DA CAPO-II

The End of an Era

                        25 September 1916 Greg.

Dear Laz-Lor,

            This is the second of many letters I will attempt to send, using all the Delay Mail drops Justin suggested-three law firms, Chase National Bank, a time capsule to be forwarded with instructions to a Dr. Gordon Hardy via W. W. Smith via a safe-deposit box (unreliable coot, that Smith; he'll probably open it and thereby destroy it-although I don't recall it, either way), and all the other dodges I memorized, If I can get just one into the Archives just before the Diaspora, it should be delivered when you ask for it, late in Greg. 4291 by the schedule we worked out.

            With luck, you will receive dozens of letters all at the same time. Arranged by dates, they should constitute a record of the, next ten years. There may be gaps in the account (letters that failed to get through)-if so, I'll fill those gaps (after you pick me up) by dictating to Athene, to keep my promise to Justin and to Galahad for a full report. Me, I'll be satisfied if just one gets through-and tell Athene to keep working on that notion of time-capsule-cum-Delay-Mail for still earlier centuries; there ought to be some way to make it foolproof.

            I'll be using a wide variety of addressees-plus a wrinkle I thought up. I'm going to send a letter in the usual multiple covers to the Executive Computer, Secundus, Year 2000 Diaspora, to be opened by and read by the computer (untouched by human hands!) with a program to hold the message and deliver it to the Colony Leader, Tertius, the day after we left.

            I don't believe in paradoxes. Either Minerva got that message before you were born, and filed it in dead storage, and passed it on to Athene, and now (your now) Ira has it and has passed it to you two-or it failed to get through at all. No anomaly, no paradox-either total successor total failure. I got the idea from the fact that the executive computer opens and reads and acts on endless written messages without referring them to the Chairman Pro Tern or to any human unless necessary.

            Basic Message: (This was in my first note and will be in every letter.) I made an error in calibration and arrived three years early. This is not Dora's fault, and be sure to tell her I said so before you tell her what happened. Reassure her. Despite her tomboy rowdiness, she is very vulnerable and must not be hurt. If I had given her sufficiently accurate figures, she would have hit any split second I asked for; of this I am certain.

            Basic rendezvous time and place remains ten (10) T-years after you dropped me and at meteor-impact crater in Arizona, other rendezvous times & places figured from basic as before.) My error changes the Gregorian date of rendezvous to 2 August 1926-but still ten T-years after drop, as planned.

            If Dora will worry less if she finds the error in the data I gave her, here are time marks she can rely on: Gregorian dates of total eclipses by Luna of Sol with respect to Terra between Gregorian 2 Aug 1916 and 2 Aug 1926.

1918 June 8            1923 September 10

1919 May 29            1925 January 24

1922 September 21            1926 January 14

            If Dora wants to be still fussier, she can get any ancient Solar System date from Athene she wants; the Great Library at New Rome perpetuated endless stuff of that sort. But Dora has in her own gizzards everything she really needs.

            Recapitulation:

            1.            Pick me up ten T-years after you dropped me.

            2.            I'm three years early-my error, not Dora's.

            3.            I'm tine, healthy, safe, holding, miss my darlings, and send love to all of you.

            Now the hairy & scary adventures of a time-traveler- To begin with, they have been neither hairy nor scary, I've been careful to attract no attention, as retiring as a mouse at a cat show. Whenever the locals rub blue mud in their navels, I rub blue mud in mine just as solemnly.

            I agree with the politics of anyone who speaks to me, attend the church he does-while sheepishly admitting that I've missed lately-I listen instead of talking (difficult as you may find that to believe), and I never talk back. If someone tries to rob me, I will not kill him or even break his arms; I'll shut up and let him have all he can find on me. My fixed purpose is to be on the lip of that crater in Arizona ten years from now; I shan't let anything jeopardize keeping our date. I am not here to reform this world; I am simply revisiting the scenes of my childhood.

            It has been easier than I expected. Accent gave me some trouble at first. But I listened and now speak as harsh a Cornbelt accent as I did as a youngster. It is amazing how things have come back. I confirm from experience the theory that childhood memories are permanent, even though one may "forget" them until restimulated. I left this city when I was younger than you two are; I have been on more than two hundred planets since then, I have forgotten most of them.

            But I find that I know this city.

            Some changes...but changes in the other entropy direction; I am now seeing it as it was when I was four T-years old. I am four years old elsewhere in this city. I have avoided that neighborhood and have not yet tried to see my first family-the idea makes me a bit uneasy. Oh, I shall, before I leave to travel around the country; I'm not afraid of being recognized by them. Impossible!

            I look like a young man and much-I think-as I looked when I was in fact a young man. But no one here has ever seen what that four-year-old will look like when he grows up. My only hazard would lie in trying to tell the truth. Not that I would be believed-no one here believes even in space travel, much less time travel-but because I would risk being locked up as "crazy"-a nonscientific term meaning that the person to whom one applies that label has a world picture differing from the accepted one.

            Kansas City in 1916- You put me down in a meadow; I climbed the fence and walked to the nearest town. No one noticed us-tell Dora that she did it slick as a pickpocket. The town was pleasant, the people friendly; I stayed a day to get reoriented, then moved on to a larger town, did the same there and got clothes to change me from a farm worker into someone who would not be conspicuous in a city. (You dears, who never wear clothes when you don't need them-except festive occasions-would have trouble believing how status here-&-now is shown by clothes. Far more so than in New Rome-here one can look at a person and tell age, sex, social status, economic status, probable occupation, approximate education, and many other things, just by clothing. These people even swim with clothes on-I am not farcing; ask Athene. My dears, they sleep in clothes.)

            I took a railroad train to Kansas City. Ask Athene to display a picture of one from this era. This culture is prototechnical, just beginning to shift from human muscle power and animal power to generated power. Such as there is originates from burning natural fuels or from wind or waterfall. Some of this is converted into primitive electrical power, but this railroad train was propelled by burning coal to produce expanding steam.

            Atomic power is not even a theory; it is a fancy of dreamers, taken less seriously than "Santa Claus." As for the method for moving the Dora, no one has the slightest notion that there is any way of grasping the fabric of space-time. (I could be wrong. The many tales of UFO's and of strange visitors, throughout all ages, suggest that I am not the first time-tripper by thousands, or millions. But perhaps most of them are as reluctant to disturb the "native savages" as I am.)

            On arrival in Kansas City I took lodging at a religious hilton. If you received my arrival note, it was on stationery bearing its emblem. (I hope that note is the last I will have to entrust to paper and ink-but it took time to arrange for photoreduction and etching. The technology and materials available here-&-now are very primitive, even when I have privacy to use other techniques.)

            As a temporary base this religious hilton offers advantages. It is cheap, and I have not yet had time to acquire all the local money I will need. It is clean and safe compared with commercial hiltons costing the same. It is near the business district. It offers all that I now need and no more. And it is monastic.

            "Monastic"? Don't look surprised, my loves. I expect to remain celibate throughout these ten years, while dreaming happy fantasies of all my darlings, so many years & light-years away.

            Why? The local mores- Here the coupling of male and female is forbidden by law unless specifically licensed by the state in a binding monogamy with endless legal, social, and economic consequences.

            Such laws are made to be broken-and are. About three squares or a few hundred meters from this monastic hilton, the "Y.M.C.A.," starts the "red-light" district, an area devoted to illicit but tolerated female prostitution- and the fees are low. No, I am not too lazy to walk that far; I've talked to some of these women-they "walk a beat" offering their services to men on the street. But, my dears, these women are not recognized artists, proud of their great vocation. Oh, dear, no! They are pathetic drabs, furtive and ashamed. They are at the bottom of the social pyramid, and many (most?) are in thrall to males who take their meager earnings.

            I do not think there is a Tamara, or even a pseudoTamara, in all of Kansas City. Outside the 'red-light' district there are younger and prettier women available for higher fees and by more complex arrangements-but their status is still zero. No proud and happy artists. So they are no temptation; I would not be able to put out of my mind the gruesome fashion in which they are mistreated under local laws and customs.

            (I tipped those I talked to; time is money to them.)

            Then there are women who are not of the profession.

            From my earlier life here I know that a high percentage of both "single" women and "married" women (a sharp dichotomy, much sharper than on Tertius or even Secundus)-many of these will chance unlicensed coupling for fun, adventure, love, or other reasons. Most women here are thus available sometimes and with some men-although not with all men nor all the time; here-&-now the sport is necessarily clandestine.

            Nor do I lack confidence, nor have I contracted the local "moral" attitude.

            But the answer is again No. Why?

            First reason: It is all too likely to get one's arse shot off!

            No joke, dears. Here-&-now almost every female is quasi-property of some male. Husband, father, sweetheart, betrothed-someone, If he catches you, he may kill you-and public opinion is such that he is unlikely to he punished. But if you kill him...you hang by the neck until dead, dead, dead!

            It seems an excessive price. I don't plan to risk it.

            There are a small but appreciable number of females who are not "property" of some male-so what's holding you back, Lazarus?

            The overhead, for one thing. (Better not tell Galahad this; it would break his heart.) Negotiations are usually long, complex, and very expensive-and she is likely to regard "success" as equivalent to a proposal of lifetime contract.

            On top of that she is quite likely to become pregnant. I should have asked Ishtar to offset my fertility for this trip. (I am terribly glad I did not.) (And I am honing for you darlings, my other selves-and thank, you endlessly for kicking my feet out from under me. I couldn't initiate it, dearly as I wanted to!)

            Laz and Lor, believe this: Mature females here do not know when they are fertile. They rely either on luck or on contraceptive methods that range from chancy to worthless. Furthermore, they can't find out even from their therapists-who don't know much about it themselves. (There are no geneticists.) Therapy is very primitive in 1916. Most physicians are trying hard, I think, but the art is barely out of the witch-doctor stage. Just rough surgery and a few drugs-most of which I know to be useless or harmful. As for contraception-hold on tight!-it is forbidden by law.

            Another law made to be broken-and is. But law and customs retard progress in such matters. At present (1916) the commonest method involves an elastomer sheath worn by the male-in other words they "couple" without touching. Stop screaming; you'll never have to put up with it. But it is as bad as it sounds.

I've saved my strongest reason for the last. Dears, I've been spoiled. In 1916 a bath once a week is considered enough by most people, too much by some. Other habits match. Such things when unavoidable can be ignored. I'm well aware that I whiff like an old billy goat in very short order myself. Nevertheless, when I have enjoyed the company of six of the daintiest darlings in the Galaxy-welt, I'd rather wait. Shucks, ten years isn't long.

            If you have received any of the letters I will send over the next ten years, then you may have rushed to check tip on Gregorian 1916-1919. I selected 1919-1929 both to savor it-a vintage decade, the very last happy period in old Earth's history-but also to avoid the first of the Terran Planetary Wars, the one known now (it has already started) as "The European War," then will be called "The World War," then still later "The First World War," and designated in most ancient histories as "Phase One of the First Terran Planetary War."

            Don't fret; I'm going to give it a wide berth. This involves changes in my travel plans but none in the 1926 pickup. I have little memory of this war; I was too young. But I recall (probably from school lessons rather than from direct memory) that this country got into it in 1917, and that the war ended the following year-and that date I remember exactly, as it was my sixth birthday and I thought the noise and celebration was for me.

            What I can't remember is the exact date this country entered the war. I may not have looked it up in planning this junket; my purpose was to arrive after 11 November 1918, the day the war ended, and I allowed what I thought was a comfortable margin. I was fitting in those ten years most carefully, as the following ten years, 1929-1939, are decidedly not a vintage decade-and they end with the start of Phase Two of the First Terran Planetary War.

            There is no possible way for me to look up that date- but I find one bright clue in my memory: a phrase "The Guns of August." That phrase has a sharp association in my memory with this war-and it fits, for I remember that it was warm, summery weather (August is summer here) when Cramp (your maternal grandfather, dears) took me out into the backyard and explained to me what "war" is and why we must win.

            I don't think he made me understand it-but I remember the occasion, I remember his serious manner, I remember the weather (warm), and the time of day (just before supper).

            Very well, I'll expect this country to declare war next August; I'll duck for cover in July-for I have no interest in this war. I know which side won (the side this country will be on) but I know also that "The War to End All Wars" (it was called that!) was a disastrous defeat both for "victors" and "vanquished"-it led inevitably to the Great Collapse and caused me to get' off this planet. Nothing I can do will change any of that; there -are no paradoxes.

            So I will hole up till it's over. Almost every nation on Terra eventually picked sides-but many did no fighting, and the war did not get close to them, especially nations south of here, Central and South America, so that is probably where I will go.

            But I have almost a year to plan it. It is easy here to be anything you claim to be-no identification cards, no computer codes, no thumbprints, no tax numbers. Mind you, this planet now has as many people as Secundus has (will have-your "now")-yet births are not even registered in much of this country (mine was not, other than with the Families), and a man is whoever he says he is! There are no formalities about leaving this country. It is slightly more difficult to get back in, but I have endless time to cope with that.

            But I should, through ordinary prudence, go away for the duration of this war. Why? Conscription, I'm durned if I'll try to explain that term to girls who just barely know what a war is, but it means "slave- armies"-and it means to me that I should have asked Isistar to make me look at least twice the apparent age I look now. If I hang around here too long, I risk becoming an involuntary "hero" in a war that was over before I was old enough to go to school.

            This strikes me as ridiculous.

            So I'll concentrate on accumulating money to carry me a couple of years-convert that into gold (about eight kilos, not too heavy)-then the first of next July, move south. A mild problem then, as this country is conducting a small-scale border war with the one just south of it. (Going north is out of the question; that country is already in the big war.) The ocean to the east has underwater warships in it; these tend to shoot at anything that floats. But the ocean on the other side is free of such vermin. If I take a ship going south from a seaport on the west side of this country, I'll wind up outside the fighting zones. In the meantime I must improve my Spanish- much like Galacta but prettier. I'll find a tutor-no, Laz, not a horizontal one. Don't you ever think about anything else?

            (Come to think of it, dear, what else is worth thinking about? Money?)

            Yes, money, at the moment, and I have plans for that. The country is about to elect a chief of goverilment-and I am the only man on Terra who knows who will be elected. Why did it stick in my memory? Take a look at my registered Families' name.

            So my pressing problem is to lay hands on money to bet on that election. What I win I'll use to gamble in the bourse-except that it won't be gambling, as this country is already in a war economy and I know it will continue.

            I wish I could accept bets on the election instead of placing them-but that is too risky to my skin; I don't have the right political connections.

            You see- No, I had better explain how this city is organized.

            Kansas City is a pleasant place. It has tree-shaded streets, lovely residential neighborhoods, a boulevard and park system known throughout the planet. Its excellent paving encourages the automobile carriages that are beginning to be popular. Most of this country is still deep in mud; Kansas City's well-paved streets have more of these autopropelled vehicles than horse-drawn ones.

            The city is prosperous, being the second largest market and transportation center of the most productive agricultural area on Ierra-grain, beef, pork. The unsightly aspects of this trade are down in river bottoms while the citizens live in beautiful wooded hills. On a damp morning when the wind sets from that quarter one sometimes catches a whiff of stockyards; otherwise the air is clear and clean and beautiful.

            It is a quiet city. Traffic is never dense, and the clopclop of horses' hooves or the warning gong of an electrically propelled street-railroad car is just enough to accent the silence-the sounds of children at play are louder.

            Galahad is more interested in how a culture uses its leisure than in its economics-and so am I, as scratching a living is controlled by circumstances. But not play. By play I do not mean sex. Sex can't take up too much time of humans matured beyond adolescence (except a few oddies like the fabled Casanova-and Galahad of course-'Me 'at's off to the Dyuke!').

