American Empire: Blood and Iron - By Harry Turtledove Page 0,267

sunburn.”

“Nobody can say you’re not a white man,” Grady agreed gravely. “With that stuff smeared all over your face, you’re about the whitest man around.”

“I only wish it did more good,” Sam said. “I put it on just like the pharmacist’s mate says, or even thicker, but I still toast. Hell, most of the time I look more like a pink man than a white one. I even burned over in Ireland.”

“I remember that. It wasn’t easy,” Grady said. “They should have given you some kind of decoration for it.”

“I guess they figured me turning red was decoration enough, even if I didn’t think it was real pretty,” Carsten said, which wrung a strangled snort from Commander Grady. Sam went on, “Sir, do you think we’d have more to do and more to do it with if Lieutenant Sandes hadn’t flown his aeroplane into the stern when we were coming back across the Atlantic?”

“Nope,” Grady answered. “We’d had accidents and battle damage before then. This business of flying aeroplanes off ships may be important, but it sure as hell isn’t easy. The Remembrance doesn’t carry as much armor as a battleship, either.”

Remembering the shell that had struck his gun position, Sam nodded. “All right,” he said. “I did wonder.”

“I think we could have come through without any damage or accidents and still wound up right here,” Grady said. “The problem isn’t how we fought, because we fought well. The problem is politics.” He made it a swearword.

“Yes, sir,” Carsten said resignedly. He raised one of his pale eyebrows. “Can you think of any troubles that aren’t politics, when you get down to it?”

Commander Grady rocked back on his heels and laughed. “No, by God, or not many, anyhow.” He slapped Sam on the back, then pulled out a pad and a fountain pen and wrote rapidly. He pulled the top sheet off the pad and handed it to Carsten. “And here’s a present for you: twenty-four hours’ liberty. Go on across the river into Boston and have yourself a hell of a time.”

“Thank you very much, sir!” Sam exclaimed.

He wanted to charge off the Remembrance then and there, but Grady held up a hand. “Just don’t come back aboard Sunday afternoon with a dose of the clap, that’s all. You do and I’ll tear your stupid shortarm off and beat you over the head with it.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Sam said. “I promise.” There were ways to make that unlikely to happen even if he didn’t put on a rubber, though not all the girls in any house cared to use their mouths instead of doing what they usually did. If he had to pay a little extra for his fun, he would, that was all. He usually preferred a straight screw himself, but he hadn’t expected to get this liberty and sure didn’t want to end up in trouble on account of it. And the other was a hell of a lot of fun, too.

Several houses operated on the narrow streets across the Charles from the Navy Yard. Go where the customers are was a rule as old as the oldest profession. Sam got what he wanted—got it twice in quick succession, in fact, from an Italian woman about his own age who was as swarthy as he was fair. “Thanks, Isabella,” he said, lazy and happy after the second time. He ran his hand through her hair. “And here’s an extra dollar you don’t have to tell anybody about.”

“I thank you,” she said as she got to her feet. “My little girl needs shoes. It will help.” He hadn’t thought about whores having children, but supposed it was one of the hazards of the trade.

A lot of the businesses near the south bank of the Charles that weren’t brothels were saloons. Sam had himself a couple of schooners of beer. He thought about getting drunk—Commander Grady hadn’t told him not to do that. But, after he’d emptied that second glass, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and walked out of the dingy dive where he’d been drinking. He’d had his ashes hauled, he’d drunk enough to feel it, and nothing in the whole wide world seemed urgent, not even getting lit up. If he felt like doing it later, he would. If he didn’t…well, he still had most of a day left without anyone to tell him what to do. For a Navy man, that was a pearl of great price.

He sauntered through the streets of Boston, thumbs