"A friend of death, a brother of luck and a son of a bitch!"
You wanted to see me, Colonel? Col. Quaritch:
( while bench pressing
) This low gravity'll make you soft. You get soft, (racks weights) Pandora will shit you out dead with zero warning.
The trouble with the Colonel, you see, was that he'd been spoiled by success. Whether it was taking and holding a position in war, or thrashing all opposition at football, or looking better than anyone else on ceremonial parades, or even a question of the battalion's children topping the prize-list at the garrison school, he expected no less than total triumph. And perhaps because he so trustingly expected it, he usually got it—and a trifle over. It was a subtle kind of blackmail, in a way, and that crafty old soldier knew just how to operate it. Leadership they call it.