At Linwood Plaza, he parked short of Brooklyn Avenue and considered what to do next.

Drive to the station and catch the next Santa Fe train west. If either of those calls for help lasted through the centuries, then he would be picked up on Monday morning-and this war and all its troubles would again 'be something that happened a long time ago-and "Ted Bronson" would be someone Gramp and Maureen had known briefly and would forget.

Too bad he had not had time to get those messages etched; nevertheless, one of them might last, If not-then make rendezvous for pickup in 1926. Or if none of them got through-always a possibility since he was attempting to use Delay Mail before it was properly set up-then wait for 1929-and carry out rendezvous as originally planned. No problem about that; the twins and Dora were ready to keep that one, no matter what.

Then why did he feel so bad?

This wasn't his war.

Time enough and Gramp would know that the prediction he had blurted out was simple truth. In time Gramp would learn what French "gratitude" amounted to-when "Lafayette, we are here!' was forgotten and the refrain was "Pas un sou a l'Amérique!" Or British "gratitude" for that matter. There was no gratitude between nations, never had been, never would be. "Pro-German"? Hell, no, Gramp! There is something rotten at the very heart of German culture, and this war is going to lead to another with German atrocities a thousand times more terrible than any they are accused of today. Gas chambers and a stink of burning flesh in planned viciousness- A stench that lasted through the centuries- But there was no way to tell Gramp and Maureen any of this. Nor should he try. The best thing about the future was that it was unknown. Cassandra's one good quality was that she was never believed.

So why should it matter that two people who could not possibly know what he knew misunderstood why he thought this war was useless?

But the fact was that it did matter-it mattered terribly.

He felt the slight bulge against his left ribs. A defense for his gold-gold he did not give a damn about. But a "termination option" switch, too.

Snap out of it, you silly fool! You don't want to be dead; you simply want the approval of Gramp and Maureen-of Maureen.

The recruiting station was under the main post office, far downtown. Late as it was, it was still open, with a queue outside. Lazarus paid an old Negro a dollar to sit in his car, warned him that there was a grip in the back, promised him another dollar when he got back-and did not mention ' the money vest and pistol, both now in the grip. But Lazarus did not worry about car or money-might be simpler if both were stolen. He joined the queue.

"Name?"

"Bronson, Theodore."

"Previous military experience?"

"None."

"Age? No, date of birth-and it had better be before April 5, 1899."

"November 11, 1890."

"You don't look that old, but okay. Take this paper and through that door. You'll find sacks or pillow cases. Take your clothes off, put 'em in one, keep 'em with you. Hand this to one of the docs and do what he tells you."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Get moving-next."

A doctor in uniform was assisted by six more in civilian clothes. Lazarus read the Snellen Card correctly, but the doctor did not seem to be listening; this seemed to be a "warm body" examination. Lazarus saw only one man rejected, one who was (in 'Lazarus' horseback judgment) in the terminal stages of consumption.

Only one physician seemed at all anxious to find defects. He had Lazarus bend over and pull his buttock cheeks apart, felt for hernias and made him cough, then palpated his belly. "What's this hard mass on the right side?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Have you had your appendix out? Yes, I see the scar. Feel the ridge, rather; the scar hardly shows. You had a good surgeon; I wish I could do one that neat. Probably just a mass of fecal matter there; take a dose of calomel and you'll be rid of it by morning.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Don't mention it, Son. Next."

"Hold up your right hands and repeat after me

"Hang onto these slips of paper. Be at the station before seven tomorrow morning, show your slip to a sergeant at the information desk; he'll tell you where to board. If you lose your slip of paper, be there anyhow-or Uncle Sam will come looking for you. That's all, men, you're in the Army now! Out through that door."

His car was, still there; the old Negro got out. "Eve'ything's fine, Cap'm!"

"It surely is," Lazarus agreed heartily while getting out a dollar bill. "But it's 'Private,' not 'Captain.'

"They took you? In that case, I cain't hahdly take youah dollah."

"Sure you can! I don't need it; Uncle Sam is looking out for me for the 'duration,' and he's going to pay me twenty-one dollars a month besides. So put this with the other one and buy gin and drink a toast to me-Private Ted Bronson."

"Ah couldn't rightly do that, Cap'm-Private Ted Bronson, suh. Ah'm White Ribbon-Ah took the plaidge befoah you was bohn. You jes' keep youah money and hang the Kaisuh fo' us."

"I'll try, Uncle. Let's make this five dollars and you can give it to your church...and say a prayer for me."

"Well...if you say so, Cap'm Private."

Lazarus tooled south on McGee feeling happy. Never take little bites, enjoy life! "K-K-K- Katy! Beautiful Katy-"

He stopped at a drugstore, looked over the cigar counter, spotted a nearly empty box of White Owls, bought the remaining cigars, asked to keep the box. He then bought a roll of cotton and a spool of surgical tape-and, on impulse, the biggest, fanciest box of candy in the store.

His car was parked under an arc light; he let it stay there, got into the back seat, dug into his grip, got out vest and pistol, then started an un-tailoring job, indifferent to the chance of being seen. Five minutes with his pocketknife undid hours of tailoring; heavy coins clinked into the cigar box. He cushioned them with cotton, sealed the box and strengthened it by wrapping it with tape. The slashed vest, the pistol, and his ticket west went down a storm drain and the last of Lazarus' worries went with them. He smiled as he stood up and brushed his knees. Son, you are getting old-why, you've been living cautiously!

He drove gaily out Linwood to Benton, ignoring the city's seventeen-miles-per-hour speed limit. He was pleased to see lights burning on the lower floor of the Brian Smith residence; he would not have to wake anyone. He went up the walk burdened with the candy box, the case for chessmen, and the taped cigar box. The porch light came on as he reached the steps; Brian Junior opened the door and looked out. "Grandpaw! It's Mr. Bronson!"

"Correction," Lazarus said firmly. "Please tell your grandfather that Private Bronson is here."

Gramp appeared at once, looked at Lazarus suspiciously. "What is 'this? What did I hear you tell that boy?"

"I asked him to announce 'Private Bronson.' Me." Lazarus managed to get all three packages under his left arm, reached into a pocket, got out the slip of paper he had been given at the recruiting station. "Look at it."

Mr. Johnson read it. "I see. But why? Feeling the way you do."

"Mr. Johnson, I never said I was not going to enlist; I simply said I had things to do first. That was true, I did have. It's true also that I have misgivings about the ultimate usefulness of this war. But regardless of any opinion-which I should have kept to myself-the time has come to close ranks and move forward together. So I went down and volunteered and they accepted me."