her was grinning, and they left it at that.

Claude came in and gave her his big smile and automatic wink. He was
handsome and could get away with anything, she thought. Damn him. But
she had to admit that she liked him. I mean, he liked himself; everyone
in the place liked him; how could she not? Claude began talking to Sue,
a painter who was usually with a sad charmer named Jim. As she was
thinking about Jim, he came through the door. He and Sue exchanged
smiles and private greetings, but they did not hug. He seemed more
interested in getting a drink as fast as he could. Problems, Willow
thought.

Wendell introduced Patrick to a guy named Joe. The three sat at a table
and began talking about the war. Patrick waved Willow over. "You know
Willow?" he asked the others.

"Seen you around," Wendell said. Joe nodded. He had looked Willow over
on previous occasions in the Depresso. He was tall and alert, in his
mid-twenties; he had dark hair, blue eyes, and a mustache. They had
never spoken, but Willow had the feeling that he knew more about her
than she did about him.

"What do you think about Vietnam?" Patrick asked Willow as she sat
down. They waited while she considered.

"I think we ought to take care of our own problems before we start
telling other people what to do. And we should be dropping food and
medicine, not bombs; I mean, we're killing people." Joe held up his
glass in agreement.

"The fucking government is bullshitting us," Wendell said.

"My father's in the Army," Patrick said. "He says we can't win in Asia;
look what happened to the French."

"They're bullshitting us," Joe agreed. "But, they believe some of the
bullshit--that crap about communism; they want to keep winning the
World War. They aren't too bright."

"That's for sure," Patrick said. "My father's getting out."

"The last year I was in," Joe said, "we lost our clerk. The Major made
me the clerk because I was the only one who knew how to type. We had
this guy, Captain Sampson, who went by the book. He used to send guys
back to the barracks if their socks weren't right. He was O.K., really;
he thought it was what he was supposed to do--keep the troops sharp,
good for morale, and so on. He didn't know any better." Joe took a
swallow of beer.

"One day I got an emergency message addressed to Captain Sampson. Why
hadn't he reported for his plagu shot? They left off the 'e' in plague.
I knew right away what had happened. His Nam orders ha