“Go ahead, scream.” Mostly what he could see was the glint of her blue eyes.

“Rape,” she said softly.

“Mrs. Augustino—”

“Call me Celeste.”

“Mrs. Augustino—”

“I’m young, attractive, married to a captain. Here I am, waiting hours for a sergeant to come to bed.”

“I didn’t ask you. I hardly know you.”

“Hardly anybody knows me, Sergeant. This is an Army post and I should be at the top of the social pinnacle. Instead, with all these foreigners and scientists, I’m treated like some ignorant hillbilly, like an intellectual embarrassment. I looked around that dance tonight for one man who didn’t give a damn for all these geniuses and tin gods and I only found one, Sergeant, and it was you.”

He found himself interested. “You think so?”

“I saw you talking to Fuchs. You hate them.”

“I may dislike Fuchs.”

“And the German girl with him.”

“She’s not my type.”

“That’s my point. I’m your type, Sergeant.”

Well, there was a little bit of truth there. She sat up. His eyes had adjusted to the tiny beacon of her cigarette. Light freckles covered her breasts.

“I’m flattered, Mrs. Augustino. Really, but …”

“It’s cold out there. Could a lady at least have a drink before she goes off in humiliation?”

Joe brought her the bourbon he’d poured for himself. Tin gods and geniuses? And the occasional sergeant, the onetime fighter who now steers clear of trouble, a man in a long, dry spell of good conduct. Looking at it that way, in a desert she was an oasis of sin.

“Where is the captain?” Joe asked.

“Who knows?”

There was a victrola against the wall and 78s arranged neatly underneath; he took better care of his records than of anything else and didn’t need light to set a disc on the turntable and let the arm down. “Mood Indigo” whispered from the needle.

“Then maybe we have time for one dance.” He took the empty glass from her.

In her bare feet, Mrs. Augustino didn’t come to his chin.

“Ready for the dip?” Joe pulled her close.

As they bumped into the heavy bag it wiggled on its chain.

“Was that General Groves?” She laughed.

“No, that’s General MacArthur.”

“That’s a terrible name for a punching bag. He’s the greatest American alive.”

“That’s the one.”

4

Snow had fallen like a fine dust during the night. Mrs. Augustino stepped delicately through it into the early morning dark.