“S-Gerät, 11/00000.”

If this number is the serial number of a rocket, as its form indicates, it must be a special model—Slothrop hasn’t even heard of any with four zeroes, let alone five… nor an S-Gerät either, there’s an I- and a J-Gerät, they’re in the guidance… well, Document SG-1, which isn’t supposed to exist, must cover that… .

Out of the room: going noplace special, moving to a slow drumbeat in his stomach muscles see what happens, be ready… . In the Casino restaurant, not the slightest impedance at all to getting in, no drop in temperature perceptible to his skin, Slothrop sits down at a table where somebody has left last Tuesday’s London Times. Hmmm. Hasn’t seen one of them in a while… . Leafing through, dum, dum, de-doo, yeah, the War’s still on, Allies closing in east and west on Berlin, powdered eggs still going one and three a dozen, “Fallen Officers,” MacGregor, Mucker-Maffick, Whitestreet, Personal Tributes… Meet Me in St. Louis showing at the Empire Cinema (recalls doing the penis-in-the-popcorn-box routine there with one Madelyn, who was less than—)—

Tantivy… Oh shit no, no wait—

“True charm… humble-mindedness… strength of character… fundamental Christian cleanness and goodness… we all loved Oliver… his courage, kindness of heart and unfailing good humour were an inspiration to all of us… died bravely in battle leading a gallant attempt to rescue members of his unit who were pinned down by German artillery…” And signed by his most devoted comrade in arms, Theodore Bloat. Major Theodore Bloat now—

Staring out the window, staring at nothing, gripping a table knife so hard maybe some bones of his hand will break. It happens sometimes to lepers. Failure of feedback to the brain—no way to know how fiercely they may be making a fist. You know these lepers. Well—

Ten minutes later, back up in his room, he’s lying face-down on the bed, feeling empty. Can’t cry. Can’t do anything.

They did it. Took his friend out to some deathtrap, probably let him fake an “honourable” death… and then just closed up his file… .

It will occur to him later that maybe the whole story was a lie. They could’ve planted it easy enough in that London Times, couldn’t they? Left the paper for Slothrop to find? But by the time he figures that one out, there’ll be no turning around.

At noon Hilary Bounce comes in rubbing his eyes wearing a shit-eating grin. “How was your evening? Mine was remarkable.”

“Glad to hear it.” Slothrop is smiling. You’re on my list too, pal. This smile asks from him more grace than anything in his languid American life ever has, up till now. Grace he always imagined himself short on. But it’s working. He’s surprised, and so grateful that he almost starts crying then. The best part of all is not that Bounce appears fooled by the smile, but that Slothrop knows now that it will work for him again… .