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barracks, all of you who're so helpful and such great servants, were actually part of Selection?"
    "Of course we are, sir. We realize that the candidates desperately need study time and relaxation time, and we try to help by taking care of the minor—"
    "Not what I meant, Pelham. One more time. What would be your reaction if I said I thought that all of you are trained psychs, and this whole barracks, relaxed and gentle, is a good way to get us off guard and find out what we're really like?"
    "You are joking, sir."
    "Am I?"
    "If you are not, I must say I am very honored. To think that I have the talents to be a doctor." Pelham chuckled. "No, sir. I am just what I appear."
    "You did answer my question. Thank you, Pelham. Good night."
    "Good night, sir."
    Dr. W. Grenville Pelham, holder of seven degrees in various areas of psychology, applied psychology, human stress analysis, and military psychology, closed the door and padded down the hall. Some meters away from Sten's room, he allowed himself the luxury of low laughter.

    CHAPTER SEVEN
    T he first weeks of Selection were quite simple—the IPs bashed the trainees' brains out in the morning, at noon, and in the evening. There were also unexpected alerts in the middle of the night, although the callouts were always handled by the staff. The IPs never entered the barracks.
    In between the physical and mental harassment, the tests went on. To a large extent, they duplicated the basic exams—reflex testing, intelligence quotient testing, and so forth. The testing standards, however, were far higher than when a being entered the military. Also, the tests were readministered severally and at unexpected times.
    Sten was not impressed.
    He had the idea that this duplication wouldn't have happened before the Emergency began. There must have been better, if slower, ways to test for the same abilities.
    Sten was starting to develop an active hatred for the Tahn.
    Sten's belief that the testing was catch-as-catch-can turned from theory into certainty the day he was shuttled into a tiny room that had nothing more in it than a large chair and a livie helmet. His instructions were to seat himself, put the helmet on, and wait for further developments.
    Sten had been through this, way back before basic training.
    The idea was that, through the livie helmet, he would experience certain events. His reactions would be monitored by psychologists, and from this reexperiencing and reacting, his personality could be profiled.
    When Sten had gone through the experience before, the livie tape had been that of some not very bright but very heroic guardsman who got himself slaughtered trying to kill a tank. It had made Sten nearly throw up and had, by his reaction, disqualified him for normal infantry, but made him an ideal candidate for the essentially lone-wolf Mantis Section.
    Before he sat down, he went behind the chair and checked the tape in the feed. Various codes appeared, then the title: SHAVALA, GUARDSMAN JAIME, COMBAT/DEATH, ASSAULT ONDEMETER.
    Possibly there could be some kind of validity for that choice—for prospective infantry types. But for pilots?
    Sten examined the helmet and found the input line. A little subversion was called for.
    He curled his right fingers, and the surgically sheathed knife in his arm dropped into his hand. The double-edged dagger was one of Sten's best-kept secrets. He had constructed it himself from an impossibly rare crystal. It had a skeleton grip, and its blade was only 2.5 mm thick, tapering to less than fifteen molecules wide. In other words, it could cut through practically anything. But in this case cutting wasn't what Sten was interested in.
    He used the knife's needle point to rearrange a few tiny wires inside the sheath of the helmet input line. Then he replaced the knife and, as ordered, sat down and put the helmet on.
    Let's see. The tape has just begun. I should express bewilderment. Fear. Excitement. Doubt as to my ability. Shock on landing.