MAJOR FITZHUGH HAD underestimated the determination of General Cartup-Kreutzler. The general had wasted precious time trying to find the telephone, at last finding the downstairs instrument which didn't work. . . . In the process of finding it, there had been this big vase. . . . The general knew he was going to have to go on the offensive with his wife for breaking that. But it was her own fault for putting it there.
The general realized he had underestimated his wife's paranoia about their little country place being burgled. Theft was an increasing problem on Harmony And Reason, because of unruly Vats. The general was among those calling for harsher penalties. His wife Maria's contribution to the war on crime had been to spare no expense making their houses as thief-proof as possible. It hadn't stopped a burglary three weeks before. Among the things taken had been all the clothing in the house. So, Maria had reinforced her precautions with the finest building materials available. . . .
The general rubbed his shoulder. He thought it might be broken. The front door still seemed remarkably intact.
"Are you all right, Stallion?" enquired Daisy from the darkness.
The general bit back an angry retort. He didn't have any trousers. A dark blue towel was the best he could do. His tunic top was soaked with whiskey, and his shoulder was damned sore. "Yes," he said in a grumpy voice that indicated the opposite. "And I'm going to crucify Fitzhugh. I'll try a chair."
"I'll get you one, Kreutzy-pie," she said sympathetically.
Minutes later he stood with the smashed remains of the chair, in front of a still obdurate door. A horrible thought trickled through his mind as he felt the velvety remains. "Where did you get this chair?" he choked.
"From the dining room. Do you want another one?"
In darkness of the hall, the general felt his face go white. Maria was going to kill him. He dropped the remains of the priceless Queen Anne chair as if it was burning hot. It was a matched set of three now. . . .
A marble statue of Cupid finally proved harder than the door. The lock, however, was of excellent quality. The general had to smash panels out of the door itself to get out. Then he had to get Daisy through in her tight skirt and high heels. Attempting to suck splinters out of his hand, he went down to his staff car. At least the guards wouldn't be able to see that he didn't have any trousers on while he was driving.
When he saw the open hood, he nearly returned to the house in despair. But he was determined. "Come on. We'll have to walk. And I'm going to skin Fitzhugh alive!"
"But Kreutzy, we can't walk. . . ."
"We've only got to walk to the gate. I'll get a car sent," he snapped.
"But you haven't any trousers!" she wailed.
He gritted his teeth. "I'll put that onto Major Fitzhugh's account, too. Come on. It's only about half a mile."
In his car, the general had never noticed the gentle gradient in the long curve of the driveway. It had been twenty years since he'd last walked half a mile. And his highly polished shoes were less than two days old.
Daisy was in a similar state. "My heels are killing me," she whined. "Isn't there a shorter way?"
He snapped his fingers. "You're right! We'll cut across the parkland. That'll be half the distance. It's all grass. I can walk barefoot."
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. . . .