            In 1916 (nothing I say necessarily applies ten years later and certainly not one hundred years later; this is the very end of an era)-at this time the typical Kansas Citian makes his own play; his social events are associated with churches, or with relatives by blood and marriage, or both-dining, picnicking, playing games (not gambling), or simply visiting and talking. Most of this costs little or nothing except the expense of supporting their churches-which are social clubs as much as they are temples of religious faith.

            The major commercial entertainment is called "moving pictures"-dramatic shows presented as silent black-and-white shadow pictures flickering against a blank wall. These are quite new, very popular, and very cheap-they are called "nickel-shows" after the minor coin charged as a fee. Each neighborhood (defined as walking distance) has at least one such theater. This form of entertainment, and its technological derivatives, eventually had (will have) as much to do with the destruction of this social pattern as the automobile carriages (get Galahad's opinions on this), but-in 1916-neither has as yet disturbed what appears to be a stable and rather Utopian pattern.

            Anomie has not yet set in, the norms are strong, customs 'are binding, and no one here-&-now would believe that the occasional rumble is Cheyne-Stokes breathing of a culture about to die. Literacy is at the highest level this culture will ever attain-my dears, the people of 1916 simply would not believe 2016. They won't even believe that they are about to be enmeshed in the first of the Final Wars; that is why the man for whom I am named is about to be reelected. "We Are Neutral." "Too Proud to Fight." "He Kept Us Out of War." Under these slogans they are marching over the precipice, not knowing it is there. (I'm depressing myself-hindsight is a vice . . especially when it is foresight.)

            Now let's look at the underside of this lovely city:

            The city is a nominal democracy. In fact it is nothing of the sort. It is governed by one politician who holds no office. Elections are solemn rituals-and the outcomes are what he ordains. The streets are beautifully paved because his companies pave them-to his profit. The schools are excellent, and they actually teach-because this monarch wants it that way. He is pragmatically benign and does not overreach. "Crime" (which means anything illegal and includes both prostitution and gambling) is franchised through his lieutenants; he never touches it himself.

            Much of this crime-by-definition is handled by an organization sometimes called "The Black Hand"-but in 1916 it usually has no name and is never seen. But it is why I don't dare accept election bets; I would be encroaching on a monopoly of one of this politician's lieutenants-which would be very dangerous to my health.

            Instead, I'll bet by the local rules and keep my mouth shut.

            The "respectable" citizen, with his pleasant home and garden and church and happy children, sees none of this and (I think) suspects little of it and thinks about it less.

            The city is divided into zones with firm though unmarked bounds. The descendants of former slaves live in a zone that forms a buffer between the "nice" part of town and the area dominated by and lived in by the franchised monopolists of such things as gambling and prostitution. At night the zones mix only under unspoken conventions. In the daytime there is nothing to notice. The boss, maintains tight discipline but keeps it simple. I've heard that he has only three unbreakable rules: Keep the streets well paved. Don't touch the schools. Don't kill anyone south of a certain street.

            In 1916 it works just fine-but not much longer. I must stop; I have an appointment at K.C. Photo Supply Company to use a lab-in private. Then I must get back to the grift: separating people from dollars painlessly and fairly legally.

            Love forever and all the way back,

                                                                        L

            P.S. You should see me in a derby hat!

DA CAPO-III

            Maureen

            Mr. Theodore Bronson né Woodrow Wilson Smith aka Lazarus Long left his apartment on Armour Boulevard and drove his car, a Ford landaulet, to a corner on Thirty-first Street, where he parked it in a shed behind a pawnshop-as he took a dim view of leaving an automobile on the Street at night. Not that the car had cost Lazarus much; he had acquired it as a result of the belief of an optimist from Denver that aces back to back plus a pair showing could certainly beat a pair of jacks-Mr. "Jenkins" must be bluffing. But Mr. "Jenkins" had a jack in the hole.

            It had been a profitable winter, and Lazarus expected a still more prosperous spring. His guess about a war market on certain stocks and commodities had usually been correct, and his spread of investments was wide enough that a wrong guess did not hurt him much as most of his guesses were right- they could hardly be wrong since he had anticipated stepped-up submarine warfare, knowing what would eventually bring this country into the war in Europe.

            Watching the market left him time for other "investments" in other people's optimism, sometimes at pool, sometimes at cards. He enjoyed pool more, found cards more rewarding. All winter he had played both, and his plain and rather friendly face, when decorated with his best stupid look, marked him as a natural sucker-a look he enhanced by dressing as a hayseed come to town.

            Lazarus did not mind other pool-hall hustlers, or "mechanics" in card games, or "reader" cards; he simply kept quiet and accepted any buildup winnings offered him, then "lost his nerve" and dropped out before the kill. He enjoyed these crooked games; it was easier-and pleasanter-to take money from a thief than it was to play an honest game to win, and it did not cost as much sleep; he always dropped out of a crooked game early, even when he was behind. But his timing was rarely that bad.

            Winnings he reinvested in the market.

            All winter he had stayed "'Red' Jenkins," living at the Y.M.C.A. and spending almost nothing. When the weather was very bad, he stayed in and read, avoiding the steep and icy streets. He had forgotten how harsh a Kansas City winter could be. Once he saw a team of big horses trying gallantly to haul a heavy truck up the steep pitch of Tenth Street above Grand Avenue. The off horse slipped on the ice and broke a leg-Lazarus heard the cannon bone pop. It made him feel sick, and he wanted to horsewhip the teamster-why hadn't the fool taken the long way around?

            Such days were best spent in his room or in the Main Public Library near the Y.M.C.A.-hundreds of thousands of real books, bound books he could hold in his hands.. They tempted him almost into neglecting his pursuit of money. During that cruel winter he spent every spare hour there, getting reacquainted with his oldest friends-Mark Twain with Dan Beard's illustrations, Dr. Conan Doyle, the Marvelous Land of Oz as described by the Royal Historian and portrayed in color by John R. Neil, Rudyard Kipling, Herbert George Wells, Jules Verne- Lazarus felt that he could easily spend all the coming ten years in that wonderful building.

            But when false spring arrived, he started thinking about moving out of the business district and again changing his persona. It was becoming difficult to get picked as a sucker either at pool or at poker; his investment program was complete; he had enough cash in Fidelity Savings & Trust Bank to allow him to give up the austerity of the Y.M.C.A., find a better address, and show a more prosperous face to the world-essential to his final purpose in this city: remeeting his first family-and not much time left before his July deadline.

            Acquiring a presentable motorcar crystallized his plans. He spent the next day becoming "Theodore Bronson": moved his bank account one street over to the Missouri Savings Bank, and held out ample cash; visited a barber and had his hair and mustache restyled; went to Browning, King & Co., and bought clothing suitable to a conservative young businessman. Then he drove south and cruised Linwood Boulevard, watching for "Vacancy" signs. His requirements were simple: a furnished apartment with a respectable address and facade, its own kitchen and bathroom-and in walking distance of a pool hall on Thirty-first Street.

            He did not plan to hustle in that pool hall; it was one of two places where he hoped to meet a member of his first family. Lazarus found what he needed, but on Armour Boulevard rather than Linwood and rather far from that pool hall. This caused him to rent two garaging spaces-difficult, as Kansas City was not yet accustomed to supplying housing for automobiles. But two dollars a month got him space in a barn close to his apartment; three dollars a month got him a shed behind the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlour.

            He started a routine: Spend each evening from eight to ten at the pool hall, attend the church on Linwood Boulevard that his family had attended (did attend), go downtown mornings when business required-by streetcar; Lazarus considered an automobile a nuisance in downtown Kansas City, and he enjoyed riding streetcars. He began profit-taking on his investments, coverting the proceeds into gold double eagles and saving them in a lockbox in a third bank, the Commonwealth. He expected to complete liquidation, with enough gold to carry him through November 11, 1918, well before his July departure date.

            In his spare time he kept the landaulet shining, took care of its upkeep himself, and drove it for pleasure. He also worked slowly, carefully, and very privately on a tailoring job: making a chamois-skin vest that was nothing but pockets, each to hold one $20 gold piece. When completed and filled and pockets sewed shut, he planned to cover it, inside and out, with a suit vest he had used as a pattern. It would be much too warm, but a money belt was not enough for that much gold-and money that clinked instead of rustling was the only sort he was certain he could use outside the country in wartime. Besides, when filled it would be almost a bulletproof vest- one never knew what lay around the next corner, and those Latin-American countries were volatile.

            Each Saturday afternoon he took conversational Spanish from a Westport High School teacher who lived nearby. All in all he kept pleasantly busy and on schedule.

*

            That evening after locking his Ford landaulet into the shed back of the pawnshop, Lazarus glanced into a bierstube adjoining it, thinking that his grandfather might have a stein of Muehiebach there before going home. The problem of bow to meet his first family easily and naturally had occupied his mind from time to time all winter. He wanted 'to be accepted as a friend in their (his!) home, but he could not walk up the front steps, twist the doorbell, and announce himself as a long-lost cousin-nor even as a friend of a friend from Paducah. He had no connections with which to swing it, and if he tried a complex lie, he was certain his grandfather would spot it.

            Thus he had decided on a pianissimo double approach: the church attended by his family (except his grandfather) and the hangout his grandfather used when he wanted to get away from his daughter's family.

Lazarus was sure of the church-and his memory was confirmed the first Sunday he had gene there, with a shock that had upset him even more than the shock of learning that he was three years early.

            He saw his mother and had momentarily mistaken her for one of his twin sisters.

            But almost instantly he realized why: Maureen Johnson Smith was the genetic mother of his identicals as certainly as she was his own mother. Nevertheless, it had shaken him, and he was glad to have several hymns and a long sermon in which to calm down. He avoided looking at her and spent the time trying to sort out his brothers and sisters.

            Twice since then he had seen his mother at church and now could look at her without flinching and could even see that this pretty young matron was compatible with his faded image of what his mother ought to look like. But he still felt that he would never have recognized her had it not been for his sharp recollection of Lapis Lazuli and Lorelei Lee. He had illogically expected a much older woman, more as she had been when he left home.

            Attending church had not resulted in his meeting her, or his siblings, although the pastor had introduced him to other parishioners. But he continued to drive his automobile to church against the day when it might be polite to offer her and his siblings a ride home-six blocks over on Benton Boulevard; the spring weather would not always be dry.

            He had not been as certain of his grandfather's hangout. He was sure that this was where "Gramp" used to go ten or twelve years later-but did he go here when Woodie Smith was (is) not yet five?

            Having checked the German beer parlor-and noted that it had suddenly changed its name to "The Swiss Garden"-he went into the pool hall. Pool tables were all in use; he went back to the rear, where there was one billiard table, a card table, and one for chess or checkers; no pool game being available, it seemed a good time to practice some "mistakes" at three-cushion.

            Gramp! His grandfather was alone at the chess table; Lazarus recognized him at once.

            Lazarus did not break stride. He went on toward the cue rack, hesitated as he was about to pass the chess table, looked down at the array. Ira Johnson looked up-seemed to recognize Lazarus, seemed about to speak and then to think better of it.

            "Excuse me," said Lazarus. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

            "No harm," said' the old man. (How old? To Lazarus he seemed both older and younger than he ought to be. And smaller. When was he born? Almost ten years before the Civil War.) "Just fiddling with a chess problem."

            "How many moves to mate?"

            "You play?"

            "Some." Lazarus added, "My grandfather taught me. But I haven't played lately."

            "Care for a game?"

            "If you want to put up with a rusty player."

            Ira Johnson picked up a white pawn and a black, put them behind his back, brought them out in his fists. Lazarus pointed, found that he had chosen the black.

            Gramp started setting up pieces. "My name is Johnson," he offered.

            "I'm Ted Bronsón, sir."

            They shook hands; Ira Johnson advanced his king's pawn to four; Lazarus answered in kind.

            They played silently. By the sixth move Lazarus suspected that his grandfather was re-creating one of Steinitz's master games; by the ninth he was sure of it. Should he use the escape Dora had discovered? No that would feel like cheating-of course a computer could play better chess than I man. He concentrated on playing as well as possible without attempting Dora's subtle variation.

            Lazarus was checkmated on white's twenty-ninth move, and it seemed to him that the master game had been perfectly reproduced-Wilhelm Steinitz against some Russian, what was his name? Must ask Dora. He waved to a marker, started to pay for the game; his grandfather pushed his coin aside, insisted on paying for the use of the table, and added to the marker, "Son, fetch us two sarsaparillas. That suit you, Mr. Bronson? Or the boy can fetch you a beer from those Huns next door."

            "Sarsaparilla is fine, thank you."

            "Ready for revenge?"

            "After I catch my breath. You play a tough game, Mr. Johnson."

            "Mrrrmph! You said you were rusty."

            "I am. But my grandfather taught me when I was very young, then played me every day for years."

            "Do tell. I've a grandson I play. Tyke isn't in school yet, but I spot him only a horse."

            "Maybe he would play me. Even."

            "Mrrmph. You'll allow him a knight, same as I do." Mr. Johnson paid for -the drinks, tipped the boy a nickel. "What business are you in, Mr. Bronson?-if you don't mind my asking."

            "Not at all. In business for myself. Buy things, sell things. Make a little, lose a little."

            "So? When are you going to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge?"

            "Sorry, sir, I unloaded that last week. But I can offer you a bargain in Spanish Prisoners."

            Mr. Johnson smiled sourly. "Guess that'll teach me."

            "But, Mr. Johnson, if I told you I was a pool-hall hustler, you wouldn't let me play chess with your grandson."

            "Might, might not. Shall we get set up? Your turn for white."

            With the first move allowing him to control the pace. Lazarus made a slow, careful buildup of his attack. His grandfather was equally careful, left no openings in his defense. They were so evenly matched that it took Lazarus forty-one moves and much skull sweat to turn his first-move advantage into a mate.

            "Play off the tie?"

            Ira Johnson shook his head. "Two games a night is my limit. Two like that is over my limit. Thank you, sir; you play a fine game. For a man who is 'rusty." He pushed back his chair. "Time for me to head for the stable."

            "It's raining."

            "So I noticed, I'll stand in the doorway and watch for the Thirty-first Street trolley."

            "I have my automobile here. I'd be honored to run you home."

            "Eh? No need to. Only a block from the car line at the other end, and if I get a little damp, I'll be home and can get dry."

            (More like four blocks and you'll be soaked, Gramp.) "Mr. Johnson, I'm going to crank up that flivver anyhow, to go home myself. It's no trouble to drop you anywhere; I like to drive. In about three minutes I'll pull up in front and honk. If you're there, fine. If you aren't, I'll assume that you prefer not to accept rides from strangers, and will take no offense."

            "Don't be touchy. Where's your automobile? I'll come with you."

            "No, please. No need for us both to go out in the rain for a one-man job. I'll slide out the back through the alley, then I'll be at the curb almost before you reach the front door." (Lazarus decided to be stubborn; Gramp could smell a mouse farther than a cat could-and would wonder why "Ted Bronson" kept a garage at hand when he claimed to live a driving distance away. Bad. How are you going to handle this, Bub? You've got to tell Gramp a passel of lies or you'll never get inside that house-your own home!-to meet the rest of your family. But complexity is contrary to the basic principle of successful lying, and Gramp is the very man who taught you that. Yet the truth could not serve and keeping silent was just as useless. How are you going to solve this? When Gramp is as suspicious as you are and twice as shrewd.)

            Ira Johnson stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Bronson; I'll be at the front door."

            By the time Lazarus had his landaulet cranked, he had settled on tactics and outlined a long-range policy: (a) Drive around the block; this wagon should be wet; (b) don't use this shed again; better to have this puddle jumper stolen than to leave a hole in your cover story; (c) when you surrender the shed, see if "Uncle" Dattelbaum has an old set of chessmen; (d) make your lies fit what you've said, including that too-hasty truth about who taught yot~ to play chess; (e) tell as much truth as possible even if it doesn't sound good-but, damn it, you should be a foundling...and that doesn't fit having a grandfather, unless you invent complexities, any one of which might snap back and catch you out.

