by neetha Napew
After a while, her sobs subsided to hiccups. She pushed herself away from him, then reached into her purse and dabbed at herself with a hanky. She ruefully shook her head. "I must look like hell."
Sam considered that. Tears still glistened on her cheeks and brimmed in her eyes. She wasn't wearing any mascara or shadow to streak and run. If her face was puffy from crying, it didn't show in the lantern light. But even if it had, so what? "Barbara, you, look real good to me," he said slowly. "I've thought so for a long time."
"Have you?" she said. "You didn't really let on, not until—"
"Wasn't my place to," he answered, and stopped there.
"Not as long as there was any hope Jens was still alive, you mean," she said, filling it in for him. He nodded. Her face twisted, but she forced it back to steadiness. "You're a gentleman, Sam, do you know?"
"Me? I don't know anything about that. All I know is—" He stopped again. What had started to come out of his mouth was, All I know is baseball, and I've spun my wheels there for too damn many years. That was true, but it wasn't what Barbara needed to hear right now. He gave another try: "All I know is, I'll try to be good for you if that's what you want me to do."
"Yes, that's what I want," she said seriously. "Times like these, nobody can get through by himself. If we don't help each other, hold onto each other, what's the use of anything?"
"You've got me." He'd been on the road by himself for a lot of years. But he hadn't really been alone: he'd always had the team, the pennant race, the hope (though that had faded) of moving up— substitutes for family, goal, and dreams.
He shook his head. No matter how deeply baseball had dug its claws into his soul, this was not the time to be thinking about it. Still wary, still a little unsure, he put his arms around Barbara again. She looked at the floor and let out such a long sigh, he almost let go. But then she shook her head; he had a pretty good idea what she was telling herself to forget. She tilted her face up to his.
Later, he asked, "Do you want me to blow out
the lamp?"
"Whichever way you'd like," she answered. She was probably less shy about undressing with it burning than he was; he reminded himself she was used to being with a man. They got under the covers together, not for modesty but for warmth.
Later still, after they'd warmed themselves enough to kick most of the blankets onto the floor, they lay with their arms wrapped around each other. The cot was so narrow it gave them little choice about that. Yeager ran a hand down Barbara's back, learning the shape and feel of her. There hadn't been time for that aboard the Caledonia: there hadn't been time for anything except raw, driving lust. He'd never known anything to match that, maybe not even the night he lost his cherry, but this was pretty fine, too. It felt somehow more certain, as if he could be sure it would last.
Barbara's breasts slid against his chest as she leaned up on one elbow. She lay between him and the lamp, so her face was full of shadow. When she spoke, though, her words weren't quite what he thought of as romantic: "Do you want to see if you can buy some rubbers tomorrow, Sam? This place seems in good shape; the drugstore may still have a supply."
"Uh, okay," he said, taken aback. She was indeed used to being with a man, he thought. He did his best to sound matter-of-fact as he went on, "Probably a good idea."
"Certainly a good idea," she corrected. "We're all right about the first time— I know— and I don't mind taking a chance now and again, but if we're going to be making love a lot, we'd better be careful. I don't want to be expecting going cross-country in a wagon train."
"I don't blame you," he said. "I'll try and find
some. Uh— what happens if I don't?" He wished he hadn't said that. It would make her think he only wanted to lay her. He did want to lay her, but he'd learned you seldom got anywhere treating a woman like a piece of meat, especially not a woman like this, who'd been married to a physicist and had plenty of brains herself.
He was in luck— she didn't get mad. Her hand wandered now, or rather moved, for she knew where it was going. It closed on him. "If you don't," she said, "we'll just have to figure out something else to do." She squeezed gently.
He couldn't decide whether he wanted some Detroit Lakes drugstore to have rubbers or not.
Behind Mutt Daniels, the Preemption House was burning. His heart felt like breaking for
several reasons. It was always sad to see history go up in smoke, and the two-story Greek Revival frame building had been one of Naperville, Illinois', prides since 1834. More immediately, it was far from the only burning building in Naperville. Mutt didn't see how the Army could hold the town— and there wasn't a hell of a lot behind Naperville but Chicago itself.
And more immediately still, the Preemption House had been Naperville's leading saloon. Daniels hadn't been in town long, but he'd managed to liberate a fifth of good bourbon. He wore three stripes on his sleeves these days; just as kids had looked to him on how to be ballplayers, now he had to show them how to be soldiers. These days he borrowed his precepts from Sergeant Schneider instead of his own old managers.
Every half a minute or so, another liquor bottle inside the Preemption House would cook off,
like a round inside a burning tank. Looking back, Mutt saw little blue alcohol flames flickering among the big lusty red ones from the burning timbers. He sighed and said, "Hell of a waste."
"You bet, Sarge," said the private beside him, a little four-eyed fellow named Kevin Donlan, who, by his looks, would probably start shaving one day fairly soon. Donlan went on, "That building must be more than a hundred years old."
Daniels sighed again. "I wasn't thinkin' so much about the building."
