“Shoot, that’s no problem, Captain.” The sergeant beamed, his teeth showing though his fierce beard. “I’d have room for one of ‘em-mebbe both-in the sidecar of my hawg. I can keep an eye on ‘em myself!”
“Your what?”
“Mah hawg … my hover cycle. I’ll tell you, Captain, I never have been able to figure out why the military doesn’t use ‘em in combat. They worked fine for us in civilian life, and they can go anywhere one of those glide boards can.”
Phule had a vague feeling that he had just been maneuvered into letting Chocolate Harry ride his hover cycle into combat. Still, if it was. efficient …
“Tell you what, C.H. Bring your … hawg … by after duty hours tomorrow. I want to take a look at it myself.”
“Right, Cap’n!”
“Oh, and C.H., while we’re on the subject of the nonhumans in the company, what weapon do you think would be best for Tusk-anini?”
“Tusk?” The sergeant blinked. “Heck, Cap’n. It don’t matter none what you have him carry. He ain’t gonna shoot it, anyway. “
“I beg your pardon?”
“I thought you knew, Cap’n. The Voltron may look like some kinda big stomper, but he’s a strict pacifist. Won’t even raise his voice to anyone, much less a weapon.”
It was late when the commander leaned back, stretching from the litter of notes on the table in his bedroom, and decided to call it a day. No sooner had he reached his decision, however, than he realized he was hungry. He had worked through the dinner hour (again) and knew that the hotel restaurant was long closed, as was the bar. Still, now that his concentration was broken, an emptiness in the vicinity of his stomach reminded him than he should feed it something or he’d have trouble getting to sleep.