At first it seemed like a brilliant strategy. Then the weather betrayed him. Cruelly. The moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds. The satellite center could have told him that there was a front on its way. In fact, they had told him, but the general had paid no attention. It hadn’t concerned Fitz, either, because it wasn’t heading towards the war zone.
The general discovered that a genteel stroll through the moonlit park had a become a nightmare obstacle course from hell. It was wall-to-wall tripping roots and snagging bushes, and he only had one free hand with a pair of shoes in it, as Daisy insisted on clutching the other hand. She was terrified of getting lost alone. So they were both lost together, instead.
He stubbed his bare toes on a rock and stumbled forward.
“AAARGH!”
He slithered wildly down the steep, microjet-irrigated bank of artistically textured “wild” violets and hanging maidenhair ferns. Daisy was of course dragged willy-nilly headlong down the bank with him.
The fat koi-carp in the pool probably wished they were piranhas a few seconds later, when the general’s nether end landed in their tranquil beauty spot. A second later a shrieking Daisy arrived. A flailing handful of violets knocked his cap flying. Then she landed facefirst in the water.
Daisy was soaked to the skin. The general was better and worse off. He wasn’t as wet. His top half was dry. Well, except for the whisky-wet area. His dark-blue towel was somewhere in the dark water. He felt around in the mud and the hairy lily roots. A forgiving koi nuzzled his hand. He shrieked and hastily gave up looking for the towel or one of his shoes.
The moon appeared. Daisy stood up, dripping. “This is all your fault!” she shouted hysterically. “My skirt is ruined, my makeup is ruined, and my stockings are ruined!” Sobbing, she hit him in the eye. Which was perhaps uncharitable, since the general had paid for all of the ruined things in the first place.
* * *
In the guard post the corporal lit a weed. “Spanking parties these generals have,” he said dryly.
“Yeah. No wonder the major warned us.”
* * *
It didn’t get better. The moon hid itself again in embarrassment at the acrimonious scene below. Then there had been the riot of climbing roses . . .
When the general found the fence, it had been a relief. The landscapers had carefully hidden it in the shrubbery. On the other side was open space and easy walking. All they had to do was to follow the fence. The general was a broken man. All that kept him going was the delightful thought of hanging, drawing, quartering—and immersing in cold oil, which he would slowly bring to the boil—one Major Conrad Fitzhugh.
Of course, walking along the outside of the fence meant that he approached his own gate from the outside.
* * *
“Impersonating an officer. Drunk. Disorderly. Public indecency. Failing to produce identity card. Attempted assault of the arresting officer.” The MP prodded the unfortunate general in the stomach with his nightstick. “Are they going to throw the book at you, sunshine!”
“What about me?” shivered Daisy. The evening was cold and she had quite a distracting case of shrivel-nipple.
“If you’re lucky I won’t run you in for soliciting. Get lost.”
“But how am I going to get home?” she whined.
“Stick around, sweetie. We’ll sort you out,” said the corporal. “We’re due for relief in a few minutes.”
His mate said “For a fee, of course.”
The corporal grinned. “Nothing a girl like you can’t spare.”
* * *
It was six in the morning before the general’s wife came along to bail him out . . . and she was going to go straight out to the estate. . . .
Chapter 42: When head and heart do war.
The Maggots, who came in a seemingly endless stream past the open cell where Ginny and Chip lay, were all of a closely related kind. They all had hooked feet which enabled them to run up and down the brood-racks with terrific speed. Many had long injection-like mouthparts, or odd little plate-shaped palps. They weren’t warriors, or even particularly dangerous looking. It was very apparent that their main interest was the brood and that as long as Chip and Ginny lay there and didn’t interfere . . .