"In the Heat-t-t and the Sweat-t-t of the Cit-tay"

A month later Lieutenant Borl called Roth into his office for a little talk.

     It was the height of summer now, and every window of the Guardhouse was open, gasping for air. Roth knocked at the door that stood already ajar, then walked in on Borl, who sat squirming behind his desk in his sticky, leather-covered chair, muzzle gaping for breath. Borl had shaved his bullet-head in a desperate attempt to keep from frying. The gingery length of his beard was twisted into a stiff braid and tied off with a scrap of ribbon, to hold it away from his dripping chest. Roth kept himself from grinning. He definitely wouldn't want to appear that way himself in public, but he certainly understood his superior's attempts at private relief. He came to attention and saluted. "Sir," he barked.

     Borl looked up like a dying fish.

     "Damn, it's hot," he wheezed. "When do you think it rained last?"

     "Couldn't say, sir. Sometime late spring. Four months, sir."

     "Ach, drop the protocol, Roth. It's too hot. Sit down, sit down. Quit blocking the door; I'm trying to catch a cross-breeze."

     Roth relaxed a little, but still held himself wary. You didn't get called to the office just to shoot the shit. He pulled one of the rough wheel-backed chairs from against the wall and sat down. It wasn't as cushy as Borl's upholstered seat, but in the circumstances its open spokes were more comfortable.

     The older Morg wiped his forehead, then squeezed the sweat out of the tip of his beard. He picked up the paper he had been perusing on the desk in front of him, frowning. It was speckled with moisture. He dropped it and looked up at Roth.

- From Sergeant Roth. And this is the 2950th post.