Hall smiled warmly. "My God," he asked, "you don't think the guns drove me in here?"
The officer blushed. "Fix you a drink?" he asked.
Hall shook his head, drew two Havanas from his jacket. "No, thanks. Cigar? It's from the one box I remembered to buy in Havana."
The boy was a non-smoker. He lit a match for Hall, waited until the older man relaxed with the burning cigar. Politely, he said, "I know you've been through plenty, Mr. Hall. I'm a soldier, but if ..."
"Plenty? Me?"
The lieutenant nodded. "The Revenger," he said, hesitantly. "I—I read your book."
"Oh, that," Hall said. "The Revenger." So The Revenger was plenty!
"If there's anything I can get you ..."
The boy's voice seemed to come from far away and Hall realized that he himself was staring into space and that the lieutenant must have sat there for a full minute waiting for an answer. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry. I guess I just get this way once in a while."
"It's my fault," Braga protested. "I should have known how hard it must be for you to talk about—it."