"Well," he declared professionally, "that's that. As we politicians say, any questions?" Sue-Ann hesitated. "Yes, I guess I do have a question," she said. "What's a Jew?" * * * * * It was full dawn at last. The recall signal had come and the helicopters were swooping home to Hap Arnold Field. A bombardier named Novak, red-eyed and grumpy, was amusing himself on the homeward flight by taking practice sights on the stream of work-bound mechanics as they fluttered over Greaserville. "Could pick 'em off like pigeons," he said sourly to his pilot, as he dropped an imaginary bomb on a cluster of a dozen men. "For two cents, I'd do it, too. The only good greaser is a dead greaser." His pilot, just as weary, said loftily: "Leave them alone. The best way to handle them is to leave them alone." And the pilot was perfectly right; and that was the way the world went round, spinning slowly and unstoppably toward the dawn. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of My Lady Greensleeves, by Frederik Pohl