The Center Cannot Hold

The woman shook her head. "Not unless it's got good recipes for beans and cabbage in it." That, Sylvia couldn't claim. The other woman wandered off, in search of cookbooks.

Over the next two hours, four more people asked Sylvia questions whose answers only someone who worked at Burke's could have known. She sent them off to the clerk behind the cash register. She also did get another nine people to buy copies of the book, most by simply sitting there and having them come up, a couple by waving the book as they walked into the store. The first time she'd signed, she hadn't done that-she'd been too shy. But the manager of that bookstore gave her a tip she took to heart: "If you don't toot your own horn, lady, who's go

She was getting ready to go home when the bell over Burke's front door jangled again. In walked a lean Irishman with a lot of teeth. He tipped his fedora to her. "Good day to you, Mrs. Enos." Striding up to the table, he took a copy of her book and opened it to the title page. Most people, left to themselves, chose the half-title page or the blank sheet in front of it, but he knew the ropes. "If you'd be so kind…?"

"Of course, Mr. Ke

Ke

She said, "I've always been a Democrat." That wasn't strictly true. She'd favored the Socialists till she saw Upton Sinclair do no more than protest to the Confederate States when it came out that Roger Kimball had torpedoed the USS Ericsson after the Confederates were supposed to have stopped fighting. But she'd voted Democratic for as long as she'd had the suffrage.

"You sometimes picked odd ways to show it." No, Ke

Knowing he hadn't forgotten, she asked him, "What do you want with me?"

The way his eyes flashed told her one thing he wanted. He knew she knew he was married; his wife had watched her children when she spoke at a Democratic function. He didn't care if she knew. He wanted what he wanted. But he made himself remember he wanted something else, too: "I hear you're doing well with your book. I look forward to reading it."

"Thank you," Sylvia Enos said.

Ke

That wasn't even close to fair, and Sylvia knew it. But she'd already seen that political campaigns weren't designed to be fair. They were designed to convince, by whatever means possible. She said, "I'd like to help, Mr. Ke

"Don't you worry about that," Joseph Ke

For a moment, it sounded too good to be true. But then Sylvia remembered Ernie talking about his dicker with their publisher, and about first offers' being meant to snag people who didn't have the nerve the stand up for what they were really worth. Her spine stiffened. She said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Ke

Joseph Ke

Sylvia didn't gasp, but she came close. The way things were, that was a lot of money. "And expenses? And full pay for November, too?" she asked.

Ke

She was oddly reluctant to touch him. She didn't see how she could avoid it, though. When they shook on the deal, his hand felt like.. . a hand. Somehow, she hadn't expected his flesh to seem so ordinary. "Bargain," she said. The wolf wouldn't come round her door again till the end of the year-longer, if she salted some money away, as she pla

A eroplanes roared off the Remembrance 's flight deck, one after another. Even with a push from the catapult to speed them on their way, they almost dropped into the gray-green water of the northern Pacific till they gained altitude and buzzed away, some to the north, others to the south.

Sam Carsten scratched his nose. His fingertip came away white with zinc-oxide ointment. Even here, off the west coast of Canada, he needed shielding from the summer sun. But, though he might burn in these waters, he wouldn't scorch.

He turned to George Moerlein. Back when they were both petty officers, they'd bunked together. But Moerlein was even newer on the Remembrance than he was now, having rejoined her crew during a fueling stop in Seattle. Carsten said, "Feels good to see us in business again."

"Yeah-uh, yes, sir," Moerlein said. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it," Sam answered. His old bunkmate had forgotten for a moment he was an officer these days. He went on, "I'm just glad this ship isn't tied up at the Boston Navy Yard any more."

"Me, too, sir." Moerlein got it right this time. "That was what finally made me put in for a transfer-I wondered if she'd ever go to sea again. For a hell of a long time, sure didn't look like it." He pulled out a cigar, then sheepishly put it back in his pocket. The smoking lamp was out on the flight deck during takeoffs and landings, for excellent good reasons. The petty officer shook his head. "I've been away too damn long. I shouldn't even have started to do that."

"Well, you saved me the trouble of barking at you," Sam answered.

Moerlein gave him a wry grin, then said, "What the hell do we do if we catch the Japs with their finger in the cookie jar? They're in international waters, same as we are. What can we do?"

"Damned if I know," Carsten said. "But if they're sending people into Canada to try to get the Canucks to rise up against us, we can't let 'em get away with that, can we?"

"Beats me," Moerlein told him. "But if we do find 'em and we do clobber 'em, don't you figure it's about even money we're doing it on account of President Blackford needs votes and wants to look tough?"

Sam scowled. "I'd hate to think that." He drummed his fingers on his trouser leg. "Of course, just because I'd hate to think it doesn't mean it's wrong."

An hour later, another flight of aeroplanes took off from the Remembrance, while a flight that had gone out before landed on the deck. The carrier kept aeroplanes in the sky all the time. If the Japs really were trying to sneak something past her, they wouldn't have an easy time of it.

As far as Sam could prove, the Remembrance was just going through the motions. Her air patrols had spotted nothing out of the ordinary: fishing boats and merchantmen, none of them flying the Rising Sun. Whether they stumbled upon any actual Jap warships or not, though, the training the whole crew-and especially the pilots-got was priceless, as far as he was concerned. George Moerlein had it dead right: anything was better than sitting in the Navy Yard.