Yossarian again was shaking his head. "And I'm not happy with the atom bomb. I don't like it anymore."
"Who would you like to see get the contract?" Wintergreen argued. "Fucking Strangelove?"
"And we don't have the bomb." conciliated Milo. "We only have plans for a plane that will deliver it."
"And our plane won't work."
"We'll guarantee that, Yossarian. Even in writing. Our planes won't fly, our missiles won't fire. If they take off, they'll crash; if they fire, they'll miss. We never fail. It's the company motto."
"You can find it on our fucking letterhead," Wintergreen added, and continued deliberately with a sneer. "But let me ask you this, Mr. Yo-Yo. What country would you rather see be strongest if not us? That's the fucking catch, isn't it?"
"That's the catch, all right," Yossarian had to agree.
"And if we don't sell our fucking war products to everyone who wants to buy, our friendly fucking allies and competitors will. There's nothing you can do about it. Time's run out for your fucking ideals. Tell me, if you're so smart, what the fuck would you do if you were running the country?"
"I wouldn't know what to do either," Yossarian admitted, and was enraged with himself for being bested in argument. It never used to happen that way. "But I know I'd want my conscience to be clear."
"Our conscience is clear," responded both.
"I don't want the guilt."
"That's horseshit, Yossarian."
"And I wouldn't: be responsible."
"And that's more horseshit," countered Wintergreen. "There's nothing you can do about it, and you will be responsible. If the world's going to blow up anyway, what the fuck difference does it make who does it?"
"At least my hands will be clean."
Wintergreen laughed coarsely. "They'll be blown off at the wrists, your fucking clean hands. No one will even know they're yours. You won't even be found."
"Go fuck yourself, Wintergreen!" Yossarian answered irately, with raised voice. "Go straight to hell, with your clear conscience!" He turned away, sulking. "I wish you were dead already, so I could finally in this lifetime get at least a little bit of pleasure out of you."
"Yossarian, Yossarian," chided Milo. "Be reasonable. One thing you do know about me-I never lie."
"Unless he has to," appended Wintergreen.
"I think he knows that, Eugene. I'm as moral as the next man. Right, Eugene?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Minderbinder."
" Milo, have you ever," asked Yossarian, "in your life done anything dishonest?"
"Oh, no," Milo responded like a shot. "That would be dishonest. And there's never been need to."
"And that's why," said Wintergreen, "we want this secret meeting with Noodles Cook, to get him to speak secretly to the President. We want everything out in the open."
"Yossarian," said Milo, "aren't you safer with us? Our planes can't work. We have the technology. Please call Noodles Cook."
"Set up the meeting and stop fucking around. And we want to be there."
"You don't trust me?"
"You say you don't fucking understand business."
"You say it puzzles you."
"Yes, and what does fucking puzzle me," said Yossarian, giving in, "is how guys like you do understand it."
Noodles Cook grasped quickly what was wanted of him.
"I know, I know," he began, after the introductions had been effected, speaking directly to Yossarian. "You think I'm a shit, don't you?"
"Hardly ever," answered Yossarian, without surprise, while the other two watched. "Noodles, when people think of the dauphin, they don't always think of you."
"Touche," laughed Noodles. "But I do enjoy being here. Please don't ask me why." What they wanted, he went on, was clearly improper, unsuitable, indefensible, and perhaps illegal. "Normally, gentlemen, I could lobby with the best of them. But we have ethics in government now."
"Who's in charge of our Department of Ethics?"
"They're holding it open until Porter Lovejoy gets out of jail."
"I have a thought," said Yossarian, feeling it was a good one. "You're permitted to give speeches, aren't you?"
"I give them regularly."
"And to receive an honorarium for them?"
"I would not do it without one."
"Noodles," said Yossarian, "I believe these gentlemen want you to make a speech. To an audience of one. To the President alone, recommending that the government buy their plane. Could you deliver a successful speech like that one?"
"I could give a very successful speech like that one."
"And in return, they would give you an honorarium."
"Yes," said Milo. "We would give you an honorarium."
"And how much would that honorarium be?" inquired Noodles.
" Milo?" Yossarian stepped back, for there was much about business he still did not understand.
"Four hundred million dollars," said Milo.
"That sounds fair," responded Noodles, in a manner equally innocuous, as though he too were hearing nothing rare, and it was then, Yossarian recalled with amusement as he killed time later in his hospital bed, that Noodles offered to give him a peek into the Presidential Game Room, after the others had dashed away to the urgent financial meeting they'd mentioned for which they were already anxious to depart, for Gaffney's joke about antitrust approval for the M2 marriage to Christina Maxon turned out, after all, not to be a joke.
"And for you, Yossarian amp;" began Milo, when the three were parting.
"For that wonderful idea you came up with amp;" Wintergreen joined in, expansively.
"That's why we need him, Eugene. To you, Yossarian, we're giving, in gratitude, five hundred thousand dollars."
Yossarian, who had expected nothing, responded levelly, learning fast. "That sounds fair," he said with disappointment.
Milo looked embarrassed. "It's a little bit more than one percent," he insisted sensitively.
"And a little bit less than the one and a half percent of our standard finder's fee, isn't it?" said Yossarian. "But it still sounds fair."
"Yossarian," Wintergreen cajoled, "you're almost seventy and, pretty well off. Look into your heart. Does it really matter if you make another hundred thousand dollars, or even if the world does come to an end in a nuclear explosion after you're gone?" › Yossarian took a good look into his heart and answered honestly.
"No. But you two are just as old. Do you really care if you make millions more or not?"
"Yes," said Milo emphatically.
"And that's the big difference between us."
"Well, we're alone now," said Noodles. "You do think I'm a shit, don't you?"
"No more than me," said Yossarian.
"Are you crazy?" cried Noodles Cook. "You can't compare! Look what I just agreed to do!"
"I proposed it."
"I accepted!" argued Noodles. "Yossarian, there are nine other tutors here who are much bigger shits than you'll ever amount to, and they don't come close to me."
"I give in," said Yossarian. "You're a bigger shit than I am, Noodles Cook." '
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now let me show you our playroom. I'm getting good at video games, better than all the others. He's very proud of me."
The renovated Oval Office of the country's chief executive had been reduced in size drastically to make room for the spacious game room into which it now led. In the shrunken quarters, which now could comfortably hold no more than three or four others, presidential meetings were fewer and quicker, conspiracies simpler, cover-ups instantaneous. The President had more time free for his video games, and these he found more true to life than life itself, he'd said once publicly.
The physical compensations for the change lay in the larger, more imposing second room, which, with extension, was spacious enough for the straight-backed chairs and game tables for the multitudinous video screens, controls, and other attachments that now stood waiting like robotic stewards along the encircling periphery of the walls. The section nearest the entrance was designated THE WAR DEPARTMENT and contained individual games identified singly as The Napoleonic War, The Battle of Gettysburg, The Battle of Bull Run, The Battle of Antietam, Victory in Grenada, Victory in Vietnam, Victory in Panama City, Victory at Pearl Harbor, and The Gulf War Refought. A cheerful poster showed a gleaming apple-cheeked marine above the sentences: STEP RIGHT UP AND TRY.