Ten minutes later, Pate arrived. He was young, florid of face, and looked like he'd soon have a bad case of high blood pressure if he didn't already have it. He waved a hand carelessly at the general. Too carelessly. Like he was a recently discharged enlisted man who felt he didn't have to bow and scrape any more. "You're Jeanne. Recognize you anywhere. Like to tell your Tom he has good taste." "Fine," said Jeanne. "Tell him anything you want. I'm not speaking." "Ha, ha. Good joke." "It's no joke, Mr. Pate. I won't recite any prepared speech. I absolutely refuse." "Say that again. No, don't bother." Pate's brick-red face assumed the color of good claret wine. "Not ordinary, this. You probably thought we wouldn't reimburse you. Five thousand dollars all right?" "Please, Mr. Pate. I came here to talk with Tom. I want to talk, not recite. Tear up your speech and I'll do it for nothing." "Can't." "Don't, then. Good-bye." "Wait! General, can't you do something?" "She's not under my jurisdiction. I told her you know your business and she was being--shall we say--something less than sensible." "General! You never said anything like that. Don't you think I have a right to speak to my fiance?" "There's something to what you both say." Now the general sounded like _he_ was talking from a prepared speech. _If it's a matter of publicity, never hurt anyone's feelings. Straddle that fence. Walk that tight-rope._ "Well, I'll be damned," said Pate. "Show's got to go on. Is that final, Miss Peterson?" "You can bet your bottom dollar on it, as the expression goes." Jeanne almost felt like smiling, despite the situation. "Don't say anything unprintable, then. Tear up your speech. We've got to. See you in two hours." Muttering a brief word or two, Pate left, not bothering to say good-bye to the general. The general grinned professionally at Jeanne. "Any time I can be of further assistance...." * * * * * "Is this seat taken?" Jeanne looked up from her third cup of coffee, which she'd been stirring nervously. She'd found a small restaurant outside the post's main gate. "Why, no. Sit down, won't you?" Jeanne smiled at the girl who approached her. "Th-thanks." Kind of a plain type, Jeanne decided. Not pretty, though certainly not homely. Nice hair, if you liked it corn-silk color and long. Some men did, she supposed. "Cigarette?" "I--I don't smoke, thank you. You--you're Jeanne Peterson. I recognized you. My name is Mary." "Hello, Mary." "Miss Peterson, I don't know how to begin. But I've got to talk to you. You're a stranger and--Miss Peterson, please. You've got to do something...." "How can I help you if I don't know what you're talking about?" Jeanne almost felt like saying, _sister, I've got problems of my own_. "It's Curt. Captain Curt Macomber. He's--maybe I shouldn't be telling you this. You won't say anything. I mean--" "For gosh sakes, what _do_ you mean?" The girl sniffled.