            When Lazarus sounded the klaxon, Ira Johnson darted out and- scrambled in. "Where now?" asked Lazarus.

            His grandfather explained how to reach his daughter's home and added, "Pretty ritzy rig to call a 'flivver.'"

            "I got a good price for the Brooklyn Bridge. Should I swing -up to Linwood or follow the car tracks?"

            "Suit yourself. Since you've unloaded the bridge, you might tell me about these 'Spanish Prisoners.' Good investment?"

            Lazarus concentrated a while on getting his vehicle headed down the tracks while avoiding the tracks themselves. "Mr. Johnson, I evaded your question about what I do for a living."

            "Your business."

            "I really have hustled pool."

            "Again, your business."

            "And I ran out and let you pay the table fee a second time, as well as letting you pay for the pop. I did not intend to."

            "So? Thirty cents, plus a nickel tip. Knock off five cents the streetcar would have cost me. That makes your half fifteen cents. If it worries you, drop it in his cup the next time you pass a blind man. I'm getting a chauffeured ride on a wet night. Cheap. This is hardly a jitney bus."

            "Very well, sir. I wanted to get straight with you...because I enjoyed the games and hope to play you again."

            "The pleasure was mutual. I enjoy a game where a man makes me work."

            "Thank you. Now to answer your question properly: Yes, I've hustled pool-in the past. It's not what I do now. I'm in business for myself. Buying things, selling things-but not the Brooklyn Bridge. As for the 'Spanish Prisoner' con, I've had it tried on me. I deal in the commodities market, grain futures and such. I do the same with stock margins. But I won't try to sell you anything, I'm neither a broker nor a bucket-shop operator; instead I deal through established brokers. Oh, yes, one more thing-I don't peddle tips. Give a man what seems to me a good tip-and he loses his shirt and blames me. So I don't."

            "Mr. Bronson, I had no call to ask about your business. That was nosy of me. But it was meant to be a friendly inquiry."

            "I took it as friendly, so I wanted to give it a proper answer."

            "Nosy, just the same. I don't need to know your background."

            "That's just it, Mr. Johnson, I don't have a background. Pool hustler."

            "Not much wrong with that. Pool is an open game, like chess. Difficult to cheat."

            "Well...I do something that you might regard as cheating.

            "Look, son-if you need a father confessor, I can tell you where to find one. I am not one."

            "Sorry."

            "Didn't meant to be blunt. But you do have something on your mind."

            "Uh, nothing much perhaps. It has to do with having no background. None. So I go to church-to meet people. To meet nice people. Respectable people. People a man with no background otherwise could never meet."

            "Mr. Bronson, everybody has some background."

            Lazarus turned down Benton Boulevard before answering. "Not me, sir. Oh, I was born-somewhere. Thanks to the man who let me call him 'Grandfather'-and his wife-I had a pretty good childhood. But they're long gone and-shucks, I don't even know that my name is 'Ted Bronson."

            "Happens. You're an orphan?"

            "I suppose so. And a bastard, probably. Is this the house?' Lazarus stopped one house short of his-their home.

            "Next one, with the porch light on."

            Lazarus eased the car forward, stopped again. "Been nice meeting you, Mr. Johnson."

            "Don't be in a hurry. These people-Bronson?-who took care of you. Where was this?"

            "'Bronson' is a name I picked off a calendar. I thought it sounded better than 'Ted Jones' or 'Ted Smith.' I was probably born in the southern part of the state. But I can't prove even that."

            "So? I practiced medicine down that way at one time. What county?" (I know you did, Gramp-so let's be careful with this one.) "Greene County. I don't mean I was born there; I just mean I was told I came from an orphanage in Springfield."

            "Then I probably didn't deliver you; my practice was farther north. Mrrph. But we might be kinfolk."

            "Huh? I mean 'Excuse me, Dr. Johnson?'"

            "Don't call me 'Doctor,' Ted; I dropped that title when I quit delivering babies. What I mean is this: When I first saw you, you startled me. Because you are the spit 'n'image of my older brother, Edward...who was an engineer on the St. Looie and San Francisco...till he lost his air brakes and that ended his triflin' ways. He had sweethearts in Fort Scott, St. Looie, Wichita, and Memphis; I've no reason to think he neglected Springfield. Could be."

            Lazarus grinned. "Should I call you 'Uncle'?"

            "Suit yourself."

            "Oh, I shan't. Whatever happened, there's no way to prove it. But it would be nice to have a family."

            "Son, quit being self-conscious about it. A country doctor learns that such mishaps are far more common than most people dream. Alexander Hamilton and Leonardo da Vinci are in the same boat with you, to name just two of the many great men entitled to wear the bend sinister. So stand tall and proud and spit in their eyes. I see the parlor light is still burning; what would you say to a cup of coffee?"

            "Oh, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you-or disturb your family."

            "It'll do neither. My daughter always leaves the pot on the back of the range for me. If she happens to be downstairs in a wrapper-unlikely-she'll go flying up the back stairs, then reappear instantly down the front stairs, dressed fit to kill. Like a fire horse when the bell rings; I don't know how she does it. Come on in."

            Ira Johnson unlocked the front door, then called out as he opened it: "Maureen! I have company with me."

            "Coming, Father." Mrs. Smith met them in the hall, moving with serene dignity and dressed as if she expected callers. She smiled, and Lazarus suppressed his excitement.

            "Maureen, I want to present Mr. Theodore Bronson. My daughter, Ted-Mrs., Brian Smith."

            She offered her hand. "You are most welcome, Mr. Bronson," Mrs. Smith said in warm, rich tones that made Lazarus think of Tamara.

            Lazarus took her hand gently, felt his fingers tingle, had to restrain himself from making a deep bow and kissing it. He forced himself to give only a hint of a bow, then let go at once. "I am honored, Mrs. Smith."

            "Do come in and sit down."

            "Thank you, but it's late, and I was merely dropping your father off on my way home."

            "Must you leave so quickly? I was simply darning stockings and reading the 'Ladies' Home Journal'-nothing important."

            "Maureen, I promised Mr. Bronson a cup of coffee. He fetched me home from the chess club and saved me a soaking."

            "Yes, Father, right away. Take his hat and make him sit down." She smiled and left.

            Lazarus let his grandfather seat him in the parlor, then took advantage of the moments his mother was out of sight to quiet down and to glance around. Aside from the fact that the room had shrunk, it looked much as he remembered it; an upright piano she had taught him to play; fireplace with gas logs, mantel shelf with beveled mirror above; a glass-fronted sectional bookcase; heavy drapes and lace curtains; his parent's wedding picture framed with their hearts & flowers marriage license, and balancing this a reproduction of Millet's "Gleaners," and other pictures large and small; a rocking chair, a platform rocker with a footstool, straight chairs, arm chairs, tables, lamps, all crowded and in an easygoing mixture of mission oak and bird's-eye maple. Lazarus felt at home; even the wallpaper seemed familiar-save that he realized uneasily that he had been given his father's chair.

            An archway, filled by a beaded portiere, led into the living room, now dark. Lazarus tried to recall what should be in there and wondered if it would look just as familiar. The parlor was immaculately neat and clean, and kept that way, he knew, despite a large family, by the living room being used mainly by children while this room was reserved for their elders and for guests. How many kids now? Nancy, then Carol, and Brian Junior, and George, and Marie-and himself-and since this was early 1917 Dickie had to be about three, and Ethel would still be in diapers.

            What was that behind his mother's chair? Could it be?- Yes, it's my elephant! Woodie you little devil, you know you aren't supposed to play in here, and everything must go back into your toy box before you go up to bed; that's a flat rule. The toy animal was small (about six inches high), made of stuffed cloth, and gray with much handling; Lazarus felt resentment that such a treasure-his!-was entrusted to a young child...then managed to laugh at himself even though the emotion persisted. He felt tempted to steal the toy. "Excuse me. You were saying, Mr. Johnson?"

            "I said I was temporarily delegated in loco parentis; my son-in-law has gone to Plattsburg and-" Lazarus lost the rest of the remark; Mrs. Smith returned in a soft rustle of satin petticoats, carrying a loaded tray. Lazarus jumped to relieve her of it; she smiled and let him.

            By golly, that was the Haviland china he had not been allowed to touch until after he got his first long pants! And the "company" coffee service-solid silver serving pot, cream pitcher, sugar bowl and tongs, the Columbian Exposition souvenir spoons. Linen doilies, matching tea napkins, thin slices of pound cake, a silver dish of mints-how did you do this in three minutes or less? You're certainly doing the prodigal proud! No, don't be a fool, Lazarus; she's doing her father proud, entertaining his guest-you are a faceless stranger.

            "Children all in bed?" inquired Mr. Johnson.

            "All but Nancy," Mrs. Smith answered, serving them. "She and her young man went to the Isis and should be home soon."

            "Show was over half an hour ago."

            "Is there any harm in their stopping for a sundae? The ice-cream parlor is on a brightly lighted corner right where they catch their streetcar."

            "A young girl shouldn't be out after dark without a chaperon."

            "Father, this is 1917, not 1890. He's a fine boy...and I can't expect them to miss an episode of their serial-Pearl White and very exciting; Nancy tells me all about it. With a William S. Hart feature tonight, I understand; I would have enjoyed seeing that myself."

            "Well, I've still got my shotgun."

            "Father."

            Lazarus concentrated on remembering to eat cake with a fork.

            "She's trying to bring me up," Gramp said grumpily. "Won't work."

            "I'm sure Mr. Bronson is not interested in our family problems," Mrs. Smith said quietly. "If they were problems. Which they are not. May I warm your coffee, Mr. Bronson?"

            "Thank you, ma'am."

            "That's right, he isn't. But Nancy should be told soon. Maureen, take a close look at Ted. Ever seen him before?"

            His mother looked over her cup at Lazarus, put it down and said, "Mr. Bronson, when you came in, I had the oddest feeling. At church, was it not?"

            Lazarus admitted that such could have been the case. Gramp's brows shot up. "So? I must warn the parson. But even if you did meet there-"

            "We did not meet at church, Father. What with herding my zoo I barely have time to speak to Reverend and Mrs. Draper. But now that I think about it, I'm sure I saw Mr. Bronson there last Sunday. One does notice a new face among old familiar ones."

            "Daughter, as may be, that wasn't what I meant. Who does Ted look like? No, never mind-doesn't he look like your Uncle Ned?"

            His mother again looked at Lazarus. "Yes, I see a resemblance. But he looks even more like you, Father."

            "No, Ted's from Springfield. All my sins were farther north."

            "Father."

            "Daughter, quit worrying about me rattling the family skeleton. It's possible that- Ted, may I tell it?"

            "Certainly, Mr. Johnson. As you said, it's nothing to be ashamed of-and I'm not."

            "Ted is an orphan, Maureen, a foundling. If Ned weren't warming his toes in hell, I'd ask him some searching questions. The time and place is right, and Ted certainly looks like our kin."

            "Father, I think you are embarrassing our guest."

            "I don't. And don't you be so hoity-toity, young lady. You're a grown woman, with children; you can stand plain talk."

            "Mrs. Smith, I am not embarrassed. Whoever my parents were, I am proud of them. They gave me a strong, healthy body and a brain that serves my needs-"

            "Well spoken, young man!"

            "-and while I would be proud to claim your father as my uncle-and you as my cousin-if it were so-it seems more likely that my parents were taken by a typhoid epidemic down that way; the dates match well enough."

            Mr. Johnson frowned. "How old are you, Ted?"

            Lazarus though fast and decided to be his mother's age. "I'm thirty-five."

            "Why, that just my age!"

            "Really, Mrs. Smith? If you hadn't made clear that you have a daughter old enough to go to the picture show with a young man, I would have thought you were about eighteen."

            "Oh, go along with you! I have eight children."

            "Impossible!"

            "Maureen doesn't look her age," agreed her father. "Hasn't changed since she was a bride. Runs in the family; her mother doesn't have a gray hair today." (Where is Grandma?-oh, yes, so don't ask.) "But, Ted, you don't look thirty-five either. I would have guessed middle twenties."

            "Well, I don't know exactly how old I am. But I can't be younger than that. I might be a bit older." (Quite a bit, Gramp!) "But it's close enough that when I'm asked I just put down the Fourth of July, 1882."

            "Why that's my birthday!"

            (Yes, Mama, I know.) "Really, Mrs. Smith? I didn't mean to steal your birthday. I'll move over a few days-say the first of July. Since I'm not certain anyhow."

            "Oh, don't do that! Father-you must bring Mr. Bronson home for dinner on our joint birthday."

            "Do you think Brian would like that?"

            "Certainly he would! I'll write to him about it. He'll be home long before then in any case. You know Brian always says, 'The more, the merrier!' We'll be expecting you, Mr. Bronson."

            "Mrs. Smith. that's most kind of you, but I expect to leave on a long business trip on the first of July."

            "I think you have let Father scare you off. Or is it the prospect of eating dinner with eight noisy children? Never mind: my husband will invite you himself-and then we will see what you say."

            "In the meantime, Maureen, stop crowding him; you've got him flustered. Let me see something. You two stand up, side by side. Go ahead, Ted; she won't bite you."

            "Mrs. Smith?"

            She shrugged and dimpled, then accepted his hand to get up out of her rocking chair. "Father always wants to 'see something.'"

            Lazarus stood by her, facing his grandfather, and tried to ignore her fragrance-a touch of toilet water, but mostly the light, warm, delicious scent of sweet and healthy woman. Lazarus was afraid to think about it, was careful not to let it show in his face. But it hit him like a heavy blow.

            "Mrrrph. Both, of you step up to the mantel and look at yourselves, in the glass. Ted, there was no typhoid epidemic down that way in 'eighty-two. Nor 'eighty-three."

            "Really, sir? Of course I can't remember." (And I shouldn't have tossed in that flourish! Sorry, Gramp. Would you believe the truth? You might...out of all the men I've ever known. Don't risk it, Bub, forget it!)

            "Nope. Just the usual number of dumb fools too lazy to build their, privies a proper distance from their wells. Which I feel certain could not describe your parents. Can't guess about your mother, but I think your father died with his hand on the throttle, still trying to gain control. Maureen?"

            Mrs. Smith stared at her reflection and that of their guest. She said slowly, "Father...Mr. Bronson and I look enough alike to be brother and sister."

            "No. First cousins. Although with Ned gone there's no way to prove it. I think-"

            Mr. Johnson was interrupted by a yell from the front staircase landing: "Mama! Gramp! I want to be buttoned up!"

            Ira Johnson answered, "Woodie, you rapscallion, get back upstairs!"

            Instead the child came down-small, male, freckled, and ginger-haired, dressed in Dr. Denton's with the seat flapping behind him. He stared at Lazarus with beady, suspicious eyes. Lazarus felt a shiver run dawn his spine and tried not to look at the child.

            "Who's that?"  

            Mrs. Smith said quickly, "Forgive me, Mr. Bronson." Then she added quietly, "Come here, Woodrow;"

            Her father said, "Don't bother, Maureen. I'll take him up and blister his bottom-then I'll button him."

            "You and what six others?" the boy child demanded.

            "Me, myself, and a baseball bat."

            Mrs. Smith quietly and quickly attended to the child's needs, then hurried him out of the room and headed him up the stairs. She returned and sat down. Her father said, "Maureen, that was just an excuse. Woodie can button himself. And he's too old for that baby outfit. Put him in a nightshirt."

            "Father, shall we discuss it another time?"

