Riding the Red Horse by Jerry Pournelle, Christopher Nuttall, Rolf Nelson, Chris Kennedy, Brad Torgersen, Thomas Mays, James F. Dunnigan, William S. Lind Page A

three centimeters above the road. Peter noted in wonder that there were ruts in the dirt track, and remarked on them.
    “Sure,” Barton said. “We've got wheeled transport. Lots of it. Animal-drawn wagons too. Tracked railroads. How much do you know about this place?”
    “Not very much,” Peter admitted.
    “Least you know that,” Barton said. He gunned the engine to get the Cadillac over a deeply pitted section of the road, and the convoy climped up onto a ridge. Peter could look back and see the tiny port town, with its almost empty streets, and the blowing red dust.
    “See that ridge over there?” Barton asked. He pointed to a thin blue line beyond the far lip of the saucer on the other side of the ridge. The air was so clear that Peter could see for sixty kilometers or more, and he had never seen farther than twenty; it was hard to judge distances.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “That's it. Dons' territory beyond that line.”
    “We're not going straight there, are we? The men need training.”
    “You might as well be going to the lines for all the training they'll get. They teach you anything at the Point?”
    “I learned something, I think.” Peter didn't know what to answer. The Point had been “humanized” and he knew he hadn't had the military instruction that graduates had once received. “What I was taught, and a lot from books.”
    “We'll see.” Barton took a plastic toothpick out of one pocket and stuck it into his mouth. Later, Peter would learn that many men developed that habit. “No hay tobacco” was a common notice on stores in Santiago. The first time he saw it, Allan Roach said that if they made their tobacco out of hay he didn't want any. “Long out of the Point?” Barton asked.
    “Class of '93.”
    “Just out. U.S. Army didn't want you?”
    “That's pretty personal,” Peter said. The toothpick danced across smiling lips. Peter stared out at the rivers of dust blowing around them. “There's a new rule, now. You have to opt for CoDominium in your junior year. I did. But they didn't have any room for me in the CD services.”
    Barton grunted. “And the U.S. Army doesn't want any commie-coddling officers who'd take the CD over their own country.”
    “That's about it.”
    “Hadn't thought it was that bad yet. Sounds like things are coming apart back home.”
    Peter nodded to himself. “I think the U.S. will pull out of the CoDominium pretty soon.”
    The toothpick stopped its movement while Barton thought about that. “So meanwhile they're doing their best to gut the Fleet, eh? What do the damned fools think will happen to the colonies when there's no CD forces to keep order?”
    Peter shrugged. They drove on in silence, with Barton humming something under his breath, a tune that Peter thought he would recognize if only Barton would make it loud enough to hear. Then he caught a murmured refrain. “Let's hope he brings our godson up, to don the Armay blue...”
    Barton looked around at his passenger and grinned. “How many lights in Cullem Hall, Mister Dumbjohn?”
    “Three hundred and forty lights, sir,” Peter answered automatically. He looked for the ring, but Barton wore none. “What was your class, sir?”
    “Seventy-two. Okay, the U.S. didn't want you, and the CD's disbanding regiments. There's other outfits. Falkenberg is recruiting.”
    “I'm not a mercenary for hire.” Peter's voice was stiffly formal.
    “Oh, Lord. So you're here to help the downtrodden masses throw off the yoke of oppression. I might have known.”
    “But of course I'm here to fight slavery!” Peter protested. “Everyone knows about Santiago.”
    “Everybody knows about other places, too.” The toothpick danced again. “Okay, you're a liberator of suffering humanity if that makes you feel better. God knows, anything makes a man feel better out here is okay. But to help me feel better, remember that you're a professional officer.”
    “I won't forget.” They drove over another ridge. The valley