Connors glared at him, his hands balling into fists. "Who you calling stupid, Jew-boy?"

Green self-consciously scratched the bridge of his nose. "Me," he said quietly. "And him. And him. And you. Everyone in this room seems to share a suicidal tendency. Can you blame the army for thinking we'd be foolish enough to sign up for this gig, too?"

"I'm telling you guys, it's no sweat," Symington insisted, taking some of the heat away from Green. "After you've run straight at a machine gun nest a couple of times, like I have, you stop worrying. What have you got waiting for you when you get out of the army? Me, my dad drove a rig, I always figured I'd end up the same. If I take this instead, I'm set for life.

Even blowing the whole bonus on leave, we still get paid while we sleep. If we're out more than five years, that's a tidy sum. I could invest it, or go tocollege on some GI grant and get a real job." He looked pointedly at Connors. "Couldn't you use that kind of money?"

"Don't matter what kind of money a n.i.g.g.e.r's got," Connors said. "He's still a n.i.g.g.e.r."

"He doesn't have to carry it around on a big sign like you do," Green commented.

"I don't kiss no white a.s.s."

"n.o.body asked you to."

"Sure, you f.u.c.kers go ahead and fight if you want," Symington said.

"Bash your brains out right here in this room, save the army the trouble.

Me, I see the chance of a lifetime, and I'm d.a.m.n well going to take it."

The discussion went on for another fifteen minutes. Hawker stayed silently in the background, saying not a word. None of the others asked for his opinion on the matter, yet all considered him a part of the group.

Connors was constantly pushing both Symington and Green, as though hoping to start a fight, but neither man exactly obliged him. Eventually the black gave up in disgust and walked away, leaving the other three standing by their seats.

"Weird guy," Symington said, shaking his head as he watched Connors leave the room. "A loser from the word go. You can smell it on him."

"Not like you, eh?" Green said.

"Head on." Symington's smile would have dazzled a searchlight. "They don't call me 'Lucky' for nothing."

"And you really intend to go through with this?"

"Just put the paper in front of me and let me sign away. It can't be any worse than being pinned down in a swamp for three days, can it? We'll be rich by the time we get out. Come on, what do you say? Give me a couple of friendly faces to go in with."

Green hesitated. "I wish I could say yes, but I've never been that impulsive. I need more time to think about it. How about you, Hawk?"Hawker had settled into the comfortable position of observer, and Green's question unexpectedly dragged him into the conversation for the first time. "Uh, I don't know. I need time to think."

Symington winked at them. "You're both in, I can see it. You just have to convince yourselves. You don't need any more bulls.h.i.tting from me." He slapped Green jovially on the back. "I'm gonna go get me a quick forty-seven hundred bucks. See you guys in the deep freeze."

Green watched him go, then turned to Hawker. "You know," he said, "he may be the first guy I've met, in the army or out of it, who is exactly what he appears to be. No pretensions, no frills. He knows what he wants, and he's not ashamed to admit it. He's a bit churlish, perhaps, but still refreshing after all the hypocrisy."

"Do you think he's right?" Hawker asked. "I mean, about us going in after all?"

"I don't know." Green chewed thoughtfully on his thumbnail. "There are certainly plenty of reasons not to, and I can't think of a single convincing argument in favor of volunteering. But logic may have nothing to do with it. Each of us is a lifetime's result of forces we can barely comprehend. If we're pushed too hard, we can end up doing the strangest things."

He sat down and stared silently out into s.p.a.ce. Hawker stood by for several minutes, waiting for something further to happen, but Green seemed completely lost in thought. At last Hawker turned and, without saying goodbye, walked away. Green didn't even seem to notice that he'd gone.

Hawker was seldom bothered by insomnia, but that night he had trouble sleeping. He could not get the ideas out of his mind, those vast amounts of money the army was prepared to pay for his cooperation. As Symington had said, what was there for him outside the army? Hawker had always been the quiet one, never making friends easily. He'd gone straight from high school into the army, and once in uniform and past basic training he went straight into combat. His father had died when he was sixteen, and his mother died while he was fighting in Africa. His sister had married a men's wear salesman, and already had one kid. There was no one to take him in; if he left the army, he'd be completely on his own.

Hawker didn't like being alone. It frightened him- almost as much asmaking friends frightened him. The army wasn't the same as friends, it was more like family. You didn't have to like family, but at least it was always there, and you knew you always belonged.

