“Captain, this has got to stop. It’s driving me crazy,” said Brandy. “Don’t get me wrong-I don’t have anything against the chaplain. Rev’s done a pretty good job, building morale. But you can’t expect me to do my job when I can’t tell one of my people from another.”
“I can’t see any big problem, Captain,” said the chaplain. “You know we ask our disciples to emulate the King, on account of he’s such an inspiration. A poor boy, climbed right to the top, without no help from anybody…Why, that makes me feel like I can do the same myself. Ain’t that exactly the kind of spirit that makes a good legionnaire, now?”
“Maybe it makes a good legionnaire, but if enough of your disciples look alike, you’re going to make one crazy sergeant,” said Brandy, crossing her arms. She stared at Rev, who had arrived at the company already made over to resemble his sect’s prophet: a dark pompadour with long sideburns, a classic profile, full lips with a tendency to an ever-so-slight sneer.
Phule fidgeted with a pencil, looking back and forth between his top sergeant and the chaplain. “I see your point, Brandy,” he said. “But the chaplain’s got a point, too. The company’s morale is the best it’s ever been. And there is that clause in the Legionnaire’s Bill of Rights…”
“Why, thank you, Captain,” said the chaplain. “I didn’t want to have to mention that clause myself. A feller shouldn’t haul out the heavy artillery first thing out of the box, y’know. But it certainly fits, if you look into it. We’ve got plenty of precedents on our side.”