Big, growling trucks carried more soldiers west. Maybe the Negro revolt wasn't going as well as the white Virginians feared it would at first. Or maybe the powers that be in Richmond remembered they had a war on their hands, too. Justin thought leaving the first garrison west of Elizabeth would have been smarter, but he wasn't running things, which was bound to be just as well.
When he grumbled about how dumb the Virginian generals were—he was grumbling about everything these days—Mr. Brooks said, "You know what an oxymoron is, right?"
"Sure—two words you use together, but they don't really go together. Like 'jumbo shrimp' or 'recorded live.'"
"There you go." The coin and stamp dealer nodded. "Those are both good. Well, I've got another one for you— military intelligence.'"
"Uh-huh." Justin nodded. "That would be funnier if it didn't make me feel like crying at the same time."
"I'm sorry. Sometimes you're just stuck, and it looks like we are now," Mr. Brooks said.
Justin wished for some other word. "Stuck, as in permanently?" he asked.
"No, of course not," Mr. Brooks said. "Stuck, as in we can't do anything about it right this minute. Sooner or later, we'll be able to go back down to Charleston again. These crummy little wars between states don't usually last long—both sides get sick of them. And, sooner or later, we'll get back to the home timeline, too. Somebody here or somebody back there will work out an antidote for this virus, and they'll lift the quarantine." He made a sour face. "My guess is, somebody in Ohio already has the vaccine or antiviral or whatever it is. You don't put out what you can't control, not if you've got any brains you don't. Otherwise, you turn it loose on your own people, too. You lose friends doing that."
"I guess!" Justin said. "So how long do you figure we'll be cooped up in Elizabeth?"
"I don't know. Weeks? Months, tops." Mr. Brooks gave Justin a sidelong glance. "With all the soldiers in town, maybe you've got more competition for your girlfriend."
"I don't think so," Justin said. "Beckie doesn't like soldiers. Near as I can tell, she really doesn't like Virginia soldiers. She thinks they're a bunch of racist. . . well, you know. It's not like she's wrong, either."
"No, it's not," Mr. Brooks agreed. "But when the other guy has an assault rifle and you don't, telling him what you think of him isn't the smartest thing you can do. Which is why you were smart to keep your voice down here. The walls in this place are as thin as they can get away with, or five centimeters thinner."
"Yeah, I've noticed." Justin paused. "Do you really think we'll be stuck here for months?" If Mr. Brooks had said they'd have to stay in Elizabeth for the next twenty years, it could hardly have seemed worse. Justin's sense of what a long time was and the older man's were two very different things.
"I don't know for sure," Mr. Brooks answered. "I don't see how I can know for sure, or how anybody else can. I'm only guessing. But that's the best guess I've got. When we do get back to the home timeline, we ought to pick up a hazardous-duty bonus. Your mom, too."
"Oh, boy," Justin said in hollow tones.
"Don't knock it," Mr. Brooks told him. "Hazardous-duty pay . . . Well, when you think about how long we may be here, that could add up to a pile of benjamins. Maybe not as good as a college scholarship for you, but it'll sure pay a lot of bills once you're enrolled and everything."
"Oh, boy," Justin said again. What with this mess, it looked as if he'd have to start college a year later than he'd thought he would. If he had to go through applying again . . . If I have to do that, I'll scream, he thought. Going through it once was like going to the dentist for something nasty. Going through it twice would be like the dentist forgetting something and making you come back. Justin didn't even want to imagine that.
And what kind of hazards was his mother going through down in Charleston? The TV hadn't talked much lately about the fighting there. Was it petering out? Or was it so bad, the authorities didn't dare admit anything about it? He had no way to know. More than anything else, he wanted—he needed—to find out.
Beckie quickly decided that showing herself in Elizabeth wasn't a good idea. None of the soldiers in town gave her a hard time, exactly, but she didn't like the way the uniformed men followed her with their eyes. In California, men whistled at girls they thought were cute. They didn't do that here. Beckie didn't need long to figure out that a sharp, short cough meant the same thing. Those coughs were compliments she could have done without.
