asked coldly.

For a moment, the accused looked nothing but hatred at the commander,
but there was fear behind that hatred. At last he found his voice. "It
was mine. You promised us all a share."

Lieutenant commander Hernan picked up a leather bag that lay on the
table behind which he and the commander were sitting. With a sudden
gesture, he upended it, dumping its contents on the flat, wooden surface
of the table.

"Do you deny that this was found among your personal possessions?" he
asked harshly.

"No," said the accused soldier. "Why should I? It's mine. Rightfully
mine. I fought for it. I found it. I kept it. It's mine." He glanced to
either side, towards the two guards who flanked him, then looked back at
the commander.

The commander ran an idle finger through the pound or so of golden
trinkets that Hernan had spilled from the bag. He knew what the trooper
was thinking. A man had a right to what he had earned, didn't he?

The commander picked up one of the heavier bits of primitive jewelry and
tossed it in his hand. Then he stood up and looked around the town
square.

The company had occupied the town for several weeks. The stored grains
in the community warehouse, plus the relaxation the men had had, plus
the relative security of the town, had put most of the men back into
condition. One had died from a skin infection, and another from wounds
sustained in the assault on the town, but the remainder were in good
health.

And all of them, with the exception of the sentries guarding the town's
perimeter, were standing in the square, watching the court-martial.
Their eyes didn't seem to blink, and their breathing was soft and
measured. They were waiting for the commander's decision.

The commander, still tossing the crude golden earring, stood tall and
straight, estimating the feeling of the men surrounding him.

"Gold," he said finally. "Gold. That's what we came here for, and that's
what we're going to get. Five hundred pounds of the stuff would make any
one of you wealthy for the rest of his life. Do you think I blame any
one of you for wanting it? Do you think I blame this man here? Of course
not." He laughed--a short, hard bark. "Do I blame myself?"

[Illustration]

He tossed the bauble again, caught it. "But wanting it is one thing;
getting it, holding it, and taking care of it wisely are something else
again.

"I gave orders. I have expected--and still expect--that they will be
obeyed. But I