"Right." The medic handled his end of the business with quick but unhurried competence. "BP is 110 over 70," he reported a few seconds later. "He's got a strong pulse, the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"He would," O'Doull said morosely. He nodded to the stretcher bearer then. "I don't think he's going to up and die on us, but I'm not sure we're doing him any favor keeping him alive."

"Yeah." The corpsman looked away. With the best will in the world, with the best plastic surgery in the world-which, odds were, the wounded soldier wouldn't be lucky enough to get-people would be looking away from the man on the table for the rest of his life. Did he have a girlfriend? A wife? Would he still, once she saw him? Did he have a little boy? What would Junior make of Daddy with half a face?

"Gotta try," McDougald said, and O'Doull nodded. Some men were tough enough to come through something like this not only sane but triumphant. Some had people around them who loved them no matter what they looked like.

Most, unfortunately, didn't.

Knowing that made O'Doull more hesitant than he wished he were. He did what he could to clean the wound, trim away smashed tissue and bone, and make repairs where and as he could. Then he shot the man full of morphine and told McDougald, "Put him under as deep as he'll go, Granny. He won't want to be awake once he finally is. Let's put off the evil minute as long as we can."

"No arguments here. Back at a field hospital, they'll get him all bandaged up so he won't have to look at-that-right away. If they know what they're doing, they'll break it to him gently."

"Yeah," O'Doull said tightly, and let it go at that. Field hospitals were almost as frantic as aid stations. Would the people farther back of the line have the time to think of gently breaking the news of this man's mutilation? Even if they did think of it, would they have the time to do it? Or would they treat him as one more body that took up a valuable cot till they could send him somewhere else? O'Doull didn't know, but he knew how he'd bet.

Granville McDougald straightened and stretched. "I'm gonna have me a cigarette," he announced, and headed out of the tent.

"Sounds good to me." Leonard O'Doull didn't want to look at or think about that operating table for a while. The Virginia countryside wasn't much of an improvement, not battered and bludgeoned by war as it was, but mutilated meadows were easier to bear than mutilated men.

McDougald held out a pack of Confederate cigarettes. O'Doull gladly took one. The veteran noncom gave him a light. He drew in smoke. Here, he almost wished it were the harsh stuff that came from U.S. tobacco. Wanting to choke would have done more to distract him than this rich-tasting smoothness.

Off to the south, artillery rumbled. Nothing was coming down close by. He thanked the G.o.d he was having ever more trouble believing in. "Bad one," he said.

"Now that you mention it-yes. Don't see ones like that ever day, and a good thing, too." McDougald exhaled a thin gray stream of smoke. "You fixed him up as well as anybody could have, Doc."

"I know. And he'll still look like something they wouldn't put in a horror movie because it would really really scare people." O'Doull took a flask off his belt and swigged from it, then offered it to McDougald. He didn't usually drink when he might be operating again in another couple of minutes. This time, he made an exception. You scare people." O'Doull took a flask off his belt and swigged from it, then offered it to McDougald. He didn't usually drink when he might be operating again in another couple of minutes. This time, he made an exception. You didn't didn't see ones like that every day. see ones like that every day.

"You can do things now you couldn't begin to in the last war," McDougald said after a swig of his own. "Thanks, Doc. That hits the spot. Where was I? Yeah-you really can. Get him to where he looks like-"

"A disaster and not a catastrophe," O'Doull finished for him. "Come on, Granny. There's not enough left to fix. I've seen a lot of wounds, but that poor f.u.c.ker made me want to lose my lunch."

He tried to imagine writing Nicole a letter about what he'd just done. That was cruelly funny. He wouldn't-couldn't-have written it even if the censors would have pa.s.sed it. He always wrote her in French, but they would have found somebody who could read it. But you couldn't subject anyone you loved to even the shadow of what you went through when you were in combat or where you could see what combat did to men. His letters to his wife and son were bright, cheerful lies. When somebody at the aid station said something funny, he would pa.s.s that along, especially if it stayed funny in French. Otherwise, he just said he was well and safe and not working too hard. Lie after lie after lie. He didn't know anyone who tried to tell the truth, not about this kind of thing.

