Is war a biological necessity? As regards the earliest cultures the answer is emphatically negative. The blow of the poisonous dart from behind a bush, to murder a woman or a child in their sleep, is not pugnacity. Nor is head-hunting, body-snatching, or killing for food instinctive or natural.
—BRONISLAW MALINOWSKI,
Phi Beta Kappa Address,
Harvard University
Roger Brooks drank the last of his coffee. It tasted of burnt breadcrumbs. They made coffee with breadcrumbs in the British navy. Or at least the Hornblower novels said they did. Could Mrs. Tinbergen be doing that? She surely could!
Outside his boardinghouse window was pouring rain. It had been that way almost every day in the months since Footfall.
Rain, and everyone too busy to talk to me.
He repressed other memories: of Army guards ordering him away from the gate into Cheyenne Mountain, and one sergeant getting so impatient that he'd drawn his automatic; of the three weeks before he'd found a representative of the Post and got a new credit card so he didn't have to fish in garbage cans for food . . .
That memory got too near the surface, and he growled.
"Trouble?" Rosalee asked.
"Nothing much—"
"Like hell." She came around the table and put her hands on his shoulders. "I know you too well."
Yeah. Actually it was strange. Rosalee was very nearly the perfect companion. He'd even considered marrying her.
"Can I distract you? I met this Army girl. About nineteen. She said Mrs. Dawson is inside the Hole—"
"I guess that figures—"
"Shut up. Inside the Hole. Came in just before Footfall with a strange character. And a captured snout."
"A what?"
"Yeah." Rosalee looked smug. "Still love me?"
"Jesus, Rosalee—"
"This character she came to the Springs with sings every night in a bar across town. Interested?"
The name and the sign outside were new. The sign in particular was a good painting of a fi' on its back, an oversized man standing with his foot on its torso.
"I like that," Roger said. They both got off the bicycle.
Rosalee shrugged. "I'll come get you at dinnertime." She pedaled off.
To where? She gets money—no, dammit, I don't want to know.
It was still early afternoon. The Friendly Snout was cool inside, with a smell of old wood and leather and tobacco smoke. The customers were few, and some wore Army uniforms. At the bandstand a small tough-looking Army man was teaching a ballad to a civilian. The big redheaded man was jotting down what he heard, repeating each verse by guitar and voice.
That's him. Roger took a table against the wall. The waitress wasn't more than sixteen. Owner's daughter? For damn sure nobody cares any more. Interesting how disasters make people mind their own goddamn business instead of other people's . . . "Rum sour."
"No rum. Whiskey."
"Whiskey sour."
"Lemons cost four times as much as whiskey. Still want it?"
Roger produced his gold American Express card. "Sure."
"Yes, sir."
As he'd expected, the drink was corn whiskey, probably not more than a week old. It needed the lemon juice. And so do I. Vitamin C, and the Post can afford it . . .
The music and words were sung not quite loud enough to hear, and distracting. Hell, if they'd just sing it straight through and get it over with . . . The red-bearded man seemed intent on his lesson. Roger decided to wait him out. He took out his notebook and idly flipped through the pages. There was a column due at the end of the week. Somewhere in here is the story I need . . .
COLORADO SPRINGS: Military intelligence outfit. Interviewing National Guardsmen from the Jayhawk War area. (Goddam, those Kansans think they're tougher than Texans!) Two turned loose two days before. Didn't want to talk to me. Security? Probably. That bottle of I. W. Harper Rosalee found took care of that . . .
RAFAEL ARMANZETTI: Didn't look like a Kansan. "I was aiming for the head, of course. It was standing broadside to me, and it shot at something and the recoil jerked it back and I thought I'd missed. It whipped around and I was looking right into that huge barrel while it pulled the trigger a dozen times in two seconds. I must have shot out the firing mechanism.
"It must have known I was going to shoot it." Armanzetti had laughed. "It did the damndest thing. It fell over and rolled, just like I'd already shot it. Belly up, legs in the air, just like a dog that's been trained to play dead."
"You shot it?"
"Sure. But, my God! How stupid do they think we are?"
