“Seaman Bodine?” inquires the amazed plush pig.

“The king of Cuxhaven, Porky.”

“Well I ran him an errand once in Berlin. Tell him Rocketman sez howdy.”

Krypton, bellbottom pulled up, opening one bottle just to see what he has, pauses, goggling. “You mean that hash?”

“Yup.”

Krypton snuffs a big fingerful of the flaky white into nostrils right ’n’ left. The world goes clarifying. Bitter snot begins to form in a stubborn fist at the back of his throat. Already the Potsdam Pickup is part of the folklore of the Zone. Would this pig here be trying to cash in on the glory of Rocketman (whose existence Krypton has never been that sure of)? Cocaine suspicions, cringing and mean as rats… shining bottles of a thousand colors, voices from the radio, the drape and hand of the pig’s shag coat as Krypton reaches out to stroke… no, it’s clear that the pig isn’t looking for anything, isn’t a cop, isn’t dealing, or about to hustle anybody… . “Just wanted to see how it felt, you know,” sez Krypton.

“Sure.” Now the doorway is suddenly full of red hats, leather and brass. Krypton stands very still, the top to the open cocaine bottle in one hand.

“Slothrop?” sergeant in command comes edging into the room, hand resting on his sidearm. The pig looks over at Birdbury, who’s shaking his head no, not me, as if he means it.

“Wasn’t me, either,” Krypton feels he ought to mention.

“Well somebody blew the whistle,” the pig mutters, looking really hurt.

“Stand by,” whispers Albert. To the MP: “Excuse me,” moseying straight over to the wall switch, which he flicks off, Slothrop at once dashing through all the shouting past Birdbury’s desk wham into a tall rack of medicines his straw stomach bounces him off of, but which then falls over on somebody else with a stupendous glass crash and scream—on down a pitchblack aisle, arms out to guide him, to the back exit, where he meets Krypton.

“Thanks.”

“Quick.”

Outside they cut eastward, toward the Elbe and the docks, pounding along, skidding in mudpuddles, stumbling over lorry-ruts, wind sweeping among the Quonsets to bat them in the face, cocaine falling in little white splashes from underneath Krypton’s left bellbottom. Behind them the posse are hollering and shining flashlights, but don’t seem to know where they’ve gone. Good. “Follow the yellow-brick road,” hums Albert Krypton, on pitch, “follow the yellow-brick road,” what’s this, is he actually, yes he’s skipping… .

Presently, out of breath, they arrive at the pier where the Badass and its division, four haze-gray piglets, are tied up, to find the runcible spoon fight just under way at the center of a weaving, cheering crowd of civilian and military drunks. Stringy Avery Purfle, sideburns slick as seal’s fur in the pallid light, Adam’s apple working in and out at a nervous four or five cycles a minute, shuffles around his opponent, the serene and oxlike St. John Bladdery, both with runcible spoons in the on-guard position, filed edges bright.