Ben told her of the tape recording he'd heard, sitting in front of the Radio Shack in Morriston—a thousand years ago, it seemed.

  “Yeah, Ike heard that same tape.”

  “Bell-Ringer's boyfriend, or just friend, whatever—how did he get killed?”

  “She doesn't say much about it, but I gather he was kind of a militant. Didn't have much education, but was trying to do the right thing—her words—in his own way. I don't know who started the shooting the day he was killed—she kind of thinks he did—but anyway, he got dead and she just wandered for a day or so until those ‘necks caught up with her and were taking turns raping her. That's about all I know about her.”

  “You?” Ben looked at her. About twenty-five, in the prime of mature beauty. High full breasts, long sleek legs, long thick hair.

  “I worked in a bank down in St. Pete.”

  “No boyfriends?”

  “Just on a social basis, nothing heavy. You know what I mean?”

  Ben nodded. “Yes.”

  “Tatter was a schoolteacher.” She laughed. “Really! June-Bug was a college girl. Space-Baby worked for the government down at the cape. And Angel-Face was a housewife. Woke up one morning and her husband was lying dead, next to her. She said it was awful. Kind of freaked her out for a time.” She looked up at him from the pallet on the darkening sun porch. “You're really going to travel around the country, seeing what happened and talking to people?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But, really, Ben, we did hear you are the commander of that Rebel army. Really!”

  “You heard wrong. I am the commander of no army. I'm a writer. That's it.”

  “Ummm,” she said. “Well, how long do you figure this project will take you?”

  “Several years, probably.” If I don't get sidetracked. Damn you, Bull!

  She sighed. “That'd be fun, I guess. Kind of adventuresome. Like the pioneers, in a way.” She shook her head. “But I'm not very adventuresome. I'm a chicken.”

  “Well, I'm going to winter around here, I think. For a couple of months, anyway. Maybe three. I think I'll take a run down the coast tomorrow and find a place to stay.”

  “Want some company?” she asked softly. Her voice was like an invitation to dine—on her.

  “Sure. I think we're compatible.”

  She grinned up at him. “I imagine we are. You like to fuck, don't you?”

  Ben and Honey-Poo were more than compatible; she told him on that first night at Ike's place that she liked to be around a man, didn't like to sleep alone, liked to do for a man. But ...

  “Don't trust me too much, Ben. I mean, I'll be true-blue as a puppy for a time, then I'll get itchy feet and hungry eyes. I won't mean to hurt you, but I will leave when I feel like it. So don't fall for me, O.K.?”

  “I'll do my best,” Ben said, running his hand over her belly, then down to the tangle of pubic hair. She moved under his strokings, sighing as his finger found and entered her wetness. “What's your real name, Honey-Poo?”

  She hissed her pleasure and arched her hips upward, meeting his thrusting finger. Her hand found his stiffness and slowly began working him. “Prudence.” “I'll stick with Honey-Poo.”

  “Stick it in me first, Ben.”

  Christmas

  It was raw for this stretch of Florida, the temperature hovering around the forty-degree mark and the winds cool enough to bring out sweaters and jackets and to warrant a big roaring fire in Ike's den.

  It was a wedding day.

  Ike sat with Ben in the den; Bell-Ringer was in the bedroom with the girls, getting ready. For once (the only time since Ben had arrived), Ike was in a semiserious mood.

  “Go ahead and ask it, Ben,” he prompted. “I know it's on your mind. So get it over with.”

  Ben drained his coffee cup. Since he was to act as the “minister,” he felt it only proper he should be sober. For a fact, no one else was.

  “You're sure about this, Ike? Sure you're doing the right thing?”

  “Flat-out certain.”

  “What are the odds of you two making it, Ike?”

  “We've already made it, Ben. Lots of times.” Ike grinned at him.

  “Get serious, Ike!”

  “O.K.” He sobered. “I figure we got maybe a ninety to ninety-five percent chance of coming out with the roses. And I think that's a hell of a lot better odds than most marriages. Even when times were normal, quote/unquote.”