He didn't have to volunteer for the experiment. He could go career in the normal way, maybe serve out the rest of his life in the army and wind up as a sergeant in charge of some motor pool. It was a simple life, unpretentious-but Hawker had never been a man for pretension. He could make the army his life, surrender himself to it and let it make all the decisions for him. That thought warmed him somewhat. The army would be a snug nest in which to hide from all the loneliness of the outside world.

But the initial glow faded quickly. Now that the war was over, the mood of the country was changing. All the newscasters were talking about it.

Moves were afoot to cut the military budget once more, to reduce the size of the standing army. The service could no longer afford to take in anyone just because he was a warm body; a man had to prove himself to be of longtime worth before the army would accept him on a career basis. He'd already heard of men opting to re-enlist and being told the army had no place for them. What if that were to happen to him? It would be the ultimate rejection, his newly adopted family booting him out of the house.

What would he do in that case? Where would he go? Who would take him in?

Of course, the army had already made its preference known. They did want him-but in a way that scared him, for reasons he could not even have begun to explain. Oddly enough, he wasn't afraid of the freezing process itself; he had the simple faith in technology that came from knowing nothing about it. He had no doubts that he'd wake up again when the army decided to revive him.

What frightened him the most was what he would find when he did wake up. The world would still be there, his personal problems would still be there. What would he have gained? How long could he keep running away?

Of course, Captain Dukakis had said there'd probably be a war going on when he was revived, and he'd be expected to fight in it. There was the chance he might be killed, and never have to face the real world. Or maybe by then the army would be more receptive to keeping him in, so he wouldn't have to leave. If only there were some way to know that for certain!Hawker lived with the problem for two days, keeping it bottled up within him. His acquaintances-he had no real friends-didn't notice any difference. Hawker had always been one to keep to himself; his quiet desperation now was nothing out of the ordinary. His appet.i.te faded away to nothing, and at mess he pushed his food apathetically around his plate without even bothering to taste it. His nights were filled with fitful dozes, interspersed with long periods of wakeful nightmares. He could only lie on his back staring up at the darkness and hoping for relief from the torment.

He made only one attempt to talk his problem out with someone, when he set an appointment with the base chaplain. Hawker nervously shook hands with the man and sat down in a comfortable chair, but found himself suddenly tongue-tied. Captain Dukakis's repeated references to the secrecy oath would not leave his mind; the paper Hawker had signed told in great detail the punishments the army could mete out if he told some outsider about the project. Hawker could only stammer to the minister his general fears about the future and what he should do. The chaplain listened politely but, not knowing the actual details of Hawker's problem, could only give the most plat.i.tudinous advice: Hawker would have to have the courage to face his own problems, and should ask G.o.d's support for guidance in his time of trouble. Hawker left the chaplain's office feeling less sure than ever what he should do.

The next day, Hawker ended the torture by going to Captain Dukakis's office and volunteering to partic.i.p.ate in Project Banknote. He was told his application would be processed quickly, and was subjected to the most thorough physical examination he'd ever had in his life. They took samples of everything, and ran him through a series of tests that left him tired and dazed. By late that afternoon he was told he'd been accepted; his three-week leave would begin Friday at noon, and his bonus money would be ready for him when he picked up his pa.s.s.

He left with a tremendous feeling of relief. The decision had been made; everything was now out of his hands. For better or worse, his future was secured, and there was nothing more he could do about it. He could simply drift and accept what came his way. That was how he'd always lived his life, and now he wouldn't have to change it. His appet.i.te returned, and he found himself ravenous. He had three helpings at dinner, to the astonishment of his messmates, and for the first time in three days he slept soundly, without dreams.As he walked to the bus stop with his pa.s.s and his money firmly in his pocket, he still had not made up his mind how he was going to spend his leave. He supposed he could go home to Kansas City and visit his sister-after all, he might not see her for years-but he hadn't yet written her to tell her he'd be coming. He thought of all the questions she'd ask, and wondered how he could field them without telling her any of the truth.

I'll call her when I get in, he decided. If it's too short a notice and they can't put me up, I can always stay at a hotel.

"I see you took the plunge, too." Hawker had been so intent on his own speculations that he hadn't even noticed the person coming up behind him until the voice broke his reverie. Turning, he saw it was David Green.

"How could you tell?" Hawker asked defensively, a little resentful that his innermost secret was so obvious to an outsider.

"Well, what are the odds on both of us getting leave on the same Friday otherwise? Have you made up your mind where you're going?"

