enade at the back of Major
Dampfer's neck. The Major's boots flew out from under him, and he
landed belly-down in the snow, burying his pistol's muzzle. The gun went
off, flinging itself like a rocket out of his hand. Winfree snatched it
up. "Blanks!" he yelled, waving the .45. "He was only going to shoot
blanks."

* * * * *

Three more civilians, wearing the white-feather symbol on their
overcoats, advanced toward Winfree. Together, like partners in a ballet,
they bent to build snowballs, then stood and let fly. Winfree ducked,
found one of the dress sabers ignominiously sheathed in snow, and drew
it out. He retreated toward the automobile, the saber raised to protect
Peggy. "Stand back," he shouted. "I don't want to bloody-up this clean
snow."

Another mitrailleusade of snowballs connected, knocking off Winfree's
cap and sending a shower of snow down his collar. The Headquarters
building was burning so well that it served as a warming bonfire to the
tattered BSG personnel. A squad of civilian youngsters was chasing Major
Dampfer down the street, pelting the huge target of his backside with
snowballs.

The BSG Band-and-Glee-Club, covering their nakedness by pooling their
rags, were a musical rabble. Kevin MacHenery, carrying a saber captured
from one of the BSG-OCS-men, shouted to a tuba-player, the bell of whose
horn had been dimpled by a hard-cored snowball. "Play the National
Anthem," he yelled. The player, chilly and terrified, raised the
mouthpiece of the tuba to his lips and, looking fearfully about like the
target of a test-your-skill ball-throwing game, puffed out the sonorous
opening notes. One by one the other players, a flute behind an elm tree,
a trumpet hidden in the back seat of a parked limousine, a snow-damaged
snare-drum, joined in; gravitating towards one another through the
suddenly quiet crowd. Winfree, like the other men, civil and BSG, stood
at attention; but as he felt Peggy's arm slip through his he spoke out
of the corner of his mouth. "Get back to the car, Peggy," he said.
"Drive like hell out of this chivaree. I'll meet you at your dad's
place. Now git!"

"You think maybe I had my fingers crossed when I promised to have and
hold you?" she asked. "You're my man, Wes. If you get beat up, I want my
eyes blackened to match yours."

The anthem drew to a close just as a new instrument, the siren of a
firetruck, joined in. "Stop that truck!" one of the insurgen