Coming back, he notices the extra member of the party. Sitting at the very back, behind Kirk’s dog, is an unknown civilian. He must have got on last.
Pretending to look at the dog, Dann gets an impression of greying black hair, grey, very well-tailored suit, a vaguely New England face with a foreign trace. Must be a passenger for wherever they are going.
Costakis has seen him looking.
“The snook,” he whispers, grimacing. “The big enchilada.”
“What, C.I.A.?” Dann whispers back.
“Shit, no. No action there now. D.C.C., I bet.”
“What’s D.C.C.? I never heard of it.”
“You wouldn’t. Boss spooks. Defense Communications Component, name doesn’t mean anything. I saw them in Annapolis , everybody jumped. Hey, look at that, I was right. That smutch is Norfolk . We’re starting down.”
The clouds are opening. Below them woods and meadows are swinging up. Dann sees a little lake. General exclamations in the plane.
They land in sunlight on an apparently deserted country airstrip, which seems unusually long. At the far end Dann can see the sock and a couple of choppers in front of the control shack. Apparently they are not going to taxi back. The plane’s steps are unfolded.
As they file down, Dann sees that a grey sedan and a grey minibus have already come out to them. He notices an odd structure looming at their end of the strip—a parachute tower, in need of paint. His blood-chemistry is repairing his internal damage. It is a fine summer day in fantasyland.
The clipboard character has reappeared and is loading their bags in the bus. Before they are all out, the sedan has raced away with Costakis’ spook inside.
“Oh look, aren’t those real deer?” Winona’s turquoise arm points to a dozen pale tan silhouettes grazing in the woods alongside.
“That’s right, that’s right!” Noah enthusiastically shepherds them into the bus. “I told you it would be delightful.”
The Frump makes a snorting noise.
The bus carries them through more woods and meadows on a narrow blacktop road. Not a country road; the straight lines and square corners bespeak the military mind. They pass what Dann thinks is an unkempt firelane.
“Obstacle course,” Ensign Yost says.
After what must be five miles they pull up at three old-style wooden barracks, standing by themselves in a grassy clearing. A volleyball net hangs in front of one. The June sun is hot as they get out.
“Look—a swimming pool!” Winona carols. They all stare around. Beyond the far barracks is a very long, shabby pool speckled with floating leaves.
“I told you to bring your suits,” Noah says like Santa giving presents. “Well, Kendall , this looks just fine, if our equipment is only here. We must check on that at once.”
“It’ll be here,” Kirk says shortly. “You don’t do anything until you all sign in.”
Another sedan has driven up. Out of it gets a large, bearded, bear-like man in rumpled grey fatigues. He is carrying a folder.
“Captain Harlow,” Kirk announces. The man wears no insignia; Dann recalls that Captain is a higher rank in the Navy. “All in the day-room, please.”
“This building will be your test site, Dr. Catledge,” Captain Harlow says as they troop into the large room at the front of the first barracks.
It looks exactly like all the rec-rooms Dann saw in his service days; plywood, maple, chintz, a few pinups. Over the battered desk is a sign: WHAT YOU SEE HERE LET IT STAY HERE. The desk is littered with copies of Stag, Readers Digest, sports magazines.
Noah has trotted into the corridor leading to the bedroom cubicles, the toilets and the back door.
“These bedrooms will serve as test stations, Captain,” he says briskly. “But we’ll need doors installed to close off each end.”
“Just tell Lieutenant Kirk your requirements,” the ursine captain says pleasantly. “You’ll find we move fairly fast here. Now I need your signatures on these documents before I turn you loose. Read carefully before signing, please.”
Dann notices that his hands and wrists are delicate; the bearishness is an affectation. Kirk hands round papers; general fumbling for pens and places to write.
Reading , Dann is informed that he is now subject to National Security Directive Fifteen, paragraph A-slash-twelve, relating to the security of classified information. He is, it appears, swearing never to divulge any item he has experienced here.
He signs, visualizing himself rushing to the Soviet embassy with the news that there is an ederly parachute-tower near Norfolk , Virginia . Kirk gives him an ID card bearing his own color photograph in plastic and a wad of what appear to be tickets.
“Pin the badges on you at all times,” Harlow tells them. “Your lunch is laid on in Area F Messhall. The bus will wait while you take your bags over to the living quarters. Ladies in the end barracks, please.”
“Right by the pool!” Winona exclaims. “Captain, can we take walks around here? The woods look so lovely.”
“Your badges are for Area F only. Don’t pass the area fences.” He smiles. “Don,’t worry, you’ll get plenty of exercise. It’s a square mile.”
“Can we walk home from the messhall?”
“If you wish. The bus will take you to and from meals. The schedule is over there. Lieutenant, will you come with me?”
As he and Kirk go out, Costakis mutters to Dann, “Harlow. That’s a new one. I’ve seen him without the beard.”
The men’s barracks next door is hot and stuffy; Yost and Costakis turn on the air conditioners. Their cots are stripped, the bedding folded on them. Dann picks a cubicle on the side nearest the women’s building and transfers some vials to his pockets. When he comes out onto the steps, R-95—Rick—is waiting for him.
“Ron’s scared,” Rick says in a low, morose voice.
“Your brother… he’s in the submarine?” Dann is trying to recall Rick’s last name: Ah, Waxman. Rick and Ron Waxman.
“Yeah. He doesn’t like it.” Rick gives him a smouldering look. “I don’t like this either. I wish we hadn’t come.”
“I’m sure he’ll be all right. They seem to be taking good care of us.”
“You really think so?” Rick shoots the question at him as if trying to penetrate to some fund of truth in Dann’s head. Why is Rick asking him, of all people? Abstractedly, he smiles his good smile and utters more reassurance, making fof the bus.
Kirk is waiting for them at the messhall door. It turns out to be a great dim, cavernous space, filled with big military-rustic tables, all empty except for a small group at the far end. The place looks old. Adjusting his eyes, Dann sees ghosts: battalions, whole clandestine armies have trained here for God knows what.
A plump man in fatigues and silver bars takes their mess tickets and seats them right by the door. Not near the others. Dann understands; Noah’s people are in quarantine. We’ll meet no one and see as little as possible of anything that may be going on here. He squints through the dimness. At the two far tables are men in fatigues, a few smartly uniformed Waves. Station personnel, or embryo spies? He sits down between Ensign Yost and the Frump; he will not let himself look at her, sitting beyond Noah, Kirk, Winona.
“I sure hoped we’d be on the water,” Ted Yost says. “Call this a shore installation?” He sighs. “I wish I could have gone in the sub.”
“Ron didn’t want to go,” Rick tells him sulkily. “He had to because he’s the best sender. He hates it.”
“I know.” Yost smiles with unexpected sweetness, his gaze far off.
Their food comes fast, on trays; enormous breaded veal cutlets, baked potatoes, applesauce. Good, but too much of everything. As it arrives, four people at the far end get up to go. Among them Dann sees the bearded “Captain Harlow” and a tall, thin, grey civilian. Kirk jumps up and strides down to them.