the enemy command-and-control structure must be spared.’
‘So that the war can be brought to a negotiated end.’
‘Whereas others say you must hit command-and-control right away—’
‘So that the enemy will be decapitated and unable to retaliate.’
‘Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be.’
‘And if it were so, it would be.’
‘But as it isn’t, it ain’t.’
‘That’s strategic doctrine.’
‘Salute us, Mister Paxton.’
George fired off an uncertain salute.
‘Sorry,’ said Ensign Peach. ‘Not good enough.’
George saluted again.
‘ Still not right,’ said Ensign Cobb. ‘Looks like we’ll have to put you in a torpedo tube after all.’
‘In what?’ asked George.
‘Don’t worry. You won’t be there for long,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘A minute at most,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘And then – zowee, powee – off you go into the wild blue Atlantic!’
‘That’s the one with all the salt in it.’
‘Can you swim?’
‘Can you breathe water?’
Two facts entered George’s disorganized brain. He was afraid of these cousins. And they were dragging him down a corridor. He struggled. His muscles pulled in contradictory directions. Steam ducts and neon lights bounced by. He tried telling his captors they had no right to treat an Erebus evacuee this way, whereupon he discovered that Ensign Cobb’s sweaty hand was sealing his mouth.
The torpedo room was green and pocked with rivets. Muzak oozed through the air, countless strings performing ‘Anchors Aweigh.’ The ensigns hauled him up to Tube One, opened the little door. The chamber beyond, which reeked of brine and motor oil, suggested a womb in which man-portable thermonuclear devices were gestated.
Ensign Cobb held a copy of the McMurdo Sound Agreement before George’s uncoordinated eyes. It was a document of several hundred pages, bound with a spiral of barbed wire. He opened it and thrust Appendix C toward George. Appendix C was headed Scopas Suit Sales Contract .
‘That’s your signature, isn’t it?’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Look, Mister Peach, he signed it!’
‘And with his own name, too!’
‘I’m a friend of General Tarmac’s,’ asserted George.
‘The MARCH Hare?’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Right.’
‘Any friend of General Tarmac’s is an enemy of mine,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘Don’t forget to close your mouth,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Don’t forget to hold your nose.’
‘Don’t forget to write.’
‘We have always been with you—’
‘Waiting to get in.’
George swung at Cobb’s jaw. The connection was firm and noisy. Peach retaliated, planting a fist in the tomb inscriber’s stomach, thus awakening the dormant agony of his bullet wound.
I can take this, George said to himself after they had shoved him into Tube One and closed the door. I will not scream, Oblivion is what I wanted all along, and now here it is, oblivion, my good Unitarian friend.
The chill seeped into his flesh. His breaths echoed off the cylindrical walls. He decided that this was how his customers felt, snug in their caskets. Were they soothed knowing that a seven hundred and fifty dollar chunk of bonded granite sat overhead? He screamed. The reverberations knifed his eardrums.
He thought of the damage he had just inflicted on Peach. Had he seen correctly? Could it be? When he split the ensign’s lip, had black blood rushed out?
George wet his pajamas. The warmth was at once terrible and comforting. They had said this would take only a minute. Black blood. Just like Mrs Covington. An effect of the radiation? No, her visit to the Crippen Monument Works was before the war, wasn’t it? His wet pajamas grew cold.
Movies had always been fun, especially with Justine. Postmarital dates were the best kind. You could relax, and if there was no butter for the popcorn the world did not end. You sat there, bathed in conditioned air, waiting for the movie to start – any movie, it didn’t matter – like
‘So that the war can be brought to a negotiated end.’
‘Whereas others say you must hit command-and-control right away—’
‘So that the enemy will be decapitated and unable to retaliate.’
‘Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be.’
‘And if it were so, it would be.’
‘But as it isn’t, it ain’t.’
‘That’s strategic doctrine.’
‘Salute us, Mister Paxton.’
George fired off an uncertain salute.
‘Sorry,’ said Ensign Peach. ‘Not good enough.’
George saluted again.
‘ Still not right,’ said Ensign Cobb. ‘Looks like we’ll have to put you in a torpedo tube after all.’
‘In what?’ asked George.
‘Don’t worry. You won’t be there for long,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘A minute at most,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘And then – zowee, powee – off you go into the wild blue Atlantic!’
‘That’s the one with all the salt in it.’
‘Can you swim?’
‘Can you breathe water?’
Two facts entered George’s disorganized brain. He was afraid of these cousins. And they were dragging him down a corridor. He struggled. His muscles pulled in contradictory directions. Steam ducts and neon lights bounced by. He tried telling his captors they had no right to treat an Erebus evacuee this way, whereupon he discovered that Ensign Cobb’s sweaty hand was sealing his mouth.
The torpedo room was green and pocked with rivets. Muzak oozed through the air, countless strings performing ‘Anchors Aweigh.’ The ensigns hauled him up to Tube One, opened the little door. The chamber beyond, which reeked of brine and motor oil, suggested a womb in which man-portable thermonuclear devices were gestated.
Ensign Cobb held a copy of the McMurdo Sound Agreement before George’s uncoordinated eyes. It was a document of several hundred pages, bound with a spiral of barbed wire. He opened it and thrust Appendix C toward George. Appendix C was headed Scopas Suit Sales Contract .
‘That’s your signature, isn’t it?’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Look, Mister Peach, he signed it!’
‘And with his own name, too!’
‘I’m a friend of General Tarmac’s,’ asserted George.
‘The MARCH Hare?’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Right.’
‘Any friend of General Tarmac’s is an enemy of mine,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘Don’t forget to close your mouth,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Don’t forget to hold your nose.’
‘Don’t forget to write.’
‘We have always been with you—’
‘Waiting to get in.’
George swung at Cobb’s jaw. The connection was firm and noisy. Peach retaliated, planting a fist in the tomb inscriber’s stomach, thus awakening the dormant agony of his bullet wound.
I can take this, George said to himself after they had shoved him into Tube One and closed the door. I will not scream, Oblivion is what I wanted all along, and now here it is, oblivion, my good Unitarian friend.
The chill seeped into his flesh. His breaths echoed off the cylindrical walls. He decided that this was how his customers felt, snug in their caskets. Were they soothed knowing that a seven hundred and fifty dollar chunk of bonded granite sat overhead? He screamed. The reverberations knifed his eardrums.
He thought of the damage he had just inflicted on Peach. Had he seen correctly? Could it be? When he split the ensign’s lip, had black blood rushed out?
George wet his pajamas. The warmth was at once terrible and comforting. They had said this would take only a minute. Black blood. Just like Mrs Covington. An effect of the radiation? No, her visit to the Crippen Monument Works was before the war, wasn’t it? His wet pajamas grew cold.
Movies had always been fun, especially with Justine. Postmarital dates were the best kind. You could relax, and if there was no butter for the popcorn the world did not end. You sat there, bathed in conditioned air, waiting for the movie to start – any movie, it didn’t matter – like
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