ly in rank on
the job, but up to Low-Middle in caste." There was the faintest edge
of the surly in his voice as he added, "I was born a Lower, major."

Joe snorted. "So was I. You didn't answer my question, Soligen. Why
stick your neck out? Most of you Telly reporters, stick it out in some
concrete pillbox with lots of telescopic equipment." He added
bitterly, "And usually away from what's really going on."

The Telly reporter looked at him oddly. "Stick my neck out?" he said
with deliberation. "Possibly for the same reason you do, major. In
fact, it's kinda the reason I looked you up. Trouble is, you're
probably too drenched, right now, to listen to my fling."

Joe Mauser's voice attempted cold dignity. He said, "In the Category
Military, Soligen, you never get so drenched you can't operate."

The other's cynical grunt conveyed nothing, but he reached out and
dialed the auto-bar. He growled, "O.K., a Sober-Up for you, an ale for
me."

"I don't want to sober up. I'm being bitter and enjoying it."

"Yes, you do," the little man said. "I have the answer to your
bitterness." He handed Joe the pill. "You see, what's wrong with you,
major, is you've been trying to do it alone. What you need is help."

Joe glowered at him, even as he accepted the medication. "I make my
own way, Soligen. I don't even know what you're talking about."

"That's obvious," the other said sourly. He waited, sipping his brew,
while the Sober-Up worked its miracle. He was compassionate enough to
shudder, having been through, in his time, the speeding up of a
hangover so that full agony was compressed into mere minutes rather
than dispensed over a period of hours.

Joe groaned, "It better be good, whatever you want to say."

Freddy Soligen asked, at long last, tilting his head to one side and
taking Joe in critically. "You know one of the big reasons you're only
a major?"

Joe Mauser looked at him.

The Telly reporter said, "You haven't got any mustache."

Joe Mauser stared at him.

The other laughed cynically. "You think I'm drivel-happy, eh? Well,
maybe a long scar down the cheek would do even better. Or, possibly,
you ought to wear a monocle, even in action."

Joe continued to stare, as though the little man had gone completely
around the bend.

Freddy Soligen had made his first impression. He finished the ale, put
the glass into the chute and turned back to the professional
mercenary. His voice was flat now, all expression gone