“A fair question,” he rumbled. “I’m trying to get you to question most of the things you’ve taken for granted. I suppose it’s natural you’d include myself. No—to answer your question—I am First Marshal of Freiland, still a Dorsai, and with my professional services for hire, and nothing more. We’ve just hired out five light divisions to the First Dissident Church, on Harmony, and I’m coming along to observe that they

operate as contracted for. It’s a complicated deal—like they are all—involving a batch of contract credits belonging to Ceta. Therefore William.” “And the commandant?” persisted Donal.

“What about him?” replied Galt. “He’s a Freilander, a professional, and a good one. He’ll take over one of the three Force commands for a short test period when we get to Harmony, for demonstration purposes.”

“Have you had him with you long?”

“Oh, about two standard years,” said Galt.

“And he’s good, professionally?”

“He’s damn good,” said Galt. “Why do you think he’s my adjutant? What’re you driving at, anyway?”

“A doubt,” said Donal, “and a suspicion.” He hesitated for a second. “Neither of which I’m ready to voice yet.”

Galt laughed.

“Save that Maran character-sniffing of yours for civilians,” he said. “You’ll be seeing a snake under every brush. Take my word for it, Hugh’s a good, honest soldier—a bit flashy, perhaps—but that’s all.”

“I’m hardly in a position to argue with you,” murmured Donal, stepping aside gracefully. “You were about to say something about William, when I interrupted you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Galt. He frowned. “It adds, up to this—and I’ll make it short and clear. The girl’s none of your business; and William’s deadly medicine. Leave them both alone. And if I can help you to the kind of post you’re after—”

“Thank you very much,” said Donal. “But I believe William will be offering me something.”

Galt blinked and stared.

“Hell’s breeches, boy!” he exploded after half a second. “What gives you that idea?”

Donal smiled a little sadly.

“Another one of my suspicions,” he said. “Based on what you call that Maran character-sniffing of mine, no doubt.” He stood up. “I appreciate your trying to warn me, sir.” He extended his fist. “If I could talk to you again, sometime?”

Galt stood up himself, taking the proffered fist, mechanically.

“Any time,” he said. “Damned if I understand you.”

Donal peered at him, suddenly struck by a thought.

“Tell me, sir,” he asked. “Would you say I was—odd?”

“Odd!” Galt almost exploded on the word. “Odd as—” his imagination failed him. “What makes you ask that?”

“I just wondered,” said Donal. “I’ve been called that so often. Maybe they were right.”

He withdrew his fist from the marshal’s grasp. And on that note, he took his leave.

MERCENARY III