"How-" Noodles started to ask, and changed his mind. "Sir, my experience has been-"
"I'm not going to cry over spilt milk, and that's past."
"My experience has been," Noodles threaded his way onward obsequiously, "as a student, and even when teaching a bit, that people do what they are. A person interested in athletics, golf, and parties will spend time at athletic events, golf, and parties. It is very difficult in later life to grow interested in subjects like philosophy and history and economics if one was not attracted to them earlier."
"Yes. And it's never too late either," said the Vice President, and Noodles did not know whether they were in agreement or not. "Lately I have been studying the Napoleonic Wars, to sort of round out my education."
For a second or two Noodles sat motionless. "Which ones?" was all he could think to reply.
"Was there more than one?"
"That was not my field," answered Noodles Cook, and began to give up hope.
"And I'm doing the battle of Antietam too," he heard the man who was next in line for the presidency continue. "And after that I'm going to have a crack at Bull Run. That was really a great war, that Civil War. We've not had one like it since, have we? You'd be very surprised, but Bull Run is only a short car ride from here with a police escort."
"Are you preparing for war?"
"I'm broadening myself. And I believe in being prepared. All of the rest of the work of a President is pretty hard, it seems to me, and sort of dull. I'm having all of these battles put onto videocassettes and turned into games where either side can win. Varoom, varoom, varoom! Gettysburg too. Do you like video games? Which is your favorite?"
"I don't have a favorite," Noodles muttered, downcast.
"Soon you will. Come look at these."
On a cabinet beneath a video screen-there was a video screen with game controls in many recesses in the office-to which the Vice President walked him lay the game called Indianapolis Speedway. Noodles saw others, called Bombs Away and Beat the Draft.
And one more, called Die Laughing.
His host gave a chuckle. "I have nine college men on my staff With eleven doctoral degrees, and not one has been able to beat me at any of these a single time. Doesn't that tell you a lot aboyt higher education in this country today?"
"Yes," said Noodles.
"What does it tell you?"
"A lot," said Noodles.
"I feel that way too. There's a new one coming out just for me, called Triage. Do you know it?"
"No."
"Triage is a word that comes from the French, and in case there's a big war and we have to decide which few should survive in our underground shelters-"
"I know what the word means, Mr. Vice President!" Noodlfes interrupted, with more asperity than he had intended. "I just don't know the game," he explained, forcing a smile.
"Soon you will. I'll break you in on it first. It's fun and challenging. You would have your favorites and I would have mine, and only one of us could win and decide who would live and who would die. We'll enjoy it. I think I'll want you to specialize in Triage because you never can tell when we really might have to put it into play, and I don't think those others are up to it. Okay?"
"Yes, Mr. Vice President."
"And don't be so formal, Noodles. Call me Prick."
Noodles was appalled. "I could not do that!" he retorted emphatically in a reflex of spontaneous defiance.
"Try."
"No, I won't."
"Not even if it means your job?"
"No, not even then, Mr. Prick-I mean Mr. Vice President."
"See? You'll soon be doing it easily. Take a look at these other things Porter Lovejoy says you can handle. How much do you know about heavy water?"
"Almost nothing at all," said Noodles, feeling himself on firmer ground. "It's got something to do with nuclear reactions, doesn't it?"
"Don't ask me. It says something like that here. I don't know much about it either, so already we've got a good meeting of the minds."
"What's the problem?"
"Well, they've got this man in custody who's producing it without a license. A retired chaplain from the old army air corps, it says, back in World War II."
"Why don't you make him stop?"
"He can't stop. He's producing it sort of, if you know what I mean, biologically."
"No. I don't know what you mean."
"Well, that's what it says here on this synopsis of a summary of this classified folder, code name Tap Water. He eats and drinks like the rest of us, but what comes out of him, I guess, is this heavy water. He was researched and developed by a private corporation, M amp; M E amp; A, that now has an option on him and a patent pending."
"Where have they got him?"
"Underground somewhere, in case he decides to turn radioactive. He was in contact with some kind of associate just before they nabbed him, and his wife and this other guy talk on the telephone in code regularly and pretend to know nothing about anything. Nothing dirty between them yet. He talks on the telephone to a nurse also, and a lot that's dirty may be starting between those two. It's as though they never heard of AIDS. And there may be a Belgian spy connection with the new European Economic Community. 'The Belgian is swallowing again,' she reported to him, the last time they spoke."
"Well, what do you want to do about him?"
"Oh, we could easily have him killed by one of our antiterrorist units, if it comes to that. But we may need him, because we're having a problem with a shortage of tritium too. How much do you know about tritium, Noodles?"
"Tritium? I've never heard of it."
"Good. You can be objective. I think it's a radioactive gas of some kind that we need for our hydrogen bombs and other things. They can get it from heavy water, and this chaplain could be very valuable if he can train others to start passing heavy water too. The President hasn't got much patience for this and wants me to handle it. I don't have the patience for it either, so I'll give it to you."
"Me?" exclaimed Noodles, with surprise. "You mean I'm hired?"
"We've been talking, haven't we? Let me know what you think I should recommend."
He handed Noodles a red folder of some bulk with a top sheet with a one-sentence precis of an abstract of a digest of a synopsis of a status report of a summary of a condensation about a retired military chaplain of seventy-one who was manufacturing heavy water internally without a license and was now secretly in custody for examination and interrogation. Noodles knew little about heavy water and nothing about tritium, but he knew enough to betray no flicker of recognition when he read the names John Yossarian and Milo Minderbinder, although he pondered somerly over the nurse Melissa MacIntosh, of whom he had never heard, and a roommate named Angela Moore or Angela Moore-cock, and about a mysterious Belgian agent in a New York hospital with throat cancer, about whom the nurse regularly transmitted coded messages by telephone, and a suave, well-dressed mystery man who appeared to be keeping the others under surveillance, either to snoop or as bodyguard. As a connoisseur of expository writing, Noodles was impressed by the genius of an author to abridge so much into a single sentence.
"You want me to decide?" Noodles murmured finally with puzzlement.
"Why not you? And then here's this other thing, about someone with a perfect warplane he wants us to buy and someone else with a better perfect warplane that he wants us to buy, and we can only buy one."
"What does Porter Lovejoy say?"
"He's busy preparing for his trial. I want you to judge."
"I believe I'm not qualified."
"I believe in the flood," the Vice President replied.
"I don't think I heard that."
"I believe in the flood."
"What flood?" Noodles was befuddled again.