"Yes, darling! Matches where?"

"Let me go and I'll get up and light it; I can find both in the dark. Will I be allowed to look at you, too?"

"Sure. For contrast. 'Beauty and the Beast.'"

She giggled and kissed his ear. "Goat, maybe. Or a stallion. Theodore, I needed to be baby-stretched to accept you."

"I thought you said I felt like Brian?"

"But he is a stallion, too. Let me go."

"Pay toll."

"Oh, goodness, darling, don't do that now! Or I'll be so shaky I won't be able to strike a match."

Standing and by the light on one candle, they studied each other. Lazarus felt his breath grow short at the dazzling glory of her. For most of two years he had been deprived of the

sweet joy of seeing a woman, and had not realized how starved he had been for that great privilege. Darling, can you guess how much this means to me? Mama Maureen, has no one ever told 'you how much more sweetly beautiful a full-blown woman is than a maiden? Certainly your lovely breasts have held milk; that's what they're for. Why would I want them to look like marble?-I don't!

She studied him just as closely, her face solemn, her nipples crinkled tightly. Theodore-Lazarus my strange loves will you guess that I suggested candlelight so that I could see you? A woman is not supposed to get hungry for such things-but I miss the sight, the naked sight, of my husband...and how in the Name of Satan and all His Fallen Thrones I can last even till November without even seeing a man I do not know. Alma Bixby told me that she had never seen her husband without clothes. How can a woman live like that? Five children by a man she's never seen all over- Shocked her when I said that of course I had seen my husband naked!

Theodore-Lazarus, you don't look like my Briney Boy; your coloration is more like mine. But, oh, how you feel like him, smell like him, talk like him, love like him! Your pretty thing is coming up high again. Briney beloved, I'm going to have him once more, as hard as possible!-and I'll tell you about it tomorrow night if you'll just ask me for a new bedtime story...or if I must, I'll save it for you till you get back. You're as strange a man as he is...and just the wise and tolerant husband your bawdy wife needs. Then, cross my heart, dearest, I'll try my best to keep from it until you come back from Over There-but if I can't, even with Father and eight children to guard me, I promise you solemnly that I will never bed with anyone but a warrior, a man to be proud of in every way. Such as this strange man.

Lazarus, my love, are you really my descendant? I do believe that you know when the war will be over and that my Briney will come safely back to sue. Why, I am not sure-but since you told me, I have been free from worry for the first time in many a lonely moon. I hope the rest is true, too; I want to believe in Tamara, and that she is descended from me. But I don't want you to go away in only eight years!

That innocent little picture- If I had not feared shocking you, I would have given you some real "French postcards" Briney has taken of me. Will you be upset if I take a closer look? I'll chance it.

Mrs. Smith suddenly dropped to one knee, looked closely, then touched him. She looked up. "Now?"

"Yes!" He picked her up, placed her on the bed. Almost solemnly she helped him, then caught her breath as they joined. "Hard, Theodore! This time don't be gentle!"

"Yes, my beautiful one!"

When their happy violence was over, she lay quiet in his arms, not talking, communing through touch and the light of one candle.

At last she said, "I must go, Theodore. No, don't get up, just let me slide out." She got up, picked up her wrap, blew out the candle, came back, leaned down and kissed him. "Thank you, Theodore-for everything. But-come back to me, come back to me!"

"I will, I will!"

Quickly and silently she was gone.

CODA-I

Somewhere in France

Dear All my Family,

I am writing this in my pocket diary where it will stay until this war is over-not that it matters; you'll get it just as soon. But I can't send a sealed letter now, much less one sealed into five envelopes. Something called "censorship"-which means that every letter is opened and read and anything that might interest the Boche is cut out. Such as dates and places and designations of military units and probably what I had for breakfast. (Beans and boiled pork and fried potatoes, with coffee that would dissolve a spoon.)

You see, I had this lovely ocean voyage as a guest of Uncle Sam and am now in the land of fine wines and beautiful women. (The wine has been yin extremely ordinaire, and they seem to be hiding the beautiful women. The best-looking one I've seen had a slight mustache and very hairy legs, which I could have ignored had I not made the mistake of standing downwind. Darlings, I am not sure the French take baths, at least in wartime. But I'm in no position to criticize, a bath is a luxury. Today, given a choice between a beautiful woman and a hot bath, I'd pick the bath-otherwise she wouldn't touch me.)

Don't worry that I am now in a "war zone." That you've received this is proof that the war is over and I am okay. But it's easier to write a letter than it is to put trivia into a diary every day. "War zone" is an exaggeration; this is "fixed warfare"-meaning both sides are in the same fix: pinned down-and I am too far behind the lines to get hurt.

I am in charge of a unit called a "squad"-eight men-me and five other riflemen, plus an automatic rifleman (the rifle, not the man; this war has no robot fighters) and an eighth man who carries ammunition for the automatic rifleman. It's a corporal's job, and that's what I am; the promotion to sergeant I was expecting (in my last letter as dated from the United States) got lost in the shuffle when I was transferred to another outfit.

Being a corporal suits me. It is the first time I've had men permanently assigned to me, time enough to get acquainted with each one, learn his strong points and weak ones, and how to handle him, They are a fine bunch of men. Only one is a problem, and it's not his fault; it results from the prejudices of the time. His name is F. X. Dinkowski, and he is simultaneously the only Catholic and the only Jew in my squad-and, twins, if you've never heard of either one, ask Athene. By ancestry he comes from one religion, then he was brought up in another-and he has had the tough luck to be placed with country boys who have still a third religion and are not very tolerant.

Plus the additional misfortunes of being a city boy and having a voice that grates (even on me) and is clumsy, and when they pick on him (they do if I'm not right there), it makes him more clumsy. Truthfully he's not soldier material-but I wasn't asked. So he's the ammunition carrier, the best I can do to balance my squad.

They call him "Dinky," which is only mildly disparaging, but he hates it. (I use his full last name-I do with all of them. For ritualistic reasons having to do with the mystique of military organizations at this here-&-now it is best to call a man by his family name.)

But let's leave the finest squad in the AEF and bring you up to date on my first family and your ancestors. Just before Uncle Sam sent me on that pleasure cruises I was given a vacation. I spent it with the Brian Smith family and lived in their house, as they have "adopted" me for the rest of this war, me being an "orphan."

That leave was the happiest time I've had since I was dropped from the Dora. I took Woodie to an amusement park, primitive but more fun than some sophisticated pleasures of Secundus. I took him on rides and treated him to games and things that were fun for him, and fun for me because he enjoyed them so-wore him out and he slept all the way home. He behaved himself, and now we are chums. I've decided to let him grow up; there may be hope for him yet.