I was going to do that anyhow, Yeager thought as he pulled back into traffic. In an idiot sort of way, it was funny. Or maybe his brain was just spinning round and round without going anywhere, like a hamster's exercise wheel. Yeager thought as he pulled back into traffic. In an idiot sort of way, it was funny. Or maybe his brain was just spinning round and round without going anywhere, like a hamster's exercise wheel.

The light at the corner of Budlong and Rosecrans turned red. Sam hit the brake. As he did, one small light went on in his head. "You're Straha's driver!" he blurted. Gordon, that was the fellow's name.

"Not any more, I'm not," Gordon answered. "That's your fault, and you're going to pay for it. President Warren's dead. That's your fault." The light turned green. Yeager drove south, not knowing what else to do. Straha's driver-no, his ex-driver now-continued, "Indianapolis went up in smoke. That's That's your fault. And a h.e.l.l of a lot of good men lost their posts. That's your fault, too. If I could kill you four or five times, I would, but once'll have to do." your fault. And a h.e.l.l of a lot of good men lost their posts. That's your fault, too. If I could kill you four or five times, I would, but once'll have to do."

"What about all those Lizards?" Sam asked. The light at Compton Boulevard was green. He wished it were red. That would have given him a few extra seconds. "They never had a chance."

"f.u.c.k 'em." Gordon's voice was flat and cold. "And f.u.c.k you, buddy."

"Thanks a lot," Yeager said as he stopped for the red light at Redondo Beach Boulevard. "f.u.c.k you, too, and the horse you rode in on."

Straha's driver laughed. "Yeah, you can cuss me. You'll be just as dead either which way. Now go on down to Western. Turn left there and keep on driving till I tell you to stop."

Sam waited till the way was clear, then turned onto Redondo Beach. He had a pretty good idea where Gordon would have him go. Western ran all the way down to the Palos Verdes peninsula, where there were plenty of wide open s.p.a.ces without any houses close by. Kids drove down to P.V. to find privacy to park; he wouldn't have been surprised if Jonathan and Karen had done that a time or two, or maybe more than a time or two. Palos Verdes offered privacy for murder, too.

Coming up was Normandie. The next big street after it was Western. Yeager swung into the left lane as he drove west on Redondo Beach. He was nearing the light at Redondo Beach and Normandie when it went from green to yellow to red. Cars on Normandie started going through the intersection.

Sam slowed as if he were going to stop at the light, then stamped on the gas for all he was worth. Gordon only had time for the beginning of a startled squawk before the Buick broadsided a Chevy station wagon.

It had been a good many years since Sam's last traffic accident. He'd never caused-he'd never imagined causing-one on purpose. As they always did in pileups, things happened very fast and seemed to happen very slowly. Collision. Noise-incredible racket of smashing gla.s.s and crumpling metal. Yeager jerked forward. His seat belt caught him before he could spear himself on the steering wheel or go headfirst through the windshield.

Gordon wasn't wearing a seat belt. Sam had counted on that. Straha's driver hadn't been sitting directly behind him. He'd been more in the middle of the back seat. At the impact, he too was hurled forward, half over the top of the front seat. The pistol flew out of his hand. Sam had counted on that, too-he'd hoped for it, anyway. With the reflexes that had let him play a pretty fair left field once upon a time, he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up from the floorboard and hit Gordon in the head with it, as hard as he could. Then he got back his own .45 from Gordon's belt.

All that happened as quickly as he could do it. He hadn't had time to think about it. He couldn't remember thinking anything since deciding to run the light at Normandie, any more than he'd done any thinking while chasing down a long fly ball in the alley in left-center. Thinking was for afterwards.

Afterwards, however much against the odds, seemed to have arrived. Time returned to its normal flow. Sam suddenly noticed blaring horns and squealing brakes as other drivers somehow missed adding to the accident.

The first thing that ran through his mind was, It wasn't an accident. I meant to do it. It wasn't an accident. I meant to do it. The next thought made a lot more sense: The next thought made a lot more sense: I'd better get the h.e.l.l out of here before the car catches on fire. I'd better get the h.e.l.l out of here before the car catches on fire.

When he tried to open the door, it wouldn't. He twisted in his seat and kicked at it. At the same time, somebody outside yanked at it for all he was worth. It did open then, with a scream of tortured metal.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h!" roared the man outside, a stocky, swarthy fellow whose ancestors had come from Mexico if he hadn't. "You stupid motherf.u.c.king son of a b.i.t.c.h! You trying to get me killed? You trying to get yourself killed?"

