* * * * *
I said, pointing to the fluttering paper in the rattling machine:
"You're worrying our friend."
Vern shrugged impatiently.
I KNEW I SHOULDNT HAVE TRUSTED YOU, Arthur wept. THATS ALL I MEAN TO
YOU EH
Vern said: "Well, Sam? Let's take the cash and get this thing over
with. After all, he _will_ have the best of treatment."
It was a little like selling your sister into white slavery, but what
else was there to do? Besides, I kind of trusted Vern.
"All right," I said.
What Arthur said nearly scorched the paper.
Vern helped pack Arthur up for moving. I mean it was just a matter of
pulling the plugs out and making sure he had a fresh battery, but Vern
wanted to supervise it himself. Because one of the little things Vern
had up his sleeve was that he had found a spot for himself on the
Major's payroll. He was now the official Prosthetic (Human)
Maintenance Department Chief.
The Major said to me: "Ah, Dunlap. What sort of experience have you
had?"
"Experience?"
"In the Navy. Your friend Engdahl suggested you might want to join us
here."
"Oh. I see what you mean." I shook my head. "Nothing that would do you
any good, I'm afraid. I was a yeoman."
"Yeoman?"
"Like a company clerk," I explained. "I mean I kept records and cut
orders and made out reports and all like that."
"Company clerk!" The eyes in the long horsy face gleamed. "Ah, you're
mistaken, Dunlap! Why, that's _just_ what we need. Our morning reports
are in foul shape. Foul! Come over to HQ. Lieutenant Bankhead will
give you a lift."
"Lieutenant Bankhead?"
I got an elbow in my ribs for that. It was that girl Amy, standing
alongside me. "I," she said, "am Lieutenant Bankhead."
Well, I went along with her, leaving Engdahl and Arthur behind. But I
must admit I wasn't sure of my reception.
Out in front of the hotel was a whole fleet of cars--three or four of
them, at least. There was a big old Cadillac that looked like a
gangsters' car--thick glass in the windows, tires that looked like
they belonged on a truck. I was willing to bet it was bulletproof and
also that it belonged to the Major. I was right both times. There was
a little MG with the top down, and a couple of light trucks. Every one
of them was painted bright orange, and every one of them had the
star-and-bar of the good old United States Army on its side.
It took me back to old times--all but the unmilitary color. Amy led me
to the MG and pointed.
"Sit," she said.