            Mr. Johnson shrugged. "I've overstepped again. Ted, that one's the chessplayer. He's a stem-winder. Named for President Wilson, but he's not 'too proud to fight.' Mean little devil."

            "Father."

            "All right, all right-but it's true. That's what I like about Woodie. He'll go far."

            Mrs. Smith said, "Please excuse us, Mr. Bronson. My father and I sometimes differ a little about how to bring up a boy. But we should not burden you with it."

            "Maureen, I simply won't let you make a 'Little Lord Fauntleroy' out of Woodie."

            "There's no danger of that, Father; he takes after you. My father was in the War of 'Ninety-eight, Mr. Bronson, and the Insurrection-"

            "And the Boxer Rebellion."

            "-and he can't forget it-"

            "Of course not. I keep my old Army thirty-eight under my pillow, my son-in-law being away."

            "Nor would I wish him to forget; I am proud of my father, Mr. Bronson, and hope that all my sons will grow up with his same spirit. But I want them to learn to speak politely, too."

            "Maureen, I would rather have Woodie sass me than be timid with me. He'll learn to speak politely soon enough; older boys will take care of that. A lesson in manners punctuated with a black eye sticks. I know from experience."

            The discussion was interrupted by the jingle of the doorbell. "That should be Nancy," Mr. Johnson said and got up to answer. Lazarus heard Nancy say good-night to someone, then stood up himself to be introduced, and was not startled only because he had already picked out his eldest sister at church and knew that she looked like a young edition of Laz and Lor. She spoke to him politely but rushed upstairs as soon as she was excused.

            "Do sit down, Mr. Bronson."

            "Thank you, Mrs. Smith, but you were staying up until your daughter returned. She has, so I will leave."

            "Oh, there's no hurry; Father and I are night owls."

            "Thank you very much. I enjoyed the coffee and the cake, and most especially the company. But it is time for me to say good-night. You have been most kind."

            "If you must, sir. Will we see you at church on Sunday?"

            "I expect to be there, ma'am."

            Lazarus drove home in a daze, body alert but thoughts elsewhere. He reached his apartment, bolted himself in, checked windows and blinds automatically, stripped off his clothes, and started a tub. Then he looked grimly at himself in the bathroom mirror. "You stupid arsfardel," he said with slow intensity. "You whirling son of a bitch. Can't you do anything right?"

            No, apparently not, not even something as simple as getting reacquainted with his mother. Gramp had been no problem; the old goat had given him no surprises-other than being shorter and smaller than Lazarus remembered. He was just as grumpy, suspicious, cynical, formally polite, belligerent-and delightful-as Lazarus had remembered.

            There had been worrisome moments when he had "thrown himself on the mercy of the court." But that gambit had paid off better than Lazarus had had any reason to hope-through an unsuspected family resemblance. Lazarus not only had never seen Gramp's elder brother (dead before Woodie Smith was born), but he had forgotten that there ever was an Edward Johnson.

            Was "Uncle Ned" listed with the Families? Ask Justin. Never mind, not important. Mother had put her finger on the correct answer: Lazarus resembled his grandfather. And his mother, as Gramp had pointed out. But that had resulted only in conjectures concerning dear old Uncle Ned and his "trifling ways," ones that Mother did not mind listening to, once she was certain that her guest was not embarrassed.

            Embarrassed? It had changed his status from stranger to "cousin." Lazarus wanted to kiss Uncle Ned and thank him for those "trifling ways" that made kinship plausible. Gramp believed the theory-of course; it was his own-and his daughter seemed willing to treat it as a possible hypothesis. Lazarus, it's just the inside track you need-if you weren't such a blithering idiot!

            He tested the bath water-cold. He shut it off and pulled the plug. A promise of hot water all day long had been one inducement when Lazarus had rented this musty cave. But the janitor turned off the water heater before he went to bed, and anyone looking for hot water later than nine was foolish. Well, he qualified as foolish, and perhaps cold water would do more for his unstable condition than hot-but he had wanted a long, hot soak to soothe his nerves and help him think.

            He had fallen in love with his mother.

            Face it, Lazarus. This is impossible, and you don't know how to handle it. In more than two thousand years of one silly misadventure after the other this is the most preposterous predicament you ever got into.

            Oh, sure, a son loves his mother. As "Woodie Smith," Lazarus had never doubted that. He had always kissed his mother good-night (usually), hugged her when he saw her (if he wasn't in a hurry), remembered her birthday (almost always), thanked her for cookies or cake she left out for him whenever he was out late (except when he forgot), and sometimes had told her he loved her.

            She had been a good mother. She had never, screamed at him (or at any of them) and, when necessary, had used a switch at once and the matter was over with-never that Wait-till-your-father-gets-home routine. Lazarus could still feel that peach switch on his calves; it had caused him to levitate, better than Thurston the Great, at a very early age.

            He recalled, too, that as he grew older, he found that he was proud of the way she looked-always neat and standing straight and invariably gracious to his friends-not like some of the mothers of other boys.

Oh, sure, a boy loves his mother-and Woodie had been blessed with one of the best.

            But this was not what Lazarus felt toward Maureen Johnson Smith, lovely young matron, just his "own" age. That visit this night had been delicious agony-for he had never in all his lives been so unbearably attracted, so sexually obsessed, by any woman any where or when. During that short visit Lazarus had been forced to be most careful not to let his passion show-and especially cautious not to appear too gallant, not be more than impersonally polite, not by expression or tone of voice or anything else risk arousing Gramp's always-alert suspicions, not let Gramp suspect the storm of lust that had raged up in him as soon as he touched her hand.

            Lazarus looked down at proof of his-passion, hard and tall, and slapped it. "What are you standing up for? There's nothing doing for you. This is the Bible Belt."

            It was indeed! Gramp did not believe in the Bible or live by Bible-Belt standards, yet Lazarus felt sure that, were he to provoke it by breaching those standards, Gramp would shoot him quite dispassionately, on behalf of his son-in-law. Possibly the old man would let the first shot go wide and give him a chance to run. But Lazarus was not willing to bet his life on it. Gramp acting for his son-in-law might feel duty bound to shoot straight-and Lazarus knew how straight the old man could shoot.

            Forget it, forget it, he was not going to give either Gramp or his father any reason to shoot, or even to be angry-and you forget it too, you blind snake! Lazarus wondered when his father would be home, and tried to remember how he looked-found his memory blurred. Lazarus had always been closer to his Grandfather Johnson than to his father; not only had his father often been away on business, but also Gramp had been home in the daytime and willing to spend time with Woodie.

            His other grandparents? Somewhere in Ohio- Cincinnati? No matter, his memory of them was so faint that it did not seem worthwhile to try to see them.

            He had completed all that he had intended to do in Kansas City-and if he had the sense God promised a doorknob, the time to leave is now. Skip church on Sunday, stay away from the pool hall, go down Monday and sell his remaining holdings-and leave! Climb into the Ford-no, sell it and take a train to San Francisco; there catch the first ship south. Send Gramp and Maureen polite notes, mailed from Denver or San Francisco, saying that he was sorry but that business trip, etc.-but Get Out of Town!

            Because Lazarus knew that the attraction had not been one-sided- He thought that he had kept Gramp from guessing his emotional storm...but Maureen had been aware of it-and had not resented it. No, she had been flattered and pleased. They had been on the same frequency at once, and without a word or any meaningful glance or touch, her transponder had answered him, silently...then, as opportunity made it possible, she had answered overtly, once with a dinner invitation-which Gramp had tromped on-and she had promptly tromped back in a fashion that made it acceptable by the mores. Then a second time, just as he was leaving, with the also fully acceptable suggestion that she would expect to see him in church.

            Well, why should a young matron, even in 1917, not be pleased-and flattered, and unresentful-to know that a man wanted most urgently to take her to bed and treat her with gentle roughness? If his nails were clean...if his breath was sweet...if his manners were polite and respectful-why not? A woman with eight children is no nervous virgin; she is used to a man in her bed, in her arms, in her body-and Lazarus would have bet his last cent that Maureen enjoyed it.

            Lazarus had no reason then, or in his earlier life, to suspect that Maureen Smith had ever been anything but "faithful" by the most exacting Bible-Belt standards. He had no reason to think that she was even flirting with him. Her manner had not suggested it; he doubted if it ever would. But he held a deep certainty that she was as strongly attracted as he was, that she knew exactly where it could lead-and he suspected that she realized that nothing but chaperonage would stop them.

            (But a father in residence and eight children, plus the contemporary mores concerning what can and can't be done, constituted a lot of chaperonage! Llita's chastity belt could hardly be more efficient.)

            Let's haul it out into the middle of the floor and let the cat sniff it. "Sin?" "Sin" like "love" was a word hard to define. It came in two bitter but vastly different flavors. The first lay in violating the taboos of your tribe. This passion he felt was certainly sinful by the taboos of the tribe he had been born into-incestuous in the first degree.

            But it could not possibly be incest to Maureen.

            To himself? He knew that "incest" was a religious concept, not a scientific one, and the last twenty years had washed away in his mind almost the last trace of his tribal taboo. What was left was no more than that breath of garlic in a good salad; it made Maureen more enticingly forbidden (if such were possible!); it did not scare him off. Maureen did not seem to be his mother-because she did not fit his recollection of her either as a young woman or as an old woman.

            The other meaning of "sin" was easier to define because it was not clouded by the murky concepts of religion and taboo: Sin is behavior that ignores the welfare of others.

            Suppose he stuck around and managed somehow (stipulate safe opportunity) to bed Maureen with her full cooperation? Would she regret it later? Adultery? The word meant something here.

            But she was a Howard, one of the early ones when marriage between Howards was a cash contract, eyes wide open, payment from the Foundation for each child born of such union-and Maureen had carried out the contract, eight paid-for children already and would stay in production for, uh, about fifteen more years. Perhaps to her "adultery" meant "violation of contract" rather than "sin"-he did not know.

            But that is not the point, Bub; the real question is the only one that has ever stopped you when temptation coincided with opportunity-and this time he could consult neither Ishtar nor any geneticist. The chance of a bad outcome was slight when there were so many hurdles in the way of any outcome. But it was the exact risk that he had always refused to take: the chance of placing a congenital handicap on a child.

            Hey, wait a minute! No such outcome could result because no such had resulted. He knew every one of his siblings, alive now or still to be born, and there had not been a defective in the lot. Not one. Therefore no hazard.

            But- That was grounded on the assumption that his "no paradoxes" theory was a law of nature. But you've long been aware that the "no-paradoxes" theory itself involves a paradox-one that you've kept quiet about so as not to alarm Laz and Lor and the rest of your "present" (that present, not this one) family; to wit, the idea that free will and predestination are two aspects of the same mathematical truth, and the difference is merely linguistic, not semantic: the notion that his own free will could not change events here-&-now because his freewill actions here-&-now were already a part of what had happened in any later "here-&-now."

            Which in turn depended on a solipsistic notion he had held as far back as he could remember- Cobwebs, all of it!

            Lazarus, you don't know what trouble you might cause. So don't! Get out of town now and don't come back to Kansas City at all! Because, if you do, you're certain to try to get Maureen's bloomers off...and she's going to breathe hard and help. From there on only Allah knows-but it could be tragic for her and tragic for others, and as for you, you stupid stud, all balls and no brain, it could get your ass shot off...just as the twins predicted.

            In which case, since you are not going to see your family again, there is no sense in waiting in South America for this war to end. You've seen enough of this doomed era; ask the girls to come pick you up now.

Was her waist really that slender? Or did she lace it in? Shucks, it didn't matter how she was built. As with Tamara, it simply did not matter.

* * *

Dear Laz and Lor,

            Darlings, I've changed plans. I've seen my first family, and there isn't anything else I want to do in this era- nothing worth sweating out most of two years in a backwater while this war drags on to its bloody and useless finish. So I want you to pick me up now, at the impact crater. Forget about Egypt; I can't get there now.

            By "pick me up now" I mean Gregorian 3 March 1917-repeat, third day of March one thousand nine hundred and seventeen Gregorian, at that meteor impact crater in Arizona.

            Much to tell you when I see you. Meanwhile-

My undying love,

Lazarus

* * *

            Was it her voice? Or her fragrance? Or something else?

DA CAPO-IV

Home

27 March 1917 Greg.

Beloved Family,

            Repeat of Basic Message: I got here three years too early-2 August 1916-but still wish to be picked up exactly ten T-years after drop, 2 August 1926-repeat six. Rendezvous points and alternatives from basic date as before. Please impress on Dora that this results from bad data I gave her and is not her fault.

            I'm having a marvelous time. I got my business cleaned up and then got in touch with my first family by looking up my grandfather (Ira Johnson, Ira) and got acquainted with him first-and with the aid of a horrendous lie and a most fortunate family resemblance, Gramp is convinced that I am an unregistered son of his (deceased) brother. I didn't suggest this; it's his own idea. Consequently it's solid-and now I'm a "long-lost cousin" in my first home. Not living there, but welcome, which is very nice.

            Let me give a rundown on the family, since all of you are descended from three of them: Gramp, Mama, and Woodie.

            Gramp is described in that junk Justin has been cutting down to size. No changes, Justin, save that instead of being two meters tall and carved out of granite, Gramp is almost exactly my size. I am spending every minute with him that he will let me, which usually means playing chess with him several times a week.

            Mama: Take Laz and Lor and add five kilos in the best places, then add fifteen T-years and a big slug of dignity. (Quit quivering your goddamn chins!) Add hair down to her waist but always coiled up on top. I don't actually know what Mama does look like other than her head and hands became of the curious custom here of wearing clothes all over at all times. And I do mean "all over." I know that Mama has slender ankles because I once caught a glimpse. But I would never dare stare at them; Gramp would toss me out of the house.

            Papa: He is away now. I had forgotten what he looks like-I had forgotten all their faces except Gramp (who uses the same face I do!) But I've seen pictures of Papa and he looks a bit like President Teddy Roosevelt- that's "Theodore," Athene, not "Franklin"-in case you have a picture in your gizzards.

            Nancy: Laz and Lor as of three standard years before I left. Not as many freckles and very dignified-except when it slips. She is acutely aware of (young) males, and I think Gramp is urging Mama to tell her about the Howard setup at once, so that she'll be sure to marry in the Families.

            Carol: Laz and Lor again but two years younger than Nancy. She is as interested in boys as is Nancy-but frustrated; Mama has her on a. short leash. Quivers her chin, which Mama ignores.

            Brian Junior: Dark hair, looks more like Papa. Rising young capitalist. Has a newspaper route which be combines with lighting gas streetlamps. Has a contract to deliver advertising handbills, for the local moving-picture theater which he farms out to his younger brother and four other boys and pays them in tickets to the theater and keeps some for his own use and sells the rest at a discount (four cents instead of five) at school. Has a vending bar for soda pop (a sweet, bubbly drink) on the corner in the summers but plans to franchise this to his younger brother this coming summer; he has another enterprise lined up. (As I recall, Brian got rich quite young.)

            Let me explain something about our family. They are prosperous by here-&-now standards-but do not show it except that they live in a large house in a good neighborhood. Not only is Papa a successful businessman, but also this is a time when the Howard endowment of babies is substantial in terms of buying power-and Mama has had eight already. To all of you, being a "Howard" means a genetic heritage and a tradition-but here-&-now it means cash, money for babies-a stock-breeding scheme and we are the stock.

