"Yes sir," said Six-Fingers, turning his big ears on his long, skinny neck. "What principles exactly are we fighting for, again, sir? Just so I know - I'm sitting here trying to write a letter to one of my wives and I thought I'd just put down two or three of those principles you mentioned, except you didn't mention them by name, exactly, sir..." he said, waving his dirty quill. The feathers tickled my nose.

"Right," agreed my brother, rocking on his heels. "Take this down. Here we go. Mmmmmm - Here we go - My dear madam, &tc &tc. Your husband is fightin' fer, that is, we - are - is? - are - all defendin' - er - yes, that's it, start over. Here we go. Why are we on the Moon? Perhaps you've wondered that question yourself. Perhaps you're wonderin' if your husband's death will be justified (er - should that unthinkable event be required). The answer, Madam, without prevarication, with all due alacrity, is a sacred CAUSE. The CAUSE, my dead madam, &tc, fer which we 7th Infantry Cotton Balers fight (defend) - fight TO defend - is the life and livelihood of Americans on American soil, GOD HELP US - (Land sakes that bomb was a close one!) - and - and freedom and liberty's destiny - er, where was I? Well, gall dang it, Mrs. Bourdett, this here Moon is the Lunar Peninsula of Texas fair and square, we all know it, we got to obey our elected President and he says it is, and the pesky Mooners started it by killin' us first! ...That's the best I can do, Private, I ain't Henry Shakespeare!"

Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick! That clockwork sound we'd come to know preceded the appearance of the newcomer, Prince-President Franklin Stove, the metal man of the fort, an automaton the gift of Polk's cabinet. Lo! and speak of the devil! - a cloud of steam and coke-smoke slowly solidified into his own handsome personage. Behind him was the Music lad, coughing. All the Crawdads looked at the man-'gin with curiosity - and respect, too, seeing as he was a Prince-President, standing at the top of the artificial aristocracy.

P. P. F. S. stared around in the gloomy underground, blindly, and we all stared back at his weird, white, porcelain pumpkin of a face. We stared at his stiff, effeminately-sculpted, benign expression, his Beau Bremmer roughed cheeks, his permanently over-so-slightly pursed lips from which trickled escaping words of steam when he spoke. <<Errroo - Tick!...Sss-sss-Tick! - Sss-sss-Tick! Tick-ick-ick!>> He tugged on his square-cut porcelain beard, looking at nothing as he looked at us. Now, under siege, the war begun, we discovered that he wore a white diagonal sash over his black preacher's suit, a sash that read -

But the thing I noticed most was his whirling, swirling toy-marble eyes; so heavy and sticky was their stare, they seemed to hold you in a mesmerist trance of animal magnetism. Staring at those grey glass marbles, you got so you doubted, dizzily, your own existence. As the shells burst and roundshot bounced above our heads, the ticking automaton began to speak in a voice fluid and calm, quietly humming virtuous like a lead pipe church organ (or even more so like the church organ's poor cousin, P. T. Barnum's circus calliope) although slightly suffering a dandy's lisp on account of the escaping steam pressure of his wordss-ss-ss.

<<Death has come on rooster wings while some gentlemen crow, `WAR! WAR!' And some tremulously peep `Peace, p-please...' But in the latter case those gentlemen are mostly - are they? - as follows - # % * @...

<<One. Fourierist free love harlots and two -

<<Two. Manumiss - manumiss - # % * @ - manumissionist Jean d'Arcs and three -

<<Three. Temperance shrews.

<<A question follows - # % * @ -

<<Where is the spot where the life and livelihood of our citizens succumbed to the Worm of War, lest it be the blush of fever on Liberty's cheek?>>

We stared at him. I got a sort of inkling he didn't stand shoulder to shoulder with us on the question of defending the P. of T. However, he was such an odd fellow, I didn't take it personal, I just decided to laugh two or three times, like it was a joke.

But Kelly, he turned livid. He opened his mouth to speak forth his brilliant retort, then closed it again, over and over, like a landed Chesapeake catfish. He ground his teeth, squared his shoulders, and, in the process of squaring them, rattled and clattered his saber in its scabbard - a noise that always impressed us Dough Boys. He marched close (but first he had to swipe off his shako and stood down a little, on account of the low ceiling of the Bomb-Proof) and stood face to face with the travesty-talking automaton.

"Listen! It's nearly a week since Lunarista's cavalry ambushed our scouts - on this side of the Cold Sea - and murdered them!" I got up and stood behind my brother, because he was my brother, as I had often done when Kelly faced off against the hired hands of our neighbor, Mr. Spooner.

I added, "Yeah, and what I want to know is, if you're a Peace-Whig, where's your hairpiece?" (Under his hot stove-pipe, his hair was of porcelain mold, never needing combing, much unlike my own mop, but his was never sanctuary for patriotic American jiggerbugs, unlike my own.)

Tick! R-r-ee! Tick! The Prince-President looked at us and I got a bit lost inside the foggy grey swirly-whirlies of his glass eyes. <<Eggs- actly - # % * @>> he answered Kelly. <<This side of the Mare Frigoris eggs-stends all the way from the Moon to Teg-T-T'eggs- eggs-eggs-eggs! - # % * @ - to the Nueces River, to be eggs- eggs-splitic - # % * @ - to be precise. Therefore, Lieutenant, your answer begs-eggs-eggs - # % * @ - craves the question. The question craves an answer. As follows - # % * @ -

<<Question. Is this fort eggs-actly situated on this chicken-poxed Lunar spot to defend Americans on our own soil?>>

Kelly swayed and blinked at the whirlings and the swirlings of the Metal Man's eyeballs. He just squawked out, automatically, "Hoo-ray fer Jackson! To the victor goes the spoils!"

Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick! The Prince-President calculated his Babbage Machine mind as we all lifted our kepis (those first generation Base- Ball caps) and hurrah'd the Bank Slayer. <<Sir,>> he bowed, <<I am no man for you.>>

"That's quite all right," said Kelly, subdued.

<<Let no man accuse you of being a mere tailor's dummy in Regular blue.>>

"I thank you," Kelly nodded. Then he turned around and, unsure, squinted at the benign face.

<<Let no man accuse you of being a mere mob-minded puppet mouthing Penny Press lies.>>

Angry again, but still unsure, Kelly took refuge in dignity. He clasped his hands behind his back, as Major Brown so often did. "Mister, is that the proper respect shown an officer of the United States Army - in time of war, at that?"

P. P. F. S. merely blinked his tin eyelids rhythmically, turned around, and marched out of the dugout. He ticked, turned right, and marched down the gallery, to Dugout 2. He was just doing his metal duty. He was just making his moral rounds.

It was darkening. Our guns ceased firing. But the Lunars kept dropping howitzer shells on us, an easy target, although entrenched. Something thudded and dirt trickled down from the shelter's roof. Old Sock scooted by in the gallery, hunched over to keep the dirt out of Captain and Mrs. Miles' poached eggs. I chewed hard tack and biscuit and fell in fitful sleep. I dreamed that we Crawdads caught Joseph Bently kissing Sarah, so we all grabbed him and took him by the hair and dunked his pretty-boy head in a water bucket, and held him there. We held him there and held him there, though he kept thumping the side of the bucket, thumping...thumping... I woke up.

Outside, the ghosts of Aztec gods beat their war hammers on the sand.

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