"Fardles, that's barely time enough to get there!" As a Life Support Systems officer, she was quartered on 9 deck, in the bowels of the troop carrier Mandalay.

With one hand, she toggled the acknowledgment switch as she began to strip off her coverall, stinking dirty from her latest wriggling tour of the air-conditioning systems. She'd been positive that she would find dead vermin to account for some of the pong that soured the Mandalay's air. She was a conscientious officer and had done her best with filters, purifiers, and deodorizers to neutralize the pervasive reek.

She lay awake in her bunk night after night, trying to figure out what could be generating or perpetuating the odors, which, she was certain, were one of the chief reasons why she - and most of the complement of the Mandalay - didn't sleep well. It was that kind of a nightmare combination of stenches. Perversely enough, the heads on all decks were reasonably free of unpleasant odors.

In fact, Cookie had told her that it was getting to be a joke: go to the head for a cleaner breath of air. Cramming her fouled coverall into the reconditioner, she stepped into the jetter, turning swiftly in the thin mist allowed her for such ablutions. Thirty seconds for soaping and then the mist returned to rinse her body. It did her morale no good to realize that she had just added her sweat and ventilator dust to the pervading odor but one didn't appear before the captain in visible dirt.

Could he have called an emergency meeting about the air quality? She had done her utmost to improve it. She knew how depressing it was to breathe bad air, and morale on the Mandalay was low enough. But she had tried.

After the Khalian surrender (the official one, although many enemy units refused to accept their defeat and the ignominy of yielding), while the Mandalay was on the surface, undergoing minor repairs, Amalfi Trotter had scrupulously replanted the entire 'ponics garden, coaxing broad shiny oxygen-supportive leaves from her vines with careful dollops of fas-gro. She had crawled through all the major ventilating shafts on an inspection tour and used remotes to sweep those which were too narrow for even her slight frame - was that why a pint-sized person was invariably made life-support officer? - and replaced every one of 743 vent filters.

Despite her best efforts, once they lifted from the planet even the "new" air had quickly taken on the taint of hot metals, acrid plastics, body odors too intense to neutralize, and the faint but throat-souring smell of Khalian weasel fur. Even after she had located and destroyed five badly preserved souvenir Khalian hides, she hadn't quite eradicated that taint. The residue was probably due to having to flush out the systems while they were still on a Khalian-occupied world, which had given the air its final touch of pollution.

Her only success was in eradicating the sickly sweet smell of blood and singed flesh. Perhaps, she thought grimly, there was simply no way to eradicate the rank odor of fear on a troop vessel. And why now? The Khalian War was over. They'd all be heading back to the Alliance ports and demob. Surely the fear contaminant should be fading.

The fighting men and women of the 202nd Regiment, the Montana Irregulars, on board the Mandalay had survived nineteen major engagements. The MI's were crack troops, a great point of pride to the naval crew that transported them to the various battle theaters. With the war over, why were these veterans still churning out the sour pheromones of fear? She could understand it if they were moving on to yet another battle area. But they weren't. They were in a holding orbit, and as soon as essential repairs were finished, the entire squadron would very shortly be leaving it on a course for an Alliance world.

She fastened the closings of her clean shipsuit, and grabbed up her clipboard of printouts on the air system. Complaints about the air, while justified right now, were analogous to complaints about weather on primitive planets. It was at least an impersonal, unemotive issue to bitch about. But she couldn't help feeling guilty when someone did. Clean air was her responsibility.

Maybe the captain had got the orders that would release them from orbit. Maybe that would reduce the stink. They'd been hanging about for a long time now, going nowhere in never-decreasing circles. Hope of that reprieve made her hurry down the narrow companionway to the G grav well.

Once the troops knew they were going home, the air would clear up from the barracks decks, where it hung, an almost visible miasma of accumulated fear, stress, and pain. And when the old Mandy was back in a decent human port, she would scour the air system of this old bucket with good clean civilized air on a properly photosynthesizing planet.

Everything will improve, she assured herself, when we're on the way home. She scrambled off the null-grav lift onto the wardroom level. Her palms were sweating again. They always did when she anticipated criticism.

Her keen nostrils caught a new odor, a pleasant one, refreshing. She sniffed about her and realized that the smell was seeping from the wardroom. She identified the aroma with some astonishment. Lavender? In the wardroom? They were desperate.

She rapped the panel courteously and then entered, closing the door quickly behind her because she didn't want the outside air to dilute the fragrance inside. The odor came from a lighted candle on the wardroom table, around which ranged both naval and marine officers. She slipped into the only remaining seat, between the marine colonel, Jay Gruen, and Major Damia Pharr, head of the medical team. They gave her a nod, but something about their tenseness communicated itself to her. The clipboard slipped out of her sweaty hands and clattered to the tabletop.

