He had himself a brand-new office, too. The Canadians and British had defended Empire as long as the last man who could shoot still had cartridges for his rifle. By the time the Americans forced their way into the town, hardly one stone remained atop another. The Romans could only have dreamt of visiting such destruction on Carthage. All the buildings that stood in Empire were new ones.

Arthur, Ontario, lay about thirty miles to the north. Jonathan Moss told himself over and over that that wasn't why he'd decided to set up his practice in Berlin. Sometimes he even believed it. After all, he hadn't hopped into his Bucephalus and driven up to Arthur, had he? Of course he hadn't. That meant he didn't have Laura Secord on his mind, didn't it? It did, at least some of the time.

But when days were slow, he had too much time to sit in his brand-new office and think. On days like that, he welcomed visitors not so much for the sake of the business they might bring as for their distraction value.

And so, now, he was happy to set a cigarette in the brass ashtray on his desk and greet the skinny man in the faded, shiny suit of prewar cut who came through the door and said, "Mr. Moss, is it?"

"That's right." Moss' swivel chair squeaked as he rose from it. He stuck out his hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr.-?"

"My name is Smith. John Smith." The skinny man sighed. "Save the question, sir: yes, that really is my name. I can prove it if I have to. There are a lot of Smiths, and my father and his father were both Johns, so…" He sighed again. "It's almost as much trouble as being named something like Cyrus Mudpuddle, or I think it must be, anyhow."

"You're likely right, Mr. Smith," said Moss, who'd taken his share of ribbing about his name over the years. "Why don't you sit down, have a smoke if you care to, and tell me what you think I can do for you " He glanced at that shabby suit again. "No fee for the first consultation." Smith was hungrier than he.

"Thank you, sir. You're very kind." Smith sat, then made a show of patting his pockets. "Oh, dear, I seem to have left my cigarettes at home."

"Have one of mine." Moss extended the pack. He'd half expected something like this. He lit a match for Smith, wondering whether he'd ever see any money from the man if he undertook to represent him. After the Canadian had taken a couple of drags, Moss repeated, "What can I do for you?"

For a moment, he didn't know if he'd get an answer. John Smith seemed entranced with pleasure at the tobacco smoke. Moss wondered how long he'd gone without. After a few seconds, though, Smith seemed to recall he hadn't come into the office just to cadge a smoke. He said, "I wish your assistance, sir, in helping me regain a piece of property taken from me without good reason."

"Very well." A lot of Moss' business was of that sort. He slid a pad toward himself and took a fountain pen from the middle drawer of his desk. "First, the basics: did you serve in the Canadian Army during the Great War?"

"No, sir," Smith said. "I am badly ruptured, I'm afraid, and was not fit for duty. I have a doctor's certificate."

"Good enough." Moss scribbled a note. "Next obvious question: have you taken the oath of loyalty to the occupation authorities?"

"Yes, I did that-did it not long after the war ended, as soon as I had the chance," Smith answered. "I am a peaceable man. I would not tell you a falsehood and say I am glad your country won the war-you are an American, I take it?" He waited for Moss to nod, then went on, "Because I am a peaceable man, all I can do is make the best of things as I find them."

"That's sensible, Mr. Smith." Moss noted he'd taken the oath. "All right. I may be able to help you. If you'd answered no to either of those questions, I couldn't possibly, and neither could any lawyer. Some would take your money and tell you they could work miracles, but they'd be lying. I make no promises yet, you understand, but you do meet the minimum criteria for pursuing a claim. Now-what piece of property are we talking about?"

Smith coughed apologetically. "This one, sir."

"What?" Moss stared.

"This one, sir." John Smith looked even more embarrassed. "Before the war, sir, my house stood right about"-he pronounced it aboat, as a Canadian would-"here, instead of this fine big building where you have your office."

"You want me to help you make me move out of my office?" Moss had judged Smith a man without any nerve. Now he revised his opinion. If that wasn't gall, Julius Caesar had never seen any.

With or without nerve, Smith remained a quiet, apologetic fellow. "It's not so much that I want to, sir," he said, "but this property was-is-almost the only thing I own. I've not had an easy time of it since… since the war." Maybe he'd been on the point of saying something on the order of, Since you Yankee robbers came up here. But maybe not, too. Maybe he'd just stumbled over a word. He seemed the type to do a good deal of that.

Jonathan Moss started to laugh. He quickly held up a hand. "I'm not laughing at you, Mr. Smith-really, I'm not," he said. "But this is absurd, and I don't think you can argue with me there."

"I wouldn't think of it," Smith said, and Moss believed him. The Canadian got to his feet. "I am sorry to have troubled you."

"Don't go away!" Moss sprang to his feet, too, quick as if he'd been turning his fighting scout onto the tail of a Sopwith Pup. "I didn't say I wouldn't take your case. Let me see your documents. Mr. Smith, and I'll see what I can do for you."

"Really?" John Smith's hangdog expression vanished, to be replaced by astonishment. "But you work here!"

"It's not like I own the building." Moss corrected himself: "It's not like I think I own the building." He wondered what he would have done in his landlord's shoes. Probably thrown Smith out so hard he bounced. But the Canuck could always have found another lawyer. Plenty of eager young hotshots had come up from the United States, and some Canadians were also jumping into occupation law.

"I-I don't know what to say," Smith told him. "Thank you very much, sir." He coughed and looked embarrassed again. "I'm also afraid I'll have some trouble paying you."

One look at his suit had warned Moss that was likely. The way Smith had "forgotten" his cigarettes warned him it was as near certain as made no difference. He shrugged. "What the hell, Mr. Smith," he said-not proper legal language, but at the moment he didn't care. "We'll see what you can afford. If you can't afford much, I'll do it for a lark. I want to see the look on my landlord's face when I serve him the papers."

"Oh, that's good. That's very good." For a moment, Smith, who had to be close to fifty, looked about fifteen. "What they call a practical joke, isn't it?"

"Isn't it just?" Moss leaned forward in his chair. "Now- let's find out exactly how practical a joke it is. Show me these documents."

"I haven't got everything with me, I'm afraid," Smith said. Moss exhaled through his nose. He hadn't been practicing long, but he'd already seen that unprepared clients were the bane of an attorney's life. Blushing, Smith went on, "I left most of the papers I still have back at my flat, because I didn't really believe you'd be interested in helping me."

"Show me what you've-" Moss stopped. "The papers you still have?" he asked sharply. "What happened to the ones you used to have?"

John Smith showed a touch of temper for the first time. "What do you think happened to them?" he snapped. "You Yanks, that's what. I stayed in Empire-in Berlin-till the shells started falling. When I got out, it was with the clothes on my back and one carpetbag. You try stuffing your whole life in one carpetbag, sir, and see how well you do."

Before coming to Berlin, Moss hadn't thought much about how civilians on the losing side felt about the war. He was getting an education in quiet bitterness. "All right," he said. "What have you got?"