McDougald ground out the cigarette under his heel and lit another one. "Days like this, I wonder why I stayed in the Army," he said.

"I wonder why I came back," O'Doull agreed.

"Oh, no, Doc. Oh, no. You did more for that guy than I ever could have. You're good. I'm not bad-I know I'm not bad-but you're good. good."

"Thanks, Granny. I'm not good enough, not for that. n.o.body's good enough for that." O'Doull muttered something under his breath. Even he wasn't sure if it was curse or prayer. He went on, "Is there any point to all this?"

"For us? Sure," Granville McDougald answered. "If not for us, a lot of guys would be a lot worse off than they are. What we do is worth doing. For the whole thing? I'm not the one to ask about that, sir. If you want to cross the lines and talk to Jake Featherston . . ."

"If I ever ran into Jake Featherston, I'd smash his head in with a rock, and screw the Hippocratic oath," O'Doull said. McDougald laughed, for all the world as if he'd been kidding. He hadn't, not even a little bit. In plaintive tones, he added, "Featherston went through the last war, every G.o.dd.a.m.n bit of it. Wasn't that enough for him?"

"When you lose, a war is never enough," McDougald answered. That probably held an unfortunate amount of truth. "You happen to recall what Remembrance Day was like before the Great War?"

O'Doull grunted, because he did. The United States, twice beaten and humiliated by the Confederates and Britain and France, had had a lot to remember. The regimentation, the constant stinting to build up the Army and Navy, the tub-thumping speeches, the parades with the flag flown upside down as a symbol of distress . . . He sighed. "So we finally won. So what did it get us?" He waved. "This."

"What would we have got if we lost?" McDougald asked. "Something better? Something worse? Christ, we might have grown our own Featherston."

"Tabernac!" O'Doull said, startled into the Quebecois French he'd used for so long. "That's a really scary thought, Granny." O'Doull said, startled into the Quebecois French he'd used for so long. "That's a really scary thought, Granny."

The medic only shrugged. "When things go good, everybody laughs at people like that and says they belong in the loony bin. But when times get hard, they come out of the woodwork and people start paying attention. You go, 'Well, how could they make things any worse? Let's see what they can do.' "

"Yeah. And then they go and do it," O'Doull said. Featherston wasn't the only one of that breed running around loose these days, either. Action Francaise Action Francaise and King Charles had mobilized France even sooner than the Freedom Party grabbed the reins in the CSA. And in England, Churchill and Mosley were yet another verse of the same sorry song. and King Charles had mobilized France even sooner than the Freedom Party grabbed the reins in the CSA. And in England, Churchill and Mosley were yet another verse of the same sorry song.

"It's a b.a.s.t.a.r.d," McDougald said. "Except for bashing in Featherston's brains, to h.e.l.l with me if I know what to do about it. And it might even be too late for that to do any good. By now, this mess has a life of its own."

"Some life." The aid station was close enough to the front to share in the smell of the battlefield. O'Doull knew what death smelled like. He lived with that odor-not always heavy, but always there. When war was alive, that smell always got loose.

"Doc! Hey, Doc!" Stretcher bearers hauled another wounded man toward the tent with the big Red Crosses on the sides. Leonard O'Doull and Granville McDougald looked at each other. Maybe they could save this one. Maybe he wouldn't be horribly mangled. Maybe . . . They'd find out in a minute. Shaking their heads, they ducked back into the tent.

Appointments, appointments, appointments. Jake Featherston had started to hate them. They chewed up his time and spat it out. When he was talking with people, he couldn't do the things that really needed doing. He even resented Ferdinand Koenig, and if Ferd wasn't a friend he didn't have any.

Today, a smile lightened the Attorney General's heavy features. "That Pinkard fellow's given us a new line on things," he said. "We may be able to dispose of more n.i.g.g.e.rs faster than we ever dreamed we could."

"Oh, yeah?" Sure as h.e.l.l, that piqued Jake's interest. "Tell me about it." Koenig did. The more Jake listened, the more intrigued he got. "Will this s.h.i.t work?" he asked. "Do we make it in bulk now, or would we have to run up a new factory to get as much as we need?"