She was glad when Justin came over to visit. Gran and Mr. Snodgrass made dismal company. And she felt safer when Justin was around. She knew that made no sense. What could he do against somebody with a gun? What could he do against a bunch of somebodies with guns? Nothing, obviously, except maybe get shot. She was glad when he came anyway.
Even the back yard was ruined. The trench, and the sheet metal heaved over it, were a stark reminder of what could happen. She and Justin went out there with fizzes anyhow. It let her escape from Gran, and that felt more precious than rubies right now.
Something flashed on top of Jephany Knob. "What do you think that is?" Beckie asked. "Looked like . . . sun off glasses?"
"Where?" Justin hadn't seen it. Beckie pointed. With my luck, she thought, it won't happen again, and he'll think I've gone nuts. But it did.
"I bet the Virginians have observers up there," he said. "I bet they're watching whatever's going on farther west."
"I bet you're right," she said. "That sure makes more sense than anything I thought of. What are we going to do, anyway?" The question didn't exactly follow on what came before, but it didn't exactly not follow, either.
"Try to stay alive till this mess blows over. What else can we do?" Justin answered. "I only wish I were back in Charleston, or in Fredericksburg."
"I'm sorry," Beckie said. "I wish I were back in L.A., too, believe you me I do. But I'm here, in Elizabeth, with my grandmother. Happy day."
"And I'm here with my uncle. Happy day back atcha," Justin said. "And we kind of hang on to each other so we don't go quite as crazy together as we would by ourselves."
"That's about the size of it," Beckie said. "But I think I would have liked you even if we'd met without all this . . . stuff going on."
"Do you?" He smiled. "That's good."
"It really is," Beckie said seriously as she nodded. "You'll laugh or you'll get mad—or maybe you'll laugh and you'll get mad, I don't know—but I wasn't sure I coidd like anybody from Virginia. You people do things a lot different from the way we do in California. We wouldn't have some of our own people rising up against us because we don't treat them as well as the rest.... Are you blushing?"
"I don't know." Justin got redder still. "Am I?"
"You bet you are." Beckie thought about laughing, but she didn't think coming out and doing it would be a good idea. "Why are you blushing? Because of the way your state treats Negroes?" Justin had said he didn't like that, but she still wasn't sure she believed him.
"Well. . . partly," Justin said. "That's not all of it, though."
"Yeah?" Now Beckie was intrigued. "What's the rest of it?"
He really blushed then—red as a sunset. "I can't tell you," he muttered.
She poked him in the ribs. He jumped. "You can't say stuff like that," she told him. "What is it? Why can't you tell me? What are you, a spy from Ohio or something?"
That got rid of the blush. Justin turned pale instead. "No!" he said. "Good Lord, no!" He sounded furious. And he was, because he went on, "And don't say anything like that out loud, for heaven's sake! It's not true, but it can get me shot anyway. There's a war on, in case you didn't notice."
"Sorry," she said. She was, too, but she could see how that might not do her much good—or Justin, either. "I am sorry," she repeated. "That was dumb of me."
"Uh-huh." He didn't try to tell her she was wrong. Instead, he pointed to a shell crater down the street. "They mean it here."
"I said I was sorry." Beckie started to get mad, too. But she knew she'd goofed, so
she added, "I'll try not to do anything like that again."
"Okay." Justin nodded. "Fair enough."
"If you weren't acting like a mystery man . . ." Beckie said.
"I've got to get out of here," Justin muttered. She wondered what he meant. Away from her? That would be great, she thought, and really did get angry. Or did he mean away from Elizabeth? The way it sounded, he meant out of this world. But if he meant that, where did he aim to go?
She let out a little of her frustration—not much, but a little—by saying, "There's stuff you're not telling me, isn't there?"
"No," he said quickly: too quickly, in a way that couldn't mean anything but yes.
As if he did say yes, she went on, "It's okay. Who am I gonna tell it to? Gran?" Her own laugh came close to hysteria. Even she thought that was funny. "Sheriff Cochrane?" That wasn't funny—it was scary. "The soldiers?" That wasn't just scary—it was ridiculous.
"You've got it wrong," he said. She didn't believe him, even if he sounded a lot more convincing now than he did in his moment of surprise and dismay. He went on, "This is as silly as your idea about the United States holding together."