JACK CODY: "When that beam started spiraling in on us, Greg Bannerman just pulled the chopper hard left and started us dropping. 'Jump out,' he said. No special emphasis, but loud. Me, I jumped. I hit water and there was bubbles all around me. Then the lake lit up with this weird blue-green color. I could see the whole lake even through the bubbles. Fish. Weeds. A car on its back. Bubbles like sapphires.
"Something big splashed in, and then stuff started pattering down, metal, globs of melted helicopter—I've got one here, I caught it while it was sinking.
"The light went out and I came up for air—there was a layer of hot water—and then I looked for the big chunk, and it was Chuck, waving his arms, drowning. I pulled him out. When I saw his back I thought he was a deader. Charred from his heels to his head. I started pushing on his back and he coughed out a lot of water and started breathing. I wasn't sure I'd done right. But the char was just his clothes. It peeled off him and left him, like, naked and sunburned, except his hands. Black. Crisp. He must have put his hands over his neck.
"But we'd be dead like the rest if we didn't just damn well trust Greg Bannerman. Here's to Greg."
LAS ANIMAS, COLORADO: Prosperous man, middle-aged, in good shape. Gymnasium-and-massage look. Good shoes, good clothes, all worn out.
He needed a lift. I didn't want to stop, but Rosalee made me do it. Said he looked like somebody I ought to know. Damn, that woman has a good head for a story. Good head—
HARLEY JACKSON GORDON: "I kept passing dead cars. Then burning cars. I tried to pick up some of the people on foot, but they just shook their heads. It was spooky. Finally I just got out and left my Mercedes sitting in the road. I walked away, and then I went back and put my keys in it. Maybe someone can use it, after this is all over, and I couldn't stand the thought of that Mercedes just rusting in the road. But it felt like bad luck. So I walked. And yes, the snouts came, and yes, I rolled over on my back, but I don't much like talking about that part, if you don't mind."
COLORADO SPRINGS: GENEVIEVE MARSH: Tall, slender, not skinny. Handsome. Solid bones. No money. Nervous. Sick of talking with military people. Wanted a change. Dinner and candles—
Rosalee left me the money to buy her dinner and bugged out. Goddam. She'd make a hell of a reporter if she could write.
"They had us for two days. We thought they were getting ready to leave, and I guess they were, and they were going to take us with them. We all felt it. But on the last day some of them brought in a steer and some chickens and a duck, or maybe it was a goose. The aliens took us out of the pen, and they looked us over. Then they pulled me out, and I was hanging on to Gwen and Beatrice so tight I'm afraid I hurt them. And that crazy man from Menninger's who spent all his time curled up with his head in his arms, they pulled on one arm and he had to follow. He never stopped swearing. No sense in it, just a stream of dirty words. They aimed us at the road and one of them s-swatted me on the ass with its—trunk? And I started walking, pulling Gwen along, Beatrice in my arms, and then we ran. Beatrice was like lead. We didn't wait for the crazy man. When the spaceship took off we were far enough away that we only got a hot wind, and that glare. But they took the rest with them, and the animals took our place." (Laughter). "Maybe they think the steer will breed!"
NEAR LOGAN. Whole bunch, all types, digging around in a wrecked Howard Johnson's.
Nobody's too proud to root for garbage now. Shit.
GINO PIETSCH: "I knew there'd be a tornado shelter. Every building in Kansas has something, even if it's a brick closet in a motel room., I broke in, and I found the tornado closet, and I hid. The snouts never even came looking. I guess they didn't care much, if you were the type to hide. Every so often I came out just long enough to get water. And I was in the closet when the bombs came, and getting pretty hungry, but not hungry enough to come out. How much radiation did I get? Am I going to die?"
LAUREN, KANSAS:
That page was nearly blank. Roger stared at it. I have to write it down some day. Damn. Damnation.
Not just yet . . .
ROGER BROOKS, NATHANIEL REYNOLDS, ROSALEE PINELLI, CAROL NORTH: The snouts were all over the city. George Bergson came up with the notion of using Molotov cocktails to wreck a snout tank . . .
