"No."

"See it. Love a lass, kill a man, write a book, fly to the Moon—I have done all these." He gasped and foam came out of his mouth, pink. "I've even had a house fall on me. What devastating wit! What price honor when timber taps thy top? ‘Top?' tap? taupe, tape—tonsor! -- when timber taps thy tonsor. You shaved mine."

He choked and went on: "It grows dark. Let us exchange gifts and part friends, if you will. My gift first, in two parts: Item: You are lucky, you shall not die in bed."

"I guess not."

"Please. Item: Friar Guillaume's razor ne'er shaved the barber, it is much too dull. And now your gift, my old—and be quick, I need it. But first—now did that limerick end?"

I told him. He said, very weakly, almost in rattle, "Very good. Keep trying. Now grant me your gift, I am more than ready." He tried to Sign himself.

So I granted him grace, stood wearily up, went to the bench and collapsed on it, then cleaned both blades, first wiping the little Solingen, then most carefully grooming the Lady Vivamus. I managed to stand and salute him with a clean sword. It had been an honor to know him.

I was sorry I hadn't asked him his name. He seemed to think I knew it.

I sat heavily down and looked at the arras covering the rat hole at the end of the room and wondered why Star and Rufo hadn't come out. All that clashing steel and talk—I thought about walking over and shouting for them. But I was too weary to move just yet. I sighed and closed my eyes—

Through sheer boyish high spirits (and carelessness I had been chided for, time and again) I had broken a dozen eggs. My mother looked down at the mess and I could see that she was about to cry. So I clouded up too. She stopped her tears, took me gently by the shoulder, and said, "It's all right, son. Eggs aren't that important." But I was ashamed, so I twisted away and ran.

Downhill I ran, heedless and almost flying—then was shockingly aware that I was at the wheel and the car was out of control. I groped for the brake pedal, couldn't find it and felt panic...then did find it—and felt it sink with that mushiness that means you've lost brake-fluid pressure. Something ahead in the road and I couldn't see. Couldn't even turn my head and my eyes were clouded with something running down into them. I twisted the wheel and nothing happened—radius rod gone.

Screams in my car as we hit! -- and I woke up in bed with a jerk and the screams were my own. I was going to be late to school, disgrace not to be borne. Never born, agony shameful, for the schoolyard was empty; the other kids, scrubbed and virtuous, were in their seats and I couldn't find my classroom. Hadn't even had time to go to the bathroom and here I was at my desk with my pants down about to do what I had been too hurried to do before I left home and all the other kids had their hands up but teacher was calling on me. I couldn't stand up to recite; my pants were not only down I didn't have any on at all if I stood up they would see it the boys would laugh at me the girls would giggle and look away and tilt their noses. But the unbearable disgrace was that I didn't know the answer!

"Come, come!" my teacher said sharply. "Don't waste the class's time, E.G. You Haven't Studied Your Lesson."

Well, no, I hadn't. Yes, I had, but she had written "Problems 1-6" on the blackboard and I had taken that as "1 and 6"—and this was number 4. But She would never believe me; the excuse was too thin. We pay off on touchdowns, not excuses.

"That's how it is, Easy," my Coach went on, his voice more in sorrow than in anger. "Yardage is all very well but you don't make a nickel unless you cross that old goal line with the egg tucked underneath your arm." He pointed at the football on his desk. "There it is. I had it gilded and lettered clear back at the beginning of the season, you looked so good and I had so much confidence in you—it was meant to be yours at the end of the season, at a victory banquet." His brow wrinkled and he spoke as if trying to be fair. "I won't say you could have saved things all by yourself. But you do take things too easy. Easy—maybe you need another name. When the road gets rough, you could try harder." He sighed. "My fault, I should have cracked down. Instead, I tried to be a father to you. But I want you to know you aren't the only one who loses by this—at my age it's not easy to find a new job."

I pulled the covers up over my head; I couldn't stand to look at him. But they wouldn't let me alone; somebody started shaking my shoulder. "Gordon!"

"Le'me ‘lone!"

"Wake up, Gordon, and get your ass inside. You're in trouble."

I certainly was, I could tell that as soon as I stepped into the office. There was a sour taste of vomit in my mouth and I felt awful—as if a herd of buffaloes had walked over me, stepping on me here and there. Dirty ones.

The First Sergeant didn't look at me when I came in; he let me stand and sweat first. When he did look up, he examined me up and down before speaking.

Then he spoke slowly, letting me taste each word. "Absent Over Leave, terrorizing and insulting native women, unauthorized use of government property...scandalous conduct...insubordinate and obscene language...resisting arrest...striking an M.P.—Gordon, why didn't you steal a horse? We hang horse thieves in these parts. It would make it all so much simpler."

He smiled at his own wit. The old bastard always had thought he was a wit. He was half right.

But I didn't give a damn what he said. I realized dully that it had all been a dream, just another of those dreams I had had too often lately, wanting to get out of this aching jungle. Even She hadn't been real. My—what was her name? -- even her name I had made up. Star. My Lucky Star—Oh, Star, my darling, you aren't!

He went on: "I see you took off your chevrons. Well, that saves time but that's the only thing good about it. Out of uniform. No shave. And your clothes are filthy! Gordon, you are a disgrace to the Army of the United States. You know that, don't you? And you can't sing your way out of this one. No I.D. on you, no pass, using a name not your own. Well, Evelyn Cyril my fine lad, we'll use your right name now. Officially."

He swung around in his swivel chair—he hadn't had his fat ass out of it since they sent him to Asia, no patrols for him. "Just one thing I'm curious about. Where did you get that? And whatever possessed you to try to steal it?" He nodded at a file case behind his desk.

I recognized what was sitting on it, even though it had been painted with gold gilt the last time I recalled seeing it whereas now it was covered with the special black gluey mud they grow in Southeast Asia. I started toward it. "That's mine!"

"No, no!" he said sharply. "Burny, burny, boy." He moved the football farther back. "Stealing it doesn't make it yours. I've taken charge of it as evidence. For your information, you phony hero, the docs think he's going to die."

"Who?"

"Why should you care who? Two bits to a Bangkok tickul you didn't know his name when you clobbered him. You can't go around clobbering natives just because you're feeling brisk—they've got rights, maybe you hadn't heard. You're supposed to clobber them only when and where you are told to."

Suddenly he smiled. It didn't improve him. With his long, sharp nose and his little bloodshot eyes I suddenly realized how much he looked like a rat.

But he went on smiling and said, "Evelyn my boy, maybe you took off those chevrons too soon."

"Huh?"

"Yes. There may be a way out of this mess. Sit down." He repeated sharply, " ‘Sit down,' I said. If I had my way we'd simply Section-Eight you and forget you—anything to get rid of you. But the Company Commander has other ideas—a really brilliant idea that could close your whole file. There's a raid planned for tonight. So"—he leaned over, got a bottle of Four Roses and two cups out of his desk, poured two drinks—"have a drink."