The nice thing about hotels, though—you never run out of hot water.

  But you can't sing without soap. It just doesn't feel right.

  I turned off the water, found the forgotten towel and began to dry my hair. Still singing, still toweling, I walked back into the living room—

  Wallachstein, Lizard and the other two were standing there, waiting for me.

  "Uh—" I said. "Hi." And lowered the towel to my waist. "Can I, uh, offer you a . . . seat?" Only Lizard smiled; she turned her head to hide it. The others just looked grim.

  "Thank you," said Colonel Wallachstein. "I think we prefer to stand."

  "Well—" I said. "It's nice of you to drop in like this. I wish you would have phoned ahead, though, so I could have tidied up a little—"

  If Wallachstein was angry, he hid it well. He kept his voice flat and emotionless. His dark eyes were unreadable. He indicated the empty room. I'd pretty well stripped it bare. "Is there some explanation for all this—?"

  I shifted my weight to what I hoped was an assured stance. "Yes. I was bored."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Someone locked me in. Disconnected the terminal. I didn't have anything else to do. I began to experiment with the psycho-acoustic properties of falling objects, trying to determine which common household items made the most satisfying crashes."

  "I see . . . and what did you determine?"

  "Ceramic lamps are very nice. So are beer kegs. And almost any liquid-filled bottle. Chairs and mattresses are impressive, but dull."

  Wallachstein nodded thoughtfully. "I'll remember that for future reference. In case I'm ever in a situation where I need to use those facts." He looked at me curiously. "Is there anything else you want to add?"

  "Yes, I think there is," I said. I started off slowly. "I'd like to know why I was locked in here, for one thing! You asked me to cooperate with you. Is this how you guarantee it? Or is there something else going on that I don't know about? Have you and your disappearing committee that doesn't exist already decided my fate? Do I still exist? I suppose you don't want my opinion in the matter, do you? And while I'm at it, I want to know what ever happened to fair trials. I still don't even know what I'm charged with! I think I want an attorney present before we go any further." I folded my arms across my chest—then had to grab my towel to keep it from falling. I resumed the pose, but the effect had been spoiled.

  Wallachstein took a moment before answering. He glanced around the room as if looking again for a place to sit, then looked back at me. "Well, yes—I suppose we do owe you an apology for that. It was a mistake."

  "Was it?" I demanded. "How come everything is always a mistake? Doesn't anybody around here do anything on purpose anymore?"

  "Like the furniture?" he prompted.

  "Yeah, like the furniture! That was on purpose." I shoved my chin out in what I hoped was a pugnacious expression. "You want me to pay for it? I have fifty thousand caseys."

  He shook his head, held up a hand. "Don't bother. This room doesn't exist. Neither does the furniture. Neither do I. And, perhaps—neither do you. If you'll shut up and listen for a moment . . ."

  That brought me down. I shut up.

  "The fact that you were detained against your will is unfortunate. I assume full responsibility. I gave an order and it was misinterpreted. I apologize. I can understand—and sympathize—with your reaction. In fact, it's something of a healthy sign. It indicates you have a side that is not only independent, but occasionally downright antisocial. For our purposes, those are valuable traits." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and went on. "Now, as to your other questions: there was no hearing. You were never on trial. You were never charged. Do you understand?"

  There was that question again. "Yes, sir. I do."

  "Good. The paperwork has been destroyed. There's nothing on record to indicate that you committed a breach of security. Furthermore, I've placed on record a copy of your orders, which you received yesterday morning in writing, instructing you to report the information about the fourth Chtorran to the members of this conference, in whatever forum available. Do you understand?"

  "Uh, yes, sir."

  "Good. Now go get dressed. There's something else we have to talk about, and I'd prefer to do it a little more formally."

  "Yes, sir." I retreated to the bathroom, downed a handful of Sober-Ups and pulled on my clothes. It was while I was running a brush through my hair that I overheard raised voices. One of them was Lizard's.

  She was saying, "—still disagree. It isn't fair."

  "It's a fact of life, Major! We're all expendable." I didn't recognize the voice. Mr. Darkfellow?

  "That's not the point! It's this particular operation! It's slimy!"

  "It's necessary! We've been forced by circumstance. The decision has already been made—"

  And then, suddenly, there was silence—as if someone had realized how loud they were all getting and had hushed them. I frowned at myself in the mirror. What the hell was going on now? What kind of rabbit hole was I falling into this time?

  I clipped my hair in the back, splashed some more water on my face, toweled carefully, counted to ten and came back into the room.

  Only Wallachstein was left. The others were gone. Lizard. The Japanese lady. Mr. Darkfellow.

  Wallachstein said, "I asked them to leave. It was getting a little loud."

  "Something you didn't want me to hear?"

  "Perhaps. I have a job to offer you. It's rather dangerous. But I think you're qualified for it."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because you're one of the few personnel around who has both a scientific background and first-hand experience with Chtorrans in the field."

  "What's the job?"

  "I want to put you into the Chtorran Control Section of the Agency."

  "I thought that's where I was already."

