Reggie remembered Rehoboam, the Negro prisoner of war who'd shared his U.S. hospital ward after losing a foot in Arkansas-and after being a Red rebel in Mississippi. Things weren't so straightforward as this new Freedom Party speaker made them out to be. The older Reggie got, the more complicated the world looked. The lean man was older than he, but still saw things in harsh shades of black and white.

And he contrived to make his audience see them the same way. "You want to put Tony Dresser into Congress to give the real people of the Confederate States a voice," he shouted, "the working men, the men who get their hands dirty, the men who went out and fought the war the fools and the traitors and the nigger-lovers got us into. Oh, you can throw your vote away for somebody with a diamond on his pinky"-with alarming effectiveness, he mimed a capitalist-"but who's the fool if you do?"

"Why the hell ain't you runnin' for Congress instead of that long-winded son of a bitch?" somebody shouted.

"Tony's the chairman of the Freedom Party," the lean man answered easily. "You promote the commander of the unit, not a new recruit." He took out his billfold and displayed something Bartlett could not make out. "Here's my membership card- number seven, from back in September."

"Where do we sign up?" Two men asked the question at the same time. One of them added, "You ain't gonna stay a new recruit long, pal, not the way you talk. Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"My name's Featherston-Jake Featherston," the lean man answered. "Sergeant, Confederate States Artillery, retired." He scowled. "The fools in the War Department retired damn near the whole Army." With what looked like a deliberate effort of will, he made himself smile. "Party office is a couple blocks down Seventh, toward the Tredegar works. Come on by. Hope you do, anyways."

"Damned if I'm not tempted to," Bill Foster said as the little rally began to break up. "Damned if I'm not. That fellow Featherston, he's got a good way of looking at things."

"He's got a good line, that's for certain," Reggie Bartlett said. "If he were selling can openers door to door, there wouldn't be a closed can in Richmond this time tomorrow. But just because something sounds good doesn't make it so. Come on, Bill. Do you think a stage magician really pulls a Stonewall out of your nose?"

"Wish somebody'd pull one out of somewhere," Foster answered.

Reggie's laugh was rueful, five-dollar goldpieces being in notably short supply in his pockets, too. He said, "The world's not as simple as he makes it out to be."

"Well, what if it isn't?" his friend returned. "I wish it was that simple. Don't reckon I'm the only one who does, either."

"Reckon you're not," Bartlett agreed. "But most folks are the same as you and me: they know the difference between what they wish and what's really out there."

"Yeah?" Foster raised an eyebrow. "How come we just fought this damn war, then?" Reggie thought about that for a while, but found no good answer.

Guided by a pilot intimately familiar with the local minefields, the USS Dakota made a slow, cautious entrance into New York harbor. Sailors on tugs and freighters waved their caps at the battleship. Steam whistles bellowed and hooted. Fireboats shot streams of water high into the air.

Sam Carsten stood by the port rail, enjoying the show. The late-November day was bleak and gloomy and cold, but that didn't bother the petty officer at all. Anything more clement than clouds and gloom bothered him: he was so blond and pink, he sunburned in less time than he needed to blink. After Brazil entered the war on the side of the USA and Germany and their allies, the Dakota had gone up into the tropical Atlantic after convoys bound for Britain from Argentina. He was only now recovering from what the cruel sun had done to him.

Off to the west, on Bedloe Island, stood the great statue of Remembrance, the sword of vengeance gleaming in her hand. Carsten turned to his bunkmate and said, "Seeing her gives you a whole different feeling now that we've gone and won the war."

"Sure as hell does." Vic Crosetti nodded vigorously. He was as small and swarthy as Carsten was tall and fair. "Every time I seen that statue before, it was like she was saying, 'What the hell you gapin' at me for? Get out there and kick the damn Rebs in the belly.' Now we gone and done it. Can't you see the smile on that bronze broad's kisser?"

Remembrance looked as cold and stern and forbidding as she had since she'd gone up not long after the Second Mexican War. Even so, Carsten said, "Yeah." He and Crosetti grinned at each other. Victory tasted sweet.

"Carsten!" somebody said behind him.

He turned and stiffened to attention. "Sir!"

"As you were," Commander Grady said, and Sam eased out of his brace. The commander of the Dakota's starboard secondary armament was a pretty good fellow; Sam cranked shells into the forwardmost five-inch gun under his charge. Grady said, "Do you recall that matter we were discussing the day the limeys gave up the fight?"

For a moment, Carsten didn't. Then he nodded. "About aeroplanes, you mean, sir?"

"That's right." Grady nodded, too. "Were you serious about what you meant about getting in on the ground floor there?"

"Yes, sir. I sure was, sir," Sam answered. Aeroplanes were the coming thing. Anyone with an eye in his head could see that. Anyone with an eye in his head could also see the Navy wouldn't stay as big as it had been during the war. Since Sam wanted to make sure he didn't end up on the beach, getting involved with aeroplanes looked like a good insurance policy.

Commander Grady said, "All right, then. I have some orders cut for you. If you'd said no, you'd have stayed here. There wouldn't have been any trouble about that. As things are, though, we both catch the train for Boston tomorrow morning. You'll see why when we get there." His smile made him look years younger.

"You're leaving the Dakotal" Vic Crosetti demanded. When Sam nodded, Crosetti clapped a hand to his forehead. "Jesus Christ, who'm I gonna rag on now?"

"I figure you'll find somebody," Carsten said, his voice dry. Crosetti gave him a dirty look that melted into a chuckle, then slapped him on the back. Sam had a gift for getting in digs without making people angry at him.

"Only problem with this is the train ride," Commander Grady said. "This Spanish influenza that's going around is supposed to be pretty nasty. We might be better staying aboard the Dakota?

"Sir, if the limeys couldn't sink us and the Japs couldn't sink us and whoever was flying that damn bombing aeroplane out from Argentina couldn't sink us, I don't figure we need to be afraid of any germs," Sam said.

Grady laughed. "That's the spirit! All right, Carsten. Pick up your new orders, get your paperwork taken care of, and we'll go ashore tomorrow morning-if you can stand an officer for company, that is."

"I'm a tough guy, sir," Carsten answered. "I expect I'll put up with it." Grady laughed and mimed throwing a punch at him, then went on his way.

"What's this about aeroplanes?" Crosetti asked.

"Don't even know, exactly," Sam said. "I joined the Navy five years before the war started, and here I am, buying a pig in a poke. Maybe I need my head examined, but maybe I'm smart, too. Smart, I mean, besides getting away from you. I hope I am, anyway."

"Good luck. I think you're crazy, but good luck." Crosetti shook Sam's hand, then walked off shaking his own head.

Getting orders was the easy part of getting off the Dakota. Carsten filled out endless separation forms. Only after the last of them was signed would the paymaster grudgingly give him greenbacks. With money in his billfold and a duffel bag on his shoulder, he walked down the gangplank from the Dakota to the pier with Commander Grady.