* * *
The guitarists put away their instruments at last. Roger got up unsteadily. Three corn-whiskey sours had hit him harder than he'd expected. He moved over to the man with the fading red beard.
"Mr. Reddington?"
"Hairy Red, that's me. And you?"
"Roger Brooks. Washington Post. Capital Post now."
"Yeah?"
Gotcha! Heroes need publicity. "I hear you have some good stories to tell. I'm collecting war stories. Drink?"
"Sure, but I gotta run. My ride leaves in five minutes." Reddington turned to the bar. "Watney's, Millie."
"Money, Harry."
"On me," Roger called. "Things are tough, eh?"
"Toward the end of the month," Harry admitted. "The Arms gives me a little something, but I had a bad run at poker—"
"Sure—"
"I get gasoline, too," Harry said. "But I can't sell that. Use it or lose it."
Roger let Harry lead him to a table. They sat, and Roger studied Harry while opening his notebook. Beard and hair trimmed. Competently but not artistically. Clothes are clean and almost new and don't quite fit. Supplied by the Army? "Harry, we have a lot to talk about. I'd like to buy you dinner." He took out the gold Amex card and handed it to the barmaid.
Reddington hesitated a bare instant. "May I bring a friend?"
"Sure. What time do you like?"
"Call it seven-thirty."
The Friendly Snout was more crowded now, with citizens and Army and Navy personnel.
The civilians had dinner. The service people drank.
"I like it," Rosalee said. "But where do they get the food?"
"Mess sergeants making a bit on the side," Roger said. "That's why the service types won't eat here."
"You know that for sure?"
"Don't have to."
She drew away from him in mock horror. "But Roger, it's news, and you're not digging it out—"
"Now just a damn minute—"
"Gotcha!"
"Yeah, okay. Look, Rosalee, it would only be a little story. No prizes. And I'd get half the Army on my case, and I don't need—"
"Roger, I'm the one who keeps telling you to relax!"
There were no menus. Prices were listed on a blackboard, mostly too high.
"The drinks are dependable," Roger said.
"Dependable?"
"You can depend on them to take the lining out of your throat. Harry was drinking a brand-name beer, but I noticed there was yeast in the bottom of the bottle . . . Anyway, they take plastic."
"Oh, goody. Is that him?" She glanced toward the doorway. "Hairy and red. But he's with three people."
"Hardly surprising—Carlotta!" Roger bounded across the room.
Carlotta Dawson grinned widely and came to meet him. "I thought it had to be you from what Harry told me. I saw your column—"
"You knew I was out here and you didn't come find me?"
"We're busy in there, Roger." She lowered her voice so no one else could hear. "They have me sitting in for Wes. Roger, that's off the record. Really off the record."
Shit. "Carlotta, I'm glad to see you. Hell, I've lost track of everybody. All my girls—"
"Everyone's all right. I just heard from Linda. She says Evelyn's fine."
"Great." Say what? But Evelyn lives in . . . later. "Harry, you sure know some famous people."
"Didn't know you knew her . . ."
"Roger and I are old friends," Carlotta said.
"Carlotta, have you heard anything about Wes?"
"Not since his speech. Roger, what are they saying about him? Do they call him a traitor?"
Roger gestured helplessly. "Not around me—"
"Or me," Harry said.
"But they do."
"Some do. Not the doctors. Not the farmers and grocers. Just damn fools."
"There are always damn fools," Harry said.
And then there are the ones who say Dawson was insufficiently persuasive, because we ought to give up before they kill us all.
"Lots of fools," Roger said.
"Harpanet—the alien Harry captured—says that Wes told the truth, they do treat captives well—"
Roger let thick sarcasm creep into his voice. " 'By their standards.' Wes did that well, Carlotta. Anybody who knew him would know that."
"I guess I worry too much." Her mood changed. "Harry, thanks for inviting me out. I've been inside far too long. Time to have a little fun. Roger, it's really good to see you again."
"This is Rosalee. I picked her up in Lauren—ah, hell, it sounds wrong. We've been together since—"
"Never heard you run out of words." Carlotta laughed. "Rosalee."
