Free Prodigal's Return by James Axler Page B

off the strict lessons of childhood. There were times that his nudity in front of the others was unavoidable, but they were few and far between.
    “Call if you need anything!” Mildred shouted, as he disappeared around a tiled corner.
    “Only the absence of your alleged wit, madam!” Doc yelled back, the words echoing slightly along the hallway.
    Carefully putting their blasters on a nearby shelf, the companions padded naked into the huge communal shower room and turned on every faucet, then got out again fast. A few seconds later, the rattling pipes disgorged a bubbling torrent of thick brown sludge. But that soon change into a murky flow that finally became a steady downpour of hot, clean water. The bars of soap had remained intact, and soon the companions were covered in glorious suds.
    After toweling dry, the men shaved, and J.B. stuffed several empty shampoo bottles into his munitions bag, along with a handful of rusty razor blades recovered from the garbage.
    “These will make excellent shrapnel for when I cookup more pipe bombs,” he explained, at a puzzled glance from Mildred.
    Next, everybody went to the laundry to wash and repair their bedraggled clothing and undergarments. Finding officer uniforms stored inside dry cleaning bags, everybody got a new shirt, while Krysty and Mildred were each delighted to acquire a new sports bra, their threadbare old ones mostly held together with the power of positive thinking.
    Taking some of the plastic garments bags, J.B. then rummaged among the dry cleaning machinery to locate a couple unopened containers of spot remover solution, plus a small tin of desiccated shoe polish. The cracked material inside resembled a fried hockey puck, but J.B. beamed at the dried lump as if it were manna from heaven.
    “You’ll need this, too,” Ryan said, passing over a small bottle of bleach and a handful of loose pennies.
    “Thanks! Now, if there’s a working microwave in the kitchen, we’ll soon have some pipe bombs again.” J.B. grinned, tucking away the assorted items.
    “And disassemble some pipes,” Jak added, checking through a shelf of shoes and boots waiting to be repaired. With a grin, he found a combat boot in his size, and for the correct foot. Happily removing the tattered remains of his old boot, he slipped on the new boot, and tied it firmly. It was a different color than his own, the right boot solid black, the left camouflage-green, but his only concern was that it was a comfortable fit.
    After getting dressed, the companions found a well-scrubbed Doc drinking coffee in the kitchen. The room was huge, and well supplied with a dozen ovens, a scoreof refrigerators and a row of dishwashers, the largest, in the corner, chugging softly.
    “There’s coffee on the stove,” he said in greeting, sipping from a cracked mug bearing the logo of the Green Berets.
    “French roast or Viennese cinnamon?” Mildred asked playfully, taking a sniff.
    “U.S. Army, regulation grind, coffee, for drinking of.”
    “Oh. Well, better than nothing.”
    Just then, the dishwasher chimed. Rising from the table. Doc opened the machine and used a dish towel to withdraw the LeMat, the metal shining brightly.
    “I’ll never get over you washing a blaster that way.” J.B. chuckled, placing his munitions bag on a dining table.
    “Why not, John Barrymore? There are no nylon bushings like those in a modern weapon to dissolve from the heat,” Doc said, setting the steaming-hot blaster on a wood cutting board. “Besides, after I greased the cylinder to prevent a cross fire, it needed a good cleaning, and this way is much easier than scrubbing it by hand.”
    Then he paused in confusion. “Did…did I ever mention that J. E. B. Stuart used to boil his LeMat at least once a week, as did Ulysses S. Grant? There was an article I just read in the New York Herald about Grant using whiskey instead of water, but I think it was a joke…?.” His voice trailed away.
    Used to the time traveler’s