General Boggins wheeled around on one of his legs. “Shmergins, open a channel to the enemy.”

Shmergins stroked a panel with a tentacle. A display of the continent was replaced with the rotund, nine-eyed face of General Crummel.

“Boggins! Hello!” the enemy general’s voice boomed through speakers beneath the display. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you. Gotten over that indigestion yet?”

“Yes. How are the troops?”

“Morale’s high. We still on for the mixer Saturday?”

“Fifth Air Cav’s preparing their famous hors d’oeuvres.”

“Excellent. Well. Sorry to bother you, but it’s Tuesday…”

“The bombing! I forgot!”

“I don’t want to complain, but my soldiers have been in the shelters since nine, and we were hoping we’d be finished by dinner.”

“Of course! So sorry, old man! Tell you what, we’ll lob two or three nukes your way and call it an afternoon, eh?”

“Good enough. See you this weekend. Boggins out.”

Out on the plains of No-Wijmer’s-Land, Mitch heard the launch of distant rockets…