"Just don't be long about it", the desk sergeant barked. "He's a busy man and we don't want to be running around looking for you".
The corporal took him to the cafeteria, whistled at the food prescription. "Enjoy. We've been on ration cards for over a year".
Valentine winced. "I know what that's like".
He piled a tray with some dubious-looking meat in gravy, potatoes, fruit, and rice buns. The servers examined his piece of paper at each station, even the woman who poured him a glass of juice.
The corporal settled for a thick slice of bread smeared with "protein paste", and water.
"Hope that tastes better than it looks", Valentine said.
The corporal rolled his eyes. "They say it's refried beans. Tastes like they scraped it off a Dumpster".
"Dig into mine", Valentine said.
"You're a real guapo ... uh, Mr. Argent". He hunched over the table and worked a chunk of Valentine's steak free from bone and gristle.
"Why the food shortage?" Valentine asked.
"Troubles out east", the corporal said, shoveling food and looking over his shoulder. "We just took a bunch of California farmland, thanks to the Circus, but it's taking time to get organized. Headhunters down south are having a tougher time finding peons to work the land. This territory used to be Frolic City - Pyp's Circus brought in a lot of in-kind trade from the Gulag. Now we're fighting to hold our own".
"Here's to better days", Valentine said, swallowing some watery juice.
The corporal removed some gravy with his heel of bread. "If you're looking to set up an establishment somewhere comfy with your reward..."
Valentine picked up his wiped-clean tray. "Haven't thought that far ahead, friend".
Hornbreed was on the telephone when they entered the room. The corporal pulled up a chair outside.
"No", Hornbreed said, wincing a little at the effort. "No. Let's get Bettie Page stripped. Put Tigress and Zorro into reserve, and Brunhilda in for a complete overhaul. Let me know the status of Rockette as soon as the
salvagers bring her in. Yeah, I flipped her. Tell them at least a week for the wing to reorganize. Colorado tore us a new one".
He paused. Then: "Kur! I don't care. We'll lose half the wing if we go into action now. Yes, I'll take the responsibility".
Valentine listened to another call to someone named "Lo", full of many reassurances as to his condition. He went to the window, watched the quiet airfield. Gliders circled far above, featherless hawks on the air currents. Valentine watched a new string of gliders take off, a twin-engine prop with five fiberglass baby planes in tow.
Hornbreed returned the phone to its cradle and rubbed his eyes.
"What are all the gliders for?" Valentine asked.
"Pilot training. You learn most of the principles of flight, and it saves a lot of gas".
"Looks fun", Valentine said, and meant it.
"Just say the word and..."
The corporal's chair in the hallway scraped and Valentine heard him come to his feet. Boots squeaked on the linoleum.
Patrick Yenez-Powell had darkish but freckled skin, a boxer's squashed nose, and ears like a pair of beat-up trash can lids. Valentine didn't know what to make of the variegated uniform. The gold necklace, dungaree overalls, and shoulder holster made him look like a motor-pool inventory guard called away from a good card game, but the round, black felt hat added a serious note.
Valentine envied the sandals, though. They looked cool and comfortable.
"Knock knock", Pyp said. "Got a minute, Horny?" His voice flowed low, musical, and a little sad. If basset hounds could talk, they'd sound like Yenez-Powell.
"Always", Hornbreed said.
Valentine saw a pair of adjutants, male and female so alike that they looked like brother and sister, peering in from the doorway.