Duke ignored him. "-I thought that shelter looked a little too big-damn Reconnaisance! They're going to hear about this. I should have flashed that damned Mobe, and to hell with the cost."
"Hey, how about the kid-?"
"Huh?"
"He's taking it pretty hard."
"We all are."
"But he's the one who pulled the trigger."
"It's a risk we all have to take," Duke said. "You know that."
Hank glanced back at me. "Still . . ." he said quietly, "it wouldn't hurt to have a word with him . . . or something."
Duke didn't answer for a moment. When he did, his voice was strained. "Damn you, Hank. Just once I want to lick my own wounds first-Shorty was my friend too." He fell silent, then turned away in his seat and stared at the passing hills; they were shadowed in dusk. The clouds were shiny pink against a pale gray horizon.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me. The wind kept slapping at my hair and eyes; it was cold and dusty, and I was miserable, both inside and out. Occasionally, the millipedes would start to move; the bag would squirm uneasily, but a gentle rap with my hand was enough to make them curl up again; three hard little knots the size of cantaloupes.
It was past nine when we got back to base. It had been a boys' camp once, but now it was a makeshift Special Forces base. As the jeeps pulled up in front of the mess hall, men began pouring from its doors. "How was it? How many worms did you get?" Their voices were loud and excited.
Almost immediately, though, they caught our mood, and when Duke said, "Shorty's dead," an uncomfortable silence fell over the group. They followed us into the mess hall where Sergeant Kelly was pouring out coffee in her usual don't-bother-me manner and distributing platters of hot biscuits with businesslike dispatch. I snagged a couple of the biscuits-I could live without Sergeant Kelly's coffee-and faded into a corner. Nobody paid me any attention, for which I was more than grateful.
Duke also stood alone. Holding his mug by the bowl, not the handle, he sipped his coffee steadily, grimacing at its taste and ignoring the occasional question. The other men from the mission were tumbling out their stories as fast as they could talk. When they came to the part about Shorty some of the men glanced toward me and lowered their voices, but an excited murmur rose from the rest of the group. "A fourth worm-? Impossible!" But incredulity was met with insistence and the discussions splintered into speculations.
Dr. Obama came in then and took Duke off to one side where they conferred for a few moments; once they looked over in my direction, but when they saw me looking back at them they turned away; then Duke put down his coffee cup and the two of them left.
Abruptly, Ted was standing in front of me. He was hunched over, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans. He had a peculiar expression on his face, like someone looking at an auto accident.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
He sat down opposite me, folded his arms and leaned across the table on his elbows. "Quit trying to be brave. You look like hell."
"You don't look so hot yourself," I muttered. His sandy hair was rumpled, his face was puffy. He looked like he'd just gotten out of bed. Was it that late?
He ignored it. "I hear you had a pretty rough time." I didn't answer.
He eyed my sample pouch. "Did you find anything interesting? -Hey, it's moving!"
I rapped the bag quickly and it stopped. Ted gaped. "What've you got in there?"
"Some of the bugs from the corral. That's what you can do. Go find a cage."
"A cage-? How big? Would a chicken coop do?"
"As long as there isn't any wood in it."
"Uh uh. Aluminum and wire." He scooted out the door. Some of the men were trickling out now, headed for the rec room, probably. Others refilled their mugs, slurped noisily, and followed them-that was probably the loudest sound in the room. I thought Sergeant Kelly was in the kitchen flashing more biscuits, but she wasn't.
"Here," she said, putting a chicken sandwich and a glass of milk in front of me. "Eat." Her expression was difficult to read, as if her face had been detached from her emotions.
I looked back down into my lap. "I'm not hungry."
"So?" she snapped. "When did that ever stop you from eating?"
"Sergeant," I said, lowering my voice, "I had to kill Shor-"
"I know," she said, cutting me off. "I heard." She placed her hand gently on my shoulder. When I didn't look up, she reached over and cradled my head into her hands-they were hugo- and pulled me to her. I couldn't help myself. I started crying, bawling like a baby into her lap. Sergeant Kelly is the only person in the world who has a lap standing up. I buried my face in it and sobbed. It was the first time I had cried all day. "That's my boy," she said. "That's my good boy. Let it out. Let it all out. Mamma's here now. Mamma's here."
After a while, I stopped. "Sergeant," I said, wiping my nose on her apron, "thank you." I looked blearily up at her; her eyes were bright. "I love you!"
"Uh. . ." For a moment, her composure seemed uncertain. She looked startled. She said, "I left something in the kitchen," and bustled quickly off. I thought I saw her wiping her eyes as she ducked through the door.
When I turned back to the table, Ted was standing there with the chicken coop. How long he had been there, I didn't know, and didn't want to ask. He didn't say anything about my red eyes; he just set the coop down on the table and waited.
I covered my embarrassment by fumbling with the pouch. Ted opened the top of the coop and I put the asbestoid shirt with the millipedes into it. I loosened the knot and tumbled them out, three hard, black nuggets. Then I latched the cage securely.
"That's it?" asked Ted. He sounded disappointed. "Those are actual Chtorran animals?"
I nodded. The millipedes were still rolled up in balls; their shells seemed almost metallic. If they were still alive, they hadn't shown it yet.
"They're not much to look at, are they?"
"Wait'll they open up," I said. "They're cute as baby spiders." Ted made a face.
Meanwhile, Sam, the camp mascot-a large gray and white tabby cat who had adopted us-hopped up onto the table to inspect. "Mrowrrt?" he asked.
"No, Sam, that's not to eat." That was Ted.
Sam sniffed in annoyance. He turned his attention instead to my chicken sandwich and milk, an unexpected bonanza. Neither Ted nor I pushed him away. He ate noisily. Dainty bites, but noisy ones. He was purring appreciatively while he ate.
Louis sauntered over next. He'd stripped down to his T-shirt. He was beginning to show a layer of fat on his middle-age spread. I guess the army couldn't afford to be too choosy any more. "Is that the bugs from the worm camp?" He peered close. "How come they're all rolled up?"
I shrugged.
"Have you tried feeding them yet? Maybe that's the trouble. Maybe they're hungry."
"Or scared," I suggested.
He ignored it. "What do they eat?" I shrugged again.
"Don't you know?"
"How could I? Could be anything. When I caught them, they were chewing on the walls of their enclosure."
"Well, you gotta feed them something," he insisted. Two or three other men had wandered over. A small crowd was forming. One or two of them muttered agreement.
"I'll have to make some tests," I mumbled. "To see what they like."
"Aah, you don't know anything about animals. I grew up on a farm-" He put his finger up to the mesh and clucked. "I'll bet they're just like chickens. Chtorran chickens. Come on, little bugs, come on-see what Daddy's got for you-" He shoved a little piece of biscuit through the wire. "Come on-"