            I think Papa must be investing the money Mama makes by having Howard babies; they certainly are not spending it-and this accords with my own dim memories. I don't know what was done for my siblings, but I received getting-started money when I first married- money I had not expected and which had nothing to do with the Howard endowments my first wife earned by being fertile and willing. Since I married during an economic stalemate, this made a big difference. Back to the kids- The boys not only do work; they have to work-or they have nothing but clothes and food. The girls receive very small cash allowances but are required to do housework and to help with the younger children. This is because it is very difficult for a girl to earn money in this society-but a boy who will get out and try has endless opportunities. (This will change before the century is over, but in 1917 it is true.) All the Smith kids work at home (Mama hires a laundress one day a week, that's all), but a boy (or girl) who finds outside cash-money work is relieved of housework to that extent. Nor does he have to "pay back" this time off; he keeps what he earns and spends it or saves it, the latter being encouraged by Papa matching such savings.

            If you think Papa and Mama are intentionally making moneygrubbers of their offspring, you are right.

            George: Ten T-years old, Brian Jr.'s junior partner, shadow, and stooge. This will end in a few years with George busting Brian one in the mouth.

            Marie: eight and a freckled tomboy. Mama is having a difficult time trying to make a "lady" out of her. (But Mama's gentle stubbornness-and biology-will win. Marie grew up to be the beauty of the family, with beaux underfoot-and I hated them as there had been a period when I was her pet. Marie was the only one of my siblings I was close to; it is possible to be lonely in a large family, and I was-except for Gramp, always, and Marie, for a short time.)

            Woodrow Wilson Smith-still short of five by several months and as offensive a brat as was ever allowed to grow up. I am appalled to be forced to admit that this stinking little snot is the weed which grew up to be humanity's fairest flower, namely, Ol' Buddy Boy himself. So far he has spat in my hat when it was presumably out of his reach on the cloak rack in the hail, referred to me with various disparagements, of which "Here's that dude in the derby again!" is the mildest. He kicked me in the stomach when I tried to pick him up (my error; I didn't want to touch him but thought I should break myself of irrational queasiness), and accused me of cheating at chess when in fact he was cheating-he called my attention to something out the window, then moved my queen one square, and I caught him at it and called him on it. And so on, ad nauseam.

            But I continue to play chess with him because: (a) I am determined to get along with all my first family for the short time I will be here; and (b) Woodie will play chess at any opportunity, and Gramp and I are the only chessplayers around who will put up with his poisonous ways. (Gramp clobbers him as necessary; I have no such privilege. But if I were not afraid to find out what would happen, I might strangle him. What would happen? Would half of human history disappear and the rest be changed beyond recognition? No, "paradox" is a null word; the fact that I am here proves that I will keep my temper long enough to get shut of the little beast.)

            Richard: three and as affectionate as Woodie is difficult. Likes to sit on my lap and be told stories. His favorite is about two redheaded twins named Laz and Lor who fly a magic "airship" through the sky. I feel a tender sadness about Dickie, for he will (did) die quite young, assaulting a place called Iwo Jima.

            Ethel: a heavenly smile at one end and a wet diaper at the other. Short on conversation.

            That's my (our) family in 1917. I expect to stay in K.C. until Papa returns-soon, now-then leave; some of this is a strain on me, pleasant as most of it is. I may look them up when this war is over-but probably not; I don't want to crowd my welcome.

            To make the above clear I should explain some of the customs here. Until Papa gets home, my status has to be through Gramp as a friend he plays chess with; it can't be anything else even though he-and perhaps Mama- believe that I am Uncle Ned's son. Why? Because I am a "young" bachelor, and by the local rules a married woman cannot have a young bachelor as a friend, particularly when her husband is out of town. The taboo is so firm I don't dare give even the appearance of violating it...on Mama's account. Nor would she encourage me to. Nor would Gramp permit it.

            So I'm welcome in my own home only if I go there to see Gramp. If I telephone, I must ask for him. And so on.

            Oh, it's permissible, on a rainy day, for me to offer a ride home to members of the Smith family at church. I am permitted to do almost anything for the kids as long as I don't "spoil" them-which Mama defines as spending much more than five cents on one of them. Last Saturday I was allowed to take six of them on a picnic in my automobile carriage. I am teaching Brian to operate it. My, interest in the kids is considered understandable by Mama and by Gramp because of my "lonely" and "deprived" childhood as an "orphan."

            The one thing I must never do is to be alone with Mama. I don't go inside my own home unless publicly accompanied by Gramp; the neighbors would notice. I am meticulous about it; I won't risk causing Mama trouble with a tribal taboo.

            I am writing this at my apartment, on a printing machine you would not believe, and must stop in order to take it downtown and photoreduce it twice, then etch it and laminate it and seal it for Delay Mail and deliver it to a drop-which kills a whole day, as L must use a rented lab and destroy intermediate stages as I go; this is not something I dare leave in an apartment to which a janitor has a key. When I get back from South America I'll make my own lab setup, one I can carry in an automobile. Paved roads will be more common this coming decade and I expect to travel that way. But I want to continue sending these letters and by as many Delay Mail drops as possible, in hope that at least one will last through the centuries and reach you. As Justin put it, the real problem is to get one to last through just the coming three centuries-I'll keep trying.

            All my love to all of you,

            Lazarus

DA CAPO-V

MARCH 3, 1917: KAISER PLOTS WITH MEXICO AND JAPAN TO ATTACK USA-ZIMMERMANN TELEGRAM AUTHENTIC

APRIL 2, 1917: PRESIDENT ADDRESSES CONGRESS-ASKS WAR

APRIL 6, 1917: AMERICA ENTERS WAR-CONGRESS DECLARES "A STATE OF BELLIGERENCY EXISTS"

            Lazarus Long was as taken by surprise by the date of the outbreak of war with Germany as he was unsurprised by the fact itself. He was caught so flat-footed that it was not until later that he analyzed why the "hindsight" he had relied on had proved even more myopic than foresight.

            The resumption of unrestricted U-boat warfare early in 1917 had not surprised him; it fitted his recollections of his earliest history lessons. The Ziminermann telegram did not disturb him even though he did not remember it; it matched a pattern he did remember-again from history, not the direct memories of a very small child-a period of three years, 1914 to 1917, when the United States had inched slowly from neutrality to war. Woodie Smith had been not yet two when the war started, not yet five when his country got into it; Lazarus had no firsthand memories of foreign affairs of a time when Woodie had been too young to grasp such remote improbabilities.

            The timetable Lazarus had fixed on, once he discovered that he had arrived three years early, had worked so well that he did not realize that its "clock" was wrong until the event slapped him in the face. When he was able to take time to analyze his mistake, he saw that he had committed the prime sin against survival: He had indulged in wishful thinking. He had wanted to believe his timetable.

            He had not wanted to leave his newly found first family so quickly. All of them. But especially Maureen.

            Maureen- Once he decided to stay on till July 1 as originally planned, after a long night of wrestling with his troubled soul-a night of indecision and worry and letters written and destroyed-he discovered that he could stay and treat Mrs. Brian Smith with friendly but formal politeness, avoid any sign of interest in her more personal than the mores permitted. He managed to shift to his celibate mode- happy to be near her when it was possible to be so without causing Mrs. Grundy's nose to twitch-or the even sharper nose of his grandfather.

            Lazarus had indeed been happy. As with Tamara-or the twins-or any of his darlings-coupling was not necessary to love. When it was expedient, he could bank the fires and forget it. He was never for one instant unaware of the tremendous physical attraction of this woman who had been his mother more than two thousand years ago (in some odd direction)-but the matter was shelved; it did not affect his manner or lessen his happiness when he was permitted to be near her. He believed that Maureen knew what he was doing (or refraining from doing) and why, and that she appreciated his restraint.

            All during March he sought approved ways to see her. Brian Junior wanted to learn to drive; Gramp ruled that he was old, enough, so Lazarus taught him-picked him up at the house and returned him there-and often was rewarded with a glimpse of Maureen. Lazarus even found a way (other than chess) to reach Woodie. He took the child to the Hippodrome Theater to see the magician Thurston the Great-then promised to take him (when it opened for the summer) to "Electric Park," an amusement park and Woodie's idea of heaven. This consolidated a truce between them.

            Lazarus delivered the child home from the theater, sound asleep and with no more than normal wear and tear, and was rewarded by sharing coffee with Gramp and Maureen.

            Lazarus volunteered to help with the Boy Scout troop sponsored by the church; George was a Tenderfoot, and Brian was working toward Eagle. Lazarus found being an assistant scoutmaster pleasant in itself-and Gramp invited him in when he gave the boys a lift home.

            Lazarus gave little attention to foreign affairs. He continued to buy the Kansas City Post because the newsboy at Thirty-first and Troost regarded him as a regular customer- a real sport who paid a nickel for a penny paper and did not expect change. But Lazarus rarely read it, not even the market news once he completed his liquidations.

            The week starting Sunday the first of April Lazarus did not plan to see his family for two reasons: Gramp was away, and his father was home. Lazarus did not intend to meet his father until he could manage it naturally and easily through Gramp. Instead he stayed home, did his own cooking, caught up on chores, did mechanical work on his landaulet and cleaned and polished it, and wrote a long letter to his Tertius family.

            This he took with him Thursday morning, intending to prepare it for Delay Mail. He bought a newspaper as usual at Thirty-first and Troost; after he was seated in a streetcar, he glanced at its front page-then broke his habit of enjoying the ride by reading it carefully. Instead of going to the Kansas City Photo Supply Company, he went to the Main Public Library's reading room and spent two hours catching up with the world-the local papers, the Tuesday New York Times where he read the text of the President's message to Congress-"God helping her, she can do no other!"-and the Chicago Tribune of the day before. He noted that the Tribune, staunchest foe of England outside the German-language press, was now hedging its bets.

            He then went to the men's toilet, tore into small pieces the letter he had prepared, and flushed it down a water closet.

            He went to the Missouri Savings Bank, drew out his account, went next to the downtown office of the Santa Fe Railroad and bought a ticket for Los Angeles with thirty-day stopover privilege at Flagstaff, Arizona, stopped at a stationer's, then on to the Commonwealth Bank and got at his lockbox, removed from it a smaller box heavy with gold. He asked to use the bank's washroom; his status as a lockbox client got him this favor.

            With gold pieces distributed among thirteen pockets of his coat, vest, and trousers Lazarus no longer looked smart-he tended to sag here and there-but if he walked carefully, he did not jingle. So he walked most carefully, had his nickel ready on boarding a streetcar, then stood on the rear platform rather than sit down. He was not easy until he was locked and bolted into his apartment.

            He stopped to make and eat a sandwich, then got to work on tailoring, sewing the yellow coins into one-coin pockets of the chamois-skin vest he had made earlier, then covered it with the vest from which it had been patterned. Lazarus forced himself to work slowly, restoring seams so neatly that the nature of the garment could not be detected by anyone not wearing it.

            About midnight he had another sandwich, got back to work.

            When he was satisfied with fit and appearance, he put the money vest aside, placed a folded blanket on the table where he had been working, placed on it a heavy, tall Oliver typewriter. He attacked the clanking monster with two fingers:

"At Kansas City, Gregorian 5 April 1917

            "Dearest Lor, and Laz,

            "EMERGENCY. I need to be picked up. I hope to be at the impact crater by Monday 9 April 1917 repeat nine April nineteen seventeen. I may be one or two days late. I will wait there ten days, if possible. If not picked up, I will try to keep the 1926 (nineteen twenty-six) rendezvous.

"Thanks!

"Lazarus"

            Lazarus typed two originals of this, then addressed two sets of nesting envelopes, using different choices on each and addressing the outermost envelopes one to his local contact and the other to a Chicago address. He then wrote a bill of sale:

"For one dollar in hand and other good and valuable considerations I sell and convey all my interest, right, and title to one Ford Model-T automobile, body style 'Landaulet,' engine number 1290408, to Ira Johnson, and warrant to him and his successors that this chattel is unencumbered and that I am sole owner with lull right to convey title.

(s)            Theodore Bronson

            "April 6, 1917 AD."

            He placed this in a plain envelope, put it with the others, drank a glass of milk, went to bed.

            He slept ten hours, undisturbed by cries, of "Extra! Extra!" along the boulevard; he had expected them, his subconscious discounted them and let him rest-he expected to be very busy the next several days.

            When his inner clock called him, he got up, quickly bathed and shaved, cooked and ate a large breakfast, cleaned his kitchen, removed all perishables from his icebox and emptied them into the garbage can on the rear service porch and turned the ice card around to read "NO ICE TODAY" and left fifteen cents on top of the icebox, emptied the drip pan.

            There was a fresh quart of milk by the ice. He had not ordered it, but he had not specifically not ordered it. So he put six cents in an empty bottle, with a note telling the milkman not to leave milk until the next time he left money out.

            He packed a grip-toilet articles, socks, underwear, shirts, and collars (to Lazarus, those high starched collars symbolized all the tightminded taboos of this otherwise pleasant age), then rapidly searched the apartment for everything of a personal nature. The rent was paid till the end of April; with good luck he expected to be in the Dora long before then. With bad luck he would be in South America-but with worse luck he would be somewhere else-anywhere- and under another name; he wanted "Ted Bronson" to disappear without a trace.

            Shortly he had waiting at the front door a grip, an overcoat, a winter suit, a set of chessmen in ivory and ebony, and a typewriter. He finished dressing, being careful to place three envelopes and his ticket in an inner pocket of his suit coat. The money vest was too warm but not uncomfortable; the distributed weight was not bad.

            He piled it all into the tonneau of the landaulet, drove to the southside postal substation, registered two letters, went from there to the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlor. He noted with wry amusement that "The Swiss Garden" had its blinds down and a sign "CLOSED."

            Mr. Dattelbaum was willing to accept the typewriter against a gun but wanted five dollars to boot for the little Colt pistol Lazarus selected. Lazarus let the pawnbroker conduct both sides of the dicker.

            Lazarus sold the typewriter and the suit, left his overcoat and took back a pawn ticket, received the handgun and a box of cartridges. He was in fact giving Mr. Dattelbaum the overcoat since he had no intention of redeeming it-but Lazarus got what he wanted plus three dollars cash, had unloaded chattels he no longer needed, and had given his friend the pleasure of one last dicker.

            The gun fitted into a left-side vest pocket Lazarus had retailored into a makeshift holster. Short of being frisked- most unlikely for so obviously respectable a citizen-it would not be noticed. A kilt was better both for concealment and for quick access-but it was the best he could manage with the clothes he had to wear, and this gun had had its front sight filed off by some practical-minded former owner.

            He was now through with Kansas City save for saying good-bye to his first family-then grab the first Santa Fe rattler west. It distressed him that Gramp had gone to St. Louis, but that could not be helped, and this one time he would bull his way in, with a convincing cover story: The chess set as a present for Woodie was reason enough to show up in person, the bill of sale gave an excuse to speak to his father-No, sir, this is not exactly a present...but somebody might as well drive it until this war is over...and if by any chance I don't come back-well, this makes things simpler-you understand me, sir?-your father-in-law being my best friend and sort of my next of kin since I don't have any.

            Yes, that would work and result in a chance to say goodbye to all the family, including Maureen. (Especially Maureen!) Without quite lying. Best way to lie.

            Just one thing- If his father wanted to enlist him into his own outfit, then one lie must be used: Lazarus was dead set on joining the Navy. No offense intended, sir; I know you're just back from Plattsburg, but the Navy needs men, too.

            But he would not tell that lie unless forced to.

            He left his car hack of the pawnship, crossed the street to a drugstore, and telephoned:

"Is this the Brian Smith residence?"

            'Yes, it is."

            "Mrs. Smith, this is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to Mr. Smith?"

            "This isn't Mama, Mr. Bronson; this is Nancy. Oh, isn't it terrible!"

            "Yes, it is, Miss Nancy."

            "You want to speak to Papa? But he's not here, he's gone to Fort Leavenworth. To report in-and we don't know when we'll see him again!"

            "There, there-please don't cry. Please!"