  Ben had to agree with that. He glanced at his watch. A half-hour until post time. “Where are you from, Ike?”

  Ike flashed that boyish grin. “North Mississippi.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I'm serious, Ben. So yeah, I kinda think I know what I'm doing.” He popped the tab on another beer. “My daddy was a member of the Klan, so I grew up hatin’ niggers. Well, I still don't like niggers, Ben Raines, any more than I like white trash, or sorry Mexicans, or bad Norwegians. Come to think of it, Ben, there is, was, just a whole hell of a lot of folks from Texas I never did cotton to, but that don't mean there wasn't a whole lot of real good folks in that state. You see what I'm sayin'? I figured you did. Bell-Ringer isn't a nigger. She's a real nice person that has a pretty good tan, that's all.”

  “But she's still a black.”

  Shore. So what?

  “I had to be sure you understood that, Ike. I have to know her real name, Ike.”

  “Megan Ann Green. And my name is Ignatius Victor McGowen. And if you call me Ignatius during the ceremony, I'm gonna bust you right in the mouth.”

  Ben laughed out loud. “I'll stay with Ike.”

  “My daddy was a banker,” Ike said softly. “Good one, too, I guess. Made a lot of money in his time. But he had dreams of the old South: cotton fields white in the fall, plantations, mint juleps—he wanted to see the day when blacks would once again be slaves. He really did, talked about it. He hated blacks. He tried to teach me to hate them, but it never took—not really. I always felt kind of guilty about it. Well,"—he sighed—"we had a big fight my senior year. That was ‘70.”

  Ben gave him a startled look. “You don't look that old, Ike. That would make you ... in your midthirties.”

  “I owe it all to my clean living.” Ike smiled. “Anyway, I left home the day, or the night, I graduated high school. Joined the Navy, went into UDT, then the SEALs. Been with ’em ever since.”

  “You ever been back home?”

  “Oh, sure. I went back a bunch of times. Dad and I made up, in our own peculiar way. Dad died in ... let's see ... ‘80. Mom joined him in ‘81. Hell, Ben, I'm a rich man; all that property Dad left me. I just didn't want to leave the Navy.”

  A warning bell began dinging in Ben's brain. “What are you going to do, Ike? After the wedding, I mean.”

  Ike smiled. “I'm goin’ on back to north Mississippi, Ben. Farm my land.”

  “That's spite, buddy—and you know it. You're asking for a lot of trouble, Ike. Not just for you, but a lot of grief for Megan.”

  Ike shook his head. “I think, Ben, once the initial wave of hatred subsides—if it does"—he put a disclaimer on it—"you'll see a lot of changes in the way people think. That was my original thought. But with Logan going in as the next president, and all you've told me about him ... I don't know. I've been thinking a lot about that, and also one of those books you wrote: that one about a nation within a nation, a government really for the people and by the people. And I've been thinkin’ about your Rebels, too.”

  “They are not my Rebels, Ike.”

  “Yeah, I think they are, Ben.” Once again, that smile. “You see ... I'm one of them.”

  Ben looked at him, then slowly nodded his head. “O.K., that fits. Conger got in touch with you, didn't he?”

  “Yep.” “Now what?”

  Ike shrugged. “Now ... nothing. Hell, General, I'm not going to push you. Go on for a time, see the country, write your journal. Your duty will come to you after a time.”

  “My ... duty?”

  “That's right, Ben. Duty. The old Bull picked you to lead his children, so to speak. Conger told me about you telling him to destroy all the planes they could, and so forth. Good idea. But what's that about Idaho and Montana?”

  Ben told him of his dreams, of a land with mountains and valleys and cattle and crops and contented people, all living under laws they had all agreed to live under and with.

  “Your nation in the book, Ben?” Ike asked softly.

  Ben sighed and shook his head. “I don't know, friend. I guess so. I've got to think about it for a while, though.”

  “You do that, buddy. We have time. You know, Ben ... know what Big Brother's problem was?” “No,” Ben said, not understanding where Ike was going.

