Valentine ignored him, but the remoter, calmer quarters of his brain filed away Bullfrog's familiarity with Meadows. "Men!" he said, not having to try too hard to sound fighting-mad. "An exchange of blows between officers of Southern Command is considered a court-martial offense by the Uniform Code, especially if there is a difference in rank. I picked this quarrel with Sergeant Frum; he's to be held blameless." Valentine spat into each palm and formed his hands into tight fists. "Sergeant Frum, do you hold me blameless under the Uniform Code?"
Bullfrog planted his feet. "You can count on it, Valentine."
"Tell the men, and Colonel Meadows, so he's a witness. I don't want to hang with those others."
Bullfrog somehow managed to shout using the side of his mouth, keeping his vision locked on Valentine. "He's blameless too, under the Uniform Code."
Valentine lowered his fists. "Sergeant, the Southern Command's Uniform Code isn't a buffet. You can't pick and choose which rules apply. You either operate under it or you don't. You've just accepted its protection, and with its protection goes-"
"Bullshit!" Bullfrog shouted. "Tricks won't-"
He charged, arms up and reaching for Valentine's diroat.
But Bullfrog was just big, and Valentine was a Cat. He sidestepped the rush, reached out and grabbed a handful of Quisling-issue collar, whipped his legs up and got them around Bullfrog's waist. They both went down, Bullfrog using his weight and strength to hammer Valentine into the ground.
Valentine got his forearm under Bullfrog's chin, an old wrestling move he'd learned-the hard way-from his old top sergeant in Zulu Company.
Bullfrog croaked in what Patel called his "hangman."
The sergeant gave one terrific shrug and spun, bringing Valentine sideways into the ground, but Valentine clung, battered and smashed by Bullfrog's weight, with the same tenacity as Rikki-Tikki-Tavi with his teeth locked in Nag the Cobra's neck. For the honor of his family Rikki wanted to be found dead with his teeth locked in the enemy, and for the honor of Zulu Company's champion wrestler Valentine clung to his choke hold despite the red-yellow-red flashes of pain from his ribs. Then Bullfrog went limp.
Valentine suspected a trick until he felt, and smelled, warm urine on his leg.
"He's done," Valentine said, getting to shaky legs and brushing himself off.
Bullfrog groaned.
"Somebody get the sergeant a towel," Valentine said, breathing into the pain.
"Enough of that, Captain," Meadows barked. He hooked Valentine with his good hand and his thumb and finger, pulling the Cat up. "You men, help the sergeant inside. Captain, you'd better have Narcisse look at those ribs. The rest of you, pay off your bets and get inside. Sun's going down."
Valentine's eyes rose to the tarred bodies hanging from the lamppost. Meadows nodded in understanding.
"Lieutenant Nail, take a detail and get those bodies down. Anyone else feels like fistfighting can work off their aggressions digging six feet down."
* * * *
"You come back from a beating like no man I ever knew," Narcisse said the next morning, applying cool, water-soaked towels to Valentine's battered frame. Unfortunately, Bullfrog's substantial inventory didn't include an ice machine.
Valentine looked at his reflection in the washroom mirror. A great blue-and-purple mark on his chin was just beginning to show a hint of yellow through the skin. The right side of his rib cage looked like van Gogh's Starry Night.
"I've never broken a bone before," he said, feeling around at the soft spot.
Narcisse rapped him across the probing knuckles with her handless arm. "Leave it be, and it'll heal. Just a rib. Count yourself lucky; your lung stayed airy and you got lots of stuff holding that rib in place."
A heavy tread sounded in the basement corridor, and Ahn-Kha's bent-over frame appeared. There was now enough of a mixture of Valentine's column and the guerillas that Styachowski had judged it safe for Ahn-Kha to make an appearance. The Golden One bore a contraption that looked a little like a corset made of tube steel. He'd put it together using the frames of a stack of office chairs he found and leather scraps.
"I adjusted it, my David. Try it now."
Ahn-Kha could be as gentle as a cooing dove when he chose to be. The great arms, thick as well-fed pythons, wrapped themselves around Valentine and then worked the buckles on the brace. Valentine had always had good pos-ture; constant insistence from first his parents, and then the more recently departed Father Max had given him an instinctive, erect carriage, but with the brace on he felt like a heroically posed statue, elbows slightly out. But he could breathe this time, unlike the preliminary fitting.
"Thanks, old horse."
He tottered out into the hallway, walking a bit like a drunk trying to conceal the extent of his load. He couldn't favor his bad leg, the way he usually strode. He made for Meadows, who stood at the far end of the hall, checking off supplies as they were distributed to Valentine's column. A somewhat subdued Sergeant-now Lieutenant, Valentine corrected himself-Frum stood just beside him, the bruise under his chin looking like a hangman's beard.
Colonel Meadows and Bullfrog were comfortable enough with each other that Valentine had suggested that Meadows stay at the hideout with whoever felt unfit for a try at the Boston Mountains. Bullfrog could find jobs for them as guerillas or in some of the settlements under his command. Meadows accepted, and with the help of a staff captain had begun to sort through the horde of Quisling supplies. Everyone seemed happier for it, like tired horses back in familiar stalls.
"All this stuff missing; it'll go against me at the next inspection," Bullfrog said.