Just because they'd talked together for a while didn't give Green the right to ask personal questions. The other man was intruding himself, unbidden, in Hawker's life. "Thought I'd go home, see my family," he mumbled.

"Yeah, so did I-for about five minutes. Then I started wondering why bother with them? They didn't appreciate me when I was around, why would they care about me now? From the sound of your voice, you don't seem too sure about it, either."

Hawker made no reply, but merely continued on to the ramshackle little building that served the base as a bus stop. The place was crowded with other servicemen going on leave at the same time, waiting around for the buses that would take them into town. Hawker stopped and looked around, his indecision stronger than ever; one step behind him, Green said, "Well, what shall we do?"

Hawker was tempted to remark that he hadn't invited Green to be his companion when a figure two benches away began waving at them. "Over here, guys," he called, and Hawker saw it was "Lucky" Symington.

"I guess we've been spotted," Green said. "We might as well go sayh.e.l.lo. Maybe he'll have some suggestions."

Hawker was feeling very uneasy, as though his entire life were being taken from him and pushed in directions he didn't want to go. He wanted to stop it, to tell Green, "No, I want no part of you and I want no part of Symington. Just go your own way and let me go mine. I hardly even know you, don't force your company on me."

Instead, he followed Green over to where Symington stood, smiling triumphantly.

"Hey, I knew you guys'd show up. Remember, I told you at the meeting, all you had to do was convince yourselves. I knew it then, I could see it in your faces. We're all gonna be good friends, I know that, too."

"And people accuse me of being a know-it-all," Green said.

"h.e.l.l, there ain't no two ways about it. Don't you worry, buddies, everything's gonna be fine. I'm lucky, and my luck rubs off on my friends.

We're going to have ourselves a f.u.c.king good time."

"Where you headed?" Green asked conversationally.

"Las Vegas." Symington drew the words out so they lasted several seconds apiece. "That's the only place where the action's fast enough for me this time. I've got the money and I've got the luck, and I'm gonna set the town buzzing."

"What a coincidence," Green said. "That's just where we were going ourselves, right, Hawk?"

Hawker felt another portion of his life being preempted, but didn't know how to stop it. He tried to think of something to say, but Symington cut him off before he could utter a word.

"Hot d.a.m.n, I like the way you boys think. I just know we're gonna make a team, like the Three Musketeers."

"One for all, and all for one," Green said, aping Symington's boisterousness.

"Now you got it!" Symington slapped Green on the back so hard henearly knocked the smaller man to the floor. The bus arrived just then; they boarded and rode for half an hour into town. Symington kept up a steady stream of chatter all the while, alternating between his various heroic experiences in Africa and his future plans for Vegas. Hawker wanted a chance to think, some way of backing out of this involuntary a.s.sociation, but his mind could not concentrate with Symington blaring into it.

Once in town, Symington herded them all into a travel agent's office.

Before Hawker could protest he found himself the owner of tickets on three connecting flights that would get him into Las Vegas by 2 P.M.

Sat.u.r.day.

There were still three hours to kill before their flight left, so the trio went down the street to grab a few beers. Symington continued his nonstop talk, and as Hawker became resigned to his fate, he found himself increasingly grateful; he was in no mood to do much talking himself, and Symington did not expect much more than an occasional grunt. Green kept up just enough of a conversation to keep Symington going; he was clearly amused by the big man's brash style, and viewed it as pure entertainment.

After the third beer, Symington disappeared into the men's room for a moment. The other two waited for him out by the bar. Checking his watch, Green was about to comment that they should start for the airport as soon as Symington returned, when suddenly, from the direction of the men's room, came a loud crash and the sound of voices raised in argument. Hawker and Green were on their feet simultaneously, racing to the restroom to see what was happening.

There were just two men in the bathroom: Symington and a black whom they belatedly recognized at Thaddeus Connors. There had been some sort of a scuffle; Symington had been knocked into one of the stalls and was now sitting, dazed but fully clothed, on the toilet. The door to the stall was halfway off its hinges; it had banged against the wall when Symington was knocked through it, causing the crash the people outside had heard. There was a two-inch gash over Symington's left eyebrow, slowly dripping blood down the side of his face.

Connors stood before the stall, facing Symington.

As Hawker and Green entered, Connors turned and the men could seehe had a switchblade out and ready. Symington, in an awkward position on the toilet, was momentarily defenseless if Connors charged him with the knife.

"Steady, there," Green said, and Connors hesitated.

"What's going on in there?" came a voice from cut-side, probably the bartender.

"Block the door, Hawk," Green said quietly. "Don't let anyone in."