He must have been driving the other car. Sam was proud he'd managed such a brilliant deduction. "No, I was trying to keep from getting killed," he answered-literal truth. He realized he sounded mushy. There on top of the dashboard, quite undamaged, sat his upper plate. He reached out with his left hand and stuffed it into his mouth. Sam was proud he'd managed such a brilliant deduction. "No, I was trying to keep from getting killed," he answered-literal truth. He realized he sounded mushy. There on top of the dashboard, quite undamaged, sat his upper plate. He reached out with his left hand and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Man, I oughta beat the living s.h.i.t outta you, and-" The man standing in the intersection suddenly noticed the pistol in Yeager's right hand. His eyes went enormously wide. He stopped roaring and started backing away.

That let Sam get out of the car. One look at the stove-in front end told him he'd never drive the Buick again. He shrugged. He'd have the chance to drive some other car one day. Almost as an afterthought, he dragged Gordon out of the wreckage. Gordon's head thumped on the asphalt, but Sam wasn't about to lose any sleep over that.

A couple of other cars had stopped. Their drivers jumped out to lend a hand. But n.o.body seemed eager to come very close to Yeager, not with one pistol in his hand and another on his belt. "Don't do nothin' crazy, mister," a tall, skinny blond guy said.

"I don't intend to," Yeager said-he'd already been crazy enough to last a lifetime, and to prolong one. "I'm just waiting for the cops to get here."

He didn't have to wait long. Siren howling, red lights flashing, a squad car raced up Normandie and stopped in the intersection, which was already a lot more crowded than it needed to be. Two of Gardena's finest got out and looked things over. "Okay," said one of them, a burly fellow with black hair and very blue eyes. "What the h.e.l.l happened here?"

As far as Sam could see, that was pretty obvious. He sighed with relief for a different reason, though-he'd met the policeman before. "h.e.l.lo, Clyde," he said. "How are you tonight?"

The Mexican man who'd been driving the station wagon let out a wail of anguish. His car was wrecked-and it was totaled, bent into an L-and the guy who'd rammed him knew the cop by his first name?

Clyde needed a couple of seconds to pull Sam out of his mental card file, but he did. "Lieutenant Colonel Yeager!" he exclaimed. "What the h.e.l.l happened here?" This time, he asked it in an altogether different tone of voice.

Briefly, as if making an oral report, Yeager told him what had happened. "Yeah, and that's all a bunch of bulls.h.i.t, too," Gordon said from the street. Sam jumped. He hadn't noticed Straha's driver coming to. Gordon went on, "This guy kidnapped me, dragged me off the street. He was babbling about ransom money."

Sam handed Clyde both pistols. "You'll probably find both our prints on both of them. You want to know where I was going when I left home, call my wife and son. You can check with the formalwear place, too-it's right down the street here."

"Whaddaya think?" the other cop asked Clyde.

"Yeager here, he's had some nasty stuff happen to him that n.o.body ever got a handle on-n.o.body this side of the FBI, anyhow," Clyde said slowly. "You ask me, this looks like more of the same." He bent down and put handcuffs on Gordon. "You're under arrest. Suspicion of kidnapping." Then he pointed at Sam. "But you're coming down to the station, too, till we find out whose story checks out better."

"What about me?" cried the man who'd been driving the station wagon.

n.o.body paid any attention to him. "Sure, I'll come," Sam said. "But please do call my wife, will you, and let her know I'm okay."

"We'll take care of it," the second cop said. He went back to the police car and spoke into the radio. Then he walked back toward the accident. "Tow truck's on the way. Another car, too, so we can get both these guys to the station."

"Okay, good," Clyde answered. "Like I said, we'll sort it out there." He hauled Gordon to his feet.

"I want my lawyer," Gordon said sullenly.

Whoever his lawyer was, he'd be good. Sam was sure of that. But, as he walked toward the squad car, he didn't worry about it. He didn't worry about anything. By the odds, he should have been dead, and he was still breathing. Measured against that, nothing else mattered.

Jonathan Yeager fiddled with his tie in front of the mirror in the church's waiting room. He'd practiced tying a bow tie under a wing collar ever since he'd got the tux, but he still wasn't real good at it. One side of the bow definitely looked bigger than the other. "I don't think I'll ever get it right, Dad," he said in something close to despair.

His father clapped him on the shoulder and advised, "Don't worry about it. n.o.body's going to care much, as long as you're there and Karen's there and the minister's there. And you probably won't have to worry about it again till you're marrying off your own kid-and n.o.body'll pay much attention to you you then, believe me." then, believe me."

"Okay." Jonathan was willing-more than willing, eager-to let himself be convinced. He glanced at his father. Sam Yeager's tie was straight. The bulge under the left shoulder of his tuxedo jacket hardly showed at all. Jonathan shook his head. "I wonder when the last wedding was where the father of the groom carried a pistol."

"Don't know," his father said. "Usually it's the father of the bride, and he's carrying a shotgun."

