"They're putting on their pants and boots. We better—" Mike was saying. Wide-eyed, they watched the others, carefully imitated them. There were no shirts to cover the young, sweating torsos, and dressing was simple. Just the crisply-cut breeches, the light snug-fitting boots, and the black belts.
"You guys been assigned to a quadrant yet?"
Mike looked up. He was a taller boy, and looked a little older than the rest. He wore a gold star in his belt, and there were still-red scars across his chest and across one shoulder.
"I guess not," Mike said. "What's that? Quadrant, I mean?"
"How long have you been here, anyway? Thought you two came a couple of weeks ago. On the Mikol VI."
The twins looked at each other, then back to the tall, blonde boy.
"What's your name?" Terry asked.
"I'm Jon Tayne. Son of Quadrate Larsen Tayne. Your father's a general officer just like mine—that's why we can talk together out here. Otherwise we couldn't—part of the training, you know. Teaches you the undesirability of class-consciousness. I've been here two years—they tossed me back. Insufficient conditioning. But it doesn't matter to me—maybe you'll get as big a kick out of it as I do. I like it here. Not many do, though."
"It's sure different," Mike said, "but we haven't been here any two weeks, I don't think. Anyway it hasn't seemed like that long, has it Terry?"
"Golly, I—"