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Lieutenant. Don't make waves!"
    "From what I've seen here, Master Sergeant, we need a fair-sized tidal wave to sweep this pigsty clean. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Since my arrival was such a surprise, and because neither of us wants to get off on the wrong foot with the other, I'm going to take your advice and hang back."
    He could feel the ease in the tension, see eyes exchanging sly winks, mouths quirking in tiny, secret grins.
    "I'm going to hang back," he continued, "until First Hour, First Watch tomorrow. At that time, I'll come back, officially . At that time I will expect to see this vehicle bay looking like a military facility and not like a Kinkaid back alley." He glanced up at the massive wheels at his side. "You will also have the port-forward track remounted on this machine."
    There was a sudden outburst from the others, groans, complaints, and protestations.
    One of the women looked especially angry. "Hey! What gives you the right to come in here and—"
    Donal pulled out a small, flat, gray case, the transport container for a crystal memory pack . . . a set of programs and memory feed instructions for a Mark XXIV Bolo. "This gives me the right. I'm the new Tactical Officer for both of these machines, and that means you will care for them according to my specifications and directives. Do I make myself clear?"
    More protests sounded. "Sir," Blandings said, shouting to be heard above the noise. "Uh . . . maybe you don't know how our schedules work on Muir, yet, you bein' new to the planet, and all." He glanced at the chrono set in a ring on his forefinger. "We're just wrapping up the afternoon watch now. Then it's a sleep period. First Watch starts in just six more hours. My people couldn't possibly—"
    "I know how your watches work on Muir, Master Sergeant," Donal said coldly. "Six hours is exactly right."
    "But we can't clean this whole bay in six hours and remount a track too! And we need to sleep, and get somethin' t' eat, and mebee have some private down-time, and—"
    "Obviously, Master Sergeant, you will need to decide which of those activities you've just listed for me are expendable, and drop them from your schedule in order to get the job done. What is not expendable is having this facility look like a military installation instead of a combat zone . . . nor do I want my Bolos sitting around helpless on their bare road wheels in case of an enemy surprise attack. Those two are your priorities for the next six hours. Do you read me?"
    Blandings' jaw worked for a moment, before he managed a harsh, "Yes, sir."
    "I will expect you all to be presentable, in the proper uniform of the day." He looked at the woman in the ill-fitting T-shirt. "That's in the proper and properly worn uniform, incidentally. Jewelry will be regulation. We'll worry about details like haircuts and such later, after we've sorted out the more important stuff." He nodded toward the Bolo. "If any of you have any questions, I'll be in there."
    "Sir . . . in the Bolo?"
    "Evidently, Master Sergeant, I have some work to do before I officially arrive as well. If you need me in any unofficial capacity, you know where to find me. Otherwise . . ." He let his face slip into a grin at least as fiendish as the one displayed by Blandings earlier. "I'll see you all at Hour One!"
    Without another word, he turned and strode toward the front of the Bolo.
     

Chapter Four
    I have, of course, been listening to the conversation taking place beneath my left side, and I find myself somewhat at a loss as to how to interpret it. This new arrival, Lieutenant Ragnor, certainly has a military bearing and tone of voice that speak well of his leadership abilities.
    Even so, haircuts and proper uniforms have nothing to do with a unit's ability to perform well in combat. My military reference library has 724 distinct references to different units throughout recorded history that, while both professional—as opposed to guerrilla units or