"You said you were a 'gunnery sergeant,'" he said. "That's a military rank, yes?"

"Yeah. A gunnery sergeant is the senior noncom in a platoon of Marines," Houghton said.

"Ah. I thought it must be something like that. And this." The wild wizard gestured at the peculiar, bulky, massive vehicle again. "This entire wagon, or whatever. It's a weapon, isn't it?"

"It's armed," Houghton conceded warily, one eyebrow quirked. He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head. "It's not exactly a main battle tank, but I'd guess it could hold its own against anything we're likely to encounter here."

"I see."

Wencit rubbed his neatly trimmed white beard for a moment, then grimaced.

"Gunnery Sergeant," he said earnestly, "as I say, you aren't at all what I expected. But if you and your friend-" a nod of his head indicated Mashita, still sitting atop the eight-wheeled vehicle "-are both soldiers, perhaps the spell that brought you here did better than I first thought."

"Just a minute, now, Wencit!" Houghton said. He recognized that tone. It was the kind of tone officers-or, still worse, civilian intelligence pukes or even Air Force officers-used when they needed someone to volunteer for some perfectly stupid frigging op.

The wizard stopped speaking and regarded him steadily. Or, at least, Houghton thought it was steadily. It was amazing how hard it was to read someone's expression when you couldn't actually see his eyes.

"I'm sure you wouldn't have 'summoned' us-or the gryphon you were trying to get, anyway-unless the shit had really hit the fan. And for all I know, you're a perfectly nice guy, with a perfectly legitimate reason for looking for any help you can get. But like you say, this isn't our universe, and Jack and I have responsibilities of our own back home."

"I realize that," Wencit said earnestly. "But at the same time, don't good men have the same responsibilities, wherever they may find themselves?"