Old Bloody Chiclitz, whose mother, Mrs. Chiclitz, named him Clayton, has been lurking behind a stack of mink capes with a .45 aimed at Slothrop’s stomach. “Say he’s O.K., buddy,” Marvy calls. “Y’all bring us s’more that champagne why don’tcha.” Chiclitz is about as fat as Marvy and wears hornrimmed glasses, and the top of his head’s as shiny as his face. They stand there with their arms around each other’s shoulders, two smiling fat men. “Ivan, you’re lookin’ at 10,000 calories a day, right here,” indicating the two paunches with his thumb, and winking. “Chiclitz here goam be the Royal Baby,” and they both collapse with laughter. But it is true. Chiclitz has actually figured out a way to cash in on redeployment. He is about to wangle with Special Services the exclusive contract for staging the equator-crossing festivities for every troop ship that changes hemispheres. And Chiclitz himself will be the Royal Baby on as many as he can, that’s been written in. He dreams of the generations of cannon fodder, struggling forward on their knees, one by one, to kiss his stomach while he gobbles turkey legs and ice-cream cones and wipes his fingers off in the polliwogs’ hair. Officially he is one of the American industrialists out here with the T-Force, scouting German engineering, secret weaponry in particular. Back home he owns a toy factory in Nutley, New Jersey. Who can ever forget the enormously successful Juicy Jap, the doll that you fill with ketchup then bayonet through any of several access slots, whereupon it flies to pieces, 82 of them, realistically squishy plastic, all over the room? or-or Shufflin’ Sam, the game of skill where you have to shoot the Negro before he gets back over the fence with the watermelon, a challenge to the reflexes of boys and girls of all ages? Right now business is taking care of itself, but Chiclitz has his eyes on the future. That’s why he’s running this fur operation, with the Michaeliskirche serving as a depot for the whole region. “Retrenchment. Got to get capitalized, enough to see me through,” splashing champagne into gold communion chalices, “till we see which way it’s gonna go. Myself, I think there’s a great future in these V-weapons. They’re gonna be really big.”

The old church smells of spilled wine, American sweat, and recently burned cordite, but these are raw newer intrusions that haven’t done away with the prevailing Catholic odor—incense, wax, centuries of mild bleating from the lips of the flock. Children come in and go out, bringing furs and taking them away, chatting with Ludwig and presently inviting him along to check out the freight cars down at the marshaling yards.

There are about 30 kids on Chiclitz’s payroll. “My dream,” he admits, “is to bring all these kids back to America, out to Hollywood. I think there’s a future for them in pictures. You heard of Cecil B. De Mille, the producer? My brother-in-law’s pretty close to him. I think I can teach them to sing or something, a children’s chorus, negotiate a package deal with De Mille. He can use them for the real big numbers, religious scenes, orgy scenes—”