head was armed, and if the unit security programming got it into its one-track mind that you were hostile, there wouldn't be enough of your miserable carcass left to scrape off the floor with a spatula. Bolos work superbly when they're properly cared for. Looking at this one . . . and at the condition of this vehicle depot, I seriously doubt that it has been cared for properly. If its psychotronic functions have become unstable, it could be deadly."
    "Ah, all the self-protect hardware was disabled, Lieutenant," Willard said. "It would have t' be, y'know? If we wanted to even get close to this monster."
    "I see. And what does the Bolo have to say about it?"
    "It's a machine , Lieutenant," Sergeant Blandings said, shaking his head. "It's not like ol' Freddy's alive, y'know?"
    "How long have you worked with . . . 'Freddy'?"
    "Long enough," Blandings replied. He eyed Donal appraisingly. "Look, Lieutenant. You're ticked, I know, about how we're kind of laid back, here. But this ain't the Concordiat. Things are different out here, less hectic, y'know? Things'll go a lot smoother if you kind a', well, hang back and get a feel for the big picture."
    "Don't make waves, is that it?"
    "Sure. That's it,