It was twilight. In a working-class section of Linnasteth, the capital of Komars, two drifters carrying rucksacks turned into a weedy yard and walked up a broken sidewalk to a house. One of them knocked. A large middle-aged woman opened. "What do you want?" she asked.
"We been told this's a place that'll rent a flop to an old soldier."
She cocked an eye. "You ayn't soldiers, and you ayn't old. Whadya got for me?"
"Good news and bad."
The formula completed, she stepped back. "Come in," she said, and when they had, she closed the door behind them. "We've been worried about you. Day after tomorrow's the day, and the others have checked in." Her speech had lost the twang of the shanty towns outside the city. An old man had entered the room from a hall, and she turned to him. "Mogi, fix something to eat for them." She looked the two up and down. "Damn! They picked you people for strong! I've got uniforms for you, but they're not going to fit worth a damn. I'll have to do some altering tonight." She turned, gesturing. "Come on. I want you to clean up while Mogi's heating something in the kitchen. Then I'll show you what we've got."
She shook her head. "You people have really stretched our resources. But at least for you two we don't need to make passes with photographs."