“It’s a training camp,” Leo realized. He looked at Aphros in awe. “You train heroes, the same way Chiron does?”Aphros nodded, a glint of pride in his eyes. “We have trained all the famous mer-heroes! Name a merhero, and we have trained him or her!”“Oh, sure,” Leo said. “Like…um, the Little Mermaid?”

“Aphros nodded, a glint of pride in his eyes. “We have trained all the famous mer-heroes! Name a famous mer-hero, and we have trained him or her!”“Oh, sure,” Leo said. “Like…um, the Little Mermaid?”Aphros frowned. “Who? No! Like Triton, Glaucus, Weissmuller, and Bill!”“Oh. ”Leo had no idea who any of those people were. “You trained Bill? Impressive.”

“Even his hair was bigger—a massive globe of blue-black frizz so thick that hislobster-claw horns appeared to be drowning as they tried to swim their way to the surface.“Is that why they named you Aphros?” Leo asked as they glided down the path from the cave. “Because of the Afro?”Aphros scowled. “What do you mean?”“Nothing,” Leo said quickly.”

“We have trained them to think of the Future as a promised land which favored heroes attain-not as something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is.”

“The idea...that our professional military men and women train for years without knowing whether they will ever have to actually carry out their missions to the fullest extent of their abilities is the very heart of what service is all about. Heroes aren't designated in advance. Everyone must always be ready to execute.In my experience, it's always the greatest heroes who claim they never did anything beyond what any of their buddies would have done in the same situation. Our training and our culture breed that response into us all, no matter what war we were part of. You train yourself to a standard and thereby make yourself interchangeable with others who share the same standard. And that gives everyone an equal claim to the pride that goes with having served your country.”

“Displaced Person’s SongIf you see a train this evening,Far away, against the sky,Lie down in your woolen blanket,Sleep and let the train go by.Trains have called us, every midnight,From a thousand miles away,Trains that pass through empty cities,Trains that have no place to stay.No one drives the locomotive,No one tends the staring light,Trains have never needed riders,Trains belong to bitter night.Railway stations stand deserted,Rights-of-way lie clear and cold,What we left them, trains inherit,Trains go on, and we grow old.Let them cry like cheated lovers,Let their cries find only wind,Trains are meant for night and ruin,And we are meant for song and sin.”