“You’re not a war correspondent.”

“Why does everybody keep saying that? Nobody believes me. Of course I’m a war correspondent.” Shaking the brassard at her. “Can’t you read? Sez ‘War Correspondent.’ I even have a mustache, here, don’t I? Just like that Ernest Hemingway.”

“Oh. Then I imagine you wouldn’t be looking for Rocket Number 00000 after all. It was just a silly idea I had. I’m sorry.”

Oh boy, am I gonna get out of here, sez Slothrop to himself, this is a badger game if I ever saw one, man. Who else would be interested in the one rocket out of 6000 that carried the Imipolex G device?

“And you couldn’t care less about the Schwarzgerät, either,” she keeps on. She keeps on.

“The what?”

“They also called it S-Gerät.”

Next higher assembly, Slothrop, remember? Wernher, up on the canopy, is hooting. A signal to that Tchitcherine, no doubt.

Paranoids are not paranoids (Proverb 5) because they’re paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fucking idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.

“Now how on earth,” elaborately uncorking a fresh bottle of Nordhäuser Schattensaft, thoppp, best Cary Grant imitation he can summon up with bowels so echoing tight, suavely refilling glasses, handing one to her, “would a sweet, young, thing, like you, know anything, about rocket, hahd-weah?”

“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.”