Good. She doesn't know she told me something. "Let's sit down. Harry's promised us a song." Roger led the way to the table. Millie had already pulled up another table to accommodate the extra guests, and brought out a new pitcher of beer.
"What did you get?" Rosalee whispered.
"Mind your own business."
"You expected that woman."
"Shhh. I hoped. You told me Harry knew her. Now just listen." They sat. "Rosalee, I've known Carlotta since she was in high school."
"Pleased to meet you, Rosalee." Hairy Red bowed as he shook her hand. "This is Tim Lewis . . . Lucille Battaglia." Lewis was the man who had been teaching Harry to sing. Lucille was small and dark and pretty, and in uniform.
Spec. 4. Adjutant General corps. Personnel. Probably shuffling papers, when she isn't mooning over every word Reddington says.
"When does it stop raining?" Roger asked.
"The Colonel says in about six months," Lucille said. "If we're lucky."
"Colonel?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Crichton. I work for her—"
"Jenny?" Roger demanded.
"Right." Carlotta smiled. "That's why I brought Lucille. Jenn couldn't come."
"Hey. Lieutenant Colonel. She must have done something important . . ."
Carlotta smiled but she didn't say anything.
"Yeah. Rosalee, Jenny is—well, it's pretty complicated. I've known her family a long time. Six more months of rain?"
"If we're lucky," Carlotta said. "Actually, nobody really knows It might be more than that."
"What do you do Inside, Mrs. Dawson?" Rosalee asked.
"Well, I work for the government."
"Everybody wonders what it's like, though," Roger insisted. "Families. I've heard the senior staff have their families with them—"
"Some do," Carlotta said. "Roger, I hear you were part of a raid on the Invaders—"
Roger laughed. "Okay, I give up. Look, I only witnessed that raid. Mostly it was George's idea. Who'd you hear it from?"
"Carol."
Oh, shit. Carol had gone Inside, on the insistence of Nat Reynolds. The goddamn sci-fi people can get their groupies Inside, and I can't even get past the outside gate.
"Actually, it was George's idea. I was along to watch." How much did that woman tell? Reynolds was no more a hero than I was. "Hell, I'm not blowing a month's expense money to talk about me! Harry, tell your story . . ."
"Wow," Lucille said. "That's really something. I've never seen a snout except Harpanet. The one you captured, Harry."
"Well, it was sufficiently hairy," Harry said. "If the snout didn't kill us, the farmers would. We took the motorcycle downhill till we could smell the swamp, and then we walked.
Lucille found Hairy Red awesome. Roger found that amusing. But—
Carlotta laughed, something between a snort and a giggle. " 'See if it'll carry you,' the man says. 'Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.' A snout armed with an assault rifle! I don't think it ever crossed Harry's mind that I might chicken out. So I couldn't. Harry's just the right kind of crazy. You know what he said when we got to those farmers?"
But Carlotta's backing him up! He must be a real hero. Aw, come on—
Roger moved his now-clean dinner plate so he could take notes. (All of the plates had been cleaned. People didn't waste food these days.)
"I never saw action," Lucille said. "But I've seen Harpanet—nuts. Classified."
"Are there any stories you can tell?"
"I haven't been told so. Harry has all the good stories."
Harry has the stories, but Carlotta knows what's happening. Bellingham! Evelyn got pregnant and married that guy, what was his name? Max. Max Rohrs. Has a sick mother in Bellingham. Had to live there, and Evelyn went with him. She'll still be there. What in hell is Linda Gillespie doing in Bellingham?
He watched Corporal Lucille from the corner of his eye when he said, "We didn't see any sign of snouts after the bombs went off. Now they tell me those were Soviet bombs." She didn't react "I wonder how the sub commanders felt. They finally got to bomb us."
"I never saw a snout," Tim Lewis said. "I talked to plenty of guys who did. Dave Pfeiffer and I made a song about what happened to him. He joined the Army after we got here. I don't know where he is now, but I'd guess he's chasing down refugee snouts."
"Let's sing that song," said Hairy Red.
"Dessert's coming," Tim Lewis protested. "—Oh, hell. Sure." They moved to the bandstand and opened guitar cases. Customers started to look around.