A whistling roar in the sky, growing fast, made both men dive for the nearest trench. The shell went off above ground level fragments hissed through the air. So did other things that pattered and bounced off the hard ground like hailstones.
"You gotta watch where you put your feet now, son," Daniels said. "That bastard just spit out a bunch o' little bombs or mines or whatever you want to call 'em. First saw those out around Shabbona. You step on one, you'll walk like Peg-Leg Pete in the, Disney cartoons the rest of your days."
More shells rained down; more of the little rolling mines scattered from them. A couple went off with short, unimpressive cracks, hardly louder than the screams that followed them, "They keep throwin' those at us, we ain't gonna be able to move around at all, Sergeant Daniels," Donlan said.
"That's the idea, son," Mutt said dryly. "They pound on us for a while, freeze us in place like this, then they bring in the tanks and take the ground away from us. If they had more tanks, they'd've finished kickin' our butts a long time ago."
Donlan-hadn't seen close-up action yet, he'd joined the squad during the retreat from Aurora. He said, "How can those things beat on us like this? They ain't even human."
"One of the things you better understand right quick, kid, is that a bullet or a shell, it don't care who shot it or who gets in the way," Daniels said. "Besides, the Lizards got plenty o' balls of their own. I know the radio keeps callin' 'em 'push-button soldiers' to make it sound like all their gadgets is what's whuppin' us and keep the civilians cheerful, but don't let anybody tell you they can't fight."
The artillery barrage went on and on. Mutt endured it, as he'd endured similar poundings in France. In a way, France had been worse. Each of the Lizards' shells was a lot more deadly than the ones the Bodies had thrown, but the Germans had thrown a lot of shells, so it sometimes seemed whole steel mills were falling out of the sky on top of the American
trenches. Men would go mad from that— shell shock, they called it. This bombardment was more likely to kill you, but it probably wouldn't drive you nuts.
Through a pause in the shelling, Daniels heard running feet behind him. He swung around with his tommy gun— maybe the Lizards had used their whirligig flying machines to land troops behind human lines again.
But it wasn't a Lizard: it was a gray-haired colore
d fellow in blue jeans and a beat-up overcoat running along Chicago Avenue with a big wicker basket under one arm. A couple of shells burst perilously close to him. He yelped and jumped into the trench with Daniels and Donlan.
Mutt looked at him. "Boy, you are one crazy nigger, runnin' around in the open with that shit fallin' all around you."
He didn't mean anything particularly bad by his words; in Mississippi, he was used to talking to Negroes that way. But this wasn't Mississippi, and the colored man glared at him before answering, "I'm not a boy and I'm not a nigger, but I guess maybe I am crazy if I thought I could bring some soldiers fried chicken without getting myself called names."
Mutt opened his mouth, closed it again. He didn't know what to do. He'd hardly ever had a Negro talk back to him, not even up here in the North. Smart Negroes knew their place... but a smart Negro wouldn't have braved shellfire to bring him food. Braved was the word, too; Daniels didn't want to be anywhere but here under cover.
"I think maybe I'll shut the fuck up," he remarked to nobody in particular. He started to address the black man directly, but found himself brought up short— what did he call him? Boy wouldn't do it, and Uncle wasn't
likely to improve matters, either. He couldn't bring himself to say Mister. He tried something else: "Friend, I do thank you."
"I'm no friend of yours," the Negro said. He might have added a couple of choice phrases himself, but he had an overcoat and his basket, of chicken to set against Daniels' stripes and tommy gun. And Mutt had, after a fashion, apologized. The colored man sighed and shook his head. "What the hell's the use? Here, come on, feed yourselves."
The chicken was greasy, the baked potatoes that went with it cold and savorless without salt or butter. Daniels wolfed everything down anyhow. "You gotta eat when you get the chance," he told Kevin Donlan, "on account of you ain't gonna get the chance as often as you want to."
"You bet, Sarge." The kid wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He took his own tack in talking to
the Negro: "That was great, Colonel. A real lifesaver."
"Colonel?" The colored fellow spat in the dirt of the trench.
"You know damn well I'm not a colonel. Why don't you just call me by my name? I'm Charlie Sanders, and you could have found it out by askin'."
"Charlie, that was good chicken," Mutt said solemnly "I'm obliged."
"Huh," Sanders said. Then he scrambled up out of the trench and dashed away toward the next couple of foxholes maybe thirty yards off.
"Watch out for them little mine things the Lizard shells throw around," Daniels yelled after him. He turned back to Donlan. "Hope he makes it. He keeps goin' all around like that, though, his number's gonna come up pretty
damn quick."
"Yeah." Donlan peered over in the direction Charlie Sanders had run. "That takes guts. He doesn't even have a gun. I didn't think niggers had guts like that."
"You're under shellfire, son, it don't matter if you've got a gun," Mutt answered. But that wasn't the point, and he knew it. After a while, he went on, "One of my grandfathers, I misremember which one right now, he fought against colored troops one time in the States War. He said they weren't no different than any other damnyankees. Maybe he was right. Me, I don't know anything any more."
