His parents didn't necessarily approve, but they were smart enough to use it to motivate him to do well in school.
"You'll never get into the Space Legion if you don't do your math problems," his father would say, and that was all Zigger needed to dig in for another round of attrition and subduction. Or, if he didn't like something his mother had made for supper, she would say, "Eat up, little one-you have to be a big, strong, healthy Lepoid to join the Space Legion!" And Zigger would gobble down the last few pieces of brittleroot on his plate. It worked every time, and even after Zigger figured out what his mom was doing, he didn't stop listening. After all, it stood to reason that she was probably right. And so young Zigger grew up strong and smart, and all his teachers said he could be anything he wanted to when he grew up.
That pleased Zigger. But all he really cared about in life was joining the Space Legion when he grew up. So when he hopped onto the stage to receive his school diploma (with honors in three subjects, though not the highest honors-those went to Snickly, who was a grind and a suckup anyway), and citations as an All-Teloon athlete in three different sports, and a plaque for Good Citizenship, everyone expected great things of him. The commencement speaker had told the young Lepoids that the universe was their tuber, and even though the graduates knew it was a cliche, most of them were willing to believe it for a moment, at least.
So it came as a considerable shock to Zigger when his parents put their feet firmly down in opposition to his announcement that he was going to join the Space Legion instead of going on to Harevard University, where his grades (not to mention his prowess at running and jumping) were certain to earn him a scholarship. "You can't just throwaway an opportunity like this," said his father, glowering at him from the head of the breakfast table. "With a Harevard education, you can do anything you want-to."
"But I can do what I want to without it," said Zigger, with a forkful of synveggies halfway to his mouth. "Besides, if I'm good enough to get in now, I'll still be good enough after I've served a term in the Legion. And they let you save up your pay to cover college expenses. It's a really smelliferous deal, Dad!"
"It smells pretty bad to me," muttered Zigger's dad.
"Now, Oswald, you know that's just the slang these youngsters' use nowadays." Said his mother, in a conciliatory tone. "When he says smelliferous, he just means it's very shuropteous."
"Well, why doesn't he say so, then?" said Oswald.
"Have to get a dictionary to figure out what kids mean these days."
"What I mean is that I'm not going to Harevard." said Zigger. "Not until I find out if I can make it in the Legion. It's the only thing I've always wanted. You know that, Dad."
Oswald shook his head, started to say something, then took a deep breath. "You know what? I think I'm going to let you do it..."
"Yaay!" cheered Zigger, hopping out of his seat and prancing around the table.
"... With a couple of conditions," his father continued.
"First, if you get accepted to Harevard and if they agree to hold a place for you while you complete one tour of duty in the Legion. If you still want to stay in the Legion after that, I guess there's not much I can do for you."
"I'll accept those conditions, Dad," said Zigger, pausing in his celebratory dance. "They don't matter, anyhow. All I've ever wanted is to join the Legion."
"There's an old saying," said Zigger's mother. "'Be careful what you wish for-you just might get it.' I hope the Legion is everything you want it to be. And if not, there's always Harevard."
But Zigger wasn't listening anymore.
"Sergeant Brandy, may I ask a question?"
It took all of Brandy's self-control not to permit herself a deep sigh. "What is it, Mahatma?" she asked: She knew even before she heard the question that it was going to take all her resources to come up with an answer. Mahatma could twist almost anything she said into a refutation of all the discipline and authority the Legion depended on: But that was just part of a day's work for the Top Sergeant of Omega Company.
"We have been on Zenobia nearly six months," said the young legionnaire, smiling beatifically-it was his invariable expression. If she hadn't known better, Brandy would have assumed Mahatma was on some kind of meds, legal or otherwise. (In this outfit, it was most likely otherwise.) Brandy waited for Mahatma; he hadn't asked any question yet, so she knew he wasn't done. The silence lingered.
Finally, as the rest of the training squad fidgeted, she said, as calmly as she could manage, "That's right, Mahatma. We've been here six months." Sometimes she thought half that time had been spent with her answering Mahatma's questions, but she carried on with only a hint of impatience. "Now, what was your question?"
Mahatma's smile never wavered. "When we had finished our job on Landoor, we were Sent to this planet. You told us it was because we had done a good job there." He paused again.
"That's right," said Brandy, not letting the pause stretch out this time. "What did you..."
"Have we not done a good job here?" Mahatma broke in. "Or have we not finished the job we came to do?"
"Neither one," said Brandy. "We came as military advisers to the Zenobians, and we've been able to solve their problems without any fighting at all. That's doing a damned good job, if you want my opinion."
"But we have not been sent to another posting," argued Mahatma. "That must mean the brass don't think we've finished the job."
"Dude's makin' sense," came a voice from the back of the squad before Brandy could answer. She was pretty sure she knew who it was, but she thought she'd be better off dealing directly with Mahatma instead of being drawn off into side issues. At least, unless she, needed to divert everyone's attention from whatever point Mahatma was leading up to. The little legionnaire always had a point usually one that undermined some basic tenet of military doctrine. She still hadn't figured out what he was doing in the military. Luckily for Brandy, most of his points were too subtle for anyone but her and Mahatma to understand.
And she wasn't sure sire always understood them..
"The job isn't over," Brandy conceded. "But that doesn't mean we haven't done well. In fact, if we'd messed up the job, we'd damn well know it by now."
"Db, Sarge..." Another of the training squad had a hand up.
Brandy frowned. She'd hoped the answer she'd given would end the digression and let her get back to the training session. "Yeah, Slayer, what is it?"
"Db, if we were doin' so well, why did headquarters send that Major Botchup to take over the company?"
"Headquarters usually doesn't know squat about conditions in the field," said Brandy. "You all saw how out of touch the major was when he finally got here. Things didn't get straightened out until the captain came back from his trip to the Zenobian capital. And did you notice they haven't tried replacing the major. In fact, rumor has it, the captain's in for a promotion. If that doesn't mean we're doing things right, I don't know what does."
"Hey, yeah, that makes sense," said Slayer. The rest of the squad murmured its agreement, and Brandy relaxed.
Now she had a chance to regain control of the exercise. If only Mahatma didn't start up again.
"All right, people," she said. "Today we're going to talk about desert survival techniques. What's the first thing you need if you get stranded away from the camp?"
"Weapons;" said one voice.
"Nah, you need shelter;" said another.
"A map," said a third.
"That's all good stuff to have," said Brandy. "But none of it's going to do you much good without a supply of safe drinking water. I'm going to show you some ways to find water out in the desert..." From that point, the exercise went ahead as planned. By the end of the morning session, Brandy was actually pleased with the legionnaires' progress. Even Mahatma managed to keep from asking any more irrelevant questions. Not that she expected that to last long.