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his food around on his tray. The corpsman wandered in, and glanced at the remains.
"You feeling all right now, sir?"
"Fine," said Miles morosely.
"You, uh, didn't finish your tray."
"I often don't. They always give me too much."
"Yeah, I guess you are pretty, um . . ." The corpsman made a note on his report panel, leaned over to
examine Miles's ears, and bent to inspect his toes, rolling them between practiced fingers. "It doesn't look
like you're going to lose any pieces, here. Lucky."
"Do you treat a lot of frostbite?"Or am I the only idiot? Present evidence would suggest it.
"Oh, once the grubs arrive, this place'll be crammed. Frostbite, pneumonia, broken bones, contusions,
concussions . . . gets real lively, come winter. Wall-to-wall moro unlucky trainees. And a few unlucky
instructors, that they take down with 'em." The corpsman stood, and tapped a few more entries on his
panel. "I'm afraid I have to mark you as recovered now, sir."
"Afraid?" Miles raised his brows inquiringly.
The corpsman straightened, in the unconscious posture of a man transmitting official bad news. That old
they-told-me-to-say-this-it's-not-my-fault look. "You are ordered to report to the base commander's
office as soon as I release you, sir."
Miles considered an immediate relapse. No. Better to get the messy parts over with. "Tell me,
corpsman, has anyone else ever sunk a scat-cat?"
"Oh, sure. The grubs lose about five or six a season. Plus minor bog-downs. The engineers get real
pissed about it. The commandant promised them next time he'd . . . ahem!" The corpsman lost his voice.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Wonderful, thought Miles. Just great. He could see it coming. It wasn't like he couldn't see it coming.
Miles dashed back to his quarters for a quick change of clothing, guessing a hospital robe might be
inappropriate for the coming interview. He immediately found he had a minor quandry. His black fatigues
seemed too relaxed, his dress greens too formal for office Wear anywhere outside Imperial HQ at
Vorbarr Sultana. His undress greens' trousers and half-boots were still at the bottom of the bog. He had
only brought one of each uniform style with him; his spares, supposedly in transit, had not yet arrived.
He was hardly in a position to borrow from a neighbor. His uniforms were privately made to his own fit,
at approximately four times the cost of Imperial issue. Part of that cost was for the effort of making them
indistinguishable on the surface from the machine cut, while at the same time partially masking the oddities
of his body through subtleties of hand-tailoring. He cursed under his breath, and shucked on his dress
greens, complete with mirror-polished boots to the knees. At least the boots obviated the leg braces.
General Stanis Metzov,read the sign on the door,Base Commander. Miles had been assiduously
avoiding the base commander ever since their first unfortunate encounter. This had not been hard to do in
Ahn's company, despite the pared population of Kyril Island this month; Ahn avoided everybody. Miles
now wished he'd tried harder to strike up conversations with brother officers in mess. Permitting himself
to stay isolated, even to concentrate on his new tasks, had been a mistake. In five days of even the most
random conversation, someone must surely have mentioned Kyril Island's voracious killer mud.
A corporal manning the comconsole in an antechamber ushered Miles through to the inner office. He
must now try to work himself back round to Metzov's good side, assuming the general had one. Miles
needed allies. General Metzov looked across his desk unsmiling as Miles saluted and stood waiting.
Today, the general was aggressively dressed in black fatigues. At Metzov's altitude in the hierarchy, this
stylistic choice usually indicated a deliberate identification with The Fighting Man. The only concession to
his rank was their pressed neatness. His decorations were stripped down to a mere modest three, all high
combat commendations. Pseudo-modest; pruned of the surrounding foliage, they leapt to the eye.
Mentally, Miles applauded, even envied, the effect; Metzov looked his part, the combat commander,
absolutely, unconsciously natural.
Afifty-fifty chance with the uniform, and I had to guess wrong, Miles fumed as Metzov's eye
traveled sarcastically down, and back up, the subdued glitter of his dress greens. All right, so Metzov's [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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