Bellingham. Linda's not there to meet a lover. I'm the one lover she's got. If she's there, Ed Gillespie is there. Air Force general. On the President's personal staff. In Bellingham. Why?
"Penny for your thoughts," Rosalee said.
"Shh. They're going to sing."
THE BATTLE OF GARFIELD
by David Pfeiffer and Tim Lewis
It was just five days after the battle in orbit.
Like snowflakes they came drifting down from the sky:
Monster-things dangling from bright frail gliders.
We watched and we talked, and we all wondered why.
To northward and east of us they made their landing.
Set up a strong point out near Great Bend,
But some had been scattered by wind while they drifted,
And four landed near us to settle with men.
Bob and Les Forward and Bill "Top Kick" Tuning,
Old Amvets, came by on the sixth morning bright.
They had fifteen men with them, combat vets mostly.
They called "Saddle up" for a hell of a fight.
Tom Kinney had seen them and told us about them,
Right down toward Kinsley and headed our way.
"Elephant dwarves with their two trunks a-swinging
And rifles to shoot with" is what he did say.
Ed Gillespie. Air Force general. Fighter pilot, but with administrative and science experience. Can't fly now. There's nothing to fly. No airport worth mentioning there anyway. Evelyn told us about Bellingham. Seaport town. Old. Decayed. University. Pacific Northwest, where it rained all the time even before Footfall . . .
So Mike tried to track them, and we kept our distance.
We set up an ambush and bided our time.
As they came in closer, I picked out the last one
And sighted my "H.K." to make his life mine.
Charley cut loose with AK-47,
An old souvenir from that old Asian war.
The rest of us fired on time from position.
These snouts wouldn't push us around anymore.
The snouts fired back, as was to be expected,
But two tumbled over and thrashed in the wheat.
Grenades came a-flying and I picked up shrapnel
That peppered my right hand and both of my feet.
Pacific Northwest. Rains all the time. Cloud cover. Railroad goes there. Old seaport. Goddam, it's perfect. They're building something there, something they want hidden under cloud cover. It flies, why else have an astronaut general there? Something that flies into space.
I rolled to a culvert just under the roadway,
I was lucky I did as we fired last round;
'Cause they called on their buddies that waited in orbit,
Called for support and laid hell on the ground.
Green fire came humming and cracking and burning,
Scorched out our positions and killed every one,
Left me in the culvert, a-wounded and bleeding,
And one living snout that had started to run.
It came to my refuge and looked up the pipe there,
Then reached in and grabbed me and pulled me outside.
Its trunk gripped my rifle as it pulled me from safety,
But I put a .45 slug through its eye.
Now out from Garfield, police came a-riding
On horses to look around after the fight.
They found me and patched me and gave me some bourbon,
And took me towards home in the quiet twi-light.
So raise your glass slowly to memories around us,
And drink to those boys who have gone on their way,
They died fighting bravely for freedom and Kansas
Against enemies of the U S of A.
Something they want to hide, too big to hide in a factory building, something BIG that flies into space. God damn!
Carlotta had listened politely. "Harry's a hero, not a bard."
"Yeah," Roger said. "He's better than the writer, though. It could be improved with an axe . . . How's Linda?"
"I haven't seen her in months."
"You said—"
"Harry! That was great." Carlotta stood. "But it's getting pretty late."
"Max and Evelyn moved to Bellingham." I'm pushing it. Maybe too hard. But I have to know . . . "Is Linda with them?"
"Roger, it's really late. Tim, it's time—Lucille, you have work to do tomorrow morning."
"Yes, ma'am—can't I stay?"
"No. Come along."
"Yes, ma'am."
Roger watched Carlotta lead Tim and Lucille out of the restaurant. "Hasn't changed a bit. Still gives the orders."
"Except to Wes," Harry said.
"Yeah, guess so. Harry, you look like a man who could use another drink."
"Reckon I could."
"Dessert?"
"Roger, there's only apple pie, and I have had enough of that to last me."
"Good pie?"
"Not bad, if you don't eat it every night for a month."
"Getting tired of the Springs, Harry?"
"Not really—well, maybe."
