The Third Command, or at least that portion of it that was dug in around the village, made no great attempt to hide the fact from him. If he had shown at all that he was sensitive to their opinion of him, they would have made even less. But there was something about his complete indifference to their attitude that put a check to their obvious contempt. Nevertheless, the hundred and fifty men that had been forced by him to make their approach on the village under full equipment and maximum security effort, and the three hundred other men who had made a much more casual and easy approach, and were congratulating themselves on being out from under such an officer, agreed in an opinion of Donal that had reached its nadir! There is only one thing that veterans hate worse than being made to sweat unnecessarily in garrison; and that is being made to sweat unnecessarily in the field. The word had gone out that the day’s work was to be a Sunday walk. And it had been a Sunday walk, except for those serving under a green young Dorsai officer, name of Graeme. The men were not happy.

Along about twilight, as the sunset was fading through the bushy-limbed trees that were the local mutant variform of the Earthly conifer that had been imported when this planet was terraformed, a runner came from Hugh at Command HQ, just outside the enemy end of the village. He found Donal seated astride a fallen log, studying a map of the local area.

“Signal from Battles,” said the runner, squatting beside the log.

“Stand up,” said Donal, quietly. The runner stood. “Now, what’s the signal?”

“Second and Third Commands won’t be moving up until tomorrow morning,” said the runner sulkily.

“Signal acknowledged,” said Donal, waving him off. The runner turned and hurried away with another instance of the new officer’s wax-and- braid to relate to the other enlisted men back at HQ.

Left to himself, Donal continued to study the map as long as the light lasted. When it was completely gone, he put the map away, produced a small black whistle from his pocket and peeped for his ranking Senior Groupman.

A moment later a thin body loomed up against the faintly discernible sky beyond the treetops.

“Morphy, sir. Reporting,” came the voice of the Senior Groupman.

“Yes—” said Donal. “Sentries all posted, Groupman?”

“Yes, sir.” The quality of Morphy’s tone was completely without inflection.

“Good. I want them alert at all times. Now, Morphy—”

“Yes, sir?”

“Who do we have in the Force that has a good sense of smell?”

“Smell, sir?”

Donal merely waited.

“Well, sir,” said Morphy, finally and slowly. “There’s Lee, he practically grew up in the mines, where you have to have a good sense of smell. That’s the mines on Coby, Force-Leader.”