She muttered apologies, which no one noticed. Then she, too, found herself trying not to stare at Captain August. His face was so expressionless that the flimsy that drooped from his fingers must contain bad news. The lavender was to soothe them all?

A sudden premonition shook Amalfi. They were not going home. She clutched the edge of the clipboard now as if she were squeezing the breath out of whoever issued such orders. Where in the Nine Pits of Hell could they be sent now? Not another pocket of Khalian resistance? Was that why there was such a stench of fear? Only how could the soldiers know the content of a message the captain could only have received within the past half hour? Scuttlebutt was quick but not that quick, and any important stuff came in code, which took longer to seep into general knowledge.

Captain August stood. He had been a lean man when she first joined the Mandalay seven long years ago. He was gaunt now, the flesh stretched across the bone of his skull, the skin under his eyes dark with sleeplessness and stress. He'd been in command of the Mandalay since the outbreak of hostilities with the Khalians. He spread the flimsy, its message bleeding black ink tracks across the dirty cream of the recycled paper.

"In code, we have been given orders to proceed to a rendezvous in two weeks, GGMT, with the supply ship Grampian, which will have replacement personnel for you, Colonel Gruen, to bring the regiment up to full strength."

"Replacement personnel?" Gruen demanded, his light, oddly flecked eyes bulging slightly as he challenged the captain. "Full strength?"

"Yes, Colonel," August said. He scowled as he glanced around the table, at the stunned expressions that ranged from horror through disbelief to despair. "We are to reprovision to battle-readiness."

"Battle-ready?" The words exploded from Hamish Argyll, the gunnery officer.

On both sides of Amalfi came the mutter of mutinous curses.

"But, Captain, who's left to battle with?" No sooner were the words out of young Ensign Badeley's mouth than he tried to melt under the table from embarrassment.

"That information is omitted from this communique!" Captain August let the flimsy fall from his fingers. He scrubbed his fingertips on his thumb as if he'd touched something unclean. The sheet drifted slowly to the tabletop, all eyes following it.

"Then the scuttlebutt is true?" Colonel Gruen asked in a hoarse voice.

Captain August turned his head slowly toward him. "And you believe the scuttlebutt you hear. Colonel?"

"When it's affecting the morale of my soldiers, you bet your last tank of oxy I do." Waggling a finger at the captain, Gruen went on. "I got to tell you. Captain, the morale of my troops is so low, I shall withhold this information from them as long as it is humanly possible."

"How can you keep it from 'em. Jay?" Major Pete Loftus, the adjutant, demanded, raising his hands in resignation. "They know most things before I do. The air's full of fear stench." He darted a quick glance at Amalfi, who tried to scrunch even smaller between the two larger bodies.

"How could they possibly know orders which were only issued thirty-five minutes ago?"

"They don't," the colonel replied bluntly. "They won't. They're sunk so low in battle fatigue right now, such orders would result in a rash of suicide attempts, brawls, and possibly even a mutiny attempt...."

"Not on my ship..." August began.

"You're exaggerating..." Brace, the naval science officer, protested.

"We can't cope with that," added Major Pharr.

Colonel Gruen eyed everyone dispassionately. "I've been the regimental commander now since we were mobilized to fight the Khalians and there's no fight left in my soldiers. I'll tell you this, I stay awake nights trying - " His fist came down on the table. " - trying to figure out some way to revive their morale. Right now, I doubt they'd even suit up. There've been wars before where there weren't no soldiers to fight."

"How can you have a war if there're no fighters?" Ensign Badeley piped up.

"You have been apprised of my orders." Captain August rose to his feet. "We break orbit at twelve hundred hours tomorrow. If it's any consolation, the entire squadron is headed in the same direction, not just the Mandalay"

"It is no end of consolation, Captain," Gruen replied with bitter sarcasm, "to know that High Command isn't picking on us alone. I'd like permission to make a private call on the secure band, sir."

Captain August gave a curt nod and strode quickly out of the wardroom.

"Wait here for me," Gruen said, pointing a commanding finger at the others as he rose to follow.

"You bet!" Loftus replied, glancing about the table to see if anyone would be fool enough to leave.

Gruen's wife served on the flagship, and had often been able to discreetly reassure those aboard the Mandalay to their advantage.

"There is no way that I, as chief medic," Damia Pharr began in her gravelly voice, "would certify these troops as battle-ready. They can dress 'em up and kit 'em out and load 'em up but they won't fight!"

"Surely they'll follow orders?" Badeley asked, his round, youthful face screwed up in droll surprise.