"That's the beauty of it," Koenig answered. "They already use the stuff to fumigate houses and such. There's a company in Little Rock-Cyclone Chemicals, the name of the place is-that makes it by the ton. They aren't the only one, either. They're just the biggest."

"Well, I will be a son of a b.i.t.c.h. Pinkard's chock full of good ideas, isn't he?" Jake said. "Promote him a grade and tell him to see what he can do to try this out as fast as he can. We've got a big job ahead of us, and we're going to need all the help we can get."

"I'll do it." The Attorney General wrote in a notebook he pulled from a breast pocket. Half apologetically, he said, "I've got so much going on, I lose things if I don't write 'em down. Forget my own head if it wasn't nailed on tight."

Jake laughed. "I know what you mean. Boy, don't I just? But stay on that one, Ferd. Taking care of the n.i.g.g.e.rs is just as important as licking the Yankees. Anything else I ought to know about?"

"Reports I get from here and there, grumbling about the war is up a little."

"We'll deal with it." Jake muttered to himself. Things were dragging on longer than he'd told the country they would. That made propaganda harder than it should have been. "New offensive's going well," he said, looking on the bright side. "I'll talk with Saul, too, see if we can't figure out a way to perk up morale. Anything besides that?"

"Don't think so." Big and ponderous, Koenig rose to his feet. "I'll get on the telephone to Pinkard right away."

"Yeah, you do that." Featherston got up, too, and walked to the door with him. As Koenig left, Jake asked, "Who's next on the list, Lulu?"

"A Professor FitzBelmont, Mr. President," his secretary answered. Working underground fazed her not at all. Jake suspected working underwater wouldn't have fazed her, either.

"FitzBelmont . . ." The name was vaguely familiar. And then, with a good politician's near-total recall for people, Jake remembered exactly who Professor Henderson V. FitzBelmont was. He groaned. "Oh, for G.o.d's sake! The uranium nut. How did he he get another appointment?" get another appointment?"

"Do you want me to tell him it's been canceled, sir?" Lulu asked.

"No, no," Jake said resignedly. "If he's out there cooling his heels in the waiting room, he'll raise a stink if you send him home now. Fetch him in. I'll get rid of him as quick as I can."

Professor FitzBelmont was as rumpled and tweedy as he had been the year before. "Good to see you, Mr. President," he said.

"Likewise," Jake lied. "What's on your mind today, Professor? Kindly cut to the chase-I've got a lot to do."

"You will remember, sir, that I told you that uranium-uranium-235, that is-has the potential to make an explosive thousands of times as strong as dynamite."

"I do recollect, yeah. But I also recollect it'd cost an arm and a leg, and you weren't sure how long it'd take or whether you could do it at all. Has anything changed since then? Better be something, Professor, or I won't be real happy with you. I haven't got time to waste."

Henderson V. FitzBelmont licked his lips and nervously fiddled with his gold-framed spectacles. "In terms of what we know about uranium itself, not much has has changed." Jake started to growl angrily, but FitzBelmont plowed ahead anyway: "But I do know, or I can make a good guess, that the United States are probably looking at this same question." changed." Jake started to growl angrily, but FitzBelmont plowed ahead anyway: "But I do know, or I can make a good guess, that the United States are probably looking at this same question."

"How do you know that?" Featherston rapped out. Professor FitzBelmont had found a way to make him pay attention, all right.

"For one thing, their journals have suddenly stopped mentioning uranium at all. For another, there are large engineering works in the northwestern USA that appear consistent with an effort along these lines."

"And how do you know that that?"

"I was asked by C.S. Intelligence to identify buildings in photos," the professor replied. "No doubt because of my previous visit to you, those officers knew of my interest in that field. And if I were to build a plant for producing enriched uranium, it would look something like what the United States are building in Washington."

"All right." Featherston surprised himself by how mildly he spoke. Every once in a while, somebody who looked and sounded like a nut turned out not to be one after all. This felt like one of those times. "If the d.a.m.nyankees are interested in this uranium stuff, too, there must be something to it. That's what you're telling me, isn't it?"

"I don't know, sir, not for sure. I don't know whether we can isolate U-235, how long doing it would take, or how much it would cost. There also seems to be a possibility that U-238 can be trans.m.u.ted-"

"Can be what?" Jake wished the prof would stop talking like a prof.

