“The ship?” she asked in a small voice.
“Across the continent. Hell! Maybe Breuer forgave and forgot. Let’s try, anyway.”
They never got as far as the hotel. When they reached the square it stood on, there was a breathless rush and Bernie stood before them, panting and holding a hand over his chest. “In here,” he gasped, and nodded at a shopfront that announced hot brew. Ross thoughtlessly started first through the door and caught Bernie’s look of alarm. He opened the door for Helena, who went through smiling nervously.
They settled at a small table in an empty corner in stiff silence. “I’ve been walking around that square all morning,” Bernie said, with a cowed look at Helena.
Ross told her: “This young man and I had a talk yesterday at the plane while you were eating. What is it, Bernie?”
He still couldn’t believe that he was doing it, but Bernie said in a scared whisper: “Wanted to head you off and warn you. Breuer was down at the field cafe this morning, talking loud to the other hot-shots. She said you—both of you—talked equality. Said she got up with a hangover and you were gone. But she said there’d be six policewomen waiting in your room when you got back.” He leaned forward on the table. Ross remembered that he had been forced to sell his ration card.
“Here comes the waiter,” he said softly. “Order something for all of us. We have a little money. And thanks, Bernie.”
Helena asked, “What do we do?”
“We eat,” Ross said practically. “Then we think. Shut up; let Bernie order.”