He was alternately a headache, a laugh, and a raving bore. It was the universal opinion that he was likely to remain an ensign. Two years on a troop ship that had made four landings on hostile planets - and in which he had had to defend the Mandalay from vicious attacks by would-be boarders - had not shaken the down from his cheeks or given him any significant insights into Life and the Real World. He could be counted on to ask just such a stupid question as he had.

"No, laddie" - Hamish's accent became thickly ethnic when emotional - "they wouldn't. And I, for one, would not lay a feather of blame on them."

"But... that would be tantamount to mutiny!" His eyes bulged. "Wouldn't it!" Argyll agreed too amiably.

"It's inhuman to ask any soldier in their current depressed states to trundle off and fight another war." Loftus brought both fists down on the table, his expression deeply troubled. "They've got to have some R and R on a decent planet, not one with the stench of weasel and blood and death. They need sleep and unprocessed food and rest.... Plague take it, Trotter, can't you do something about the air?"

Amalfi tried to hide behind Damia Pharr, who was looking down at her with a slightly quizzical expression on her face.

"Yeah, Malf, isn't there something you can do? Who can sleep easy with tainted air in their lungs all night long?"

"I've done everything I can," Amalfi said, her voice just one note away from a whinge. She brandished her clipboard. "I changed every plant in 'ponics when we were grounded. I've cleaned every duct, refitted every filter..."

"Had my gun crew jumping out of their skins when they heard her sweeping out the shafts above us," Hamish said, grinning encouragingly at her. "They thought the captain had found the still."

"Which reminds me," Damia said, "I'll need four liters tonight if I'm to get my patients to sleep."

"Has Farmeris come out of his coma yet?" Loftus asked.

"No, and I've done nothing to wake him up. He's better off asleep in that babbling bedlam I used to call my infirmary," Pharr replied, her wistful tone intimating envy of the man's condition. "He's okay apart from staying asleep. He's got the right idea. Sleeping it out till better days."

A tinny voice filtered through from Major Loftus's corn unit. "Major, fight broke out in D barracks: tranked nine combatants, but infirmary says they've no room for 'em."

"That's right," Damia replied cheerfully. "Any injuries?" she added as an afterthought. "No, sir. We had warning of the mood and arrived in time to restore order."

"List their IDs for report, Sergeant Norly, then dump 'em in their bunks with wrist and ankle restraints. There's no more room in the brig anyhow." Loftus swore as the crack- ling of the intercom ceased.

"Do you think they feel safer fighting among themselves?" Pharr asked rhetorically, glancing about the room.

Amalfi saw Badeley open his mouth, and she glared so fiercely at him that he subsided. A depressed silence fell on those waiting at the table. Two of the marine captains who had listened intently to their commanders' remarks were now obviously trying to get a few winks of sleep in the lavender-scented air. Amalfi was only too relieved that no one started in on her again. The sound of boots clomping on the metal decking alerted them all. As one, they looked toward the door, anticipating Gruen's return and whatever hope he might have gleaned from his wife.

The blank expression on Jay Gruen's face as he entered was sufficient to depress all hope. He closed the door behind him with meticulous care and then leaned against it with the weariness of total dejection.

"The truth is so bad," and he paused, "that not even High Command has the balls to put it in the orders."

"Well?" demanded Damia Pharr when Gruen let an atrocious span of time go by without enlightenment.

"I agree." He pushed himself off the door and toward the table. Loftus and Argyll made room for him as he folded, like a decrepit aged man, into the chair. "It would appear that the Khalians are not the primary enemies of the Alliance."

"Say what?" demanded Loftus.

Gruen clasped his hands before him, one thumb massaging the other. He didn't lift his eyes once as he continued to speak. "The Khalians appear to have been the first line of defense of an oligarchy of merchant families - of human or humanoid stock - known as the Syndicate. The Khalians questioned named them the Givers."

"They give war?" asked Damia softly.

"There are a lot of gaps about the Syndicate but one thing is sure: they subjugate any useful entities and massacre any that defy them." Gruen's voice mirrored the defeat in his expression. "The Khalian War, the one we just finished, is apparently only the prelude to the Big One. And the Alliance has got to win it or expect that every single planet and star system in the Alliance could, and would be, destroyed by the Syndicate."

"But surely in a large group, a Syndicate, there would be an outcry against wholesale destruction?" Brace asked, "It's just not economical to obliterate whole planets and star systems...."

"The Syndicate doesn't think the way we do. They may be technologically superior, but not sociologically," Gruen said, massaging his thumbs with such force the blood suffused the tips. "They're prime bigots - hate any alien race and enslave or exploit them. And we thought the Khalians were bad...."

"They were," Loftus muttered respectfully. "But surely if the Alliance sticks to our sphere of influence..."

