CHAPTER 11The Stellar Legion
Sergeant Wilson stood, wide-legged in the hot sun, and watched the new prisoner intake file from the great transport. He wore a neat uniform of grey, splotched with the scarlet of his insignia of rank, and a short, heavy club hung from one wrist. From the shadow of his visored cap his cold, grey eyes stared emotionlessly at the shuffling lines of new material.
Material!
That was how he thought of the assorted wrecks sent to Stellar, the pale-faced men, the shifty-eyed men, the would-be tough guys and the men who believed in smooth words and a knife in the back. Scum, the lot of them, criminal scum. Human material to be trained, knocked, kicked and bullied into shape.
Outwardly he seemed made of stone, his prematurely aged features, mottled by the old scar,
