behind him said, 'Maybe things'll get better anyhow, now that we're not stuck with reparations any more.'
That was Kimball's greatest fear. To fight it, he loaded his voice with scorn: 'Ha! I know about Burton Mitchel, by God- I'm from Arkansas, too, remember? Only reason he got into the Senate is that his daddy and granddad were there before him- he's another one of those stinking aristocrats. You ask me, if he does anything but sit there like a bump on a log, it'll be the biggest miracle since Jesus raised Lazarus.'
A few people laughed: not enough. Kimball spun on his heel and stalked out of the Freedom Party offices. He'd never been aboard a slowly sinking ship, but now he had a good notion of what it felt like.
And he got no relief out on King Street, either. Up the sidewalk toward him came Clarence Potter and Jack Delamotte. Potter's face twisted into a broad, unpleasant smile. 'Hello, Roger. Haven't see you for a while,' he said, his almost-Yankee accent grating on Kimball's ears. 'I expect you're pleased with the pack of ruffians you chose. By all accounts, you fit right in.'
Kimball's hands balled into fists. 'First time I ever heard your whiny voice, I wanted to lick you. Just so you know, I haven't changed my mind.'
Potter didn't back away, not an inch. And Delamotte took a step forward, saying, 'You want him, you've got us both.'
Joyously, Kimball waded in. The tiny rational part of his mind said he'd probably end up in the hospital. He didn't care. Potter's nose bent under his fist. As long as he got in a few good licks of his own, what happened to him didn't matter at all.
Sam Carsten was sick to death of the Boston Navy Yard. As far as he could see, the USS Remembrance might stay tied up here forever. He expected to find cobwebs hanging from the hawsers that moored the aeroplane carrier to its pier.
'There's nothing we can do, Carsten, not one damn thing,' Commander Grady said when he complained about it. 'The money's not in the budget for us to do anything but stay in port. We ought to count ourselves lucky they aren't cutting the ship up for scrap.'
'They're fools, sir,' Sam said. 'They're nothing but a pack of fools. There's enough money in the budget for them to let the goddamn Confederates off the hook. But when it comes to us, when it comes to one of the reasons the Rebs had to pay reparations in the first place, a mouse ate a hole in the Socialists' pockets.'
'If it makes you feel any better,' Grady said, 'the Army's feeling the pinch as hard as we are.'
'It doesn't make me feel better, sir,' Carsten answered. 'It makes me feel worse.'
'What kind of a Navy man are you, anyway?' the gunnery officer demanded in mock anger. 'You're supposed to be happy when the Army takes it on the chin. Besides'-he grew serious once more-'misery loves company, doesn't it?'
'I don't know anything about that,' Carsten said. 'All I know is, I want us strong and the CSA weak. Whatever we need to do to make sure that happens, I'm for it. If it goes the other way, I'm against it.'
'You do have the makings of an officer,' Grady said thoughtfully. 'You see what's essential, and you don't worry about anything else.'
'Long as we are tied up here, sir, I've been trying to hit the books a little harder, as a matter of fact.' Sam scratched his nose. His fingertips came away white and sticky from zinc-oxide ointment. A wry grin twisted up one corner of his mouth. 'Besides, the more I stay belowdecks, the less chance I get to sunburn.'
'Nobody can say you're not a white man,' Grady agreed gravely. 'With that stuff smeared all over your face, you're about the whitest man around.'
'I only wish it did more good,' Sam said. 'I put it on just like the pharmacist's mate says, or even thicker, but I still toast. Hell, most of the time I look more like a pink man than a white one. I even burned over in Ireland.'
'I remember that. It wasn't easy,' Grady said. 'They should have given you some kind of decoration for it.'
'I guess they figured me turning red was decoration enough, even if I didn't think it was real pretty,' Carsten said, which wrung a strangled snort from Commander Grady. Sam went on, 'Sir, do you think we'd have more to do and more to do it with if Lieutenant Sandes hadn't flown his aeroplane into the stern when we were coming back across the Atlantic?'
