a bride? The minister who was to
perform the wedding, a young captain-chaplain of BSG, paced amongst the
hidden desks, memorizing the greetings he'd composed to precede the
formal words of wedding. The guests came laughing through a corridor of
potted pines into the District Headquarters, where they were greeted by
the BSG Band-and-Glee-Club's rendition of the Bureau's official anthem,
"I'm Dreaming of a White Potlatch." As though it had been arranged by
Washington, snow had indeed begun to fall; and the tiers of overcoats
racked in the outer hall were beaded with melted flakes.

* * * * *

The groom, wearing his dress greens--the winter uniform worn with white
shirt and a scarlet bow-tie--was still trapped behind his desk, hardly
conscious of the joyful noises from beyond the door. "They haven't
shown?" he bellowed into the telephone. "Don't fret your head about it,
Sergeant. Those Reservists will damned well be on duty tomorrow morning
or we'll have their cans in a courtroom before dark." Slam! An anxious
girl Pfc tiptoed in. "Sir, a consumer's delegation wishes to speak with
you about the new Birthday Quotas."

"Tell them they're stuck with it," Winfree snapped. "Hand these around
that delegation, Soldier," he said, shoving a stack of Schedules 1219B
across his desk toward the girl. "Tell that bunch of complainers I'll
keep this District's economy healthy if I have to jail every consumer in
it."

The phone rang again. "It's me, Wes, Peggy."

"Darling, I'm busy," Winfree said.

"Didn't you write our wedding-date on your appointment list?" she asked.
"It'll only take a quarter-hour."

"Don't marry anyone else," Winfree said. "I'll be right out." He hung up
the phone and stood at the mirror in his closet to check his uniform.
Then he picked up his silver-trimmed dress swagger-stick and marched out
into the main office to meet the chaplain, and his wife.

Major Stanley Dampfer, glorious in his dress greens, a Sam Bowie belt
equating his belly and supporting the side-arm holstered by one big hip,
slapped Winfree on the back as he entered the hall. "At ease!" the
Major shouted, then glanced contritely toward the two BSG colonels who'd
been talking the loudest. "Gentlemen, ladies: I want to present the
founder of this feast, the brightest star in the Bureau's firmament, the
young genius of Birthday Gratuity Quotas. I refer, of course, to Captain
Wesley Winfree!"

[Applause, shouts,