Jem

At five-minute intervals the map disappeared and the likris screen sequenced itself through a round of ten-second displays: profiles of industrial capacity destroyed and remaining, curves of casualties, histograms of combat-effectiveness estimates. In the Ops Room next to God Me

“He isn’t satisfied with me,” General Weinenstat reported. “Maybe you should give him a minute, Godfrey.”

“Shit.” Me

The face on his phone screen was that of Marshal Bressarion of the Red Army, but the voice was his translator’s. “The marshal,” she said, sounding ti

“The present President,” said Me

“Yes, of course,” said the translator after Bressarion had listened and then barked something in Russian, “but the marshal has been unable to reach him for confirmation.”

“There have been communications problems,” Me

The marshal listened impatiently and then spoke for some seconds in rapid-fire Russian. The translator sounded a good deal more uptight as she said, “We quite understand, but there is some question of lines of authority, and the marshal would appreciate hearing from him directly as soon — hello? Hello?”

His image faded. General Weinenstat said apologetically, “I thought it was a good time to develop transmission difficulties.”

“Good thinking. Where is the son of a bitch, by the way?”

“Henry? Oh, he’s safe and sound, Godfrey. He’s been ordering you to report to him for the last hour or so.”

“Um.” Me

On the edge of the Bahia de Campeche the Libyan vice admiral had got his crew together and his submarine up to two hundred meters, ru

The latest picture from Margie showed her with one foot on the shell of a dead Krinpit, looking tired and flushed and happy. It was as good a picture of his daughter as God had had since her bearskin-rug days, and he had it blown into a hard print for his wallet. General Weinenstat looked at it carefully and passed it back to him. “She’s a credit to you, God,” she said.

He looked at it for a moment and put it away. “Yeah. I hope she got her stuff. Can you imagine her mother? I told her Margie wanted some dress patterns, and she wanted me to put in about a thousand meters of fabric.”

“Well, if you’d left her raising to her mother she wouldn’t be getting the kind of efficiency ratings you’ve been showing me.”

“I suppose not.” The latest one had been nothing but praise, or at least up to the psychologist’s report:

Latent hostility toward men due to early marital trauma and mild inverse-Oedipal effect. Well compensated. Does not affect performance of duties.

I really hope that’s so, thought Godfrey Me

“What is it?”

She turned off the communicator. “Henry Moncas. His shelter took a direct hit. They’re trying to find out who’s President now.”

“Shit!” Godfrey Me

General Weinenstat started to speak, then changed her mind.

“What? What were you going to say, Rosie?”

She shrugged. “No good second-guessing, is it?”

He pounced on her words. “About what? Come on, Rosie!”

“Well — maybe moving into Canada—”

“Yeah. That was a mistake, all right. I’ll give you that. But not ours! The Greasies knew we couldn’t let them move troops into Manitoba. That was Tam Gulsmit’s mistake! Same with the Peeps. Once we were engaged we had to take Lop Nor out — quick, clean, minimum casualties. They should’ve accepted it instead of retaliating—”

But he could hear voices within him denying it, speaking in the tones of Tam Gulsmit and Heir-of-Mao. “We were safe moving troops in to protect the tar sands, because we knew you couldn’t afford to invade.”

“You shouldn’t have bombed Lop Nor. You should have known we would have to retaliate.” The voices within God Me

The Libyan missile had bypassed Atlanta and Asheville and Johnson City, matching their terrains against the profiles imprinted in its memory. The safety interlocks on its thermonuclear charge were falling away one by one as its tiny, paranoid brain began to recognize its nearness to the thing it was unleashed to destroy.