“There’s always something funny in the budget,” Flora answered. “We’re in a war. That just makes it funnier than usual.”

Ophelia Clemens sent her an impatient look. “This has to do with funny business in…” She checked her notes again. “In Washington, that’s where. Washington State, I mean. The government is spending money hand over fist out there, and I’ll be damned if I can figure out why.”

“Oh. That.” With those two words, Flora realized she’d admitted to knowing what that was. She hadn’t wanted to, but didn’t see that she had much choice. Sighing, she said, “Miss Clemens, I don’t know all the details about that, but I have been persuaded that keeping it secret is in the best interests of the United States. The less said about it, especially in the newspapers, the better.”

“You’ve been persuaded?” The correspondent raised a gingery eyebrow. “I thought you were hard to persuade about such things.”

“I am. I hope I am, anyway,” Flora said. “This is one of those times, though. Have you spoken with Mr. Roosevelt about this business?”

“No. Should I? Would he tell me anything?” Ophelia Clemens wasn’t writing now.

Flora took that for an encouraging sign. “I don’t know whether he would or not. I’m inclined to doubt it,” she said. “But I think he might have more to say than I would about why you shouldn’t publish.”

“Well, I’ll try him.” Clemens got to her feet. “I’ll try him right now, as a matter of fact.” She sent Flora a wry grin. “But you’ll be on the telephone before I can get over there, won’t you?”

“Yes.” Flora didn’t waste time with denials. “He needs to know. I told you-I do think this is that important.”

“All right. Fair enough, I suppose. Nice chatting with you-turned out more interesting than I figured it would.” With no more farewell than that, Ophelia Clemens swept out of the office.

No sooner had the door closed behind her than Flora was on the telephone to the War Department. Before long, she had the Assistant Secretary of War on the line. “Hello, Flora. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” Franklin Roosevelt inquired, jaunty as usual.

“Ophelia Clemens is on her way to see you,” Flora answered without preamble. “Somehow or other, she’s got wind of what’s going on in Washington.”

“Oh, dear. That doesn’t sound so good,” Roosevelt said. “I wonder how it happened.”

“I don’t know. I doubt she’d tell you,” Flora said. “But I thought you ought to know.”

“Thank you. She’s a chip off the old block, all right,” Roosevelt said. Flora made a questioning noise. Roosevelt explained: “Her father was a reporter out in San Francisco for a million years. He had a nasty sense of humor-funny, but nasty-and he spent most of it on the Democrats. If I remember straight, he died not long before the Great War started. Stan Clemens, his name was, or maybe Sam. Stan, I think.”

“You could ask Ophelia when she gets there,” Flora said. “She’s on her way now, and she’s not the kind of person who wastes a lot of time.”

Franklin Roosevelt laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’re right about that. I wonder what sort of cock-and-bull story I’ll have to tell her.”

“She knows at least some of the truth,” Flora warned, remembering how little of the truth she really knew herself. “If what she hears from you doesn’t match what she already knows, that will be worse than if you didn’t tell her anything at all. Think of the headlines.”

“ ‘Boondoggle to end all boondoggles!’ ” Roosevelt seemed to be quoting one. He also seemed to be enjoying himself while he did it. He went on, “Where did that word come from, anyway? It sounds like it ought to be something a Confederate would say.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Flora said. “I don’t know where it’s from, not for sure. I’ve certainly heard it. I don’t think you can live in Philadelphia without hearing it.”

“That’s because so many boondoggles live here,” Roosevelt said cheerfully.

“No doubt.” Flora didn’t sound cheerful, or anything close to it. “Is this project out in Washington another one?”

“If it works, no one will ever say a word about what we spent on it,” the Assistant Secretary of War answered. “And if it doesn’t, nobody will ever stop investigating us. I can’t do anything about it either way except hope it works and do everything I can to help the people who know more about it than I do.”

That sounded less encouraging than Flora wished it did, but was perhaps more honest than the usual glowing promises. She said, “I think you ought to tell Ophelia Clemens as much as you’ve told me”-however much that is-“and swear her to secrecy.”

“If she’ll swear to instead of swearing at.” Roosevelt sounded dubious.

“She may not like the administration. She may not even like the government, no matter who’s in charge,” Flora said. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Franklin: I promise she likes it better than she likes Jake Featherston.”

“Mm, you’ve probably got something there,” Roosevelt admitted. “No-you’ve definitely got something there. I think I’m going to have to call the President before I talk to her, but that’s what I’ll put to him. Before I go, though, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Go ahead. What is it?” Flora said.

“Midterm elections coming up this November. Has the Joint Committee talked about how we’re going to handle the House districts the Confederates are occupying? Thank God neither Senator from Ohio is up for reelection this year.”

“Senator Taft”-who was from Ohio-“has said the same thing,” Flora answered.

Roosevelt laughed. “I’ll bet he has!”

“Right now, the plan is to let the Congressmen in occupied districts hold their seats,” Flora added. “That seems only fair. And it doesn’t hurt that they’re pretty evenly split between Socialists and Democrats. There’s even a Republican.”

“Republicans.” Franklin Roosevelt laughed again, this time on a sour note. “The lukewarm, the politicians who can’t make up their minds one way or the other. No wonder the American people spewed that party out of their mouths.”

The language was from the New Testament, but Flora understood it. She was a Jew, but she was also an American, and the USA, for better or worse-no, for better and worse-was a Christian country. If you lived here, you had to accommodate yourself to that reality.

Of course, the Confederacy was also a Christian country… and what did that say about Christianity? Nothing good, she was sure.

Clarence Potter did not care for Professor Henderson V. FitzBelmont. The dislike was plainly mutual. Potter thought FitzBelmont was a pompous stuffed shirt. Not being a mind reader, he didn’t know just what the physics professor thought of him. Probably that he was a military oaf who couldn’t add two and two without counting on his fingers.

That stung, since Potter reckoned himself a cultured man. He’d known a lot of military oafs in his time. To be thought one himself rankled.

His surroundings conspired against him. Instead of bringing Professor FitzBelmont back to Richmond, he, like Mohammed, had gone to the mountain-in his case, to the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Washington University was in Lexington, Virginia, not far from the Virginia Military Institute-what the damnyankees called the Confederate West Point.

War hadn’t come home here. It was something people read about in the newspapers and heard about on the wireless. Every once in a while, airplanes would drone by overhead. But the locals were still talking about a U.S. air raid on VMI the year before. After that calling card, the Yankees hadn’t come back. For Clarence Potter, who’d watched men work on unexploded bombs and who’d spent enough time underground to get little beady eyes like a mole, this was the next best thing to paradise. The streets weren’t full of rubble and broken glass. Artillery didn’t rumble in the distance. The air didn’t stink of smoke-and of death.