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And besides, even eating an RR wouldn’t have been so bad, feeling as he did today. All cynicism aside, a good story went a long way toward making a reporter feel like he was worth his paycheck-as little as that was...

He looked up and saw Zan Yant leave the serving line, carrying a tray. Den caught the Zabrak’s attention and waved him over. "Hey, is that fleek eel? " he said, when he saw the other’s plate. "I didn’t see it on the menu."

"No. It’s wriggler, a local species of giant worm, seared in redfruit juice and sprinkled with fried fire gnats."

"Ah. Sounds... tasty."

"Well, it’s not the Manarai on Coruscant," the sur-geon said, "but it sure beats RRs."

Dhur regarded Zan Yant quizzically. "You’ve eaten at the Manarai?"

"I wasn’t born on this mudball, friend Dhur. One of my instructors was a professor at CU’s School of Mu-sic. I went to visit him from time to time."

"Still, a spendy place for a student."

"My family is... comfortably well-off," Yant said, slicing off a big chunk of worm and popping it into his mouth. "Ah. That Charbodian cook really knows its stuff. Want a bite?"

"Thanks, no, I’m happy with mine." Den regarded the surgeon with curiosity. A rich medic and an expert musician-not the sort of person one expected to run into in the galactic hinterlands. Why hadn’t he or his family been able to have Yant exempted from the mili-tary? Wealth and power had its privileges, everybody knew that. Could it be that Yant had volunteered? If so, Den’s respect for him would have to be ratcheted up a notch.

Before he could pursue the subject, Yant asked, "And how goes the crusade to keep the public informed?"

"Good." Den smiled. "And about to get better."

"Ah. A hot story?"

"Yes, indeed. I can’t talk about it yet-don’t want to let the kreel out of the cage, you understand-but I’m pleased with it. I expect it will shake things up quite a bit in certain quarters."

"That’s good, I suppose." Yant took another big mouthful of worm, chewed, swallowed, and smiled. "Not bad at all." He paused a bit, then said, "A ques-tion, if you don’t mind."

"I’m all ears."

"I and the other medics here are conscripts. Left up to us, we’d be a dozen parsecs in any direction away from Drongar. But you’re a noncom. You don’t have to be out here-you could be reporting off a civilized planet, up to your dewflaps in relative comfort and safety.

So why are you here? What calls you to this work?"

He hadn’t expected that one. Nobody had asked that particular question in years. There were stock answers, of course-every reporter had a few. The adventure, the chance to be where the action was, the desire to serve the public. Maybe they even believed it-he had once, a long time ago.

And now?

Abruptly, without meaning to, Den found himself telling the truth. "Wars make for big stories, Doc. It’s all about the important issues. Life, death, honor, love... it’s the raw feed, the mother lode, the crucible. You watch people deep in this kind of fire, trying to get out, trying to get each other out, and you see what they’re really made of.

"Listen-you interview a local politician after a pub-lic meeting, and he spins word webs like an educated spin-worm: all glossy and shiny, but without any real substance. Sure, he’s working to keep his job-he might even be working for the public good and all, stranger things have happened-but he’s not under any real pressure, so he’s got time to sort out his lies and make them nice and neat.

"But you catch a commander whose unit has just been shot to bloody pieces, with no hope of rescue and en-emy fire still incoming? He is going to tell it like he sees it, and forget the consequences. War is ugly, my friend, ugly and painful and cruel-but it strips away the cover, it flenses out truth-and that is what it’s all about."

Zan nodded, thoughtfully chewing another bite of his dinner. "But you see so much death.

Not to mention you could get killed yourself."

Den shrugged. "You see an epidemic