Great! But how many buff-clubs you got to your name? How often do the
buff magazines run articles about you? How often do you get
interviewed on Telly, in between fracases? Have the movies ever done
'The Joe Mauser Story'?"

Joe twisted uncomfortably. "All that stuff takes a lot of time. I've
been keeping myself busy."

"Right. Busy getting shot at."

"I'm a mercenary. That's my trade."

Freddy spread his hands. "O.K. If that's all you're interested in,
shooting lads signed up on the other side, or getting shot by them,
that's fine. But you know, major"--he cocked his head to one side, and
peered knowingly at Joe--"I've got a sneaking suspicion that you don't
particularly like combat. Some do, I know. Some love it. I don't think
you do."

Joe looked at him.

Freddy said, "You're in it because of the chance for promotion,
nothing else counts."

Joe remained silent.

Freddy pushed him. "Who're the names every fracas buff knows? Jerry
Sturgeon, captain at the age of twenty-one, and so damned pretty in
those fancy uniforms he wears. How many times have you ever heard of
him really being in the dill? He knows better! Captain Sturgeon spends
his time prancing around on that famous palomino of his in front of
the Telly lenses, not dodging bullets. Or Ted Sohl. Colonel Ted Sohl.
The dashing Sohl with his two western style six-shooters, slung low on
his hips, and that romantic limp and craggy face. My, do the female
buffs go for Colonel Sohl! I wonder how many of them know he wears a
special pair of boots to give him that limp. Old Jerry's a long time
drinking pal of mine, he's never copped one in his life. What's more,
another year or so and he'll be a general and you know what that
means. Almost automatic jump to Upper caste."

Joe's face was working. All this was not really news to him. Like his
fellow old pros, Joe Mauser was fully aware of the glory grabbers.
There had always been the glory grabbers from mythological Achilles,
who sulked in his tent while his best friend died before the walls of
Troy, to Alexander, who conquered the world with an army conceived and
precision trained by another man whose name is all but forgotten, to
the swashbuckling Custer who sacrificed self and squadron rather than
wait for assistance.

Freddy pushed him. "How come you're never on lens when you're in there
going good, major? Ever thought about that? When you're commanding a
rear-guard action, maybe, trying to extract your