of the corporals in your office. That right?"

"Yes, sir," Winfree said. "Peggy and I have set the wedding for
twenty-three December, the day before Potlatch. We'd be delighted
should your duties allow you to attend, Major."

"I'll be there," Major Dampfer promised. "And as a little gift from the
Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities, Winfree, I order you to move out on your
new campaign that same day: twenty-three December." He raised a
gauntleted hand. "No, Captain! Don't protest that you'll be needed here.
Your work is strategy, not tactics. Your plans can be implemented by
your staff while you're off on your honeymoon."

"Whatever you say, sir," Winfree said.

"I'd be further gratified," the Major continued, "if you'd hold the
ceremony right here in your Headquarters Building. We of the BSG must
establish some traditions, Winfree; the other Services have a
century-and-a-half's lead on us in that field. So, if the lovely
corporal approves, we'll make yours a proper military wedding."

"All this is very good of you, sir," Captain Winfree said. "I'm certain
Peggy will be pleased."

"Good!" Major Dampfer said. "I'll handle all the details. Winfree,
you've got the quality we used to know as Old-Fashioned Intestinal
Fortitude, back in the day when a spade was called a spade and no
apologies about it. We need more men like you in the Bureau." He snapped
a salute. "Carry on, Captain; and Happy Potlatch!"

"A Very Happy Potlatch to you, sir!" Winfree said, tossing back the
salute. "And a Merry Xmas!"

Captain Winfree walked to the big window in the outer office to watch
Major Dampfer driven off in his sergeant-chauffeured, scarlet-and-green
BSG Rolls limousine. Then he about-faced without warning to glare at his
little command, the eight non-coms, the twenty-seven Other Ranks, the
four young lieutenants. They all sat silent, watching him as though
waiting for confirmation of an unpleasant rumor. Not a file-cabinet
stood open, not a typewriter was moving. "Listen, you people," Winfree
growled, pointing his swagger-stick like a weapon, not sparing even
Corporal Peggy MacHenery his anger; "We've got a Potlatch Day coming up,
the biggest ever. Now get on the ball, dammit! I don't want to see one
of you stopping for breath again till Xmas Day." The lieutenants and
sergeants flushed; the girl privates jumped their fingers onto
typewriter keys. "Corporal MacHenery," Winfree said, "bring your notepad
to my office."

*