“I’ll drink to that.” Sam matched action to word. He swallowed the first swig of beer, then thoughtfully smacked his lips. He drank again, and was even more thoughtful. “You know, hon, after drinking mostly home brews and such the last couple of years, I’ll be darned if I don’t like ’em better. More flavor to ’em, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, good,” Barbara said. “If I were the only one who thought that, I’d figure it was just because I didn’t know anything about beer. It doesn’t mean I can’t drink this, though.” She proved as much. “And it is good to see the Budweiser bottle again-as if an old friend were back from the war.”
“Yeah.” Yeager wondered how Mutt Daniels was doing, and about all the other Decatur Commodores who’d been riding the train with him when the Lizards strafed it in northern Illinois.
The waiter set a hamburger in front of him and a roast-beef sandwich before Barbara. Then, with a flourish, he put a full bottle of Heinz catsup on the table between them. “This got here this morning,” he said. “Y’all are the first ones to use it”
“How about that?” Sam said. He pushed it over toward Barbara so she could have first crack at it. It acted like catsup-it didn’t want to come out of the bottle. When it did pour, too much came out: except, after most of two years without, how could there be too much?
After he’d anointed the hamburger, Sam took a big bite. His eyes widened. Unlike the Budweiser, he found no disappointment there. “Mm-mm,” he said with his mouth full. “That’s the McCoy.”
“Mm-hmm,” Barbara agreed, with as much enthusiasm and as few manners.
Sam disposed of the hamburger in a few bites, then slathered more catsup on the grits that took the place of french fries. He didn’t usually do that. In fact, nobody he knew did that; a proper Southerner who saw him perpetrating such an atrocity would probably ride him out of town on a rail. He didn’t care, not today. He wanted every bite of the sweet-sour tomato tang he could get, and any excuse was a good one. When Barbara did the same thing, he grinned in vindication.
“Another beer?” the waiter asked as he picked up their plates.
“Yes,” Sam said after glancing at Barbara again. “But why don’t you make it a local special this time? I’m glad to see the Budweiser, but it’s not as good as I remembered.”
“You’re about the fo’th person to say that today, sir,” the Negro remarked. “I’ll be right back with the pride of Hot Springs.”
He had just set the local brews-altogether a deeper, richer amber than Budweiser’s-before Sam and Barbara when Jonathan woke up and started to fuss. Barbara took him out of the carriage and held him, which calmed him down. “You were a good boy-you let us eat lunch,” she told him. She checked. “You’re even dry. Pretty soon I’ll give you lunch, too.” Now she looked over at Sam. “And pretty soon, maybe, I’ll be able to start giving him formula in a bottle. That should be one of the things that come back pretty fast.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said. “Way things work, it’ll probably start showing up right about the time he can start drinking regular milk.” He grinned at his son, who was groping for Barbara’s bottle of beer. She pushed it safely out of reach. Jonathan started to cloud up, but Sam made a silly face at him, so he decided to laugh instead. Sam let his features relax. “What a crazy world he’ll grow up in.
“I only hope it’s a world where hecan grow up,” Barbara said, setting a hand on top of the baby’s head. Jonathan tried to grab it and stuff it into his mouth. Jonathan tried to grab everything and stuff it into his mouth these days. Barbara went on, “What with the bombs and the rockets and the gas-” She shook her head. “And the Lizards’ colonization fleet will get to Earth when he’s only a young man. Who can guess what things will be like then?”
“Not you, not me, not anybody,” Sam said. “Not the Lizards, either.” The colored waiter set the check on the table. Sam dug his wallet out of his hip pocket and pulled out a ten, a five, and a couple of singles, which left the fellow a nice tip. Barbara put Jonathan back into the buggy. As she started wheeling the baby toward the door, Sam finished his thought: “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens, that’s all.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Harry Turtledove was born in Los Angeles in 1949. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fullerton, and Cal State L.A., and has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also an award-winning full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. His alternate history works have included several short stories and novels, includingThe Guns of the South,How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel), theGreat War epics: American Front andWalk in Hell, and theColonization books: Second Contact andDown to Earth. His new novel isAmerican Empire: The Center Cannot Hold. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.