"That would work with anyone but the Syndicate. And the Syndicate doesn't tolerate powerful neighbors...."

"The Alliance isn't hostile," Badeley began. "We live in peace with lots of other species and civilizations."

"We blew the peaceful image by fighting the Khalians...."

"But, Colonel, they began the hostilities," Badeley replied belligerently; "we were only defending ourselves."

"Oh, plug it up, Badeley," Argyll said. "Jay, what about other regiments? Can they take another all-out offensive?"

"I don't have to worry about other regiments," Jay Gruen said, slapping both hands palm down on the table, his eyes averted. "I have to worry about mine. And mine is not ready to hear the score."

"We can't keep them in the dark for long," Loftus protested. "And if we don't level with them, whatever faith they have in us as commanders flushes right down the tubes!"

"You're right there. So," and Jay Gruen glanced around at the others, "we've got approximately twenty hours to come up with a way to restore morale - which news of fighting a brand-new war is not going to do - before leaving orbit."

"But we won't be making the rendezvous for two weeks..." Badeley began.

"If someone," Loftus said, pinning Badeley with a hard glare, "isn't smart enough to figure out that we're not heading back to Alliance territory, there's nothing we could do to resurrect our once-proud regiment. And I'll just bite the bad tooth and get my discharge."

Badeley looked even more shocked but he shut his mouth.

"I'd sleep on that notion, were I you. Lofty," Damia Pharr said kindly. "Oh, Great Gods and Other Lesser Deities!" She slapped her forehead and expressions of amazement, anxiety, incredulity, and dawning hope flitted across her broad homely face. "Why didn't I think of that before!"

"Think of what?" Gruen asked with acid impatience.

"Sleep therapy! We could all use a really good sleep. I read about the therapy in the Space Medicine Journal. The Surgeon General... someone named Haldeman... recommended dream sleep therapy for troops being transported from one theater of war to another. I don't see that much difference in this application. It could work. It should work. It sure won't hurt and it'll cut out all the brawling, that is... Arvid." She spoke sharply because the supply officer was quietly napping in his comer. "You still have all those barrels of hibernation gas, don't you?"

Startled, the j.g. had to have the query repeated. "Sure, yeah, hey, that stuff's probably the only thing we haven't used in this campaign."

"Deep sleep will not solve a morale problem," Gruen said. "It'll only defer it."

"Used as a hibernant, yes, but used to induce a deep and restful slumber, now, that's another thing. We can't give the men an R and R but we can give 'em S and D. Sleep and dreams." Damia was so positive that some of her enthusiasm began to infect the others with hope. "What your troops need is restful, REM sleep, to help relieve the backup of willie-horrors...."

"And how in hell are you going to tend close to four thousand sleeping troopers? They've got to be fed, evacuated, and..." Gruen stopped and Damia, grinning broadly now, waved her hands, encouraging him to talk himself into the next step. He stared at her with dawning comprehension.

"Yup, that's right. Battle dress drill. I know you made 'em all service their suits on the surface. There's enough nutrient fluid to keep every single one of them going for ten days. And the suits do bodily functions as well as monitoring. Why must such expensive equipment be used only in war?"

The others around the table, even those who had remained silent, began to talk.

"Malf" - Damia turned to the life-support officer - "can you block off the barracks decks from Operations? You guys still have to run the ship even if your passengers are all asleep."

"Ah, yes, I think so, except I thought sleep gas is skin-permeable. Wouldn't the suits..."

"Seal all the air locks from the troop decks, and penetrating as that hibernation gas is, it won't affect the ship's crew," Damia went on, sort of running roughshod over objections. "Now, just a minute, Dame," Gruen began.

"Shit, Jay, you need the rest more than your men. I promise you, at the concentration we'll pour into the troop quarters, everyone will go beddie-byes and dream sweet. Dream themselves right back into rested, resilient minds quite willing to take on this new challenge. Hell, if they're deeply asleep, we can even do some sleep training, and they'll be fit as fiddles when we rendezvous with Grampian"

"You're sure it'll work?"

Amalfi had to look away from Colonel Gruen's face: the beseeching look of hope revived was almost more than she could bear seeing.

Damia put her hand on Gruen's shoulder. "I don't know anything else to try. And sleep's not going to hurt anyone aboard this ol' tub...." She shot an apologetic grin at Brace and Argyll. "If the entire regiment is suited save the medical staff, and with a little help from the Mandalay personnel, we can check you all out."

"Is there enough protective garb, Arvid?" Loftus asked. "You gotta have the right gear or you'll end up asleep at the switch."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Plenty," Arvid replied. Amalfi thought he hadn't taken in exactly what was being planned.