"Jim, you haven't lost your touch with a pistol." General Mosby pointed to his meaning with the toe of his boot. "But you'll need a new carpet in your office here."
Bennington glanced at the three dead men, the broken window, and added them to his mental list of things to be done. But he put them among the minor problems; he had enough major ones already.
The news services were besieging The Cage. A couple of ambitious photographers had been caught attempting to cross the moat. The civilian dead in the mess hall had to be identified and the next of kin notified. His entire staff was disorganized: imprisoned as hostages, knocked out along with the rioters by sleep-gas, brusquely revived by Mosby's aid-men—Well, he might be able to get some work out of them tomorrow.
The rioters still slept, but what to do about those supposedly conditioned men when the gas wore off ... a new hypno-tech, from somewhere, by tomorrow morning.
Add six governors who think I have nothing to do but tell them every detail, he thought grimly.
"You had better eat, sir."
Ferguson, with a gigantic sandwich and a mug of coffee.
Bennington abruptly realized that he had not eaten since noon. Then, in the middle of his second bite, he was aware of still another problem.
He swallowed hastily. "Mossback, did you bring the entire battalion? Are you completely set up for independent battalion operation?"