  He shook his head. "That's not a permanent operation. It's only a temporary holding of the line while we try to figure out what we're really up against. We're putting together something a little more responsible. You'll do pretty much what you were doing up at Alpha Bravo—searching out and destroying pockets of infestation. The only difference is that we'll be using the team to develop methods of capturing Chtorrans alive—if we can. The only live specimen we have to date may be an atypical example. You've seen it, I've heard."

  I nodded.

  "So how does that sound to you, McCarthy?"

  I shrugged. "It's not exactly what I had in mind. I want to be attached to the Science Center here. I want to finish what I started with those specimens."

  Wallachstein shrugged it away. "Don't bother. Let one of Molly's button-pushers play with that stuff. We find those things every time we find a hut. The only reason we still collect them is to keep Dr. Partridge's section so busy they can't get into trouble anywhere else. So far, it works. We keep a man in her section to keep us posted if anything interesting comes in. I believe you met him. By the way, that was a nice piece of work, figuring out that the Chtorrans live under a red sun."

  "Thank you. But the job isn't finished."

  He shook his head. "It's unimportant. Those specimens are unimportant."

  "Huh? Then why were we flown in on a priority flight?"

  "You figure it out. What did you deliver?"

  "Millipedes. Plants. Scrapings—"

  "Worthless. We've got specimens."

  "—Chtorran eggs!"

  "Mm-hm. Maybe. We'll know when they hatch." Wallachstein was unimpressed. "What else? What did you bring in worth fifty thousand caseys?"

  "Oh!" The lockbox. "The memory clip."

  Wallachstein nodded. "All that other stuff was just a cover. To tell the truth, I wish you'd left it behind."

  "Why?"

  "Look around—you see this city? It looks like it survived, right? Wrong. It's too big. It's not supportable. We don't have the people. It's just a matter of time until it breaks down."

  "I thought the government wanted to bring the people back into the cities."

  "It does. But militarily, it's not a good idea. What if we have another plague? We lose everything all over again. We can't risk it. No, we're more convinced than ever of our need to decentralize, especially our labs. I want every unit in the country to be studying the Chtorrans independently. We'll have the network fully reestablished by the end of next month, so you'll be in full communication with everyone else's work at the same time. I can offer you that. You'll be in communication with some of our best brains."

  "I don't understand this," I said. "This afternoon I was nothing but a pain in the ass to you. An embarrassment. What changed?"

  "We figured out how to make an asset of a liability, that's all."

  "Oh?"

  He smiled gently. "You're not stupid, McCarthy. Not when you sit down with a terminal. But sometimes you don't see what's in front of your own face. I'd have thought you'd have figured it out by now."

  "Well, I haven't."

  "It's like this. You are uniquely valuable. You know something that nobody else does. You know that there are sometimes four Chtorrans in a nest—and you know where to look to find them"

  "But nobody believes me."

  "I do," he said. "And so do a lot of other people. Some very important people."

  "Huh?"

  "That memory clip. You were wearing a helmet, remember?"

  It took a second for me to realize what he was talking about. "But—Obama said the clip glitched."

  "She was protecting you. She didn't know if it was important or not. She couldn't assess the impact by herself. So she passed it by a nonstandard channel. You carried it yourself."

  "You've seen it—?"

  He nodded. "All of us. And the inquest. It's pretty scary stuff."

  For a moment, I couldn't catch my breath.

  "Are you all right?"

  "No," I said. I looked at him. I could feel my heart pounding. "I need to know. What did that clip show? Did I . . . screw up? I mean—could I have saved Shorty?"

  He said it quietly. "Yes."

  I felt as if I'd been slammed by a wall of guilt. I sank to the floor, to my knees. I was hurting too hard to cry. I put my hands on the rug to hold myself up. I felt like I was falling. My head was burning and I was trapped inside it. I wanted to puke. My stomach jerked and heaved. I wanted to die—

  I came to with my head in Wallachstein's lap, crying. He was patting my face gently with a cool, damp towel. When he saw my eyes were open, he put the towel down. He stroked my hair gently. "How are you feeling, son?"

  "Shitty." The tears were still rolling down my cheeks.

  "Good. That's what you should be feeling." He kept stroking my hair. I was willing to lie there and let him. It didn't seem odd at all.

  "I want to go home," I said. "I want this thing over! I don't want it this way!" I was crying again. "I want my mommy to tell me everything is going to be all right again!"

  "Yeah," said Wallachstein. "Me too."

  And then I started laughing. It hurt too much to cry anymore. All I could do was laugh.

  And cry.

  And then laugh some more.

  Wallachstein mopped my face with the wet towel again. "How are you feeling now?"

  "Better. Thank you." I realized how odd this scene must look and I felt uncomfortable. I tried to get up. He pushed me back down into his lap. "Stay. I want to talk to you."

  "Yes, sir." I let myself stay.

  "We've known that there's been something happening with the Chtorrans for seven or eight weeks now. We started losing teams and we had no idea why—just that they'd go out to handle a nest and they wouldn't come back.

  "We had some guesses but no proof, so we sent out teams with cameras and radios. We lost two of them and still didn't know any more. Your team is the first one that returned. Your clip is the answer we needed. We've already found two more huts with four Chtorrans in them. Both have been neutralized. We're already changing our procedures. You saved a lot of lives."

