“Oh, a lot of security’s nothing but nonsense-I know that as well as the next guy,” Wilhelm answered. “But you might say some little thing to somebody, and he might say something to somebody, and on down the chain, and somewhere down there whatever you said might bounce off a Lizard’s hearing diaphragm. And you’re sure as hell a taxpayer, but maybe your security clearance isn’t high enough for whatever’s going on upstairs.”
“A bus driver like Stahl knows, and I don’t?” That wasn’t fair to the other pilot, but Johnson was in no mood to be fair.
“Give it up,” Wilhelm said again. “That’s the best advice I’ve got for you. Give it up. If you don’t, you’re going to end up in more trouble than you can shake a stick at. If Stahl reports you, you may be there already.”
“Screw him,” Johnson muttered, but he did his best to calm down; he knew it was good advice, too. He thought about buying himself another drink, then decided not to. If he got smashed now, or even high, he would end up in trouble. He could feel it, the way fellows with old wounds or broken bones could feel bad weather before it happened.
When Johnson got to his feet without another word and without waving to the bartender, Gus Wilhelm let out a not quite silent sigh of relief. Wilhelm misunderstood. Johnson hadn’t given up-far from it. But, plainly, he couldn’t do any more here and now. His friend knew no more than he did, and wasn’t curious. The bird who did know something had flown the coop.
Deciding he ought to do something useful with his time, Johnson went over to the big hangar where Peregrine was being fixed up between flights. He shot the breeze with the technicians, examined the latest pieces of modified equipment they were installing, and shot the breeze some more. Some of the modifications were undoubted improvements; others looked to be change for change’s sake.
“All right,” he said, “it’s a digital clock, not one with hands. Is it more accurate?”
“Not so you’d notice,” the fellow who’d installed it answered cheerfully. “But the numbers are supposed to be easier to read.” Johnson wasn’t convinced, but didn’t see how the new clock would do any lasting harm, either. He held his peace.
After lunch, he did go back to his cubicle. He was rereading The War of the Worlds and reflecting, not for the first time, that Wells’ Martians would have been a hell of a lot easier to lick than the Lizards when somebody knocked on his door. He stuck a three-by-five card in the book to keep his place and got up off the bed to see who it was.
His visitor had three stars on his shoulder straps. Johnson stiffened to attention; the Kitty Hawk base commandant was only a major general. He hadn’t known any higher-ranking officer was on the base. He couldn’t imagine why a lieutenant general wanted to see him.
The officer in question, a bulldog-faced fellow whose name tag read LeMAY, didn’t keep him in suspense for long. He stabbed out a stubby forefinger and tapped Johnson in the chest, forcing him back a pace. “You have been asking questions,” he growled in a voice raspy from too many years of too many cigarettes.
“Sir! Yes, sir!” Johnson replied, as if back in Parris Island boot camp. Gus Wilhelm had warned he might get into trouble. Gus hadn’t dreamt how much trouble he might get into, or how fast. Neither had Johnson.
“You have been asking questions about things that are none of your business,” Lieutenant General Curtis LeMay said. “People whose business they are told you they were none of yours, but you kept on asking questions.” That forefinger probed again. Johnson gave back another pace. One more and he’d be backed up against the bed. LeMay strode after him. “That’s not smart, Lieutenant Colonel. Do you understand me?”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” Johnson had to work to keep from shouting it out, as he would have to a drill instructor. Rather desperately, he said, “Permission to ask a question, sir?”
“No.” The lieutenant general turned even redder than he had been. “You’ve already asked too goddamn many questions, Johnson. That’s what I came here for: to tell you to button your lip and keep it buttoned. And you will do it, or you will regret it. Have you got that?”
For a moment, Johnson thought LeMay was going to haul off and belt him. If the lieutenant general tried that, he resolved, the lieutenant general would get a hell of a surprise. But LeMay mastered himself and waited for an answer. Johnson gave him the one he wanted: “Sir! Yes, sir!”
Still breathing hard, LeMay rumbled, “You’d damn well better.” He turned and stomped out of the BOQ.
“Jesus.” Glen Johnson’s legs didn’t want to hold him up. Facing his furious superior was harder than going into battle had ever been. It was as if one of his own wingmen had started shooting at him along with the Lizards. “What the hell have I stumbled over?” he muttered as he sank down onto the bed.
Whatever it was, Gus Wilhelm had been dead right: it was a lot more secret than his security clearance could handle. The United States trusted him to fly a spacecraft armed with explosive-metal missiles. What didn’t his own government trust him to know? If he tried to find out, he was history. Curtis LeMay had made that more than perfectly clear. Crazy, he thought. Absolutely goddamn crazy.
“Where to, Shiplord?” Straha’s Tosevite driver asked him as he got into the motorcar.
“Major Yeager’s, as you no doubt know already,” the ex-shiplord replied. “I have had the appointment for several days.” The driver said nothing, but started the motorcar’s engine. He put the machine in gear and rolled away from Straha’s house in the Valley.
Yeager lived in Gardena, a toponym presumably derived from the English word garden. The place did not look like a garden to Straha, though Yeager had told him fruit trees grew there before houses went up. It looked like most other sections of Los Angeles and the surrounding suburbs. As for the toponym Los Angeles… Straha did not believe in angels, even in Spanish, and never would. When he imagined winged Big Uglies, he imagined them flying through the air and voiding on the heads of the Race down below. Tosevites would find that sort of thing very funny. That he might find it funny himself only meant he’d been associating with Tosevites too long.
“Wait for me,” he told the driver as the motorcar pulled to a stop in front of Major Yeager’s home. He knew it was an unnecessary order as soon as he gave it, but, though he commanded no one any more, he still liked to see things clawed down tight.
“It shall be done,” the driver said, and took out a paperbound book. The cover showed an intelligent being unlike any with which Straha was familiar. Seeing Straha’s eye turrets turn toward it, the driver remarked, “Science fiction.” In the language of the Race, it would have been a contradiction in terms. But Straha remembered that Yeager was also addicted to the stuff, and claimed it had helped give him his unmatched insight into the way the Race thought. Straha reckoned that one more proof of how strange the Big Uglies were.
“I greet you, Shiplord,” Yeager said as Straha came to the door. “The two emissaries from the Chinese People’s Liberation Army will be coming in an hour or so. I hope you do not mind.”
“Would it matter if I did?” Straha asked before remembering his manners: “I greet you, Major Yeager.”
Not directly answering the exile’s bitter question, Yeager said, “I hoped you might be able to tell them useful things about how the Race conducts itself, things they could take back to their homeland with them. They will be returning soon.”
“It is possible,” Straha said. “I do not claim it is likely, but it is possible. And what shall we discuss before these other Big Uglies arrive?”