What he does is lurch to his feet, over to the door of the freight car, which is going up a grade. He drags open the door, slips out—action, action—and mounts a ladder to the roof. A foot from his face, this double row of shiny bright teeth hangs in the air. Just what he needs. It is Major Marvy of U.S. Army Ordnance, leader of Marvy’s Mothers, the meanest-ass technical intelligence team in this whole fuckin’ Zone, mister. Slothrop can call him Duane, if he wants. “Boogie, boogie, boogie! Catch all ’em jungle bunnies back ’ere in ’at next car! Sheee-oo!”

“Wait a minute,” sez Slothrop, “I think I’ve been asleep or something.” His feet are cold. This Marvy is really fat. Pants bloused into shiny combat boots, roll of fat hanging over a web belt where he keeps his sunglasses and.45, hornrims, hair slicked back, eyes like safety valves that pop out at you whenever—as now—the pressure in his head gets too high.

Marvy hitched a lift on a P-47 from Paris far as Kassel, got coupled onto this train here west of Heiligenstadt. He’s headed for the Mittel-werke, like Ian Scuffling. Needs to coordinate with some Project Hermes people from General Electric. Sure makes him nervous, those niggers next door. “Hey, ought to be a good story for you people. Warn the folks back home.”

“Are they GIs?”