"Changed," FitzBelmont said patiently. "Maybe it can be changed into another element that will also explode. Theory seems to suggest the possibility. I know less about this than I do about U-235. There is much more U-238, so the second possibility would be advantageous to us. But I am certain of one thing."

"Oh? And what's that?" Jake asked, as the physics professor surely wanted him to do. Usually, he manipulated. Not today; not right now.

Henderson V. FitzBelmont moved in for the kill, an intellectual tiger on the prowl: "If the enemy succeeds in acquiring this weapon and we do not, I fail to see how our cause can avoid disaster."

Jake thought about it. Twenty thousand times as strong as TNT? One bomb and no more city? The USA with eight or ten of those bombs and the CSA with none? A fleet of Yankee bombers had done horrible things to Fort Worth and Dallas, catching the Texas towns by surprise. That wouldn't happen again. The officer who'd been asleep at the switch now made his reports in h.e.l.l; those bombers had made him pay for his mistake. But if the USA didn't need a fleet of bombers, if one airplane would do the job . . . n.o.body could stop every single G.o.dd.a.m.n airplane.

"Figure out what you need, Professor," Jake said heavily. "Money, machinery, people-whatever it is, you'll get it. I want the list as fast as you can shoot it to me. No more than two weeks, you hear?"

"Uh, yes, sir." FitzBelmont sounded more than a little dazed. He lost a point in Jake's book on account of that. If he'd really believed in this, he would have pulled that list out of his briefcase now. Maybe he hadn't believed he could persuade the President of the CSA. Featherston hoped that was it.

He accompanied FitzBelmont out of his subterranean sanctum, as he had Ferd Koenig a little while before. After the physics professor left, Jake turned to Lulu and said, "Get on the horn to General Potter. Tell him I want to see him here ten minutes ago."

"Yes, Mr. President." She didn't bat an eye. She never did. "Can I tell him what this is in reference to?"

"Nope. I'll take care of that when he gets here."

"Yes, Mr. President." Lulu knew what was always the right answer.

Featherston endured a delegation of Freedom Party officials from Alabama and Mississippi going on about how they needed more men and more guns to help keep their smoldering Negro rebellions from bursting into flames. Since Jake couldn't possibly give them more men, he promised them more guns, and hoped he wasn't crossing his fingers on the promise. They seemed satisfied as they went away. Whether he could keep them satisfied . . . I'll do my G.o.dd.a.m.nedest, that's all. I'll do my G.o.dd.a.m.nedest, that's all.

Clarence Potter came in next. Somebody in the waiting room down the hall was bound to be madder than h.e.l.l. Too bad, Too bad, the President thought. Without preamble, he barked, "What do you know about Henderson V. FitzBelmont and uranium?" the President thought. Without preamble, he barked, "What do you know about Henderson V. FitzBelmont and uranium?" Sweet Jesus Christ, Sweet Jesus Christ, he thought. he thought. Till FitzBelmont came here last year, I'd never even heard of the s.h.i.t. I wish I still hadn't. Till FitzBelmont came here last year, I'd never even heard of the s.h.i.t. I wish I still hadn't.

"Ah," Potter said. "Has he convinced you?"

"He sure as h.e.l.l has," Jake answered. "How about you?"

"I'm no scientist," Potter warned. Jake made an impatient noise. Potter made an apologetic gesture. "Yes, sir, he's convinced me, too. Sooner or later, somebody's going to be able to make a h.e.l.l of a bang with that stuff. If it's sooner, and if it's the d.a.m.nyankees, we've got us some big worries."

"That's how it looks to me, too," Featherston said unhappily. He pointed at Potter. "How the h.e.l.l did you find out about that place in Washington? That's as far from here as it can be."

"It's in the U.S. budget-a lot of money, and no details at all about what the Yankees are spending it on," the Intelligence officer replied. "Spotting the combination sent up a red flag."

"Good," Jake said. "Nice to know somebody in your outfit wouldn't blow his brains out if he farted, by G.o.d. Now the next question is, how did you get the pictures of that place for FitzBelmont to look at? I didn't think our spy airplanes could fly that far, and I reckon the USA'd shoot 'em down most of the time even if they could."

