"Your application for transfer to Statistical Services has been disapproved." The two-striper's expression showed what he, as a fighting man, thought of the Statistical Services. "But we've got a real assignment for you, Ruxt! The 27th Invasion Force is all set to drop on a new system. You're lucky, Ruxt, that you put in that application. We had to hold you till it bounced. Your buddies got shipped to those rear-echelon guard outfits, but you're going to a real fighting one. It should be a good invasion--this new system's got atomic fission, I hear. And I'd like to tell you something, Ruxt...." "I know what, Sir," I said. "You envy me." * * * * * The 27th was a real fighting unit all right: they had their own neckerchief, their own war cry, and a general who was on his way up. Now they had me. And they were going to get another system for the Haldorian Empire. You see, those intelligent worms, or maybe they are slugs--I'm a bit vague on universe geography--over on the next Galaxy but one, give us Haldorians all sorts of difficulties. They insist on freedom, self-determination, and all that sort of thing. That's all very well, but they insist on them for themselves. Our high-level planners decided that another solar system would make a better offensive set-up for Haldoria. The planners, I understand, have all sorts of esoteric theories about the ideal shape and size of an offensive unit. They ring in time and something related to time which makes Galaxy distances differ according to which direction you are travelling. As I say, esoteric. The only thing that mattered to me was that some technicians had fed some data into a computer and it had hiccupped and said: "You'll need such-and-such a planet to control such-and-such a solar system, and that will give you a better offensive set-up." Then the computer hiccupped again and said: "You'll need to draft and train Ameet Ruxt to help on this little job of taking over this planet called Terra, or Earth." That's what it amounted to, anyhow. Consequently I joined the 27th Invasion Force. "So you've got an application in for transfer to the Statistical Services, huh?" Trontar Hytd, my new platoon three-striper, asked when I reported in for duty with the 27th. "Yes, Sir." I'd learned, along the line, that one should never give up when applying for a transfer--just keep one in the mill. "Huh, Borr, this new guy likes to work with figures," Trontar Hytd growled at Hweetoral Borr, my new squad leader. "Thinks he doesn't want to be a Fighter." Trontar Hytd looked at me questioningly. I didn't say anything. I'd learned a lot in Basic Fighter Course. "Figures?" asked Hweetoral Borr. I could see a train of thought had been started in the Hweetoral's mind. "Yeah, figures," snapped Trontar Hytd. "He likes to count things, Borr. Get it?" "Guess we need all our ray charges counted, for one thing," suggested Hweetoral Borr. "I get all mixed up with them figures."