When the last one had gone the fat man pushed words out between his yellow whiskers at Einarson. Einarson stood up, chest out, shoulders back, grinning confidently under his flowing dark mustache.
“What now?” I asked the girl.
“Come along and you’ll see,” she said. Her breath came and went quickly, and the gray of her eyes was almost as dark as the black.
The four of us went downstairs and out the hotel’s front door. The rain had stopped. In the plaza was gathered most of Stefania’s population, thickest in front of the Administration Building and Executive Residence. Over their heads we could see the sheepskin caps of Einarson’s regiment, still around those buildings as he had left them.
We—or at least Einarson—were recognized and cheered as we crossed the plaza. Einarson and Djudakovich went side by side in front, the soldier marching, the fat giant waddling. Romaine and I went close behind them. We headed straight for the Administration Building.
“What is he up to?” I asked irritably.
She patted my arm, smiled excitedly, and said:
“Wait and see.”
There didn’t seem to be anything else to do—except worry while I waited.
We arrived at the foot of the Administration Building’s stone steps. Bayonets had an uncomfortably cold gleam in the early evening light as Einarson’s troops presented arms. We climbed the steps. On the broad top step Einarson and Djudakovich turned to face soldiers and citizens below. The girl and I moved around behind the pair. Her teeth were chattering, her fingers were digging into my arm, but her lips and eyes were smiling recklessly.