"I didn't say that was true. I just said it would've been neat." Beckie looked at him. "You're lying to me. I don't know why—maybe you've got reasons, even if I can't imagine what they are. But if you are, since you are, we're not going anywhere much, are we?"
"I guess not," he said sadly. "I'm sorry, Beckie." He didn't even bother pretending he wasn't lying any more. "You don't know what you're asking for, and I can't tell you. I wish I could, and I never thought I'd do that in a million years."
"You can," she said. "All you have to do is open your mouth and tell the truth."
"It's not that simple." He set his can of fizz on the grass not far from the trench. Then he started to walk away.
"Where are you going?" Beckie called after him.
"Back to the motel," he answered over his shoulder. "You called it—this isn't going anywhere. It's too bad, but it's not. Take care. I'll see you." By which he had to mean, I won't see you. He kept walking.
She couldn't even tell him he was wrong, because she knew he was right. Knowing that and liking it were two different critters. Beckie stared after him till ambush tears scalded her cheeks.
Justin sat on the edge of his bed in the motel room, his face buried in his hands. "It's not the end of the world," Mr. Brooks said. "You did the right thing, if it makes you feel any better."
"It doesn't," Justin said. "Chances are we weren't going anywhere anyway. That doesn't make me feel any better. Beckie was—is—about the only nice thing here, and now that's ruined. What am I supposed to do, dance a jig?"
"This room isn't big enough," Mr. Brooks said. Justin looked up long enough to give him a dirty look, then submerged again. The older man went on, "I'm sorry—sort of. But one of the things you're not supposed to do is give away the Crosstime Traffic secret. California probably has the technology and the computer power to build transposition chambers if they get the idea that they can. And wouldn't that be fun?"
"Well, this California would be better than some of the other countries in different high-tech alternates," Justin said.
"Sure. But better isn't good, and you can't pretend it is." Mr. Brooks sighed. "Chances are we're fighting a losing battle. Sooner or later, somebody else will figure out how to go crosstime, and we'll have to deal with it. But later is better than sooner. We need to be in a stronger position ourselves. Look at the slavery scandal we just went through. How are we supposed to tell other people to play nice if we can't do it ourselves?"
"Beats me." Justin looked up again, a little longer this time. "Not easy for me to care right now."
"I know," Mr. Brooks said. "Breaking up always feels like the end of the world."
Justin started to ask him what he knew about it. He started to, but he didn't. Something in the coin and stamp dealer's expression told him it wouldn't be a good idea. Randolph Brooks didn't talk about himself a whole lot. That didn't mean he hadn't done things—more things than Justin had, plainly.
"It does get better eventually," Mr. Brooks went on. "You know what they say—time wounds all heels." Did they say that? If they did, did Beckie's grandmother know about it? Thinking about Beckie, or even her annoying grandmother, still hurt like anything. But Mr. Brooks still hadn't finished: "It's bad while it's going on, though. There's not much you can do about it. I'm sorry. I'm extra sorry 'cause she's a nice kid."
She's no kid! But that was one more thing Justin didn't say. Mr. Brooks was old enough to be his father, so Beckie probably did look like a kid to him. (Thinking about his real father, who had a new lady friend, also hurt.)
"What am I going to do?" Justin did ask. "I can't just stay cooped up in here 24I7."
"She doesn't hate you—or it doesn't sound like she does, anyway," Mr. Brooks said. "You can just be friends friends, if you know what I mean. Maybe that's better than nothing."
"Maybe." Justin didn't sound as if he believed it. The reason was simple: he didn't. "Seeing her is liable to hurt too much to stand."
"Chance you take," Mr. Brooks said with a shrug. "If it does, you don't do it anymore." He could afford to sound callous. He wasn't the one who'd just had things fall apart. Justin remembered reading something somewhere. Nobody dies of a broken heart. You only wish you could. Whoever said that hit it right on the button. Justin sure wished he could.
Before he could answer, the Virginia soldiers who'd taken over the rest of the motel started yelling and cussing a mile a minute, maybe faster. Some of them sounded furious. Others sounded scared. They were all shouting about somebody named Adrian. Whether that was a first name or a last, Justin had no idea.
