The Victorious opposition

Music with more of a thump and pound to it, music played by real live musicians, poured out of strip joints. Hearing that kind of music made you think about the girls who'd dance to it, and about what they would-or wouldn't-be wearing. You could get drinks in those joints, too, but they'd cost twice as much.

If you didn't want to drink, if you didn't want to watch, if you wanted to get down to business… A swarthy, tired-looking woman about George's age leaned out of a second-story window and beckoned to him. She wasn't wearing anything from the waist up. Her breasts drooped. They seemed tired, too. She tried to sound alluring when she called, "How about it, big boy?"

George kept walking. The whore swore at him. Even her curses sounded tired.

His block of flats stood only a couple of streets farther on. He hurried to it. Unlike the one where he'd lived with his mother, it had an elevator. Most of the time, he took that as proof he'd come up in the world. When he stepped into the lobby now, though, the cage was empty. The car was on some upper floor. He didn't have the patience to wait for it. He went up four flights of stairs, taking them two at a time till his knees got tired.

The key to his apartment was brass. A good thing, too; with all the time he spent out on the ocean, an iron key would have rusted on the chain. He put the key in the lock and turned it.

Co

"Well, it's not the tooth fairy and it's not the Easter Bu

She came rocketing out of the kitchen and into his arms. He squeezed her till she squeaked. She felt wonderful. He didn't stop to think that he'd been at sea so long, the Wicked Witch of the North would have felt good to him. He kissed her. Things might have-no, things would have-gone straight on from there if Bill and Pat hadn't charged him and tried tackling him in ways that would have got flags thrown on any gridiron in the country. Fortunately, they weren't big enough to do any serious damage.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" they squealed. If they went on after that, it was in voices only dogs could hear.

He let go of Co

"Don't know. Didn't hang around to find out," he said. "I just drew part of my pay and headed on over here. When they want me again, they'll come after me."

"Well, at least they won't have to scour the saloons to find you," Co

George didn't say anything to that. He just tried to look virtuous. He didn't know how good a job he did. For one thing, he intended to take a drink or three while he had the chance. For another, Co

But George didn't want to think about that right this minute, either. He asked, "How are things here?"

"Pretty good," Co

The cat strolled up to see what the commotion was about. He gave George a leisurely glance, then yawned, showing needle teeth. Oh, it's you, he might have said. He remembered George between trips just well enough to tolerate being petted. And, of course, George smelled of fish, which made him interesting.

"How was the run?" Co

"Pretty good. We brought back a lot of tuna," he answered. "Only question now is how much it'll bring."

"News hasn't been good," Co

"Maybe. I can hope." He sniffed. "What smells good?"

"I was stewing a chicken," she told him. "We were going to have it for two nights, maybe three, but who cares? I've got to show you I'm a better cook than the Cookie, don't I?"

"You're a lot cuter than Davey, anyhow," he said, which made her squawk. He went on, "I just hope Bill and Pat get sleepy pretty soon." Both boys let out indignant howls. If he'd listened to them, he would have believed they would never fall asleep again. Fortunately, he knew better.

Co

"So did mine," George said. "I never understood why till not very long ago. I don't remember much about my pa, but that sticks in my mind."

"How come, Daddy?" Bill asked.

"I don't know. It just does," George answered. "It's the sort of thing a fisherman would say, that's for sure." Bill asked why again. George didn't say, not in words. He kissed Co

Jefferson Pinkard looked around at his kingdom and found it… not so good. He turned to Mercer Scott, the guard chief at Camp Dependable. "For Chris-sake, Mercer," he said, "what the hell are we go

Scott shifted a chaw of Red Man from his left cheek to his right. He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. "You sure as hell ain't wrong," he said. "We got us coons hangin' from their heels like they was bats. Du

Jeff laughed, too, though it was anything but fu

"Damned if I can see why you're gettin' your ass in an uproar about that," Scott said. "They're only niggers. No, they ain't only niggers. They're a bunch of goddamn Reds, too. So who gives a shit if they die? Ain't nobody go

"It's not…" Pinkard frowned, looking for the word that summed up how he felt about it. "It's not orderly, dammit. If they give me so many prisoners, they're supposed to give me enough food for that many, too. That's just the way things work."

As a matter of fact, that wasn't the way things worked. They'd worked that way in the prisoner camps down in the Empire of Mexico, not least because Jeff had made sure they did. And they'd worked that way in the Birmingham jail, because it was longstanding policy that they work so. There was no longstanding policy for camps housing political prisoners and Negroes taken in rebellion. Every day that passed saw such policy made.

Scott seemed to understand instinctively the root of that policy. It was, Who gives a shit if they die? Pinkard could see that for himself. A hell of a lot of prisoners left Camp Dependable feet first. He didn't like it. He scavenged across the countryside for more rations than he was officially issued. No doubt that did some good. Against the kind of overcrowding he was facing, it didn't do much.