He was decorated again and given the battlewagon of an ailing four-striper.
Without orders he touched down on the Soviet side of Io, led out a landing party of marines and bluejackets, cut through two regiments of Soviet infantry, and returned to his battlewagon with prisoners: the top civil and military administrators of Soviet Io.
They discussed him nervously aboard the flagship.
"He has a mystical quality, Admiral. His men would follow him into an atomic furnace. And—and I almost believe he could bring them through safely if he wanted to." The laugh was nervous.
"He doesn't look like much. But when he turns on the charm—watch out!"
"He's—he's a winner. Now I wonder what I mean by that?"
"I know what you mean. They turn up every so often. People who can't be stopped. People who have everything. Napoleons. Alexanders. Stalins. Up from nowhere."
"Suleiman. Hitler. Folsom I. Jenghis Khan."
"Well, let's get it over with."
They tugged at their gold-braided jackets and signalled the honor guard.