He started off in a friendly enough way: "Glad you're back safe. I heard you were wounded-happy it wasn't too serious."

"Yeah." The only wound that wasn't serious was the one that happened to the other guy. Chester asked, "Did you ever put the uniform on again yourself?"

"A few weeks after you did," Casson answered. "I was bossing construction projects, mostly up in the Northwest. I'm embarrassed to say I didn't come anywhere close to the sound of guns. Well, once, but that was just a nuisance raid. Nothing aimed my way."

"You paid those dues last time around." Chester knew the building magnate had commanded a line company-and, briefly, a line regiment-in the Great War.

"Generous of you to say so," Casson replied.

"So what's up?" Chester asked. "Latest contract still has a year to run."

"I know. All the more reason to start talking about the new one now," Casson said easily. "That way, we don't get crammed up against a deadline. Everything works better."

He was smooth, all right-smooth enough to make Chester suspicious. "You're gonna try and screw me, and you won't respect me in the morning, either."

Harry T. Casson laughed. "I don't know what you're talking about, Chester."

"Now tell me another one," Chester answered. "C'mon, man. We both know what the game's about. Why make like we don't?"

"All right. You want it straight? I'll give it to you straight. During the war, you got a better contract than you really deserved," Casson said. "Not a lot of labor available, and there was a war on. We didn't want strikes throwing a monkey wrench into things. But it's different now. Lots of guys coming out of the Army and going into the building trades-look at you, for instance. And it's not unpatriotic to care a little more about profit these days, either."

"So how hard are you going to try to hit us?" Chester asked. When Harry T. Casson told him, he grunted as if he'd been hit for real. "We'll fight you if you do that," he promised. "We'll fight you every way we know how."

"I think you'll lose," the building magnate said.

"Don't bet on it, Mr. Casson. You know how big our strike fund is?" Chester said. Casson named a figure. Chester laughed harshly. "Make it three times that size."

"You're lying," Casson said at once.

"In a pig's…ear," Chester replied. "We've been socking it away since 1942. We figured you'd try to give us the shaft first chance you got. We'll fight, all right, and we'll make your scabs sorry they were born. We whipped Pinkertons before. With all the vets back, like you say, sure as the devil we can do it again. Piece of cake, the flyboys call it."

"Siccing the Pinkertons on you was a mistake. I said so at the time, but my colleagues didn't want to listen," Harry T. Casson said slowly. "Do you swear you're telling the truth about your strike fund?"

"Swear to God." Martin made his voice as solemn as he could.

"Damnation," Casson muttered. "That could be difficult. Not just a hard strike, but bad publicity when we don't need it…Will you agree to extend the present contract unchanged for another two years, then? Come 1948, both sides can take a long look at where they are and where they want to go."

"You can get your friends to go along with that?" Chester asked.

"Yes, if you're sure the rank and file will ratify it."

"They will," Chester said. "Some of them might want a raise, but they're doing all right. Staying where we're at's a good enough deal."

"A good enough deal," Harry T. Casson echoed. "I'm not thrilled with it, but I think you're right. It will do. Good talking with you, Chester. So long." He hung up.

So did Chester. He also started laughing like a maniac. "What was that all about?" Rita asked.

"New contract. Two years. Same terms as the wartime one," Chester got out between guffaws.

"But what's so funny?" Rita demanded.

Chester didn't tell her. One more thing he never intended to tell anybody. The real strike fund was smaller than Harry T. Casson thought, not three times as big. He'd raised Casson with a busted flush, and he'd made the magnate fold. Rain? So what? If this wasn't a good day's work, for him and for everybody else in the union, he'd never done one. The sooner we sign the papers, the better, he thought. But they would. After the war, a contract was…a piece of cake.

E lizabeth clucked at Cincinnatus. "Aren't you ready yet?"

"I been ready for twenty minutes. So has my pa," he answered. "You're the one keeps checkin' her makeup an' makin' sure her hat's sittin' just the right way."

"I'm doin' no such thing," his wife said, and Cincinnatus prayed God would forgive the lie. Elizabeth added, "Not every day you marry off your onliest daughter."

"Well, that's a fact," Cincinnatus allowed. "That sure enough is a fact."

Amanda was at the beauty parlor, or maybe at the church by now. Cincinnatus reached up and fiddled with his tie. He'd never worn a tuxedo before. The suit was rented, but the clothier assured him plenty of white men rented tuxes, too. Seneca Driver wore Cincinnatus' ordinary suit. It was a little big on him, but he didn't have one of his own; he'd got away from Covington with no more than the clothes on his back, and money'd been tight since.

"You look mighty handsome," Elizabeth said.

"Glad you think so. What I reckon I look like is one o' them fancy servants rich folks had down in the CSA," Cincinnatus said. "They're the only ones I ever seen with fancy duds like this here."

His wife shook her head. "Their jackets always had brass buttons, to show they was servants." She snorted. "Like them bein' colored wouldn't tell you. But anyways, they did. Your buttons is jus' black, like they would be if you wore them clothes all the time on account of you wanted to."

Cincinnatus couldn't imagine anybody wanting to. The tux fit well, yes. But it was uncomfortable. On a hot summer day, it would be stifling, with the high wing collar and the tight cravat. He didn't even want to think about that. "I ain't sorry Amanda didn't want to wait till June," he said.

"Do Jesus, me neither!" his wife exclaimed. "She try an' do that, maybe she have herself a baby six, seven months after they do the ceremony. People laugh at you an' talk behind your back when somethin' like that happens."

"They do," Cincinnatus agreed. There was something he hadn't worried about. Well, his wife had taken care of it for him. He sent her a sidelong look and lowered his voice so his father wouldn't hear: "Only fool luck we didn't have that happen our ownselves."

"You stop it, you and your filthy talk," Elizabeth said, also quietly. He only laughed, which annoyed her more. It wasn't as if he wasn't telling the truth. Plenty of courting couples didn't wait till the preacher said the words over them before they started doing what they would have done afterwards.

For that matter, Cincinnatus had no way of knowing whether Amanda had a bun in the oven right now. He almost pointed that out to his wife, too, but held his tongue at the last minute. Maybe Elizabeth was already worrying about that, too. If she wasn't, he didn't want to give her anything new to flabble about.

Someone knocked on the door. "Ready or not, you're ready now," Cincinnatus told Elizabeth. "There's the Changs."

When Elizabeth opened the door, she might have been ready to meet President-elect Dewey and his wife. "Come in!" she said warmly. "Oh, isn't that a pretty dress!"

"Thank you," Mrs. Chang said. She didn't know a whole lot of English-less than her husband-but she understood enough to nod and smile and say the right thing here.

Joey Chang had on an ordinary suit, not a tux-he wasn't father of the bride, only father of the bride's sister-in-law. "I bring beer to reception, right?" he said.

"Right!" Cincinnatus said. Mr. Chang was also one of the best homebrew makers in Des Moines. Since Iowa remained legally dry, that was an important talent. The authorities didn't seem to be enforcing the law the way they had before the war, but you couldn't just go round to the corner package store and pick up a couple of cases of Blatz.