"You have gasoline. For what?"
"Motorcycle—"
"Harry, how would you like to be a reporter for the Capital Post?"
"Take you where?" Harry demanded.
"Can't tell you. Long way," Roger said. His head reeled. They'd had far too much corn whiskey.
Harry moved unsteadily to the men's room.
"Where are you going?" Rosalee whispered fiercely. "I'm coming with you!"
"Not on a motorcycle."
"But—"
"I'll be back," Roger said. "Rosie, this is a big one. I can feel it. Big. Maybe the biggest thing I ever got wind of."
"What are you talking about—that Dawson woman! She told you something."
"Rosie, do you love me?"
"Why ask?"
"I love you. But—"
"But you smell a story."
Roger nodded helplessly.
She took his hands in both of hers. "I can't come?"
"It's a long way, Rosie. I might get there on a motorcycle. No way in a car. Three on a motorcycle won't work, even if Harry would try it, which he won't—"
"What makes you think he'll take you?"
"Come on. The role of retired hero isn't a very attractive one. He's getting fat again, and he hates it, and he doesn't know what else to do. Too old for the Army. . ."
"Why him?"
"He probably knows the way. He has a gas ration card. Know anyone else who does?"
"But—Oh, God damn it, Roger. Come back? Please?"
"I will. I promise."
* * *
Sarge Harris pulled out a big bandana and wiped his face. "That's the last of it."
"Good," Ken Dutton said. He went over to the pool edge to inspect. Sarge and his crew had shoveled the last of the mud out. "Let's hope the new wall holds."
Sarge laughed. "It will."
"But—"
"Come on! It's a good wall. So was the old one. It just wasn't designed to live through a giant meteoroid impact."
Patsy Clevenger looked up from the pool bottom where she been scooping the last of the mud into a bucket. "The dinosaur weren't either. Ken, we're lucky the house didn't slide down the hill."
"You're right there."
Footfall had triggered earthquakes. Houses fell, freeway overpasses collapsed. Power lines went down. Ken Dutton had heard it was much worse in San Francisco and through Northern California. In Los Angeles the quakes had merely been annoying compared to the mudslides three months of hard rain had produced. Now, maybe, the worst was over, with three swimming pools cleared of mud and ready to fill.
The encampment across the street was growing. Part of the golf course was covered with aluminum-framed plastic greenhouses filled with young tomatoes and beans. Chickens clucked in the pens he'd built in what had been his neighbor's cabana.
Patsy climbed out of the pool where she'd been working. "Lot of all you survey," she said.
"Something like that," Ken admitted.
"You love it," she accused.
"That's not fair—"
"I don't mind," Patsy said. "I didn't used to like you very much. You tried everything and weren't very good at anything Now—now it's like you found what you do best. I'm glad somebody can cope."
"Thanks, but I'm hardly the only one. I hear about people all over the valley. Greenhouses, cornfields—one chap came by the other day hoping to borrow an olive press. I never thought of that one. There are lots of olive trees in Los Angeles." Ken looked up at the sky. It was partly overcast, but there were patches of blue
Los Angeles was supposed to be a desert. One day it might be again. Nobody really knew. "Anyway, we have another place to store water. Come on in, I'll spring for coffee."
"Real coffee?" Sarge asked.
"Why not?"
"Damn, I'm for that!"
The sink worked fine, now that Sarge had rigged up pipes. They'd have running water as long as the rains filled the swimming pool up on top of the hill above them. The house that stood there had been one of the first to go. Fortunately it had gone down the other side of the hill . . .
Ken watched Cora carefully measure out water into the kettle.
"Coffee," Sarge Harris said wistfully. "I think I miss not having morning coffee more'n anything. Sure wish we could have another Stone Soup Party—"
"I already put out the invitations," Ken said. "The next time there's enough sunshine. Or if the gas comes back on."
Cora carefully lit the bottled gas stove. "Which it won't. I keep hoping we can save up, get a bottle or two ahead, but we can't, not with all those kids to cook for."
"It works out," Sarge said. "Or has so far."