  “Well ... Big Brother said—told us—we had to like everybody we met. Right off the bat, that was some kind of stupid. Ever since the beginnings of time, all the way to the caves, Ben, I'll bet you there has been some kind of caste system and there will always be some sort of caste system. No government can order a person to like another person; hell, the personal chemistry between the two might be all wrong....”

  Jerre's words, Ben thought.

  “...It just won't work. There was a philosopher, Frenchman, I think, can't remember his name, but I read something by him that has always stuck in my mind. A fellow was askin’ this man his likes and dislikes: do you like Germans? No. Do you like Italians? No. Do you like Jews? No. Do you like Negroes? No. Do you like Catholics? No. Protestants? No. Finally, the man got exasperated and asked him just who he did like? The philosopher looked at him and said, ‘I like my friends.'”

  Ike grinned as he popped open another can of beer. “That's the way it's got to be, Ben Raines. You think about it. We'll keep in touch.”

  “You're quite a philosopher yourself, Ignatius Victor McGowen,” Ben said.

  Ike poured a can of beer over Ben's head.

  A few weeks after the wedding, the radio station went off the air (the tower fell down one night), and the party broke up, each going his or her own way. Tatter and June-Bug went to Mississippi with Ike and Megan; Space-Baby and Angel-Face slipped out one night without even saying good-

  by.

  “They kinda have this thing for each other,” explained Honey-Poo.

  “How about you?” Ben asked.

  “Well, Ben Raines,"—she smiled—"I been thinking about hittin’ the road. There was a ham operator on the other night talkin’ about this big party that's goin’ on over at St. Augustine. I ‘magine that's where Space-Baby and Angel-Face went, or will eventually land.”

  “When were you thinking about pulling out?”

  “Oh ... I was kinda thinkin’ about pullin’ out today. I'm packed. I think you and me have about run our course, don't you, Ben?”

  Ben allowed he believed they had. She was about to screw him to death.

  “You got things to write about, Ben. And me? Well ... I guess I'll go party until the day I die. I wish you lots of luck, Ben Raines.”

  “Same to you, Prudence.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, patted Juno on the head, and went bouncing out the door, in search of a perpetual good time in what was left of a world's madness. She waved good-by as she bounced off in a Jeep that had been painted pink.

  And Ben was alone once more. Juno stuck his muzzle into Ben's hand and whined softly.

  Well, not quite alone.

  Ben pulled out his portable typewriter and began writing the first of his journal; it was, he knew, a mammoth undertaking. And he wondered if he could, or would, ever finish it; for always in the back of his mind were the Rebels and his dream of a free land of good laws and good government. He could not shake them away.

  In March, with the weather warm, the sun bright, and the gulf sea blue-green, a period of restlessness hit him. He drove into Tampa, knowing it was a foolish thing to do.

  The city was a littered, pockmarked battleground. Fires, still smoking, scarred its former beauty. Ben made one quick pass on Interstate 75, turned east on Interstate 4, then went up to the University of South Florida. It was as if he had stepped from one world to another. The campus was peaceful, almost serene. He parked his truck, locked it, and walked the campus. It had a deserted feel, but for the most part, had not been disturbed by looters.

  Naturally, Ben thought; ignorant people don't loot books. He rounded a curve in the sidewalk and came to an abrupt halt. An elderly gentleman sat on a bench, reading a book and eating a sandwich. The man was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His shoes were polished, and he was clean-shaven. He looked up.

  “Ah! I do so hate to be the bearer of bad news, young man, but we are not holding classes. I really can't say when this institution will reopen its door to welcome the young seekers of knowledge.”

  “We come in idealistically and leave with money our only goal.” “Precisely.”

  “It will reopen someday,” Ben said. “Hopefully,” he added.

  “Glad you added that disclaimer,” the man said. “I wish I shared your optimism.” His eyes drifted to Ben's M-10 and the canvas pouch of clips; the 9-mm belted around his waist; the knife hanging on his left side. He looked at Juno, looking at him.

  “Handsome animal. Is he friendly?”

  “He has been so far, sir.”

  “Please.” The man gestured toward the empty bench beside him. “Come—sit down. Despite your rather rugged appearance and your formidable display of arms, you behave as though you might have more than a modicum of intelligence. Join me in some conversation.”

