pull-rope and cranked the motor again, sitting on the choke button and easing down several calibrations on the spark pilot. He found a candle waxed to a flywheel and lit it. The motor room brightened to dim, two moths flew in and patterned on the flame. He nursed the key into the slot again and finger-primed the juice pump nozzle. The gauges lit up and gave low readings. Other cylinders caught and fired, detonating unevenly as the motor warmed, gradually smoothing, growing quiet, until Moldenke could hear the beats of his hearts. He caught a moth in his good fist, dusted off its wing scales, and ate it. He turned on the front and side running lamps, the yellow night-beam, raised the volume of the fog whistle. A tree frog croaked in the dark periphery of the motor room. He set the compass point on generally south. He thought he heard the grind of Bunce's cameras. He stepped to the forward lookout, drew back the worn khaki curtain, checking the area. A one-klick semicircle was lit as though in camera flash by the k-motor running lights. He went back up the ladder, through the shaft, pulled his backpack in, closing the hatch behind him. The motor room, except when the frog croaked, went silent. He put the gear jam in very high and the k-motor moved slowly forward, the great soft tire its dominant feature, over dead, doorless refrigerators and rusted mattress springs. He took the snipe from his sidepack, cleaned it, warmed it on a hot pressure sleeve, and ate it. He grew sleepy and slept warmly an undetermined space of time.
56]
Someone shook his cot and told him there was a letter for him down at the mailpost. He sat up, sleep wrapped, rubbing his eye. “Moldenke! Mail at the mailpost. Get it on!”
He stood up. “It couldn't be important enough for a two klick walk in the mock mud, could it?”
Someone said, “I saw government marks on the upper left.”
Moldenke said, “Government marks?” He fixed himself crookedly into a set of trenchpants and opened the tent flaps. “It's still raining,” he said. “Government marks you say?”
“Yes, government marks. I saw the eagle and the lightning bolts, the blue envelope; I smelled the human glue. What do you want, proof? Go get the letter, Moldenke.”
“It's raining too hard.” He bared his arm and extended it through the tent flaps, brought it back dry.
“No excuses, Moldenke. You know it's a dry rain.”
“I know,” Moldenke said. “I know. And I miss the old thunder claps, the water spinning in the drainpipes. Give me an old fashioned downpour for a change. I don't know if I'm up to a two klick walk, blue envelope or no blue envelope. Actually, I don't think I give a snort. The last time I went out walking I stepped into the rib cage of a friend. No thanks.”
“Moldenke the pessimist,” someone said.
“I had to scrape his heartmeat off my k-boots.”
Someone said, “Why do you insist on keeping your old balloons, Moldenke, filling up the tent like that?”
They all struck positions on their cots and read the Ways & Means.
Moldenke put on a wet-coat and walked to the mailpost.
Earlier in the mock War he had volunteered for injury, writing his number down on a square of paper and dropping it in a metal box outside the semi-Colonel's office. At morning meal, the day's injury volunteer list was read. Moldenke would eat his prunes and potato milk and wait. When they read his name he reported to Building D, stood in a line at the door. Every minute or so the line shortened by one. The mock soldier in front of Moldenke turned and said, “I'm proud that I gave for my country.” He opened the fly of his trenchpants and showed Moldenke a headless crank. “I'm a vet, boy. What are you giving up?” Moldenke was about to admit a minor fracture when the veteran's turn came up. Moldenke asked him, before he went in the door, what he would be giving up this time. The veteran shaped his hand into a gun and pointed a finger toward himself, cocking
56]
Someone shook his cot and told him there was a letter for him down at the mailpost. He sat up, sleep wrapped, rubbing his eye. “Moldenke! Mail at the mailpost. Get it on!”
He stood up. “It couldn't be important enough for a two klick walk in the mock mud, could it?”
Someone said, “I saw government marks on the upper left.”
Moldenke said, “Government marks?” He fixed himself crookedly into a set of trenchpants and opened the tent flaps. “It's still raining,” he said. “Government marks you say?”
“Yes, government marks. I saw the eagle and the lightning bolts, the blue envelope; I smelled the human glue. What do you want, proof? Go get the letter, Moldenke.”
“It's raining too hard.” He bared his arm and extended it through the tent flaps, brought it back dry.
“No excuses, Moldenke. You know it's a dry rain.”
“I know,” Moldenke said. “I know. And I miss the old thunder claps, the water spinning in the drainpipes. Give me an old fashioned downpour for a change. I don't know if I'm up to a two klick walk, blue envelope or no blue envelope. Actually, I don't think I give a snort. The last time I went out walking I stepped into the rib cage of a friend. No thanks.”
“Moldenke the pessimist,” someone said.
“I had to scrape his heartmeat off my k-boots.”
Someone said, “Why do you insist on keeping your old balloons, Moldenke, filling up the tent like that?”
They all struck positions on their cots and read the Ways & Means.
Moldenke put on a wet-coat and walked to the mailpost.
Earlier in the mock War he had volunteered for injury, writing his number down on a square of paper and dropping it in a metal box outside the semi-Colonel's office. At morning meal, the day's injury volunteer list was read. Moldenke would eat his prunes and potato milk and wait. When they read his name he reported to Building D, stood in a line at the door. Every minute or so the line shortened by one. The mock soldier in front of Moldenke turned and said, “I'm proud that I gave for my country.” He opened the fly of his trenchpants and showed Moldenke a headless crank. “I'm a vet, boy. What are you giving up?” Moldenke was about to admit a minor fracture when the veteran's turn came up. Moldenke asked him, before he went in the door, what he would be giving up this time. The veteran shaped his hand into a gun and pointed a finger toward himself, cocking
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