THE LAST BATTALION
David Drake
“Well, I’m sorry it stopped working,” Senator Stone answered irritably over his shoulder, “but since the late news was one of the things I got a mountain cabin to avoid …”
“Well, it is strange,” his wife repeated. She was as trim-bodied at fifty as she had been when he married her just after VD Day, the first time he could think of a future after three years of flying Mustangs into hostile skies. She was still as stubborn as the WAAF he had married, too. “It was fine and then the color went off in flashes and everything got blurry. And it’s getting worse, Hershal.”
Stone sighed, closing a file that was long, confidential, and involved the potential expenditure of $73,000,000. The cabin’s oak flooring had an unexpected tingle as he walked across it in slippers to the small TV. His feet were asleep, he thought; but could they both be? Not that it mattered. He slapped the set while Miriam waited expectantly. The screen continued to match colored pulses to the bursts of raw noise coming from the speaker. Occasionally an intelligible word or a glimpse of Dan Rather slipped through.
. . .