  "I wish somebody had told me some of this before."

  Wallachstein patted my forehead with the towel again. "I think you'd better review your actions since you arrived and answer that one yourself. We weren't sure what kind of bozos you and your friend were. We're still not sure about your friend, but he's keeping himself busy and out of the way, and I suppose I should be thankful for that much at least. Eventually I'll find something for him, something where he can't get into too much trouble."

  I let it all sink in. It didn't change anything. "I still didn't save Shorty."

  "That's right. He's still dead." Wallachstein added, "And likely to remain that way."

  I sat up and looked at him. "That's pretty callous."

  "I suppose it looks like that. Jim, whether you could have saved him or not, does it make a difference anymore?"

  "No, I suppose not."

  "Good. Real good," he said. "Foreman was right about you."

  "Foreman?"

  "What do you think that interview was about? I wanted to know what your feelings were about killing Chtorrans, and how candid I could be with you."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said I should tell you the whole truth and nothing but. He said you'd be difficult about it too."

  "Am I?"

  "Yep." He grinned. "Now, do you want the job?"

  "I don't know. I'll still be on the front lines, won't I?"

  "There's a commission involved."

  "How high?"

  "Second lieutenant."

  "You're kidding."

  "I wish I were. But only officers can be cleared for Chtorran security. So if we want to add a member to the team, we have to make him an officer."

  "Can't I stay 'Civilian Personnel, Attached'?"

  He shook his head. "No nonmilitary personnel are going to be allowed access to the Control Arm's operations. So what's your choice?"

  "Can I have some time to think it over?"

  "I need your answer tonight. That's why we were late getting back to you. We had some decisions to make. Some of them were triggered by the events this afternoon. And you're a part of those decisions too. I had to twist some arms to bring you aboard. Now, either take it or leave it."

  "What if I leave it? Then what?"

  "I don't know. We'll find something to do with you. I promise, you won't like it."

  "So I don't really have a choice, do I?"

  He looked annoyed and apologetic, both at once. "Son, I don't have time to play games. There's a war on. Do you want to be a part of it or not?"

  I looked into his face. "Yes, I do—it's just that I'm not used to straight answers, so you'll understand if I'm a little skeptical."

  He didn't answer that. He said, "You'll take the job?"

  "Will you make me a first lieutenant?"

  He blinked. Then he laughed. "Don't push too hard. I'll go for first. I won't go as high as captain." He looked around. "Did you throw the Bible out too? No—there it is. Stand up. Raise your right hand. Repeat after me—"

  39

  R. T. F. M.

  "It ain't so hard to die for a cause. Any idiot can do that. What takes real genius is living for one."

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  I ended up with a rifle in my hands and a feeling of déjà vu.

  The rifle was an AM-280 with tunable laser sight. The output was set high in the UV and I had to wear an EV-helmet with retinal-focused eyepieces to see the beam. It spat high-velocity bursts of eighteen-grain needles, as many as three thousand per second. You pointed the beam at your target and pulled the trigger. The needle bursts would tear holes in a steel door. They said you could slice a man in half with a 280. I didn't want to try.

  I hefted the rifle and looked at it. I had a sour feeling in my stomach. I'd trusted Duke and Obama and ended up with a torch in my hands and Shorty on the receiving end. It'd left me with a bad feeling about weapons. I could admire the technology here. It was the use which bothered me.

  The lieutenant slid two boxes across the counter toward me. "Sign here that you've received the rifle and ammo."

  I held up a finger. "Wait a minute. Who's supposed to check me out on this?"

  "I don't know anything about that."

  "Then I'm not signing for it."

  "Have it your own way." He shrugged and started to turn away.

  "Hold it. Is that phone secure?"

  "You can't use it."

  "Slide it over here. This is company business."

  He started to say something else, then thought better of it. He pushed the phone at me. I slid my card into it and punched the number Wallachstein had given me.

  The line beeped as it switched to code mode and Wallachstein came on the line, "Joe's Deli. Joe ain't here."

  "Uncle Ira?"

  "Speaking."

  "I've got a problem."

  "Tell me about it."

  "I'm not taking this weapon."

  "Why not?"

  "Nobody seems to know who's responsible for checking me out on it."

  "Don't worry about it—"

  "I am worried about it."

  "—you're not going to have to use it. It's for show."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but that's not good enough."

  "Look, son, I don't have anyone free to check you out on that piece before this afternoon. All I want you to do is stand there and look like a soldier. I'll see that you have a thorough course of instruction in it before the week is out."

  I started to protest. Instead, I said, "May I have that in writing, sir?"

  There was silence from the other end of the line. Then he said slowly, "What's the matter, son?"

  "Nothing, sir. But it's like I told you last night. I'm not taking anybody's word for anything anymore."

  He sighed. I could almost see the expression on his face. I wondered if I'd overstepped myself. He said, "I'll put it in your file. You can check it yourself this afternoon."

  "Thank you."

  "Right." He signed off.

  I hung up the phone and turned back to the lieutenant. "Have you got a manual for this thing?"

 

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