"No, really. It opened and closed. I'm sure. Well, I think."
"Yep."
"Now it's opening again."
"Is it winking, too?"
"Now you're being—"
"A kind of cosmic Peeping Tom, staring down your bikini."
She shut up, hurt.
He reached out, but she slid out of reach. "Aw, now, I'm sorry. I said you wouldn't appreciate my—I'm sorry. Look, I'll go get my time-delay camera and make a series for you. Then there'll be no question."
She was magically within reach again. In a little while he lumbered up, shook off loose sand and headed for the car to fetch the camera.
The mute returned with a fresh bulb and set the film in motion. There were a few ordinary flashes of the beach and waves and the controversial bikini; then the series on the cloud. Focus and resolution were excellent; the tourist knew how to use his camera.
The sequence itself was brief. Fifteen minutes had been reduced to five seconds, but this too had been expertly handled. The cloud was revealed as an animated, expressive face, its mouth opening and closing in apparent speech. All that was missing was the sound.
"You see?" she said. "You see, you see—that cloud was speaking to me! Maybe it's a new form of life, like the Saucers—"
"UFO's."
"—or something. Maybe we just never knew where to look for it before."
"A cloud? A common cumulus humilis!" They had obviously been over this many times.
"Maybe it's an alien observer telling us the secrets of the universe!" She could not sit still.
"In faultless English with a slight Boston accent," the tourist growled, but his wife missed the irony. He turned to the mute. "Here is your money. What did you make of it?"
The man looked at him steadily with an indefinable expression, then handed him the rewound film and a written note.
"This is what it said?" the tourist demanded, not looking at the paper. "You read the lips? You're sure?"
The mute nodded once emphatically, then smiled briefly and stepped into the hall.
The girl snatched the paper and unfolded it with trembling hands. Then wrath overcame her prettiness. She crumpled the note, threw it down, and stalked out.
The tourist retrieved the paper, spread it out and read it at a glance. His belly shook and his cheeks puffed out with suppressed laughter.
"I like that alien!" he murmured. "I suppose our dialogue is pretty funny, from that elevation." Then he too threw the paper aside and followed his wife, smiling.
"Free free free free!" he mimicked and choked over his mirth again.
The paper remained on the floor, its six printed words revealing more about clouds than the meteorologists would ever comprehend:
HELP! I AM BEING HELD PRISONER—
THE LIFE OF THE STRIPE
Only twice have I drawn on my two years military experience: here, and for my science fiction novel Mercenary. This fun-fantasy was rejected by F&SF, Playboy, Saturday Evening Post, Redbook, Rogue, Cosmopolitan and Knight before being published in Amazing in 1969. No great revelations or significance here, just a look at a phenomenon I noted along the way. I didn't like the Army; they refused to grant me my "leave" time (an illegal refusal, I believe) because they said I was too valuable as a survey instructor and math teacher to spare—then booted me from the job when my refusal to "volunteer" to sign up for their US Bond program—at 2.5% interest—prevented the unit from having 100% participation in that coercive program. Thus I was set to weed-pulling duty and the like, and limited to the rank of PFC for the duration of my two-year hitch. But this is the nature of the Army, as anyone who has served will verify. When there is trouble abroad, they call on the Marines, not the Army, to handle it. That does make sense.
Let's just say that he was a victim of circumstance. In one way, the court-martial that stripped him of his rank was merciful, but it was also easy for us to understand his anger and humiliation. One day he was M/Sgt Morton, twenty-two year veteran of the artillery; then—
You have to understand too that it was an exceedingly tight market for stripes. For six months there hadn't been a promotion in the battery, and a good thirty men were long overdue. With the Brushfire sucking up all the quota for overseas, and an administrative economy drive Stateside, such units had little opportunity to take proper care of their own.
That's why the BC—the battery commander—arranged to spread it out. He busted Morton in stages. He reduced him one grade and cut the orders for one new mastersergeant. That maintained the ratio, you see, and gave one good man his reward. You know the way it works.
On the second day he reduced Morton another stripe and passed it on, keeping it in the battery, so to speak.
In five days five men had their stripes, and Morton was down to PFC. That's when he cracked.
He stood up in the barracks at midnight and swore no one was going to have his last stripe. "I'm putting a curse on that stripe!" he screamed. "It's mine. It's mine!" Then he began throwing brushes and shaving cream and shoe polish from his locker, and the MP's had to haul him away.
It didn't change a thing, of course. We were all sorry for him, but it would have been a criminal waste to throw away that stripe. Morton couldn't keep it anyway, and with twenty-five men still far too long in grade—
The following day the orders came down for private Bruce Baal, henceforth PFC Baal. He was a nice guy nobody resented much, which made it a little easier for the others. The last stripe had been used up, and we expected things to settle down again.
Morton committed suicide.
Baal got nervous after that. Nothing seemed to go right for him. The guard-roster got fouled up and he had to march instead of getting the three-day pass he'd counted on; then some of his gear got misplaced and he was reprimanded for reporting for guard duty out of uniform. Finally he drew the one post where there was trouble: some civilian broke into the warehouse and Baal didn't catch it. He was a private again, less than a week after promotion.
The stripe went to Radburn. He was a big, hearty, strong lad, not overly bright but quite dependable. He worked in the motor pool.
Somehow the brake slipped on one of the trucks, and it rolled off the grease-ramp and smacked into the motor officers office. Radburn took the blame.
Keene didn't concern himself about the problems of the prior wearers of the stripe. He had been in six years and had been up to corporal and back twice. His attitude was laissez-faire; he figured either he'd be lucky and hold the stripe a few months before he showed up drunk again for duty, or he wouldn't. He lived for nothing but Softball, anyway.
He slipped in the latrine and broke his leg. The battery softball team had to face the season without its best man.
It was common knowledge that Keene got drunk next time on purpose. The stripe was developing a reputation, and he didn't want it any more.
Zelig got rolled the day after he made PFC. He lost almost a month's pay and, because he happened to be offpost without a pass at the time, the stripe.
Hartmann was implicated in the loss of some precision equipment in his care. Only after he'd been busted back to private did evidence turn up to clear him.
Fisk got his "Dear John" from his fiancee three days after taking the stripe. He walked up to the BC during inspection and cussed him out.
Drogo didn't wait. The moment he spied the order promoting him he wrote out a statement requesting an "undesirable" discharge. He claimed he was queer. The BC canceled the order and nothing more was said. (Drogo was married: four children.)