'Nope,' Grady answered. 'We'd had accidents and battle damage before then. This business of flying aeroplanes off ships may be important, but it sure as hell isn't easy. The Remembrance doesn't carry as much armor as a battleship, either.'
Remembering the shell that had struck his gun position, Sam nodded. 'All right,' he said. 'I did wonder.'
'I think we could have come through without any damage or accidents and still wound up right here,' Grady said. 'The problem isn't how we fought, because we fought well. The problem is politics.' He made it a swearword.
'Yes, sir,' Carsten said resignedly. He raised one of his pale eyebrows. 'Can you think of any troubles that aren't politics, when you get down to it?'
Commander Grady rocked back on his heels and laughed. 'No, by God, or not many, anyhow.' He slapped Sam on the back, then pulled out a pad and a fountain pen and wrote rapidly. He pulled the top sheet off the pad and handed it to Carsten. 'And here's a present for you: twenty-four hours' liberty. Go on across the river into Boston and have yourself a hell of a time.'
'Thank you very much, sir!' Sam exclaimed.
He wanted to charge off the Remembrance then and there, but Grady held up a hand. 'Just don't come back aboard Sunday afternoon with a dose of the clap, that's all. You do and I'll tear your stupid shortarm off and beat you over the head with it.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Sam said. 'I promise.' There were ways to make that unlikely to happen even if he didn't put on a rubber, though not all the girls in any house cared to use their mouths instead of doing what they usually did. If he had to pay a little extra for his fun, he would, that was all. He usually preferred a straight screw himself, but he hadn't expected to get this liberty and sure didn't want to end up in trouble on account of it. And the other was a hell of a lot of fun, too.
Several houses operated on the narrow streets across the Charles from the Navy Yard. Go where the customers are was a rule as old as the oldest profession. Sam got what he wanted- got it twice in quick succession, in fact, from an Italian woman about his own age who was as swarthy as he was fair. 'Thanks, Isabella,' he said, lazy and happy after the second time. He ran his hand through her hair. 'And here's an extra dollar you don't have to tell anybody about.'
'I thank you,' she said as she got to her feet. 'My little girl needs shoes. It will help.' He hadn't thought about whores having children, but supposed it was one of the hazards of the trade.
A lot of the businesses near the south bank of the Charles that weren't brothels were saloons. Sam had himself a couple of schooners of beer. He thought about getting drunk-Commander Grady hadn't told him not to do that. But, after he'd emptied that second glass, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and walked out of the dingy dive where he'd been drinking. He'd had his ashes hauled, he'd drunk enough to feel it, and nothing in the whole wide world seemed urgent, not even getting lit up. If he felt like doing it later, he would. If he didn't… well, he still had most of a day left without anyone to tell him what to do. For a Navy man, that was a pearl of great price.
He sauntered through the streets of Boston, thumbs in the pockets of his bell-bottomed trousers. He wasn't used to sauntering. When he went somewhere aboard the Remembrance, he always went with a purpose in mind, and he almost always had to hurry. Taking it easy was liberty of a sort he rarely got.
Half by accident, half by design, he came out onto the Boston Common: acres and acres of grass intended for nothing but taking it easy. If he wanted to, he could lie down there, put his cap over his eyes, and nap in the sun.
'No, thanks,' he said aloud at that thought. If he napped in the sun. he'd roast, sure as pork would in the galley ovens of the Remembrance. But there were trees here and there on the Common. Napping in the shade might not be so bad.
He headed for a good-sized oak with plenty of drooping, leafy branches to hold the sun at bay. Also heading for it from a different direction were a girl of nine or so, a boy who looked like her older brother, and, behind them, a woman with a picnic basket. Seeing Sam, the girl started to run. When she got to the shade under the oaks, she said, 'This is our tree. You can't have it.'
'Mary Jane, there's plenty of room for us all,' the woman said sternly. 'And don't you dare be rude to a sailor. Remember, your father was a sailor.'