            "I was not crying. I'm just a teensy bit upset. Do you want to speak to Mama? She's here...but she's lying down."

            Lazarus thought fast. Of course he wanted to speak to Maureen. But- Confound it, this was a complication. "Please don't disturb her. Can you tell me when your grandfather will be back in town?" (Could he afford to wait? Oh, damn!)

            "Why, Grandpa got back yesterday."

            "Oh. May I speak to him, Miss Nancy?"

            "But he's not here, either. He went downtown hours ago. He might be at his chess club. Do you want to leave a message for him?"

            "No. Just tell him I called...and will call again later. And, Miss Nancy-don't worry."

            "How can I help worrying?"

            "I have second sight. Don't tell anyone but it's true; an old gypsy woman saw that I had it and proved it to me. Your father is coming home and will not be hurt in this war. I know."

            "Uh...I don't know whether to believe that or not-but it does make me feel better."

            "It's true." He said good-bye gently, and hung up.

            "Chess club-" Surely Gramp would not be loafing in a pool hail today? But since it was just across the street, he might as well see...before driving out to Benton and waiting in sight of the house for him to return.

            Gramp was there, at the chess table but not even pretending to work a chess problem; he was simply glowering.

            "Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson."

            Gramp looked up. "What's good about it? Sit down, Ted."

            "Thank you, sir." Lazarus slid into the other chair. "Not much good about it, I suppose."

            "Eh?" The old man looked at him as if just noticing his presence. "Ted, would you say that I was a man in good physical condition?"

            "Yes, certainly."

            "Able to shoulder a gun and march twenty miles a day?"

            "I would think so." (I'm sure you could, Gramp.)

            "That's what I told that young smart-alec at the recruiting station. He told me I was too old!" Ira Johnson looked ready to break into tears. "I asked him since when was forty-five too old?-and he told me to move aside, I was holding up the line. I offered to step outside and whip him and any two other men he picked. And they put me out, Ted, they put me out!" Gramp covered his face with his hands, then took them down and muttered, "I was wearing Army Blue before that snotty little shikepoke learned to pee standing up."

            "I'm sorry, sir."

            "My own fault. I fetched along my discharge...and forgot about its having my birth date on it. Look, Ted, if I dyed my hair and went back to St. Looie-or Joplin-that would work...wouldn't it?"

            "Probably." (I know it didn't, Gramp...but I think you did manage to talk your way into the Home Guard. But I can't tell you that.)

            "I'll do it! But I'll leave my discharge at home."

            "In the meantime may I drive you home? My Tin Lizzie is around in back."

            "Well...I suppose I've got to go home-eventually."

            "How about a little spin out Paseo to cool off first?"

            "That's a n'idee. If it won't put you out?"

            "Not at all."

            Lazarus drove around, keeping silent, until the old man's fuming stopped. When Lazarus noted this, he headed back and turned east on thirty-first Street, and parked. "Mr. Johnson, may I say something?"

            "Eh? Speak up."

            "If they won't take you-even with your hair dyed-I hope you won't feel too bad about it. Because this war is a terrible mistake."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Just what I said." (How much to tell him? How much can I get him to believe? I can't hold back altogether-this is Gramp...who taught me to shoot, and a thousand other things. But what will he believe?) "This, war won't do the slightest good; it will just make things worse."

            Gramp stared at him, under knotted brows. "What are you, Ted? Pro-German?"

            "No."

            "Pacifist, maybe? Come to think about it, you've never had one word to say about the war."

            "No, I'm not a pacifist. And I'm not pro-German. But if we win this war-"

            "You mean 'When we win this war!'"

            "All right, 'when we win this war,' it will turn out that we've actually lost it. Lost everything we thought we were fighting for."

            Mr. Johnson abruptly changed tactics. "When are you enlisting?"

            Lazarus hesitated. "I've got a couple of things I must do first."

            "I thought that might be your answer, Mr. Bronson. Good-bye!" Gramp fumbled with the door latch, cursed, and stepped over onto the running board, thence to the curb.

            Lazarus said, "Gramp! I mean 'Mr. Johnson.' Let me finish running you home. Please!"

            His grandfather paused just long enough to look back and say, "Not on your tintype...you pusillanimous piss-ant." Then he marched steadily down the street to the car stop.

            Lazarus waited and watched Mr. Johnson climb aboard; then he trailed the trolley car, unwilling to admit that there was nothing he could do to correct the shambles he had made of his relations with Gramp. He watched the old man get off at Benton Boulevard, considered overtaking him and trying to speak to him.

            But what could he say? He understood how Gramp felt, and why-and he had already said too much and no further words could call it back or correct it. He drove aimlessly on down Thirty-first Street.

            At Indiana Avenue he parked his car, bought a Star from a newsboy, went into a drugstore, sat down at the soda fountain, ordered a cherry phosphate to justify his presence, looked at the newspaper.

            But was unable to read it- Instead he stared at it and brooded.

            When the soda jerk wiped the marble counter in front of him and lingered, Lazarus ordered another phosphate. When this happened a second time,. Lazarus asked to use a telephone.

            "Home or Bell?"

            "Home."

            "Back of the cigar counter and you pay me.'~

            "Brian? This is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to your mother?"

            "I'll go see,"

            But it was his grandfather's voice that came on the line: "Mr. Bronson, your sheer effrontery amazes me. What do you want?"

            "Mr. Johnson, I want to speak to Mrs. Smith-"

            "You can't."

            "-because she has been very kind to me and I Want to thank her and say good-bye."

            "One moment-" He heard his grandfather say, "George, get out. Brian, take Woodie with you and close the door and see that it stays closed." Mr. Johnson's voice then came back closer: "Are you still there?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Then listen carefully and don't interrupt; I'm going to say this just once."

            "Yes, sir."

            "My daughter will not speak to you, now or ever-" Lazarus said quickly, "Does she know that I asked to speak to her?"

            "Shut up! Certainly she knows. She asked me to deliver that message. Or I would not have spoken to you myself. Now I too have a message for you-and don't interrupt. My daughter is a respectable married woman whose husband has answered his country's call. So don't hang around her. Don't come here or you'll be met with a shotgun. Don't telephone. Don't go to her church. Maybe you think I can't make this stick. Let me remind you that this is Kansas City. Two broken arms cost twenty-five dollars; for twice that they'll kill you. But for a combined deal-break your arms first and then kill you-there's a discount. I can afford sixty-two fifty if you make it necessary. Understand me?"

            "Yes."

            "So twenty-three skidoo!"

            "Hold it! Mr. Johnson, I do not believe that you would hire a man to kill another man-"

            "You had better not risk it."

            "-because I think you would kill him yourself."

            There was a pause. Then the old man chuckled slightly. "You may be right." He hung up on Lazarus.

            Lazarus cranked his car and drove away. Presently he found that he was driving west on Linwood Boulevard, noticed it because he passed his family's church. Where he had first seen Maureen- Where he would never see her again.

            Not ever! Not even if he came back again and tried to avoid the mistakes he had made-there were no paradoxes. Those mistakes were unalterably part of the fabric of space-time, and all of the subtleties of Andy's mathematics, all of the powers built into the Dora, could not erase them.

            At Linwood Plaza, he parked short of Brooklyn Avenue and considered what to do next.

            Drive to the station and catch the next Santa Fe train west. If either of those calls for help lasted through the centuries, then he would be picked up on Monday morning-and this war and all its troubles would again 'be something that happened a long time ago-and "Ted Bronson" would be someone Gramp and Maureen had known briefly and would forget.

            Too bad he had not had time to get those messages etched; nevertheless, one of them might last, If not-then make rendezvous for pickup in 1926. Or if none of them got through-always a possibility since he was attempting to use Delay Mail before it was properly set up-then wait for 1929-and carry out rendezvous as originally planned. No problem about that; the twins and Dora were ready to keep that one, no matter what.

            Then why did he feel so bad?

            This wasn't his war.

            Time enough and Gramp would know that the prediction he had blurted out was simple truth. In time Gramp would learn what French "gratitude" amounted to-when "Lafayette, we are here!' was forgotten and the refrain was "Pas un sou a l'Amérique!" Or British "gratitude" for that matter. There was no gratitude between nations, never had been, never would be. "Pro-German"? Hell, no, Gramp! There is something rotten at the very heart of German culture, and this war is going to lead to another with German atrocities a thousand times more terrible than any they are accused of today. Gas chambers and a stink of burning flesh in planned viciousness- A stench that lasted through the centuries- But there was no way to tell Gramp and Maureen any of this. Nor should he try. The best thing about the future was that it was unknown. Cassandra's one good quality was that she was never believed.

            So why should it matter that two people who could not possibly know what he knew misunderstood why he thought this war was useless?

            But the fact was that it did matter-it mattered terribly.

            He felt the slight bulge against his left ribs. A defense for his gold-gold he did not give a damn about. But a "termination option" switch, too.

            Snap out of it, you silly fool! You don't want to be dead; you simply want the approval of Gramp and Maureen-of Maureen.

            The recruiting station was under the main post office, far downtown. Late as it was, it was still open, with a queue outside. Lazarus paid an old Negro a dollar to sit in his car, warned him that there was a grip in the back, promised him another dollar when he got back-and did not mention ' the money vest and pistol, both now in the grip. But Lazarus did not worry about car or money-might be simpler if both were stolen. He joined the queue.

            "Name?"

            "Bronson, Theodore."

            "Previous military experience?"

            "None."

            "Age? No, date of birth-and it had better be before April 5, 1899."

            "November 11, 1890."

            "You don't look that old, but okay. Take this paper and through that door. You'll find sacks or pillow cases. Take your clothes off, put 'em in one, keep 'em with you. Hand this to one of the docs and do what he tells you."

            "Thank you, Sergeant."

            "Get moving-next."

            A doctor in uniform was assisted by six more in civilian clothes. Lazarus read the Snellen Card correctly, but the doctor did not seem to be listening; this seemed to be a "warm body" examination. Lazarus saw only one man rejected, one who was (in 'Lazarus' horseback judgment) in the terminal stages of consumption.

            Only one physician seemed at all anxious to find defects. He had Lazarus bend over and pull his buttock cheeks apart, felt for hernias and made him cough, then palpated his belly. "What's this hard mass on the right side?"

            "I don't know, sir."

            "Have you had your appendix out? Yes, I see the scar. Feel the ridge, rather; the scar hardly shows. You had a good surgeon; I wish I could do one that neat. Probably just a mass of fecal matter there; take a dose of calomel and you'll be rid of it by morning.

            "Thank you, Doctor."

            "Don't mention it, Son. Next."

            "Hold up your right hands and repeat after me      

            "Hang onto these slips of paper. Be at the station before seven tomorrow morning, show your slip to a sergeant at the information desk; he'll tell you where to board. If you lose your slip of paper, be there anyhow-or Uncle Sam will come looking for you. That's all, men, you're in the Army now! Out through that door."

            His car was, still there; the old Negro got out. "Eve'ything's fine, Cap'm!"

            "It surely is," Lazarus agreed heartily while getting out a dollar bill. "But it's 'Private,' not 'Captain.'

            "They took you? In that case, I cain't hahdly take youah dollah."

            "Sure you can! I don't need it; Uncle Sam is looking out for me for the 'duration,' and he's going to pay me twenty-one dollars a month besides. So put this with the other one and buy gin and drink a toast to me-Private Ted Bronson."

            "Ah couldn't rightly do that, Cap'm-Private Ted Bronson, suh. Ah'm White Ribbon-Ah took the plaidge befoah you was bohn. You jes' keep youah money and hang the Kaisuh fo' us."

            "I'll try, Uncle. Let's make this five dollars and you can give it to your church...and say a prayer for me."

            "Well...if you say so, Cap'm Private."

            Lazarus tooled south on McGee feeling happy. Never take little bites, enjoy life! "K-K-K- Katy! Beautiful Katy-"

            He stopped at a drugstore, looked over the cigar counter, spotted a nearly empty box of White Owls, bought the remaining cigars, asked to keep the box. He then bought a roll of cotton and a spool of surgical tape-and, on impulse, the biggest, fanciest box of candy in the store.

            His car was parked under an arc light; he let it stay there, got into the back seat, dug into his grip, got out vest and pistol, then started an un-tailoring job, indifferent to the chance of being seen. Five minutes with his pocketknife undid hours of tailoring; heavy coins clinked into the cigar box. He cushioned them with cotton, sealed the box and strengthened it by wrapping it with tape. The slashed vest, the pistol, and his ticket west went down a storm drain and the last of Lazarus' worries went with them. He smiled as he stood up and brushed his knees. Son, you are getting old-why, you've been living cautiously!

            He drove gaily out Linwood to Benton, ignoring the city's seventeen-miles-per-hour speed limit. He was pleased to see lights burning on the lower floor of the Brian Smith residence; he would not have to wake anyone. He went up the walk burdened with the candy box, the case for chessmen, and the taped cigar box. The porch light came on as he reached the steps; Brian Junior opened the door and looked out. "Grandpaw! It's Mr. Bronson!"

            "Correction," Lazarus said firmly. "Please tell your grandfather that Private Bronson is here."

Gramp appeared at once, looked at Lazarus suspiciously. "What is 'this? What did I hear you tell that boy?"

            "I asked him to announce 'Private Bronson.' Me." Lazarus managed to get all three packages under his left arm, reached into a pocket, got out the slip of paper he had been given at the recruiting station. "Look at it."

            Mr. Johnson read it. "I see. But why? Feeling the way you do."

            "Mr. Johnson, I never said I was not going to enlist; I simply said I had things to do first. That was true, I did have. It's true also that I have misgivings about the ultimate usefulness of this war. But regardless of any opinion-which I should have kept to myself-the time has come to close ranks and move forward together. So I went down and volunteered and they accepted me."

            Mr. Johnson handed back the recruitment form, opened the door wide. "Come in, Ted!"

            Lazarus saw heads disappearing as he came in; apparently most of the family was still up. His grandfather ushered him into the parlor. "Please sit down. I must go tell my daughter."

            "If Mrs. Smith has retired, I would not want her to be disturbed," Lazarus lied. (Hell, no, Gramp! I'd rather crawl in with her. But that's one secret I'll keep forever.)

            "Never you mind. This is something she will want to know. Uh, that piece of paper-may I have it to show her?"

            "Certainly, sir."

            Lazarus waited. Ira Johnson returned in a few minutes, handed back the proof of enlistment. "She'll be down shortly." The old man sighed. "Ted, I'm proud of you. Earlier today you had me upset-and I spoke out of turn. I'm sorry-I apologize."

            "I can't accept it because there is nothing to apologize for, sir. I spoke hastily and did not make myself clear. Can we forget it? Will you shake hands with me?"

            "Eh? Yes. Surely! Mrrph!" Solemnly they shook hands. (Maybe Gramp could still straight-arm an anvil-my fingers are crushed.)

            "Mr. Johnson, would you take care of some things for me? Things I didn't have time to do?"

            "Eh? Certainly!"

            "This box, mainly." Lazarus handed him the taped cigar box.

            Mr. Johnson took it, his eyebrows shot up. "Heavy."

            "I cleaned out my lockbox. Gold coins. I'll pick it up when the war is over...or if I don't, will you give it to Woodie? When he's twenty-one?"

            "What? Now, now, Son, you'll come through all right."

            "I plan to, and I'll pick it up then. But I might fall down a ladder in a troopship and' break my silly neck. Will you do it?"

            "Yes, I'll do it."

            "Thank you, sir. This is for Woodie right now. My chessmen. I can't pack them around. I'd give them to you except that you would- think up some reason not to take them but Woodie won't."

            "Mrrph. Very well, sir."

            "Here's one thing that is for you-but it's not quite what it seems." 'Lazarus handed over the bill of sale for the landaulet.

