“I read Vaslav’s mail,” as if it’s a dumb question, which it is.

“You shouldn’t be blabbing to random strangers like this. If he finds out, he’ll murder you.”

“I like you. I like intrigue. I like playing.”

“Maybe you like to get people in trouble.”

“All right.” Out with the lower lip.

“O.K., O.K., tell me about it. But I don’t know if the Guardian will even be interested. My editors are a rather stuffy lot, you know.”

Goose bumps crowd her bare little breasts. “I posed once for a rocket insignia. Perhaps you’ve seen it. A pretty young witch straddling an A4. Carrying her obsolete broom over her shoulder. I was voted the Sweetheart of 3/Art. Abt. (mot) 485.”

“Are you a real witch?”

“I think I have tendencies. Have you been up to the Brocken yet?”

“Just hit town, actually.”

“I’ve been up there every Walpurgisnacht since I had my first period. I’ll take you, if you like.”

“Tell me about this, this ‘Schwarzgerät.’”

“I thought you weren’t interested.”

“How can I know if I’m interested or not if I don’t even know what I’m supposed or not supposed to be interested in?”

“You must be a correspondent. You have a way with words.”

Tchitcherine comes roaring through the window, a Nagant blazing in his fist. Tchitcherine lands in a parachute and fells Slothrop with one judo chop. Tchitcherine drives a Stalin tank right into the room, and blasts Slothrop with a 76 mm shell. Thanks for stalling him, Liebchen, he was a spy, well, cheerio, I’m off to Peenemünde and a nubile Polish wench with tits like vanilla ice cream, check you out later.

“I have to go, I think,” Slothrop sez, “typewriter needs a new ribbon, gotta sharpen pencils, you know how it is—”

“I told you, he won’t be here tonight.”

“Why? Is he out after that Schwarzgerät, eh?”

“No. He hasn’t heard the latest. The message came in from Stettin yesterday.”

“In clear, of course.”

“Why not?”

“Couldn’t be very important.”

“It’s for sale.”

“The message?”

“The S-Gerät, you pill. A man in Swinemünde can get it. Half a million Swiss francs, if you’re in the market. He waits on the Strand-Promenade, every day till noon. He’ll be wearing a white suit.”

Oh yeah? “Blodgett Waxwing.”

“It didn’t give the name. But I don’t think it’s Waxwing. He sticks close to the Mediterranean.”

“You get around.”

“Waxwing is already a legend around the Zone. So is Tchitcherine. For all I know, so are you. What was your name?”

“Cary Grant. Ge-li, Ge-li, Ge-li… . Listen, Swinemünde, that’s in that Soviet zone, ain’t it.”

“You sound like a German. Forget frontiers now. Forget subdivisions. There aren’t any.”

“There are soldiers.”

“That’s right.” Staring at him. “But that’s different.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll learn. It’s all been suspended. Vaslav calls it an ‘interregnum.’ You only have to flow along with it.”

“Gonna flow outa here now, kid. Thanx for the info, and a tip of the Scuffling hat to ya—”