“Moustache?” The commander frowned, searching his memory.
“He got transferred in just before you did,” Brandy supplied. “I’m not surprised you can’t place him. He kind of blends in most of the time. It’s my guess, though, that he’s had some previous service time in the Regular Army, and probably as more than a line soldier.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Brandy. Thanks!”
“You want me to get him for you? He’s outside here in the volunteer line.”
“That’s all right. I’ll handle him when his turn comes.”
“So, anyway, I was thinking you might want to use me as a washroom attendant or a doorman, sir. I’d probably be a bit less conspicuous than most of the lads-what with my age and all.”
Phule was studying the figure in front of him, noting details more than he was listening to the Legionnaire’s words.
The man was above average height and barrel-chested, though his stern posture probably exaggerated both features. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball, except for the bright red handlebar moustache which dominated his face and gave him his Legion name. It occurred to Phule that that facial ornament was doubtlessly dyed, since, judging by the man’s age as stated in his file, it should be white. As it was, the only clue to Moustache’s advanced years was the wrinkled skin of his neck … but even that wasn’t noticeable unless one was actually looking for it.
“Hmmm?” The commander blinked, suddenly realizing the Legionnaire had reached the end of his statement and was waiting for a response. “Excuse me, Moustache. My mind was wandering for a second there. Actually I was thinking … are you sure you want to volunteer for undercover work? You … um… seem much more at home in a uniform.”