"Just barely," Ken said. Cora was watching the kettle, ready to turn it off the second it was hot enough. She didn't look up. Ken felt relieved. Cora was the only one who knew how well he'd done by taking in city orphans. It hadn't been as much trouble as he'd thought, with Sarge and his wife to help. They put the kids into two empty neighboring houses, and Sarge got them organized like a military outfit with their own leaders and everything. Ken hardly saw them.
And it had paid off nicely. Not only were there enough ration coupons and gas bottles to trade for a few luxuries, but everybody knew about the kids and his increased ration tickets, so the local ration wardens didn't come searching his place. Hoarders weren't highly regarded . . .
Ken had known food would be scarce. But who'd have thought that heat to cook it with would be the hardest thing to come by? No sun!
Cora was just beginning to bulge. I suppose I'll have to marry her. Maybe not. Either way, she's going to make me send Patsy away. Unless I can get somebody to marry Patsy? Somebody hungry who'll act jealous?
They took the coffee into the front room. Anthony Graves was in his usual place by the big front windows. They faced southeast and got just enough sun to grow tomatoes in pots if somebody would spend enough time taking care of them. Graves was glad to do it. There wasn't a lot else for somebody his age.
Randy Conant was there, too.
Sarge gave Anthony Graves a quarter cup of his coffee. He liked Graves. He carefully ignored Randy Conant. "Get much written, sir?"
"Some," Graves said. He grinned. "I never expected to write my magnum opus long after I retired."
"I think it's great," Sarge said.
Randy Conant mumbled something.
"What?" Cora asked.
"I said it was shit."
"Enough, Sarge," Ken said. Sarge Harris hadn't moved, but his face told it all. "Randy, why don't you go turn over the compost heap?"
"Fuck all, let somebody else do some of the work!"
"Sarge, I said that'll do! Randy, we all work. Now get going before I forget you're my sister's kid—"
"Don't do me any favors, Uncle Ken."
"Maybe I'll take that advice."
"Whew," Patsy said. "It gets thick—"
"Hey, I'm sorry," Randy said. "I get upset, that's all. All this work, and what for?"
"What for?" Sarge demanded.
"Yeah, what for? We're gonna lose anyway. Just like that Dawson guy said, they can keep dropping rocks on us until we have to give up. Why don't we do it while we've got something left?"
" 'Peace in our time.' Thank you, Neville Chamberlain," Graves chuckled.
"You're gonna fight the snouts with quotes?"
"Sure. Have another. 'Some folks win by winning, some folks win by losing.' I think you get off on looking stupid, Randy."
"There's a lot of people think like I do!"
"Bullshit!"
"Sarge, you won't hear it," Patsy said. "But he's right. I hear them down at the market. Nice people. They just want things the way they were before the war started."
"That's what they won't get," Graves said. "Whatever else, they won't have that. Look what happened after World War II. Everything changes after a war. Win or lose."
"It'll be worse if we lose," Sarge insisted.
"Sure. People don't tame very well."
"I don't want us to surrender," Cora said. "But—well, would it be so awful? That congressman, Dawson, he said they'll let us live under our own laws, live the way we always said we want to—"
Monogamously. You'd like that. Ken thought.
"That's what the commies always said!" Sarge shouted.
"True enough," Graves said.
"I'd rather have them than snouts," Patsy said.
"What difference does it make, what you'd rather have?" Randy demanded. "Nothing we do makes any difference! They're up there and we can't hurt them!"
"The Army's doing something." Sarge was positive.
"What? Just what can they do?"
"I don't know, but they're doing something. You heard the President! He sounded good, confident—"
"And you really believe in politicians. I mean, you really trust them! Hell, you hate President Coffey!"
"A lot of people hated Roosevelt," Graves said. "A lot more than you'd think. But he won the war."
"It's different now," Randy said. "Don't you see, it's different. If there was something we could do, some way we could fight, but there's nothing, we just sit here and let them drop rocks on us, nothing we can do, and they'll get bigger and bigger. They'll kill us all and we can't do anything about it." He laughed. "Shit, we sure can't do anything. We can't even surrender."
"We can hang on," Graves said. "Stay alive and be ready to put things back together."