"Dad!" Jonathan said reproachfully. His father grinned, altogether unrepentant. Jonathan shook his head. He and Karen had been careful every single time-no need for Mr. Culpepper to go out and buy shotgun sh.e.l.ls. Even so, he changed the subject: "Will you and Mom be okay watching Mickey and Donald while Karen and I are off on our honeymoon?"

"We'll manage," his dad replied. "If we really start going crazy, we can call one of the Army's other Lizard-psych boys, like the fellow who's babysitting them today. But I don't expect we'll need to. They're getting big enough to be easier than they were even a few months ago."

Somebody knocked on the door. "You fellows decent in there?" Jonathan's mother asked.

"No," his father answered. "Come on in anyway."

The door opened. Jonathan's mother came in. "Karen looks lovely," she said. "She's wearing the dress her mother got married in, you know. I think that's so romantic."

Jonathan hadn't seen Karen yet. He wouldn't, not till she came down the aisle. Not everybody followed that old custom these days, but her folks approved of it. Since they were footing the bill, he could hardly argue with them. His father asked, "Everything okay out front, hon?"

"Everything looks fine," his mother said. "And n.o.body's come in who hasn't been vouched for by somebody. No strangers at the feast."

"There'd better not be." Just for a moment, his father's right hand started to slide toward the shoulder holster. Then he checked the motion. He went on, "The judge refused to let Gordon out on bail yesterday. He was the biggest worry."

"I hope he stays there till he rots," Jonathan's mother said.

"Yeah." That was Jonathan. He added an emphatic cough. His father had told him some of what went on the night the Buick met its end. He had the feeling his dad hadn't told him everything, not by a long shot.

"Well, now that you mention it, so do I," Sam Yeager said.

Another knock on the door. The minister said, "About time to get ready, there."

"We are, Reverend Fleischer," Jonathan said. His heart thumped. He was ready for the ceremony, sure enough. Was he ready to be married? He wasn't so sure about that. He wondered if anybody was ready to be married before the fact. His mother and father had made it work, and so had Karen's parents. If they could manage it, he supposed Karen and he could, too. He turned to his mother and father. "Shall we do it?"

His father started to say something. His mother gave his dad a look, and his dad very visibly swallowed whatever it had been. Instead, he said, "We'd better round up your best man, too. He ducked out for a cigarette, didn't he?"

"Yeah." Jonathan nodded. "Greg goes through a pack a day, easy."

"With everything they're finding out these days about what cigarettes do to you, I think young people are foolish to start." His mother's grin was wry. "That doesn't mean I don't use them myself, of course."

"I was going to point that out," Jonathan's father said. "I've got a pack with me, too."

The minister opened the door. Jonathan's best man stood behind him. Greg Ruzicka and he had known each other since the fourth grade. Greg's head was also shaved; like so many of his generation, he found the Race at least as interesting as humanity. He gave Jonathan a thumbs-up. Jonathan grinned.

"If you'll just come along with me now, and take your places," Reverend Fleischer said. "Then I'll give the organist a nod, and we shall commence."

When Jonathan got to the door that led to the aisle down which he'd walk, he looked at the backs of the guests' heads. His friends, his parents' friends-Ullha.s.s and Ristin were there; Shiplord Straha, for obvious reasons, wasn't-and a few relatives, and those of Karen and her folks. He gulped. It was real. It was about to happen.

Karen and her mother came out of the other waiting room. She waved to him and smiled through her veil. He took a deep breath and smiled back. Reverend Fleischer bustled up to the altar and gave the organist the signal. The first couple of notes of the Wedding March rang out before Jonathan realized they had something to do with him. His best man hissed. He jumped, then started walking.

Afterwards, he remembered only bits and pieces of the ceremony. He remembered his own parents coming up the aisle after him, and Karen on her father's arm, and her maid of honor-she'd known Vicki Yamagata even longer than he'd known Greg. After that, it was all a blur till he heard Reverend Fleischer saying, "Do you, Jonathan, take this woman to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"

"I do," he said, loud enough for the minister and Karen to hear him, but probably not for anybody else.

It seemed to satisfy Reverend Fleischer. He turned to the bride. "Do you, Karen, take this man to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"

"I do," she answered, a little louder than Jonathan had.

Beaming, the minister said, "Then by the authority vested in me by the church and by the state of California, I now p.r.o.nounce you man and wife." He nodded to Jonathan. "You may kiss the bride."

That, Jonathan knew how to do. He swept the veil aside, took Karen in his arms, and delivered a kiss about a quarter as enthusiastic as he really wanted to give her. That still made it pretty lively for a kiss in church. When he let her go, he saw almost all the men and what was to him a surprising number of women looking as if they knew exactly what he had in mind.

