"If I can show you mine."

They pulled out their wallets and went through a ritual as old as snapshots. If people had carried around little paintings before cameras got cheap and easy, they would have shown those off, too. Cincinnatus and the sergeant praised the obvious beauty and brilliance of each other's descendants. Cincinnatus didn't think he was lying too hard. He hoped Dick Konstam wasn't, either.

The sergeant stuck his billfold back in his hip pocket. "Any other problems I can solve for you today, Mr. Driver?"

He hadn't solved Cincinnatus' problem. He had to know it, too. But he had helped-and he sounded like a man who wanted to get back to work. "One more thing," Cincinnatus said. "Then I get out of your hair. How can I keep from wantin' to hide behind somethin' every goddamn time I hear a loud noise?"

"Boy, you ask the tough ones, don't you?" Konstam said. "All I can tell you is, don't hold your breath. That took me years to get over. Some guys never do. Poor bastards stay nervous as cats the rest of their days."

"Don't want to do that." But it might have more to do with luck than with what he wanted. Slowly and painfully, he got to his feet. "I thank you for your time, Sergeant, an' for lettin' me bend your ear."

"Your tax dollars in action," Konstam replied. "Take care of yourself, buddy. I wish you luck. You haven't been back all that long, remember. Give yourself a chance to get used to things again."

"I reckon that's good advice," Cincinnatus said. "Thank you one more time."

"My pleasure," the sergeant said. "Take care, now."

"Yeah." Cincinnatus headed for home. A work gang with paste pots were putting up red, white, and blue posters of Tom Dewey on anything that didn't move. HE'LL TELL YOU WHAT'S WHAT, they said.

They were covering up as many of Charlie La Follette's Socialist red posters as they could. Those shouted a one-word message: VICTORY!

Cincinnatus still hadn't decided which way he'd vote. Yes, the Socialists were in the saddle when the USA won the war. But they also helped spark it when they gave Kentucky and the state of Houston back to the CSA after their dumb plebiscite. The promise of that vote helped get Al Smith reelected in 1940.

The colored quarter in Covington was empty because of the plebiscite. If Cincinnatus wanted to, he could blame the auto that hit him on the plebiscite. Oh, he might have had an accident like that here in Des Moines chasing after his senile mother. He might have, yeah. But he did have it down in Covington.

How much did that count? He laughed at himself. It counted as much as he wanted it to, no more and no less. Nobody could make him vote for the Socialists if it mattered a lot in his own mind. Nobody could make him vote for the Democrats if it didn't. "Freedom," he murmured-in the real sense of the word, not the way Jake Featherston used it. Cincinnatus grinned and nodded to himself. "I'm here to tell you the truth." The truth was, he was free.

When he got back to the apartment, he found his wife about ready to jump out of her skin with excitement. Half a dozen words explained why: "Amanda's fella done popped the question!"

"Do Jesus!" Cincinnatus sank into a chair. When he left Des Moines not quite two years earlier, his daughter hadn't had a boyfriend. She did now. Calvin Washington was a junior butcher, a young man serious to the point of solemnity. He didn't have much flash-hell, he didn't have any flash-but Cincinnatus thought he was solid all the way through. "She said yes?"

Elizabeth nodded. "She sure did, fast as she could. She thinks she done invented Calvin, you know what I mean?"

"Expect I do." Thoughtfully, Cincinnatus added, "He's about the same color she is."

"Uh-huh." His wife nodded again. "It don't matter as much here as it did down in Kentucky, but it matters."

"It does," Cincinnatus agreed. That an American Negro's color did matter was one more measure of growing up in a white-dominated world, which made it no less real. Had Calvin been inky black, Cincinnatus would have felt his daughter was marrying beneath herself. He didn't know whether Amanda, a modern girl, would have felt that way, but he would have. Were Calvin high yellow, on the other hand, he might have felt he was marrying beneath himself. Since they were both about the same shade of brown, the question didn't arise. "When do they want to get hitched?" Cincinnatus asked.

"Pretty soon." Elizabeth's eyes sparkled. "They're young folks, sweetheart. They can't hardly wait."

"Huh," Cincinnatus said. It wasn't as if his wife were wrong. Whether he was ready or not, the world kept right on going all around him.

T he first thing Irving Morrell said when he got into Philadelphia was, "This is a damned nuisance."

John Abell met him at the Broad Street station, as he had so many times before. "If you want to get it quashed, sir, I'm sure we can arrange that."

"No, no." Regretfully, Morrell shook his head. "The man's a cold-blooded son of a bitch, but even a cold-blooded son of a bitch is entitled to the truth."

"Indeed," the General Staff officer murmured. Abell was a cold-blooded son of a bitch, too, but one of a rather different flavor. He had two virtues, as far as Morrell could see: they were on the same side, and Abell didn't go around telling the world how goddamn right he was all the time. Right now, he asked, "Shall I take you over to BOQ and let you freshen up before you go on?"

Morrell looked down at himself. He was rumpled, but only a little. He ran a hand over his chin. Not perfectly smooth, but he didn't think he looked like a Skid Row bum, either. He shook his head. "No, let's get it over with. The sooner it's done, the sooner I can head west and see my wife and daughter."

"However you please," Abell said, which meant he would have showered and shaved and changed his uniform first. But he left the editorializing right there. "My driver is at your disposal."

"Thanks." Morrell followed him off the platform.

They didn't have far to go. Morrell didn't have to look at the slagged wreckage on the other side of the Schuylkill, which didn't mean he didn't know it was there. Its being there, in fact, was a big part of why he was here.

There was no fresh damage in Philadelphia now that the war was over. Some of the wrecked buildings had been bulldozed, and the rubble hauled away. Repairmen swarmed everywhere. Glass was beginning to reappear in windows. "Looks…neater than it did before," Morrell remarked. "We're starting to come back."

"Some," Abell said. "It won't be the way it was for a long time. As a matter of fact, it will never be the way it was."

"Well, no. You can't step into the same river twice." Some Greek had said that a couple of thousand years before Morrell. He didn't remember who; John Abell probably did. Morrell, no great lover of cities, didn't much care how Philadelphia rose again. As long as it had peace in which to rise, that suited him.

The War Department had set up a Tribunal for Accused Confederate War Criminals in a rented office building not far from the government buildings that dominated the center of town. Despite the stars on Morrell's shoulder straps and those on John Abell's, getting in wasn't easy. Security was tight, and no doubt needed to be.

A neatly lettered sign outside a meeting room turned courtroom said UNITED STATES OF AMERICA VS. CLARENCE POTTER, BRIGADIER GENERAL, CSA. "I would never tell you to perjure yourself," Abell said as they paused outside the door, "but I wouldn't hate you if you did, either."

"I'm Irving Morrell, and I'm here to tell you the truth," Morrell said. Abell winced. Morrell went on in.

Inside the makeshift courtroom, everyone except a few reporters and the defendant wore green-gray. The reporters were in civvies; Clarence Potter had on a butternut uniform that, even without insignia, singled him out at a glance. Morrell knew of him, but had never seen him before. He was a little older and more studious-looking than the U.S. officer expected, which didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He'd already proved he was.