Posten stood at attention, sweating under his helmet waiting for the corporal-of-the-watch to finish scribbling on his notepad. In the candlelight he could't make out the man's name—Cooley or Codey or maybe even Coroly—and he didn't want to be caught staring. Nor did he want to wipe his brow or anything else that would draw attention to himself. After the excitement with the dying guard and the girl in the rain ended, he went back to his watch almost as if his transgression had been forgotten. But then the relief guard passed along the order that he should report the sergeant's office immediately.

"Posten, right?" the sergeant grumbled, his head still down. A lavender nightshirt peeped out through the gaps in his hastily buttoned fatigues .

"Yessir," Posten replied, his voice too loud for the small office this late at night.

The sergeant fingered his bristly mustache. Posten judged the man to be about 50 years old, but you never could tell. He could be a well-preserved 60 or a hard-used 40. Depended on how hard his life had been up to this point.

"Derek Posten's son, right?"

Posten cleared his throat. "Yessir."

The sergeant offered a grim smile."I'll try not to hold that against you."

A second later his face turned to a sneer. "You're dripping all over the goddamn rug! Step out into the hall and take off your cover, for godsake. Those idiots should have told you that before they let you in."

When Posten reentered, the sergeant jerked his thumb at the chair across his desk. Posten dropped into the seat and sat stiffly. The sergeant gave him a queer look and then opened a folder and studied the contents. "How many feathers you got, Posten?"

Posten blinked for the briefest moment to help his tired and overtaxed mind concoct an answer. The promotion system was bullshit and everyone knew it. Friendships or bribes dictated promotions, not your feathers—the "official" procedure for tracking commendations. Still, grunts were supposed to keep their own tallies that, in theory, should match their personnel file at Ol' Federal. An inaccurate feather count was grounds for a stiff penalty, even explusion from the MPD. Posten didn't need any more strikes against him.

"I can't remember exactly," he said, settling on honestly. "Thirteen, maybe fifteen I think? I left my tally sheet back at Summerland." He knew he had twelve at most but thought this a clever strategy: a middling number showed neither ambition nor sloth, rather a steady course of work extending over several years, fudged just a bit in his favor.

"Your standing order is to shoot trespassers on site, Posten. Why did you disobey?" the sergeant asked.

Posten felt the blood drain from his face. In his mind he had rehearsed answers to these inevitable question but they disappeared the instant they were needed.

"Out with it. The deed is done." The sergeant studied the folder as he spoke.

"Instinct," Posten said at last. His throat had gone completely dry. "I didn't think a scavenger would set a trap in these conditions. And I... I didn't want a man of ours dying out there, sir. Alone. In the rain."

The sergeant stared. "Tell me Posten: what weighs more, a ton of feathers or a ton of bullshit?"

"Sir?"

"Because I'm about to drop a shit-ton of feathers in your lap. Normally I recommend you be discharged for a stunt like that but today's your lucky day. That was the runaway Reichman girl out there, and now I'm being told to reward your bravery. So, what do you want?"

Now Posten was reeling. The runaway Reichman? Wasn't she just a myth?

"Sir?" he asked again, stupidly.

"What position do you want, man?"

"Inventory," Posten said and instantly regretted it.

The sergeant barked in laughter. "Well that's damn unlikely but I admire your balls. I can bump you to, say, junior corporal and throw in a dozen feathers. But think, boy: what's most important to you in a posting?"

"Hot food," Posten said, watching in wonder as the sergeant jotted it down. "A warm bed. Something inside, preferably."

"Any attachment to Summerland? Wife, girlfriend, anything like that?"

"None," Posten said. He was grinning like an idiot but couldn't help it.

"That makes it easier. How'd you like to be stationed here?" the sergeant asked, motioning as if he meant the cramped office.

Posten paused. The grunts' quarters at the Inn were crowded and it made him claustrophobic. He would have preferred a permanent position at Ol' Federal given the proximity to Barnum's but he didn't want to push his luck. He could bide his time at the Mansion, keep his head down, build his rep, and after a year or two see about sliding into an entry-level Inventory job. "Sure," he said.

"Done. Dismissed. Come back in the afternoon and I'll have your orders."

"Yessir. Thank you sir," he said, leaping himself from the seat.

"Don't get a big head over it Posten. You can lose it all just as quickly."

"Yessir," Posten.

He collected his rain cover and retired to the barracks, quietly undressing and slipping into his bunk, surrounding by huddled, snoring masses under their blankets. The whole affair seemed unreal and distant now in the darkness of the room, as it if this had happened to someone else many years ago and he had merely heard about it. As sleep washed over him, he prayed to the God he didn't believe in that he wouldn't wake to find this had all been a vivid dream.