  “Watch Juno,” Ben cautioned the man. “He swipes food.” He sat down, looking at the book the man had been reading: Selected Works of Wordsworth. “Interesting reading, but shouldn't you be reading something on survival?”

  The man chuckled and patted Juno's big head. Juno grabbed his sandwich and ate it in two gulps. “See what I mean?” Ben said.

  “There is ample food to be had, son. For as long as I shall live—which, hopefully, won't be much longer.”

  “Why would you hope that?”

  “This"—the man waved his hand—"is—was—my entire life. I taught here since its opening day. Before that I was at the University of Florida—Gainesville. I have been a professor for all of my adult life. I know nothing else. And I am seventy-five years old. What else is there for me?”

  “Life.”

  “But a life without flavor. What is your name, young man?”

  Ben told him.

  “And you did what before everybody went away?”

  Went away? Ben glanced at him. “I was a writer. But I doubt you ever read any of my books.”

  “I fear you are correct, Mr. Raines. But I am so glad you came along. Tell me about yourself, what you plan on doing. Enlighten me.”

  Ben felt the elderly gentleman did not have both oars in the water; probably the tragedy had been too much for him to cope with and he slipped just a bit. But Ben told him in detail, if only to have someone to talk with for a time.

  The professor clapped his hands and giggled. “Oh, wonderful!” he cried. “Now I can go without feeling guilty about leaving her.”

  “Go?” Ben queried. “Go, where? Leave her? Her who?”

  “Whom, son.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I'm a professor, young man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To join my friends in that great classroom in the sky. Where the debates are endless and the merits of Wordsworth and Tennyson and all the greats are discussed with the respect and admiration due them. And Kipling can take Gunga Din and both of them can squat on the coals until their nuts roast.”

  Now Ben was certain the man's bread was not fully baked.

  “I like Kipling,” Ben said.

  “I shall ignore that outrage. Look, look!” The man pointed. “See that building over there? See it, see it?” Ben said he did.

  “That's where I live. With April.”

  “April is your wife?”

  “Good heavens, no! My wife has been dead for ... umm ... well, a long time, I suppose—haven't seen her around. No, you see, April was a student of mine—last year. She survived the ... ah, what did happen, son?”

  Ben told him what he knew and what he surmised.

  “Is that right? Umm? Well, I've often wondered about it.”

  “There wasn't anyone you could ask? No one came around here?”

  “Only those rather large, boorish types. Very hostile. But you've informed me, so I won't worry about it any further.” He peered at Ben through his thick glasses. “What were we talking about?”

  “April.”

  “April? It's not yet April, is it?”

  “No, sir,” Ben replied patiently. “It's March. April was a student of yours.”

  “Oh, yes! Now I remember. Yes, well ... April took it upon herself to look after me. Not that I need any looking after, mind you. And she is beginning to annoy me with all her fussing about. She's not my type of woman at all. Not at all. She is ... rather ... a clinging-vine type. Not that there is anything wrong with that—not at all. She just doesn't have big titties. I like women with big titties. My wife—God rest her soul, wherever she is—had big titties. I used to love to play with her big titties. Don't you like big titties?”

  Ben nodded his head in agreement. Even Juno was looking at the man rather strangely.

  “Well...” The professor selected a pill from a tiny pillbox. A white pill. He swallowed it. “Now that April is going to be all right, I can go without guilt.”

  “What did you teach, Professor?”

  “Chemistry.”

  “And what was that you just took?”

  “KCN.”

  “And that is?”

  “Potassium cyanide.”

  The man stood up, smiled, waved bye-bye to Ben and Juno; then grabbed at his chest and fell to the ground in convulsions. A moment later, he was dead.

  “Shit!” Ben said.

  He walked over to the dorm the man had pointed out and entered the cool hall. “April,” he called. “April! Are you here?”

  “No! Go away.”

  “April, I'm Ben Raines. I had the ... ah ... misfortune to encounter your friend, the professor. He told me about you and then the old fool took cyanide. He's dead.”