"Thanks, Gay; thanks, Dora. Pop?"

"Deety, are you still in Gay?"

"Just outside the starboard door."

"Can you lay hands on my automatic and the web belt that goes with it?"

"Saw both three minutes ago."

"Will you please remove the clip, check the chamber to be sure it's empty, then bring belt and pistol when you fetch our toadstickers?"

"Anything for a steady customer."

I left with belt and sword slung over one shoulder, saber and belt over the other so that the belts crossed between my teats, and with the web belt with holster and pistol interwoven through the others because it was far too big for my waist. This left my hands free to carry my dress, one hand being almost clean enough.

Pop said: "What took you so long? I promised Lazarus I'd get this stuff to him on time. Now I'm going to have to dogtrot. In Army blues."

I told him I had stopped off at the pool hall and playing off the match game had taken a while. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I have problems, too."

Elizabeth wiped me down with a damp towel, dried and powdered me and drew my eyebrows and touched up my lashes and clucked over me, all in nine minutes, then most carefully put my dress back on me. "Ordinarily one does not take off a washable and put it back on-just wear it until you shower it off. A drop of water will go through this material like acid. Better skip the soup."

Place cards showed us where to dine. But at two minutes before the hour the Hillbilly had not arrived, so we were standing. Laz-Lor came in, sat down- in dresses identical with mine and Lib's, perfect fit, nothing improvised. Their brother spoke quietly to them; they stood up. Lazarus was dressed in a very old-fashioned army uniform, breeches with rolled leggings, a tunic with a stock collar, and Pop's pistol at his side.

All but Pop's stuff looked brand-new; I concluded that Lazarus had had it tailored.

Just as my head ticked twenty o'clock, a bugle (Dora) sounded attention. At least it had that effect on the men and Libby, so I stood straight. Laz-Lor looked at their brother and did so, too.

The wardroom has three steps leading down into it from each of its archway doors, with a little platform at the top so that you don't fall on your face. Pop and Zebadiah marched up those steps, faced each other (and I thought how beautiful Zebadiah looked in dress uniform; I had never seen him in it). Pop snapped, "Draw! Swords!" Instead of coming down, they crossed blades in an arch. Lazarus looked startled and drew pistol, placed it smartly across his chest.

This archway was closed by drapes; we had come in from the other side. A drum and bugle (Dora again) sounded a ruffle-and-flourish; the drapes lifted from both sides-and here was the Hillbilly, standing tall (for her) and straight, with her perfect ice-cream skin gleaming in flood lights against a background of midnight blue. She was so beautiful I choked up.

Dora's invisible band played The Admiral's March as our tiny Commodore marched proudly down the steps toward us. (It could have been The Admiral's March; Pop admitted later that he hummed to Dora the march played for generals and told her to fake it.)

Aunt Hilda did not sit down when she reached the head of the table, she stood near her chair instead. Nor had my father and my husband left their places, they simply brought their swords down. As soon as Hilda stopped and faced in, Pop commanded, "Corporal Bronson! Front and Center!"

Lazarus jerked as if he had been struck, holstered his pistol, marched to the far end, making sharp corners in passing around the wardroom table. He halted, facing Hilda-she may have given him some sign.

Dora hit two bugle notes; Aunt Hilda sang:

"Shipmates, beloved friends, tonight we are greatly honored!"

Four ruffles-and-flourishes, as the drapes lifted and parted, and again lights picked out bare skin, this time against a forest-green backing: Maureen in

opera-length black stockings, green round garters, dark shoes with semi-high heels, her long red hair down her back.

Maureen was not "standing tall"; she was in the oldest and most graceful of sculptor's poses: left knee slightly bent, weight slightly more on her right foot, chest lifted only a little but displaying her full teats, nipples heavily crinkled. Her smile was happy.

She held pose while that march concluded, then, in the sudden silence, held out her arms and called: "Theodore!"

"Corporal Bronson" fainted.

"There are no tomorrows."

Zeb:

Sharpie shouldn't have done it to Lazarus. For a veteran of sixteen wars and Koshchei alone knows how many skirmishes and narrow escapes to be

placed in a position where he is so shocked that blood drains from his head and he collapses "ain't fitten."

Deety agrees but asks me if I could have refrained from staging Mama Maureen's return that way, given the chance? Well, no, had I Sharpie's imagination-but it still would not have been "fitten."

Not that he was hurt by it. Sharpie, all forty-three kilos of her, checked his fall. She was watching Lazarus, saw him start to collapse, closed the gap and grabbed him around the waist, did her best.

Sharpie saved him from hitting his head on the wardroom table. I would bet long odds that everyone was looking at Maureen except Sharpie. Sharpie had staged it-and the producer was interested in the effect on the one for whom it had been staged.

She had staged it even to the extent of getting Libby to ask Ishtar to obtain costume-shoes, hose, and round green garters to match a photograph, plus a hooded cape to keep our ubiquitous snoop Dora from knowing that we had an extra aboard. Sharpie had figured this way: that "French photo" snapshot of Mama Maureen (yeah, I call her that too-she's the most motherly person in any world... and the sexiest. Don't mention the last to Deety) (Deety knows it- !)ee/y)-that snapshot was still in existence unless destroyed by machinegun fire in 1918, Earth-Prime.

Which it would not be... because Lazarus "got his arse shot off" as his sisters describe it. Not literally true, it was a belly wound more than bullets in his arse that came that close to finishing him. But all the wounds were low.

Where does a man in combat carry his most cherished possessions? In a breast pocket, usually the left one. I always have and I've never heard a veteran deny this.

It might be worth it to faint in order to wake up surrounded by Maureen, Hilda, Laz-Lor, Elizabeth, and my own reason for being. Jake and I could have played several hands of gin before anyone bothered with us. So I asked Dora for drinks and snacks for Jake and me, as it seemed uncertain as to when dinner would be served. Or if.

I heard Sharpie say, "Maureen, we must get this heavy uniform off him. Dora keeps this ship tropical. I should never have ordered uniforms for men while we women are comfortable." They started peeling him.

I said, "Jake, school's out." I had sweated through my number-one uniform- might never wear it again but I'm sentimental about it. Jake was in as bad shape. Once you get happy with skin any clothes make you feel like Rameses

II.

We peeled down and handed our clothes and swords to one of Dora's waldoes and told her to hand them to Gay-including Jake's pistol, belt, and holster, which I retrieved without anyone noticing me. Jake and I were Chinese stage hands; "Corporal Ted Bronson" was getting all the attention.

Dora pointed out that Gay was locked. I said, "If one of her doors were open, could you lay this gear on a seat?" Yes, she could. "Then do it," I said. "Let me talk to Gay."