Hawker did as he was told, even as he was wondering why Green made that request. It would seem to him that the more people they had in here with them, the easier it would be to control Connors. Grasping the handle, Hawker pulled the door inward, even as the bartender was trying to open it from outside.

"I don't know what this is all about," Green was saying in calm, level tones, "but it can't be worth going to the stockade over."

Hawker then realized what Green was doing. If this fight were discovered, both partic.i.p.ants would be taken away for questioning and probable disciplinary action. Symington's leave would be ruined, and there was a chance he might even be kicked out of the special program altogether. Green was trying to cover up the worst of the damage privately, before the rest of the world knew what had happened.

The bartender was tugging harder against Hawker's grasp. "Let me in there!" he shouted several times. When that elicited no response, he said, "Okay, wise guys, I'm getting the MPs." He left, and Hawker relaxed his hold for the moment.

Connors, meanwhile, looked like a cornered animal. His gaze darted back and forth between Green and Symington, never letting either out of his sight for more than a second. Symington was recovering from his daze, and was slowly pulling himself to his feet once more. His jaw was set angrily, and he looked as though he wanted to return whatever punches Connors had given him. That wouldn't help matters any, and Green knew it.

"Don't try anything, Lucky," Green said. "It's not worth it.""Shut your face, Jew-boy," Connors said. "This is between him and me."

"He's right," Symington agreed sternly. "I don't know what got him started, but I'm going to end it."

"You're both going to end it, right now."

"I don't take no s.h.i.t from n.o.body," Connors said. His knife hand made small, slow circles in the air. The wrong word could set him off in any direction.

Green recognized that fact too. His words were carefully measured as he said, "I'm trying to save us all a lot of trouble. If you put that away, this whole thing ends here and now, not a word to anyone. If you try anything fancy, Hawk and I open that door and let the rest of the world come in.

Are you ready for that?"

"I ain't scared of n.o.body," Connors insisted stubbornly.

"Of course you're not. But it isn't a question of being scared, it's a question of being smart. You think you can take on the entire U. S. Army?

Plus the police department? You've made your point, Connors, whatever it is. But a smart man picks his fights a little more carefully. He makes sure winning is worth the effort. Do the smart thing, just for once, and put that knife away."

"Sure-and then the three of you beat the s.h.i.t out of me."

"Hawk and I have no fight with you."

"What about him?" Connors pointed with the knife in Symington's direction.

"He won't do anything either," Green said. "We've got a plane to catch, don't we, Lucky?" There was a special edge in his voice as he directed the last comment to Symington.

Symington was silent for several moments. He obviously did not like quitting while he was losing, but at least a portion of his mind realized the value of what Green was trying to do. "Yeah," he said at last. "I won't do anything. I've got to save my strength for Vegas.""See?" Green said to Connors. "Just put that away and the whole thing's forgotten."

Hawker suddenly had to tighten his grip on the door as someone outside tried to pull it open. When the strength alone failed, there was a pounding and a voice called, "Open up in there. Military Police."

Green looked at Connors. "Well?"

Connors looked slowly around the room at the other three men, snorted and folded the blade back into its case. As the black man dropped the knife into his pocket, Green nodded to Hawker, who let go of the door.

Two MPs entered, each of them bigger than Symington. "All right, what's the trouble here?"

"No real trouble, officer," Green explained glibly. Taking Symington's arm, he said, "My friend here just slipped on a wet spot on the floor and fell against the door, cut his forehead a little."

"Must've fallen pretty hard," one MP remarked dryly, seeing the damage to the stall door.

"Lucky's a big guy. You know what they say, the bigger they are..."

"That true?" The second MP ignored Green and looked directly at Symington, whose forehead was still bleeding. The big man did a good job of counterfeiting his normal affability. "Sure is. Can't a guy even fall in the John without everybody making a federal case out of it?" He smiled and winked at the MP, who only grunted and looked over to Connors for confirmation.

Connors was obviously the most nervous of the lot. Hawker could see beads of perspiration on the black man's forehead, and his nostrils were still flared in anger. "Sure, he tripped," Connors said. "You can't expect no white man to have no coordination."

The bartender was pushing his way into the room behind the MPs. "I heard yelling in here," he accused. "There was some sort of argument."

Green nodded. "Sure. We were trying to remember our first-aid courses, and we were arguing about the best way to stop the bleeding.""Then why'd you hold the door closed?" the bartender persisted.

"It must have stuck," Green said with a shrug.