"We're really married," he said: not exactly brilliant repartee from a new bridegroom.

"How about that?" Karen answered. That was commonplace enough to make him feel a bit better.

They went up the aisle this time, and over to the hall next to the church for the reception after the wedding. Jonathan drank champagne, fed wedding cake to Karen and got fed by her, and shook hands with everybody he didn't know and most of the people he did.

"Congratulations," Ristin told him in hissing English.

"I thank you, superior sir," Jonathan answered in the language of the Race.

As his red-white-and-blue body paint showed, Ristin was an ex-POW who'd made himself thoroughly at home in the USA. He kept right on speaking English: "This is an enjoyable celebration. I almost begin to understand why those two of my kind who fled to this country would desire it."

"Weddings are supposed to be fun," Jonathan agreed, now sticking to English himself. "From everything I've heard, though, it's the settling-down part later on that makes a marriage work."

Ristin shrugged. "I would not know. Most of us have no interest in such unions. But I know your kind does, and I wish you every success."

"Thanks," Jonathan said again.

People pelted Karen and him with rice when they went out to his elderly Ford. He hoped it would start. It did. He was glad to be out of the tux and in ordinary clothes again. Karen ran a comb through her hair, getting the rice out of it. "How about that?" she said again.

"Yeah. How about that, Mrs. Yeager?" Jonathan said. "You're going to have to get used to signing your name a new way."

Karen looked startled. "You're right. I will. And I'll have to get used to being at the end of the alphabet, too, instead of near the front. Culpepper was good for that."

The hotel they'd picked for their wedding night was close to the airport. When they got up to their room, he picked her up and carried her over the threshold. Inside, they discovered a bottle of champagne waiting in a bucket of ice. Karen read the little card tied to the bottle. "It's from your folks," she said, and sighed. "My mom and dad wouldn't have thought of anything like that."

"Your parents are nice people," Jonathan said loyally.

But he didn't want to think about his new in-laws-or his own parents, for that matter. That wasn't what a wedding night was for. He wasn't very interested in more champagne at the moment, either. It might make him sleepy. He didn't want to be sleepy, not tonight.

Karen might have been reading his mind. "We don't have to hurry," she said, glancing toward the bed that dominated the hotel room. "We don't have to worry about getting caught, either. I like that." Her eye went to the ring with the very little diamond Jonathan had set on her finger. "I like this, too."

"Good." Jonathan had a slim gold band on his own finger. He wasn't used to wearing rings; it felt funny. "That's the idea." He walked over to her. Their arms went around each other. Who kissed whom was a matter of opinion. This time, in privacy, they didn't have to hold back any enthusiasm.

Not very much later, they lay side by side on the bed. Jonathan's hands wandered. So did Karen's. She said, "This is a lot better than parking in a drive-in, you know?"

"Yeah!" Jonathan couldn't take his eyes off his bride. They'd never had the chance to be fully naked together before. "You're beautiful. I already knew that-but even more so."

She pulled him to her. "You say the sweetest things." After they'd kissed for quite a while, Karen pulled back perhaps half an inch and said, "I'll bet you tell that to all the girls." She poked him in the ribs.

He squeaked-she'd found a ticklish spot. And, just for half a second, the corny old joke put him off his stride. He had had told Ka.s.squit something pretty much like that, or as close to it as he could come in the language of the Race, which wasn't really made for such sentiments. He wondered how Ka.s.squit was doing, and hoped she was doing well. told Ka.s.squit something pretty much like that, or as close to it as he could come in the language of the Race, which wasn't really made for such sentiments. He wondered how Ka.s.squit was doing, and hoped she was doing well.

But then his mouth found its way to the tip of Karen's breast again. She sighed and pressed his head against her. He stopped thinking about Ka.s.squit. He stopped thinking about everything. A moment later, the marriage became official in a way that had nothing to do with either the church or the state of California, but that was as old as mankind nonetheless.

"Oh, Jonathan," Karen said softly.

"I love you," he answered.

They made love a couple of times, fell asleep in each other's arms, and woke up to make love again. Over the course of the night, the champagne did disappear. It wasn't enough to make them drunk; it was enough to make them happy, not that they weren't pretty happy already.

The wakeup call at eight the next morning interrupted something that wasn't sleep. Afterwards, Jonathan said, "I don't know why we're flying up to San Francisco for our honeymoon."

"It'll be fun," Karen said. "We'll see all sorts of things we haven't seen before."

"If we ever get out of the hotel room, we will," he said. "I don't know about that."

"Braggart." She wrinkled her nose at him. They both laughed. Jonathan squeezed her. They went downstairs for breakfast, and then back up to the room to find something to do in the couple of hours before the plane took off. To Jonathan's considerable pride, they did. On the basis of a bit more than half a day, he liked being married just fine.