Gratefully, Jerry squatted on the ground a short distance from them. He was hungry, and among the fruit in the bowls he had seen something that must be an orange. He had heard so many arguments about what oranges tasted like!

After a while, the old man said, “I am Chief Three Hydrogen Bombs. This”—pointing to the young man—“is my son, Makes Much Radiation. And this”—pointing to the middle-aged Negro—“is a sort of compatriot of yours.”

At Jerry’s questioning look, and the chief’s raised finger of permission, the Negro explained. “Sylvester Thomas, Ambassador to the Sioux from the Confederate States of America.”

“The Confederacy? She’s still alive? We heard ten years ago—”

“The Confederacy is very much alive, sir. The Western Confederacy, that is, with its capital at Jackson, Mississippi. The Eastern Confederacy, the one centered at Richmond, Virginia, did go down under the Seminole. We have been more fortunate. The Arapaho, the Cheyenne, and”—with a nod to the chief—“especially the Sioux, if I may say so, sir, have been very kind to us. They allow us to live in peace, so long as we till the soil quietly and pay our tithes.”

“Then would you know, Mr. Thomas—” Jerry began eagerly. “That is…the Lone Star Republic—Texas—Is it possible that Texas, too…?”

Mr. Thomas looked at the door of the wigwam unhappily. “Alas, my good sir, the Republic of the Lone Star Flag fell before the Kiowa and the Comanche long years ago when I was still a small boy. I don’t remember the exact date, but I do know it was before even the last of California was annexed by the Apache and the Navajo, and well before the nation of the Mormons under the august leadership of—”

Makes Much Radiation shifted his shoulders back and forth and flexed his arm muscles. “All this talk,” he growled. “Paleface talk. Makes me tired.”

“Mr. Thomas is not a paleface,” his father told him sharply. “Show respect! He’s our guest and an accredited ambassador—you’re not to use a word like paleface in his presence!”