            Mr. Johnson read it. "Ted, if you're trying to give me your automobile, you can think again."

            "That's only a nominal conveyance of title, sir. What I would like is to leave it with you. Brian can drive it; he's a good driver now, he's a natural. You can drive it; even Mrs. Smith might want to learn. When Lieutenant Smith is - home, he may find it convenient. But if they send me for training anywhere near here and I get time off before I'm sent overseas, I'd like to feel free to use it myself."

            "But why hand me a bill of sale? Sure, it can sit in the barn and no doubt Brian-both of them-would drive it. Might learn to herd it myself. But no need for this."

            "Oh. I didn't make myself clear. Suppose I'm off somewhere, say in New Jersey-but want to sell it. I can drop you a penny postcard, and it's easy, because you'll have that." Lazarus added thoughtfully, "Or I might fall down that ladder...in which case the same reasoning applies. If you don't want it, you can sign it over to Bran Junior. Or whatever. Mr. Johnson, you know I don't have any relatives--so why not let it run easy?"

            Before Gramp could reply, Mrs. Smith came in, dressed in her best and smiling (and had been crying, Lazarus felt certain). She extended her hand. "Mr. Bronson! We are all so proud of you!"

            Her voice, her fragrance, the touch of her hand, her proud joy, all hit Lazarus in the gut; his careful conditioning was swept away. (Maureen beloved, it's lucky that I'm being sent away at once. Safer for you, better all around. But I did it to make you proud of me, and now my cup runneth over-and please ask me to sit down before Gramp notices the tilt of my kilt!)

            "Thank you, Mrs. Smith. I just stopped by to say thank you and good-bye-and good night, too, as I'm shipping out early tomorrow morning."

            "Oh, do please sit down! Coffee at least, and the children will want to say good-bye to you, too."

            An hour later he was still there and still happier-happy all through. The candy had been opened after he had presented it to Carol for all of them. Lazarus had drunk much coffee thick with cream and sugar and had eaten a hefty slice of home-baked white cake with chocolate icing, then accepted a second while admitting that he had not eaten since breakfast then protested when Maureen wanted to jump up and cook. They reached a compromise under which Carol went out to make a sandwich for him.

            "It's been a confusing day," he explained, "and I haven't had time to eat. You caused me to change plans, Mr. Johnson."

            "I did, Ted? How?"

            "You know-I think I've told you both-that I planned to make a business trip to San Francisco leaving the first of July. Then this happens-Congress declaring war-and I decided to make the trip at once, settle my affairs there-then enlist. When I saw you I was all set to leave, packed and everything-and you made me realize that the Kaiser wouldn't wait while I took care of private affairs. So I joined up at once." Lazarus managed to look sheepish. "My packed grip is still out in the car, going nowhere."

            Ira Johnson looked pained. "I didn't mean to rush you, Ted. 'Twouldn't have hurt to take a few days to wind up your affairs; they can't organize an army overnight. I know, I saw 'em try, in 'Ninety-eight. Mrrph. Perhaps I could make the trip for you? As your agent. Seeing that- Well, doesn't look like I'm going to be too busy."

            "No, no! A million thanks, sir-but I hadn't been thinking straight. Thinking 'peacetime' instead of 'wartime' until you got me back on the rails. I went to Western Union and wrote a night letter to my broker in Frisco, telling him what I wanted him to do; then I wrote a note appointing him my attorney-in-fact and got it notarized and went to the downtown post office and registered it to him. All done, everything taken care of." Lazarus was enjoying the improvisation so much he almost believed it. "Then I went downstairs and enlisted. But that grip-Do you suppose you could put it in your garret? I won't be taking a grip to soldier. Just a few toilet articles."

            "I'll take care of it, Mr. Bronson!" said Brian Junior. "In my room!"

            "In our room," George corrected. "We'll take care of it."

            "Hold it, boys. Ted? Would it break your heart if you lost that grip?"

            "Not at all, Mr. Johnson. Why?"

            "Then take it with you. But when you get back to your flat tonight, pack it differently. You put in white shirts and stiff collars, no doubt. You won't need those. If you've got any work shirts, take those. Be sure to take a pair of well-broken-in high shoes you can march in. Socks-all you own. Underwear. It's my guess-based on sad experience-that they won't have enough uniforms right away. Confusion, and lots of it. You may be soldiering for a month or more in what you carry with you."

            "I think," Mrs. Smith said seriously, "that Father is right, Mr. Bronson. Mr. Smith-Lieutenant Smith, my husband- was saying something like it before he left. He left without waiting for his telegram-it came hours later-because he said he knew that there would be confusion at first." Her mouth twitched. "Although he said it more forcefully."

            "Daughter, no matter how Brian put it, it wasn't forceful enough. Ted will be lucky if his beans are on time. Any man who can tell his right foot from his left will be grabbed and made acting corporal; they won't care how he's dressed. But you care, Ted-so take along clothes you might wear on a farm. And shoes-comfortable shoes that won't put blisters on you the first mile. Mmm- Ted, do you know the coldcream trick? To use on your feet when you know you might have your shoes on for a week or more?"

            "No, sir," Lazarus answered. (Gramp, you taught it to me once before-or maybe "after"-and it works, and I've never forgotten it.)

            '"If possible, have your feet clean and dry. Smear your feet all over and especially between your toes with cold cream. Or Vaseline, carbolated is best. Use lots, a thick layer. Then put on socks-clean if possible, dirty if you must, but don't skip them-and put your boots on. When you first stand up, it feels as if you'd stepped into a barrel of soft soap. But your feet Will thank you for it and you won't get jungle rot between your toes. Or not as much. Take care of your feet, Ted, and keep your bowels open."

            "Father."

            "Daughter, I'm talking to a soldier-telling him things that may save his life: If the children can't hear such things, send them up to bed."

            "I think it is time," Maureen answered, "to get the younger ones quieted down, at least."

            "I don't have to go to bed!"

            "Woodie, you do exactly what your mother tells you to and no back talk-or I'll bend a poker over your bottom. That's standing orders until your father gets home from the war."

            "I'm going to stay up till Private Bronson leaves! Papa said I could."

            "Mrrph. I'll discuss the logical impossibility of that with a club; it's the only way to make you understand it. Maureen, I suggest that we start with the youngest, let 'em say good-bye in turn, and then march straight up to bed. Which winds up in due course with me walking Ted to his streetcar stop."

            "But I was going to drive Uncle Ted home!"

            Lazarus judged that it was time to speak up. "Brian, thank you. But let's not give your mother something extra to worry about tonight. The trolley takes me almost straight home and from tomorrow on I won't even have streetcars; I'll walk."

            "That's right," agreed Gramp. "He'll march. 'Hay foot, straw foot!-heads up and look proud!' Ted, his father made Brian Sergeant of the Guard until he gets back, charged with internal security of this household."

            "Then he can't leave his post of duty to chauffeur a mere private, can he?"

            "Not in the presence of the Officer of the Guard-me-and of the Officer of the Day, my daughter. Reminds me- While the young 'uns are kissing you good-bye, I want to dig out a couple of my old Army shirts; I think they'll fit you. If you don't mind hand-me-downs?"

            "Sir, I will be proud and honored to wear them!"

            Mrs. Smith stood up. "I have something I must get for Mr.-Private Bronson, too. Nancy, will you bring down Ethel? And Carol, will you fetch Richard?"

            "But Private Bronson hasn't eaten his sandwich!"

            Lazarus said, "I'm sorry, Miss Carol. I've been too excited to eat. Uh, would you wrap it for me? I'll eat it the minute I'm back in my apartment-and it will make me sleep soundly."

            "Do that, Carol," decided her mother. "Brian, will you fetch down Richard?"

            After more backing and filling Lazarus told them all goodbye, in reverse order of seniority. He held Ethel for a moment and grinned at her baby smile, then kissed the top of her head and handed her back to Nancy, who took her upstairs and hurried back down. To kiss Richard, Lazarus had to get down on one knee. The child seemed unsure why this was happening but knew that it was a solemn occasion; he hugged Lazarus tightly and smeared his cheek with a kiss.

            Woodie then kissed him-for the first and only time, but Lazarus no longer felt bothered by touching "himself" as this little boy was not himself but simply an individual from whom he derived some scattered memories in an odd concatenation. He was no longer tempted to strangle him-or not often.

            Woodie used the unaccustomed intimacy to whisper: "Those chessmen are really ivory?"

            "Really truly ivory. Ivory and ebony, just like the keys on your Mama's piano."

            "Gee, that's keen! Look, when you come back, Uncle Private Bronson, I'll let you play with them. Anytime."

            "And I'll beat you, Sport."

            "Says you! Well, so long. Don't take any wooden nickels." Little Marie kissed him with tears in her eyes, then fled from the room. George kissed him on the cheek and muttered, "You be careful, Uncle Ted," and left also. Brian Junior said, "I'll take real good care of your automobile-I'll keep it shined just the way you do," then hesitated-suddenly kissed his cheek and left, leading Richard.

            Carol had his sandwich, neatly wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a ribbon. He thanked her and put it into an outer coat pocket. She placed her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoes and whispered, "There's a note in it for you!"-kissed his cheek and left quickly.

            Nancy took her place and said quietly, "The note is from both of us. We're going to pray for you every night when we pray for Papa." She glanced at her mother, then put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth, a firm peck. "That's not good-bye but au revoir!" She left even more quickly than her sister, head high and moving like her mother.

            Mrs. Smith stood up, said quietly, "Father?"-and waited.

            "No."

            "Then turn your back."

            "Mmrph. Yes." Mr. Johnson studied the pictures on the wall.

            With a soft rustle Mrs. Smith came close to Lazarus, looked tip at him, held up a little book. "This is for you."

            It was a vest-pocket New Testament; she held it opened at the fly leaf. He took it and read the original inscription, somewhat faded:

"To Maureen Johnson, Good Friday 1892, for perfect attendance. Matthew vii 7"

            And under this, in fresh and crisp Spencerian script:

To Private Theodore Bronson

Be true to self and country.

Maureen J. Smith

April 6, 1917

            Lazarus gulped. "I will treasure it and keep it with me, Mrs. Smith."

            "Not 'Mrs. Smith," Theodore- 'Maureen." She put up her arms.

            Lazarus stuffed the little book into his breast pocket, put his arms around her, met her lips.

            For a long moment her kiss was firm and warm but chaste. Then she moaned almost inaudibly, her body softened and -came strongly against him, her lips opened, and she kissed him in a fashion that Lazarus could barely believe even as he answered it in kind-a kiss that promised everything she could give.

            After some uncounable eternity she whispered against his lips: "Theodore...take care of yourself. Come back to us."

DA CAPO-VI

Camp Funston, Kansas

Dear Twins and Family,

            Surprise! Meet Corporal Ted Bronson, acting sergeant and the meanest drillmaster in the whole National Army of the United States. No, I have not scrambled my circuits. I temporarily lost track of a basic principle of evasive action, i.e., the best place to hide a needle is in a stack of needles and the best place to avoid the horrors of war is in an army. Since none of you has ever seen a war, or even an army, I must explain.

            I had (foolishly) planned to avoid this war by running away to South America. But South America is a place where I could not possibly pass for a native, no matter how well I spoke the language-and it is loaded with German agents who would suspect me of being an American agent and might arrange some nasty accident for Ol' Buddy Boy, bless his innocent heart. And the girls there have beautiful flashing eyes, suspicious duennas, and fathers who love to shoot gringos up to no good.

            Unhealthy.

            But if I stayed in the United States and tried to stay out of the Army-one slip and I wind up behind cold stone walls, eating miserable food, and making little rocks out of big ones. Unappealing.

But in wartime the Army gets the best of everything- aside from a mild hazard of getting shot at. The latter can be avoided.

            How? This is not yet the era of total war, and an army offers innumerable bolt holes for a coward (me) to avoid unpleasant dangers from strangers. In this era only a small part of an army gets shot at. (An even smaller part gets hit, but I don't plan to take that risk.) At this here-&-now land warfare is fought in certain locations, and there are endless army jobs not in those places, where (despite a military uniform) an army man is really just a privileged civilian.

            I am in such a job and probably won't move until the war ii over. Someone has to take these brave, young, innocent lads, fresh off the farm, and turn them into something resembling soldiers. A man who can do this is so valuable that- officers are reluctant to let him go.

            So I'm full of that old fighting spirit and won't have to fight. I teach, instead-close-order drill, extended drill, markmanship and care of the rifle, bayonet, barehanded combat, field hygiene, anything. My "amazing" aptitude in military matters caused surprise, me being a recruit with "no military experience." (How could I admit that Gramp taught me to shoot five years after the end of this war and that I first handled these same weapons as a high school cadet ten years from now and that my military experience is scattered over the next hundred years plus a little now and then for centuries more?)

            But a rumor hints that I was once a soldat in the French Foreign Legion. a corps of one of our Allies, made up of cut-throats, thieves, and escaped convicts, and famous for their go-to-hell way of fighting-possibly a deserter from it and almost certainly under another name. I discourage this canard by becoming surly if anyone gets inquisitive and only occasionally make the mistake of saluting French style (palm forward) and correct it at once-but everybody knows that I "polly-voo" because my knowledge of the French language had a lot to do with my change from "acting corporal" to real corporal assigned to instruction, and now greasing for sergeant. There are French and British officers and sergeants here to teach us trench warfare. All the French here are supposed to speak English-but the English they speak these Kansas and Missouri plow jockeys can't understand. So in slips lazy Lazarus as liaison. Me and one French sergeant almost add up to one good instructor.

            Without that French sergeant I am a good instructor when I am allowed to teach what I know. But only in unarmed combat am I allowed to, because unarmed hand-to-hand fighting does not change through the ages; only the name changes, and it has only one rule: Do it first, 'do it fast, do it dirtiest.-But, take bayonet fighting- A bayonet is a knife on the end of a gun, and the two parts add up to the Roman pilum, used two thousand years earlier and not new even they. One would expect the art of bayonet fighting, in 1917, to be perfect.

            But it isn't. The "Book" teaches parries but not counters-yet a counter is as fast as a parry, far more deceptive, and fatally confusing to a man who has never heard of one. And there are other things-

            There was (will be) a war in the twenty-sixth century Greg. in which the use of the bayonet became a high art and I was an unwilling participant until I managed to duck out. So one morning here, on a bet, I demonstrated that I could take on and never be touched by a U.S. Army regular sergeant-instructor-then a British one-and then a French one.

            Was I allowed to teach what I had demonstrated? No. I mean "Hell, No!" I wasn't doing it "by the Book," and my "smart-alec" attempt almost lost me my cushy job. So I went back to doing it by the sacred "Book."

            But this book (used at Plattsburg where my father- and yours-trained) is not bad. In bayonet fighting its emphasis is on aggressiveness, which is okay within its limits; the bayonet is a horror weapon in the hands of a man eager to close and kill-and that may be all these kids have time to learn. But I would hate to see these pink-cheeked, brave lads go up against some old, tired, pessimistic twenty-sixth-century mercenaries whose sole purpose is to stay alive while their opponents die.

            These kids can win a war, they will win this war, they did win it from when you are. But an unnecessary number are going to die.

            I love these kids. They are young and eager and gallant and terribly anxious to get "Over There" and prove that one American can lick any six Germans. (Not true. The ratio isn't even one to one. The Germans are veterans and don't suffer from "sportsmanship" or any other illusions. But these green kids will keep on fighting and dying until the Gernians give up.)

            But they are so young! Laz and Lor, most of them are younger than you two, some much younger. I don't know how many lied about their ages-but lots of them don't have to shave. Sometimes at night I'll hear one crying in his cot, homesick for his mammy. But next day he'll be trying, hard as ever. We don't have enough desertions to matter; these boys want to fight.

