The two reporters fell to the task for the next couple of hours, skimming through dozens of old volumes, mostly without luck. At lunchtime the three of them shared a couple of sandwiches in the Clinton’s main mess. It seated nearly one thousand personnel and most of the places were taken. Rachel and the reporters squeezed in next to a couple of sailors who were minding half a dozen visitors from the Enterprise. The contemporary personnel—or “ ’temps,” as they’d been christened—looked like kids on their first day in school, lost and scared and trying not to show it; except for one, an Italian kid, who was forking down a mammoth serving of sand crab lasagne like it might be his last meal.

“You got any plans, for when you get some leave?” asked Natoli as she sprinkled fresh Parmesan cheese over a dish of spinach-and-ricotta ravioli. The Parmesan was only Grana, not Reggiano. But it was a well-cooked dish. “I am so going to find my great-auntie Tula and tell her not to marry Great-Uncle Al,” she added.

“But what about your cousins? They wouldn’t be born then,” said Rachel, as she wrestled with a giant hamburger.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Damn.”

“I wouldn’t know where to find my family at this point,” Rachel said. “They’d be in some paddy field near the delta. But that’s Japanese territory now, anyway.”

“Well, I’m going to write something like Sexual Politics or maybe The Female Eunuch,” Julia declared. “I don’t suppose anybody will be interested during the war, but just imagine if we could save all of those women from being chained to the kitchen all through the fifties.”

“Maybe they wanted to be chained there,” said Rosanna.

“I’m sure they did,” said Julia. “For about two minutes.”

“That sounds like a version of Marxist false consciousness,” said Rachel, before adding with grin, “I always knew the Times was full of superannuated Commies.”

“I’m serious,” said Duffy. “Right now, we’re all together. We make our own rules, or we live by the ones we already have, I suppose. But what do you think will happen when I arrive at the Times and ask for my desk back? They’re gonna take one look at my tits—”

“Two looks,” said Natoli. “You got such nice boobs, Julia.”

“—and then they’re probably going to pat my head—”

“Your butt, you mean.”

“—okay, my butt. And then they’re going to show me the door.”

The half a dozen local boys sitting at their table were beginning to notice the small group of loud women. Another woman in Marine Corps fatigues, walking by with her tray, pulled up beside them.

“You mind? I couldn’t help hearing? You guys those reporters?” she said.

They nodded.

“Thought so. Listen, did you hear what happened?”