"But you're a sergeant," Donlan said, in exactly the same tone some of Daniels' ballplayers had used in exclaiming, But you're the manager.
Mutt sighed. "Just on account of I'm supposed
to have all the answers, son, that don't mean I can pull 'em out from under my tin hat whenever you need 'em. Hell, come to that, it don't even mean they're really there. You get as old as I am, you ain't sure o' nothin' no more."
"Yes, Sergeant," Donlan said. By the way things were going, Mutt thought, the kid didn't have much chance of getting that old.
"No," General Patton said. "Hell, no."
"But, sir"— Jens Larssen spread his hands and assumed an injured expression—"all I want to do is get in touch with my wife, let her know I'm alive."
"No," Patton repeated. "No, repeat no, traffic about the Metallurgical Laboratory or any of its personnel save in direst emergency— from
which personal matters of any sort are specifically excluded. Those are my direct orders from General Marshall, Dr. Larssen, and I have no intention of disobeying them. That is the most basic security precaution for any important project, let alone one of this magnitude. Marshall has told me next to nothing about the project, and I do not wish to acquire more information: I have not the need to know, and therefore should not— must not— know."
"But Barbara's not even with the Met Lab," Jens protested.
"Indeed not, but you are," Patton said. "Are you so soft that you would betray the hope of the United States to the Lizards for the sake of your own convenience? By God, sir, I hope you are not."
"I don't see how one message constitutes a betrayal," Larssen said. "Odds are the Lizards
wouldn't even notice it."
"Possible," Patton admitted. He got up from behind his desk and stretched, which also gave him the advantage of staring down at Jens. "Possible, but not likely. If the Lizards' doctrine is at all like ours— and I've seen no reason to doubt that— they monitor as many of our signals as they can, and try to shape them into informative patterns. I speak from experience, sir, when I say that no one— no one— can know in advance which piece of the jigsaw puzzle will reveal enough for the enemy to form the entire picture in his mind."
Jens knew about security; the Met Lab had had large doses of it. But he'd never been subject to military discipline, so he kept arguing: "You could send a message without my name on it, just 'Your husband is alive and well' or something like that."
"No; your request is refused," Patton said.
Then, as if reading Larssen's mind, he added, "Any attempt to ignore what I have just said and inveigle a signals officer into clandestinely sending such a message will result in your arrest and confinement, if not worse. I remind you I have military secrets of my own here, and I shall not permit you to compromise them. Do I make myself quite clear?"
"Yes, sir, you do," Larssen said dejectedly. He'd been all set to try to find a sympathetic radioman no matter what Patton said; he still didn't believe such an innocuous message would have blown the Met Lab's cover. But he couldn't gauge how much outgoing, messages might endanger the offensive still building here in western Indiana. That had to succeed, too, or nothing that happened in Chicago would matter, because Chicago would belong to the Lizards.
"If it helps at all, Dr. Larssen, you have my
sympathy," Patton said.
In a gruff sort of way, he probably even meant it, Jens thought. He said, "Thank you, General," and walked out of Patton's office.
Outside, the ground was mottled with melting snow and clumps of yellowish dead grass. Thick low yellow-gray clouds rolled by overhead, The wind came from out of the northwest, and carried a nip that quickly started to turn Jens' beaky nose to an icicle. It had all the makings of a winter storm, but no snow fell.
His thoughts as gloomy as the weather, Larssen walked on in Oxford, Indiana. Potemkin village ran through his mind. From the air, the, little town undoubtedly seemed as quiet as any other gasoline-starved hamlet in the Midwest. But concealed by houses and garages, haystacks and woodpiles, gathered armored forces plenty, Jens thought, to give
the Nazis pause. The only trouble was, they faced worse foes than mere Germans.
Larssen stepped into the Bluebird Cafe. A couple of locals and a couple, of soldiers in civvies (nobody not, in civvies was allowed on the streets of Oxford— security again, Jens thought) sat at the counter. Behind it, the cook made pancakes on a wood-burning griddle instead of his now useless gas range. The griddle wasn't vented; smoke filled the room. He looked over his shoulder at Larssen. "Waddaya want, mac?"
"I know what I want: how about a broiled lobster tail with drawn butter, asparagus in hollandaise sauce, and crisp green salad? Now, what do you have?"
&
nbsp; "Good luck with the lobster, buddy," the cook said. "What I got is flapjacks here, powdered eggs, and canned pork and beans. You don't fancy that, go fishing."
"I'll take it," Jens said. It was what he'd been eating ever since that wonderful chicken dinner with General Patton. He wasn't as skinny as he had been when the Army scooped him up, but he'd long since sworn he'd never look a baked bean in the eye again if and when the war ever ended.
The only virtue he could find to the meal was that he didn't have to pay for it. Patton had taken over the handful of eateries in town and incorporated them into his commissary department. Larssen supposed that was fair, without the supplies they drew from the Army, they'd long since have closed down.