"Yes, Mr. President, I agree with you-that's what would have happened if we'd taken off from Texas or Sonora," Potter said. "And we would have given away our interest in the area, too. So we didn't do that. Our man in western Washington rented a crop duster at a local airstrip. n.o.body paid any attention to him, and he got his photos."

Jake Featherston guffawed. "Good. That's G.o.dd.a.m.n good. But we won't be able to do it again anytime soon, though."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Potter said, nodding.

"We found out what we need to know, so we don't have to worry about putting the d.a.m.nyankees' backs up by trying it again," Jake said, and Clarence Potter nodded once more. The President aimed his finger like a rifle. "We've got to keep the USA from finding out that we know what they're up to, and from finding out we're up to the very same thing ourselves. Whatever your super-duper top-secret security business is, use everything you've got and then some on whatever has anything to do with uranium."

"I've already given those orders, sir," Potter said. "Minimum possible in writing, and code phrases all through instead of the name of the metal. No telephone discussion at all-never can tell who might be listening. You did that just right when you had your secretary call me."

"Thanks," Jake said. "Uranium! Who would've thunk it?" He would have bet money Henderson V. FitzBelmont was a nut. He would have bet big-and he would have lost his shirt.

Scipio felt like a ghost, rattling around in a nearly empty part of the Terry. His family wasn't the only one in the area to have survived the cleanout, but there weren't many. A few others had got advance warning, but only a few-the ones that had good connections with white folks one way or another.

n.o.body knew where the people who'd been evacuated had gone-or rather, had been taken. They'd just . . . vanished. No cards, no letters, no photographs came back to Augusta. Maybe the deportees who could write didn't have the chance. Maybe the C.S. authorities weren't letting them. Or maybe they were simply dead.

For the handful who remained, life got harder. The authorities shut off electricity and gas in the depopulated areas. The water still ran. Maybe that was only an absentminded mistake, or maybe the people who ran Augusta kept it on so they could put out fires if they had to. Scipio had n.o.body he could ask.

He did ask Jerry Dover where the deportees went. The white man looked him in the eye and said, "I have no idea."

"Could you find out, suh?" Scipio asked. "It do weigh on my mind."

The manager of the Huntsman's Lodge shook his head. "No, I'm not about to ask. Some answers are dangerous. h.e.l.l, some questions questions are dangerous. Do I have to draw you a picture?" are dangerous. Do I have to draw you a picture?"

"No, suh," Scipio answered unhappily. "Don't reckon you do."

"All right, then." Dover hesitated before adding, "Sometimes finding out is worse than wondering. You know what I mean?"

Had the white man not told him to bring his family when he came to work that one night, they they would have found out. Scipio didn't think the answer would have made them happy. They might yet learn from the inside out, and so might he. He didn't want to. would have found out. Scipio didn't think the answer would have made them happy. They might yet learn from the inside out, and so might he. He didn't want to.

Dover lit a cigarette, then held the pack out to Scipio, who couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a white man do even such a simple favor for a black. "I thanks you kindly," Scipio said. He had matches of his own. He didn't need to lean close to Dover to get a light from his cigarette; his boss might have taken that as an undue familiarity.

"Everything's gonna be . . ." Dover stopped and shook his head. "s.h.i.t, I don't know whether everything's gonna be all right. You got to do the best you can, that's all."

"Yeah." Scipio smoked with short, savage puffs. "Don't mean no offense, suh, but you got an easier time sayin' dat than I does doin' it."

"Maybe. But maybe I don't, too," Dover said. Scipio felt a rush of scorn the likes of which he'd never known. What kind of trouble could the restaurant manager have that came within miles of a Negro's? But then Dover went on, "Looks like they may pull me into the Army after all. More and more people are putting on the uniform these days."

"Oh." Scipio didn't find anything to say to that. Horrible things happened to Negroes in the CSA, yes. But horrible things could happen to anybody in the Army, too. The one difference Scipio could see was that Dover's family wasn't in danger if he went into the service. Then a fresh worry surfaced: "You puts on de uniform, suh, who take over here?"

"Well, I don't exactly know." Dover didn't sound comfortable with the answer.