amongst thehidden desks, memorizing the greetings he'd composed to precede theformal words of wedding. The guests came laughing through a corridor ofpotted pines into the District Headquarters, where they were greeted bythe 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 byWashington, snow had indeed begun to fall; and the tiers of overcoatsracked in the outer hall were beaded with melted flakes.
* * * * *
The groom, wearing his dress greens--the winter uniform worn with whiteshirt and a scarlet bow-tie--was still trapped behind his desk, hardlyconscious of the joyful noises from beyond the door. "They haven'tshown?" he bellowed into the telephone. "Don't fret your head about it,Sergeant. Those Reservists will damned well be on duty tomorrow morningor we'll have their cans in a courtroom before dark." Slam! An anxiousgirl Pfc tiptoed in. "Sir, a consumer's delegation wishes to speak withyou about the new Birthday Quotas."
"Tell them they're stuck with it," Winfree snapped. "Hand these aroundthat delegation, Soldier," he said, shoving a stack of Schedules 1219Bacross his desk toward the girl. "Tell that bunch of complainers I'llkeep this District's economy healthy if I have to jail every consumer init."
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 upthe 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 outinto the main office to meet the chaplain, and his wife.
Major Stanley Dampfer, glorious in his dress greens, a Sam Bowie beltequating his belly and supporting the side-arm holstered by one big hip,slapped Winfree on the back as he entered the hall. "At ease!" theMajor shouted, then glanced contritely toward the two BSG colonels who'dbeen talking the loudest. "Gentlemen, ladies: I want to present thefounder of this feast, the brightest star in the Bureau's firmament, theyoung genius of Birthday Gratuity Quotas. I refer, of course, to CaptainWesley Winfree!"
[Applause, shouts, a few ribald remarks from the officers nearest thebar]
"I just want to tell you all," the Major went on, his arm heavy acrossWinfree's unwilling shoulders, "before I relinquish this fine youngofficer to his new commander, a corporal ..."
[Laughter]
"... that here's a man who's going places. Look well at CaptainWinfree's face, friends. You will see it yet on the cover of _Time_,above a pair of stars."
[Applause]
* * * * *
The Major freed Captain Winfree, the guests settled down into theirfolding-chairs, and the chaplain opened his BSG _Book of AuthorizedCeremonies_. He and the affianced couple stood alone together in amoment of silence. He opened the service. "Dearly beloved, we aregathered together here ...
"... Margaret, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband ... so longas ye both shall live? ... by virtue of the authority vested in me bythe Corps of Chaplains, Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities, I pronounce thatyou are Man and Wife. Amen, and Congratulations!"
The first wedded kiss, and the stag-line demanding its similarperquisite. Kevin MacHenery seized his son-in-law's right hand. "I wishyou both fifty happy years, Wes," he said. "I hope you'll see the lightsoon, and spend most of those years in decent mufti." Major Dampfershouldered Mr. MacHenery aside to tug Winfree and his new wife towardthe mountain of gifts, covered like a giant's corpse with a sheet,standing by the base of the Xmas tree. The Major triumphantly pulled aripcord, and the sheet dropped away. Beneath it were dozens of boxes andbundles and bottles, wrapped in scarlet and green and silver and gold."Open them!" some guest prompted from the end of the hall.
"Why open them?" Corporal Mrs. Peggy Winfree asked. "Anyone got a match?We'll have our Potlatch Pyre right here and now, burn them right offinstead of waiting a year."
"The lady jests," Major Dampfer assumed. "Wedding-gifts, Corporal,aren't subject to Potlatching."
"Goody," Peggy said.
"I'll have some of the enlisted guests carry these gratuities out toyour car," the Major said. "You can unwrap them during your honeymoon."He chuckled.
Towing his bride with his left hand, accepting handshakes with hisright, Captain Winfree shouldered his way through the mob of brass andchevrons to the door. His car, adorned with a _Just Married_ sign thatcompletely obscured the rear window, trailing strings of shoes and emptymilk-tins, stood at the end of a corridor formed by two face-to-faceranks of BSG Officer-Candidates. The OCS-men wore dress greens andAcademy helmets, and about the waist of each hung a saber. Consumersstood gray and inconspicuous behind the two rows of uniformed men,silent, unsmiling, like onlookers at an accident. Captain Winfree lookedover this civilian crowd. Each person wore, pinned to a lapel, perchedin a hatbrim, or worn like a corsage, a small white feather. "We'd besthurry, Peggy," he said, urging her toward the gantlet.
* * * * *
The Officer-Candidates, on a signal from Major Dampfer, snicked theirceremonial sabers from their scabbards and presented them, blade-tip toblade-tip, as an archway. The BSG Band-and-Glee-Club, playing andsinging, "Potlatch Is Comin' to Town," stood in the doorway. CaptainWinfree, clasping Peggy's gloved hand tightly, led her through thesaber-roofed aisleway as rapidly as he could. "What's the rush, Wes?"she asked. "We'll get married only once, and I'd like to see theceremony well enough to be able to describe it to our eventual children,when they ask me what it was like."
Winfree opened the door of their car. "We'd better get out of here," hesaid. "I smell a riot brewing; and I don't want you to have to describethat to our children."
Peggy scooted into the car just as the District Headquarters buildingburped out a giant bubble of smoke. An arm reached out to Winfree'slapel and tugged him back from the car. "You're going nowhere, buddy," acivilian growled at him. The man, Winfree saw, was wearing theubiquitous white feather in his lapel. As Winfree shook himself freefrom the civilian, the arch of sabers above them collapsed. TheBSG-OCS-men were tossed about in a mob of suddenly screaming consumers,waving their weapons as ineffectively as brooms. Fragments were spun offthe whirl of people, bits of BSG uniforms torn off their wearers andtossed like confetti. A huge pink figure, clad in one trouser-leg and apair of shorts, smeared across the chest and face with soot, dashedtoward Winfree, waving a .45 pistol. "Stop this violence!" he screamedat the consumers in his way, leveling his pistol. "Maintain the peace,dammit! or I'll shoot!"
"That idiot!" Winfree said. He slammed the door of the car to give Peggya little protection, then scooped up a handful of snow from the gutterto pound into a ball and toss like a grenade at the back of MajorDampfer's neck. The Major's boots flew out from under him, and helanded belly-down in the snow, burying his pistol's muzzle. The gun wentoff, flinging itself like a rocket out of his hand. Winfree snatched itup. "Blanks!" he yelled, waving the .45. "He was only going to shootblanks."
* * * * *
Three more civilians, wearing the white-feather symbol on theirovercoats, 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 drewit out. He retreated toward the automobile, the saber raised to protectPeggy. "Stand back," he shouted. "I don't want to bloody-up this cleansnow."
Another mitrailleusade of snowballs connected, knocking off Winfree'scap and sending a shower of snow down his collar. The Headquartersbuilding was burning so well that it served as a warming bonfire to thetattered BSG personnel. A squad of civilian youngsters was chasing MajorDampfer down the street, pelting the huge target of his backside withsnowballs.
The BSG Band-and-Glee-Club, covering their nakedness by pooling theirrags, were a musical rabble. Kevin MacHenery, carrying a saber captu
redfrom one of the BSG-OCS-men, shouted to a tuba-player, the bell of whosehorn had been dimpled by a hard-cored snowball. "Play the NationalAnthem," he yelled. The player, chilly and terrified, raised themouthpiece of the tuba to his lips and, looking fearfully about like thetarget of a test-your-skill ball-throwing game, puffed out the sonorousopening 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-damagedsnare-drum, joined in;