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Colonel,” said Cletus.
    Dupleine grunted, whirled around and went out the door Cletus had just entered. Cletus looked back at the fat captain behind the desk.
    â€œSir,” said the captain. His voice held the hint of a note of sympathy. His face was not unkind, and even intelligent, in spite of the heavy dewlap of the double chin supporting it from beneath. “If you’ll just sit down a moment, I’ll tell General Traynor you’re here.”
    Cletus sat down and the captain leaned forward to speak into the intercom grille of his desk. The reply he received was inaudible to Cletus, but the captain looked up and nodded.
    â€œYou can go right in, Colonel,” he said, nodding to another door behind his desk.
    Cletus rose and obeyed… As he stepped through the door into the further office, he found himself directly facing a much larger desk, behind which sat a bull-like man in his mid-forties with a heavy-boned face decorated by a startling pair of thick, black eyebrows. “Bat” Traynor, the general had been nicknamed, Cletus recalled, because of those brows. Bat Traynor stared now, the brows pulled ominously together as Cletus walked forward toward his desk.
    â€œColonel Cletus Grahame reporting, sir,” Cletus said, laying his travel orders on the desk. Bat shoved them aside with one big-knuckled hand.
    â€œAll right, Colonel,” he said. His voice was a rough-edged bass. He pointed to a chair facing him at the left side of his desk. “Sit down.”
    Cletus limped gratefully around to the chair and dropped into it. He was beginning to feel the fact that he had strained one or more of the few remaining ligaments in his bad knee during the episode in the ditch outside of town. He looked up to see Bat still staring point-blank at him.
    â€œI’ve got your dossier here, Colonel,” Bat said after a moment. He flipped open the gray plastic folder that lay on the desk before him and looked down at it. “You come from an Academy family, it says here. Your uncle was General Chief of Staff at Geneva Alliance HQ just before he retired eight years ago. That right?”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Cletus.
    â€œAnd you”—Bat flipped papers with a thick forefinger, scowling a little down at them—“got that bad knee in the Three-Month War on Java seven years ago? …Medal of Honor, too?”
    â€œYes,” said Cletus.
    â€œSince then”—Bat flipped the folder shut and raised his eyes to stare unwaveringly once more across it at Cletus’s face—“you’ve been on the Academy staff. Except for three months of active duty, in short, you’ve done nothing in the Army but pound tactics into the heads of cadets.”
    â€œI’ve also,” said Cletus, carefully, “been writing a comprehensive ‘Theory of Tactics and Strategical Considerations.’ “
    â€œYes,” said Bat, grimly. “That’s in there, too. Three months in the field and you’re going to write twenty volumes.”
    â€œSir?” said Cletus.
    Bat threw himself back heavily in his chair. “All right,” he said. “You’re supposed to be here on special assignment to act as my tactical adviser.” The black eyebrows drew together in a scowl and rippled like battle flags in the wind. “I don’t suppose I’ve got you because you heard some rumor they were going to clean out all the dead wood at the Academy and you pulled strings to be sent to some nice soft job where there’s nothing for you to do?”
    â€œNo, sir,” said Cletus, quietly. “I may have pulled a string or two to get sent here. But, with the General’s permission, it wasn’t because I thought this a soft job. I’ve got to do a great deal out here.”
    â€œI hope not, Colonel. I hope not,” said Bat. “It just happens I put in a request for a dozen jungle-breaker tanks three months ago…