“As you’ll witness, sir”—I gracefully approach the officer like hundreds of theater volunteers prior—“two small punctures and a flip of the can are all it takes for a quick, hot meal.”

I’m picking up the can when Hutton taps me. “On second thought, why don’t we let the air commodore give it a go? He will thereby personally experience its simplicity of operation, a keen benefit for any airman at the controls.”

The man grunts his compliance and stands with hand extended. I waver for a moment, ever averse to uncontrolled factors in a trick. I have to remind myself that I won’t be in every cockpit, that this is precisely how the can is meant to be used.

After I pass over the bradawl, the officer tentatively pokes holes in the tin where indicated, then flips it and sets it down.

And we wait.

First comes the trickling that leads to gentle hissing. All as expected. But in seconds, an unusual fizzing becomes a gurgle. The noise strikes me as a warning.

The tin is quaking now. It’s getting too hot.

Something is wrong, crucially, and I realize the thing just might explode.

I grab Hutton’s sleeve. “Get back!” I flail a hand toward the air commodore. “Now!”

Startled, he retreats as we do, an instant before a reverberating blast. We all drop to the floor. With the ferocity of a volcano, scalding liquid flies in every direction, over the bookcase and chairs, the carpeted floor. And not just liquid but flames. The heated waves of red and orange are crackling and spreading.

The door swings open—it’s the lean private. “Blimey! It’s a fire! A fire!”

My body jerks at the shouts, a reflex from entrenched memories of a near-identical alert. Except this fire is real.

Then come more faces and voices. A team of clerks are hoisting extinguishers and stirrup pumps. Water and chemicals are sprayed every which way until the flames are entirely doused, returning us to safety.

I register the stench as I come to my feet. A nauseating mix of scorched peas, chemicals, and singed carpet assails the smoky air. The potted fern, drooped and pitiful, no longer requires a daily dusting.

My mind races to pinpoint the cause of the mishap. Either the cannery manager erred by adding too much quicklime, or the substance is just that volatile.

The air commodore moves slowly through the room. He pauses at his once elegant and glossy desk, now among the charred casualties. His gaze stalls on me and Hutton, turning sharp as a spear.

Not needing to be told, we see ourselves out.

Chapter 34

Visions of the morning’s disaster are replaying in my mind when a voice cuts in.