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“Let’s sing that song,” said Hairy Red.

“Dessert’s coming,” Tim Lewis protested. “-Oh, hell. Sure.’ They moved to the bandstand and opened guitar cases. Customers started to look around.

Bellingham. Linda’s not there to meet a lover. I’m the one lover she’s got. If she’s there, Ed Gillespie is there. Air Force general. On the President’s personal staff. In Bellingham. Why?

“Penny for your thoughts,” Rosalee said.

“Shh. They’re going to sing.”

THE BATTLE OF GARFIELD
by David Pfeiffer and Tim Lewis
It was just five days after the battle in orbit.
Like snowflakes they came drifting down from the sky:
Monster-things dangling from bright frail gliders.
We watched and we talked, and we all wondered why.
To northward and east of us they made their landing.
Set up a strong point out near Great Bend,
But some had been scattered by wind while they drifted,
And four landed near us to settle with men.
Bob and Les Forward and Bill “Top Kick” Tuning,
Old Amvets, came by on the sixth morning bright.
They had fifteen men with them, combat vets mostly.
They called “Saddle up” for a hell of a fight.
Tom Kinney had seen them and told us about them,
Right down toward Kinsley and headed our way.
“Elephant dwarves with their two trunks a-swinging
And rifles to shoot with” is what he did say.

Ed Gillespie. Air Force general. Fighter pilot, but with administrative and science experience. Can’t fly now. There’s nothing to fly. No airport worth mentioning there anyway. Evelyn told us about Bellingham. Seaport town. Old. Decayed. University. Pacific Northwest, where it rained all the time even before Footfall…

So Mike tried to track them, and we kept our distance.
We set up an ambush and bided our time.
As they came in closer, I picked out the last one
And sighted my “H.K.” to make his life mine.
Charley cut loose with AK-47,
An old souvenir from that old Asian war.
The rest of us fired on time from position.
These snouts wouldn’t push us around anymore.
The snouts fired back, as was to be expected,
But two tumbled over and thrashed in the wheat.
Grenades came a-flying and I picked up shrapnel
That peppered my right hand and both of my feet.

Pacific Northwest. Rains all the time. Cloud cover. Railroad goes there. Old seaport. Goddam, it’s perfect. They’re building something there, something they want hidden under cloud cover. It flies, why else have an astronaut general there? Something that flies into space.

I rolled to a culvert just under the roadway,
I was lucky I did as we fired last round;
’Cause they called on their buddies that waited in orbit,
Called for support and laid hell on the ground.
Green fire came humming and cracking and burning,
Scorched out our positions and killed every, one,
Left me in the culvert, a-wounded and bleeding,
And one living snout that had started to run.
It came to my refuge and looked up the pipe there,
Then reached in and grabbed me and pulled me outside.
Its trunk gripped my rifle as it pulled me from safety,
But I put a .45 slug through its eye.
Now out from Garfield, police came a-riding
On horses to look around after the fight.
They found me and patched me and gave me some bourbon,’
And took me towards home in the quiet twi-light.
So raise your glass slowly to memories around us,
And drink to those boys who have gone on their way,
They died fighting bravely for freedom and Kansas
Against enemies of the U S of A.

Something they want to hide, too big to hide in a factory building, something BIG that flies into space. God damn!

Carlotta had listened politely. “Harry’s a hero, not a bard.”

“Yeah,” Roger said. “He’s better than the writer, though. It could be improved with an axe… How’s Linda?”

“I haven’t seen her in months.”

“You said—”

“Harry! That was great.” Carlotta stood. “But it’s getting pretty late.”

“Max and Evelyn moved to Bellingham.” I’m pushing it. Maybe too hard. But I have to know. Is Linda with them?”

“Roger, it’s really late. Tim, it’s time-Lucille, you have work to do tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, ma’am-can’t I stay?”

“No. Come along.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Roger watched Carlotta lead Tim and Lucille out of the restaurant. “Hasn’t changed a bit. Still gives the orders.”

“Except to Wes,” Harry said.

“Yeah, guess so. Harry, you look like a man who could use another drink.”

“Reckon I could.”

“Dessert?”

“Roger, there’s only apple pie, and I have had enough of that to last me.”

“Good pie?”

“Not bad, if you don’t eat it every night for a month.”

“Getting tired of the Springs, Harry?”

“Not really-well, maybe.”

“You have gasoline. For what?”

“Motorcycle—”

“Harry, how would you like to be a reporter for the Capital Post?”

“Take you where?” Harry demanded.

“Can’t tell you. Long way,” Roger said. His head reeled. They’d had far too much corn whiskey.

Harry moved unsteadily to the men’s room.

“Where are you going?” Rosalee whispered fiercely. “I’m coming with you!”

“Not on a motorcycle.”

“But—”

“I’ll be back,” Roger said. “Rosie, this is a big one. I can feel it. Big. Maybe the biggest thing I ever got wind of.”

“What are you talking about-that Dawson woman! She told you something.”

“Rosie, do you love me?” “Why ask?”

“I love you. But—” “But you smell a story.” Roger nodded helplessly.

She took his hands in both of hers. “I can’t come?”

“It’s a long way, Rosie. I might get there on a motorcycle. No way in a car. Three on a motorcycle won’t work, even if Harry would try it, which he won’t—”

“What makes you think he’ll take you?”

“Come on. The role of retired hero isn’t a very attractive one. He’s getting fat again, and he hates it, and he doesn’t know what else to do. Too old for the Army. .

“Why him?”

“He probably knows the way. He has a gas ration card. Know anyone else who does?”

“But-Oh, God damn it, Roger. Come back? Please?”

“I will. I promise.”

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