almost

mechanical watch he owned. The advantage, of course, was that it still worked—where almost everyone else's fancy digital timepieces were unusable because the special batteries had gone dead long since, and Grantville had few spares.
"You need to send a radio message, while the window lasts?"
Mike nodded. "Yeah. I've still got a bit of time, though. But I'd better—"
He was starting to turn away already. Then, struck by a thought, stopped and turned back.
"What the hell. As it happens, John, I've got a decision to make. And—in a different way—it's the same kind of decision you and I fought about once. When a man stumbles, does he try to break it by running or taking the fall? So I'll be interested to see what you think about this one."

Quickly, he sketched out Becky's radio message and the choice he had to make. When he was done, Simpson shook his head.
"Jesus. That one's a bitch." Simpson thought a moment. "Even leaving aside the decision itself, it's the kind of thing your political enemies could try to make hay over."
"I'm not worried about that."
Simpson smiled thinly. "No, you wouldn't be. If nothing else, because—with your roughhouse political skills—you'd leave them bleeding in the street."
"Yeah, I would. Bloody, bruised, battered, and beat to shit. And I'd make