            I try not to think about how useless this war is.

            It's a matter of perspective. Minerva proved to me one night (when she was still following the profession of computer) that all here-&-nows are equal and "the present" is simply whatever here-&-now one is using. By my "proper" here-&-now '(where I would be if I hadn't hearkened to the wild geese-home on Tertius ) -by that here-&-now these eager, puppylike boys are long dead and the worms have eaten them; this war and its terrible aftermath are ancient history, no worry of mine.

            But I'm here, and it's happening now, and I feel it.

            These letters become more difficult to write and to send. Justin, you want detailed accounts, written on the spot, of all that I do, to add to that pack of lies you edited. Photoreduction and etching are now impossible. I am sometimes allowed to leave camp for a day, which is just long enough to get to the nearest large town, Topeka (circa 160 kms. round trip), but always on a Sunday when businesses are closed, so I have not had a chance to work up a connection to use a laboratory in Topeka-assuming that there is one with the equipment I need, a doubtful point. I would let letters pile up in a lockbox (since it does not matter when I Delay Mail them)-but banks are never open on Sundays. So a handwritten letter, not too long and bulky, is the most I can manage-whenever I can lay hands on nesting envelopes (also difficult now)-and hope that paper and ink won't oxidize too much over the centuries.

            I've started a diary, one which makes no mention of Tertius and such (this letter would get me locked up as crazy!) but is simply a daily recital of events. I can mail it, when it is full, to Gramp Ira Johnson to hold for me; then after the war is over and I have time and privacy, I can use it to write the sort of commentary you want, and take time to miniaturize and stabilize a long message. The problems of a time-tripping historiographer are odd and awkward. One Welton fine-grain memory cube would record all I could say over the next ten years-except that I would have no use for one even if I had it; the technology to use it is lacking.

            By the way- lshtar, did you plant a recorder in my belly? You are a darling, dear, but sometimes a devious darling-and there is something there. It doesn't bother me, and I might never have noticed it had not a physician noticed it the day I joined this Army. He brushed the flatter off-but later I conducted my own examination by touch. There is an implant there-and not what Ira says I'm full of. It might be one of those artificial organs -you rejuvenators are reluctant to discuss with your "children." But I suspect that it is a Welton cube with an ear hooked to it and a ten-year power supply; it's about the right size.

            But why didn't you ask me, dear, instead of sneaking up on me with a Mickey? It is not true that I always say No to a civil request; that is a canard started by Laz and Lor. Justin could have gotten Tamara to ask me, and no one has ever learned how to say No to Tamara. But Justin will pay for this: To hear what I say and what is said in my presence, he is going to have to listen to ten years of belly rumblings.

            No, durn it, Athene will filter out incidental noise and supply him with a dated and meaningful printout. There is no justice. And no privacy, either. Athene, haven't I always been good to you, dear? Make Justin pay for his prank.

            I haven't seen my first family since I enlisted. But when I get a long-enough pass I am going to Kansas City and visit them. My status as a "hero" carries privileges a "civilian young bachelor" cannot enjoy; the mores relax a bit in wartime, and I'll be able to spend time with them. They have been very good to me: a letter almost every day, cookies or a cake weekly. The latter I share, reluctantly; the former I treasure.

            I wish it were as easy to get letters from my Tertius family.

            Basic Message, Repeated: Rendezvous is 2 August 1926, ten T-years after drop. Last figure is "six"-not "-nine."

All my love,

Corporal Ted ("Ol' Buddy Boy") Bronson

* * *

Dear Mr. Johnson,

            And all your family-Nancy, Carol, Brian, George, Marie, Woodie, Dickie Boy, Baby Ethel, and Mrs. Smith. I cannot say how touched I am that this orphan has been "adopted for the duration" by the Smith family, and to hear that it is confirmed by Captain Smith. In my heart you all have been "my family" since that sad & happy night you sent me off to war loaded with presents and good wishes and my head filled with your practical advice-and my heart closer to tears than I dared let anyone see. To be told by Mrs. Smith-with a sentence quoted from a letter from her husband, the Captain-that I truly am "adopted"-well, I'm close to tears again, and non-coms are not supposed to show such weakness.

            I have not looked up Captain Smith. I caught the hint in your letter-but, truly, I did not need it; I have been soldiering long enough to realize that an enlisted man does not presume in such fashion. I am almost as certain that the Captain will not look me up-for reasons I don't need to explain as you have soldiered far more than the Captain and I combined. It was most sweetly thoughtful of Mrs. Smith to suggest it-but can you make her understand I can't look up a captain socially? And why she should not urge her husband to look up a noncom?

            If you can't make her understand this (possible, since the Army is a different world), perhaps this will suffice: Camp Funston is big-and no transportation for me other than shanks' mare. Call it an hour for the round trip if I swing out my heels. Add five minutes with the Captain when I find him-if I find him. You know our stepped-up routine, I sent you a copy. Show here that there just isn't time, all day long, for me to do this.

            But I do appreciate her kind thoughts.

            Please give Carol my heartiest thanks for the brownies. They are as good as her mother makes; higher praise I cannot give. "Were," I should say, as they disappeared into hollow legs, mine and others (my buddies are a greedy lot). If she wants to marry a long, lanky Kansas farm boy with a big appetite, I have one at hand who will marry her sight unseen on the basis of those brownies.

            This place is no longer the Mexican fire drill I described in my earliest letters. In place of stovepipes we now have real trench mortars, the wooden guns have disappeared, and even the greenest conscripts are issued Springfields as soon as they've mastered squads east and west and have learned to halt more or less together.

            But it remains hard as the mischief to teach them to use those rifles "by the Book." We have two types of recruit: boys who have never fired a rifle, and others who boast that their pappies used to send them out to shoot breakfast and never allowed them but one shot. I prefer the first sort, even if a lad is unconsciously afraid and has to be taught not to flinch. At least he hasn't practiced his mistakes, and I can teach him what the regular Army instructors taught me, and those three chevrons on my sleeve now insure that he listens.

            But the country boy who is sure he knows it all (and sometimes is indeed a good shot) won't listen.

            It's a chore to convince him that he is not going to do it his way; he is going to do it the Army way, and he had better learn to like it.

            Sometimes these know-it-alreadys get so angry that they want to fight-me, not Huns. These are usually boys who haven't found out that I also teach unarmed combat. I've had to accommodate a couple of them, out behind the latrine after retreat. I won't box them; I have no wish to flatten my big nose against some cow-milking fist. But the idea of fighting rough-and-tumble, no rules, either makes their eyes glitter-or they decide to shake hands and forget it. If they go ahead with it, it doesn't last over two seconds as I don't want to get hurt.

            I promised to tell you where and how I learned la savate and jujitsu. But it's a long story, not too nice in spots, one I should not put into a letter but wait until I have a pass that gives me time enough to visit Kansas City.

            But I haven't had anyone offer to fight me for at least three months. One of the sergeant-instructors told me that he had heard that the recruits call me "Death" Bronson. I don't mind as long as it means peace and quiet when I'm off duty.

            Camp Fun's-Town continues to have just two sorts of weather, too hot and dusty, too cold and muddy. I hear that the latter is good practice for France; the Tommies here claim that the worst hazard of this war is the danger of drowning in French mud. The poilus among us don't really argue it but blame the rain on artillery fire.

            Bad as the weather may be in France, everyone wants to go there, and the second favorite topic of conversation is "When?" (No need to tell an old soldier the first.) Rumors of shipping out are endless-and always wrong.

            But I'm beginning to wonder. Am I going to be stuck here, doing the same things month after month while the war goes on elsewhere? What will I tell my children someday? Where did you fight the Big War, Daddy? Funston, Billy. What part of France is that, Daddy? Near Topeka, Billy-shut up and eat your oatmeal!

            I would have to change my name.

            It gets tiresome telling one bunch after another to stack arms and grab shovels. We've dug enough trenches in this prairie to reach from here to the moon, and I now know four ways to do it: the French way, the British way, the American way-and the way each new bunch of recruits does it, in which the revetments collapse-and then they want to knew what difference it makes because General Pershing, once we get there, is going to break this trench-warfare stalemate and get those Huns on the run.

            They may be right. But I have to teach what I'm told to teach. Till I'm white-haired, maybe.

            I am pleased indeed to hear that you are in the Seventh Regiment; I know how much it means to you. But please don't disparage the Seventh Missouri by calling it the "Home Guard." Unless somebody gets a hammerlock on Hindenburg pretty soon, you may see a lot of action in this war.

            But truthfully, sir, I hope you do not-and I think Captain Smith would agree with my reasoning. Someone does have to guard the home-and I mean a specific home on Benton Boulevard. Brian Junior isn't old enough to be the man of the family-I think Captain Smith would worry if you weren't there.

            But I do understand how you feel. I hear that the only way for a sergeant-instructor to get off this treadmill is to lose his stripes. Would you feel ashamed of me if I went absent over leave just long enough to get busted back to corporal...then did something else to lose those chevrons, too? I feel sure it would get me on the first troop train headed east.

            You'd better not, read that last to the rest of the family. An "Honorary Smith" had best find some other way.

            My warmest respects to you and to Mrs. Smith, My love to all the youngsters,

Ted Bronson "Smith"

(And most happy to be "adopted")

* * *

            "Come in!"

            "Sir, Sergeant Bronson reports to Captain Smith as ordered!" (Pop, I wouldn't have recognized you. But durned if you don't look just as you ought to. Only younger.)

            "At ease, Sergeant. Close that door. Then sit down."

            "Yes, sir." Lazarus did so, still mystified. He had not only never expected Captain Smith to get in touch with him, but he had refrained from asking for a pass long enough to let him go to Kansas City for two reasons: One, his father might be there that weekend-or, two, his father might not be there that weekend. Lazarus was not sure which was worse; he had avoided both.

            Now a dog-robber type on a motorcycle with a sidecar had suddenly picked him up with orders to "Report to Captain Smith"-and it was not until he had done so that he knew that this "Captain Smith" was Captain Brian Smith.

            "Sergeant, my father-in-law has told me quite a bit about you. And so has my wife."

            There seemed to be no answer to that, so Lazarus looked sheepish and said nothing.

            Captain Smith went on, "Oh, come, Sergeant, don't look embarrassed; this is man to man. My family has 'adopted' you, so to speak, and it meets with my heartiest approval. In fact it fits in with something the War Department is starting, through the Red Cross and the Y.M.C.A. and the churches, a program to locate every man in uniform who does not get mail regularly and see to it that he does. Get a family to 'adopt him for the duration' in other words. Write to him, remember his birthday, send him little presents. What do you think of that?"

            "Sir, it sounds good. What the Captain's family has done for me has certainly been good for my morale."

            "I'm pleased to hear it. How would you organize such a program? Speak up, don't be afraid to express your own ideas."

            (Give me a desk and I'll make a career of it, Pop!) "Sir, the problem breaks down into two-No, three parts. Two of preparation, one of execution; First, locate the men. Second, at the same time, locate families willing to help. Third, bring them together. The first has to he done by the first sergeants." (The top kicks are going to love this-in a pig's eye.) "They will have to require their company clerks to check mail against the roster before handing it out. Uh, this must he speeded up; holding up mail call for any reason is not a good idea. But checking can't be left to platoon sergeants; they aren't set up for it and would slop it. It has to be at the point where the mail orderly delivers mail to each company clerk."

            Lazarus thought. "But to make this work, if the Captain will pardon me, the Commanding General must tell his adjutant to require from each company, troop, and battery commander a report of how many pieces of mail each man under his command has received that week." (And a damnable invasion of privacy, and the sort of multiplication of clerical work that bogs down armies! The homesick ones have homes and do get mail. The loners don't want letters; they want women and whiskey. The prairie dog 'pee they sell for whiskey in this "dry" state has made a teetotaler of me.) "But that should not be separate paper work, Captain; it need only be a column of tally marks on the regular weekly report. Both company commanders and top sergeants are going to bellyache if it's too time-consuming-and the Commanding General would receive reports that would be mostly products of company clerks' imaginations. The Captain knows that, I feel sure."

            Lazarus' father gave him a grin that made him look like Teddy Roosevelt. "Sergeant, you have just caused me to revise a letter I'm preparing for the General. As long as I am assigned to 'Plans & Training' no new program will add to the mountain of paper work if I can help it. I have been trying to sweat this one down to size, and you've shown me a way to do it. Tell me, why did you turn down officers' training when it was offered to you? Or don't tell me if you don't want to; it's your business."

            (Pop, I'm going to have to lie to you-for I can't point out that a platoon leader has a life expectancy of around twenty minutes if he takes his platoon "over the top" and does it by the Book. What a war!) "Sir, look at it this way. Suppose I put in for it. A month to get it approved. Then three months at Benning, or Leavenworth, or, wherever they're sending them. Then back here, or Bliss, or somewhere and I'll be assigned to recruits. Six months with them and we go overseas. More training behind the lines 'Over There' from what I hear. Adds up to about a year, and the war is over, and I haven't been in it."

            "Mmm...you could be right. You want to go to France?"

            "Yes, sir!" (Christ, no!)

            "Just last Sunday, in K.C., my father-in-law told me that would be your answer. But you may not know, Sergeant, that the billet you are in will be just as frustrating...without the compensation of bars on your shoulders. Here in 'Plans & Training' we keep track of every enlisted instructor-and the ones who don't work out we ship out...but the ones who do work out we hang onto like grim death.

            "Except for one thing-" His father smiled again. "We have been asked-the polite word for 'ordered'-to supply some of our best instructors for that behind-the-lines training in France you mentioned. I know you qualify; I've made it a point to note the weekly reports on you ever since my father-in-law told me about you. Surprising proficiency for a man with no combat time...plus a slight tendency to be nonregulation about minor points, which-privately-I do not find a drawback; the utterly regulation soldier is a barracks soldier. Est-ce que vous parlez Ia langue française?"

            "Oui, mon capitaine."

            "Eh, bien! Peut-être vous avez enrôlé autrefois en la Legion Etrangère, n'est-ce pas?"

            "Pardon mon capitaine? Je ne comprends pas."

            "Nor will I understand you if we talk three more words of it. But I'm studying hard, as I expect French to be my own ticket out of this dusty place. Bronson, forget that I asked that question. But I must ask one more and I want an absolutely straight answer. Is there any possibility whatever that any French authority might be looking for you? I don't give a tinker's dam what you may have done in the past, and neither does the War Department. But we must protect our own."

            Lazarus barely hesitated. (Pop is telling me plain as print that if I am a deserter from the Foreign Legion-or have escaped from Devil's Island or any such-he's going to keep me out of French jurisdiction.) "Absolutely none, sir!"

            "I'm relieved to hear it. There have been latrine rumors that Pop Johnson could neither confirm nor deny. Speaking of him-Stand up a moment. Now left face, please. And about face. Bronson, I'm convinced. I don't remember my wife's Uncle Ned, but I would give long odds that you are related to my father-in-law, and his theory certainly fits. Which makes us 'kinfolk' of some sort. After the war is over, perhaps we can dig into it. But I understand that my children call you 'Uncle Ted', which seems close enough and suits me if it suits you."

            "Sir, it does indeed! It's good to have a family, under any assumption."

            "I think so. Just one more thing...and this you must forget once you go out that door. I think that a rocker for those chevrons will show up one of these days...and not long after you'll be given a short leave that you haven't requested. When that happens, don't start any continued stories. Comprenez-vous?"

            "Mais oui, mon capitaine, certainement."

            "I wish I could tell you that we will be in the same outfit; Pop Johnson would like that. But I can't. In the meantime please remember that I haven't told you anything."

            "Captain, I've already forgotten it." (Pop thinks he's doing me a favor!) "Thank you, sir!"

            "Not at all. Dismissed."