Then someone said something he couldn't misunderstand: "He's got it!"
He and Mr. Brooks looked at each other. They both mouthed the same one-syllable word. It wasn't a big surprise that Adrian—or one of the soldiers, anyway—had come down with the disease. It was loose in Elizabeth. Everybody knew that. But knowing it didn't make this welcome news.
"Which one is Adrian?" Justin couldn't keep track of all the soldiers quartered here.
"I think he's the big guy, the one about your size," Mr. Brooks answered. When he said he thought something like that was so, it was, to about four decimal places. He wasn't a coin and stamp dealer for nothing. He remembered what things were worth, and all the technical details of why they were worth what they were worth, too. So why wouldn't he keep track of soldiers?
Men running in army boots outside the motel room sounded a lot like stampeding elephants. Elephants didn't shout and use foul language, though. Or if they did, people couldn't understand them, which amounted to the same thing.
"I think Millard's got it, too!" somebody yelled. That produced more cussing. Most people in this alternate swore less than they did in the home timeline, but the soldiers were an exception.
"Here comes the doc!" another soldier hollered. They were all carrying on at something above the tops of their lungs.
"What can you do for 'em, Doc?" Three or four people shouted the same question at once.
"If it is the plague, I can't do anything much," the military doctor answered. That was the meaning of what he said, anyhow. It came out a lot warmer. He also had unkind things to say about everyone who'd been born in Ohio for the past three hundred years. "And their dogs, too," he added.
"Can you give 'em that globby stuff?" a soldier asked.
"Gamma globulin, you mean? I can give the shots, but I don't know how much good they'll do, or if they'll do any," the doctor said. "That stuff is supposed to keep them from getting sick in the first place, not to cure them if they do. But I'll try it. I don't see how it can hurt them. And I'll tell you what y'all better do."
"What's that?" Again, several soldiers asked the question.
"Get away from this place," the doctor told them. "Go on— scoot. The less contact you have with infected people, the better your chances of st
aying well. And send Major Duncan close enough so I can shout at him. This cell-phone jamming is a pain in the.... Anyway, I need to talk to him. We have to figure out whether hanging on to this miserable little piddlepot of a town is worth the risk."
Some of the soldiers tried to volunteer to stay and help the military doctor take care of their buddies, but he wouldn't hear of it. He loudly and foully insisted it was his job, not theirs. Randolph Brooks nodded approval of the men for wanting to stay and of the doctor for not letting them. "He's got nerve, that one," the coin and stamp dealer said.
"Has he got any sense?" Justin asked.
Mr. Brooks shrugged. "He's already about as exposed as you can be. For that matter, so are we." Immunity shots or not, Justin could have done without the reminder.
Once given orders to leave, the soldiers didn't seem sorry to go. It got quieter than it had been since they took over most of the motel. It got so quiet, it made Justin nervous—he'd grown used to their racket, even if he didn't like it.
After a bit, someone—Justin supposed it was Major Duncan—came close enough to shout questions at the doctor. Justin had trouble making out what they were. The major didn't want to get real close, which was understandable enough. The doctor's answers were plain enough and then some. He knew how to project. Justin wondered if he'd done drama in high school or college.
"How are they?" he yelled. "They're sick, that's how they are. And they're getting sicker by the minute, too." A pause. A muffled question from the major. "Yes, the men lodged here are exposed," the doctor answered. "Everybody in this whole blinking village is exposed . . . sir." Another pause. Another question. "Yes, sir. That includes you."
This time, the major let out a very audible squawk. "Can we get them out without risking more people?" he asked, loud enough for Justin to hear him just fine.
"Won't be easy," the military doctor shouted back. "I'm not equipped for isolation cases. .. . Yes, I should have been. . .. Yes, those people are idiots, but what do you want me to do about it now?"
Justin glanced over at Mr. Brooks. The older man's face bore a small, tight smile. "Some things don't change from one alternate to another," he said in a low voice. "The people in the field, the people at the front, have to work around their stupid superiors. Law of nature, near enough."
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