If he was wearing a jacket, McCoy thought, you'd never know he had a pistol.

"I have Lieutenant McCoy here," the man said to the telephone. "He's not due in until 15 December."

There was a pause.

"Well, shit, I suppose everybody's been told but us. What does he get?"

There was obviously a reply, but McCoy couldn't hear it. The man put the telephone down, and then reached into his desk and came out with a clipboard and a small plastic card affixed to an alligator clip.

"Sign here, please," he said. "Just your signature. Not your rank."

McCoy signed his name.

The man handed him the plastic card.

"You use this until we get you your own," he said. "Pin it on your blouse jacket."

_McCoy looked at it before he pinned it on. It was a simple piece of plastic-covered cardboard. It said "VISITOR" and there was the insignia of the Navy Department. It was overprinted with purple stripes.

"That's good anywhere in the building," the man said. "Or almost everywhere. But it's not good for ONI [Office of Naval Intelligence]. Until you get your credentials, you'd better avoid going over to ONI."

"Okay," McCoy said, wondering what was going on.

The man stuck out his hand.

"I'm Sergeant Ruttman," he said. "We didn't expect you until the fifteenth."

"So I heard you say," McCoy said.

"You just went through that course at Quantico, right?"

"That's right," McCoy said.

"Pain in the ass?"

"Yes, it was," McCoy said.

"They want to send me," Sergeant Ruttman said. "But I've been putting off going. I figure if they really want me to take a commission, they can give it to me. I already know about chickenshit."

"Good luck," McCoy said, wondering if Ruttman was just running off at the mouth, or whether he was telling the truth.

Ruttman replaced the clipboard in his desk, and then took keys from his pocket and unlocked both of the locks in the door.

"Follow me," he said.

Beyond the door was a strange assortment of machinery. There were typewriters and other standard office equipment. But there were also cameras; what McCoy guessed was a blueprint machine; a large photograph print dryer, a stainless-steel-drum affair larger than a desk; and a good deal of other equipment that looked expensive and complicated. McCoy couldn't even guess the purpose of some of it.

The equipment was being manned by a strange-looking assortment of people, all in civilian clothes, and all of them armed. Most of them had standard web belts and issue flapped holsters for the.45 191lAls they carried, but some carried the pistols the way Ruttman carried his, and others were armed with snub-nosed Smith Wesson revolvers. "What is this place, Sergeant?"

"The thing you're going to have to keep in mind, Lieutenant, is that it's just like boot camp at Parris Island. If they think you should know something, they'll tell you. Otherwise it's none of your business."

He turned his attention from McCoy to the drawer of a desk. He took a loose-leaf notebook from it and two blank forms, one of them a card with purple stripes like his "VISITOR" badge, and the other a Navy identification card of some sort.

"Before I fuck things up," he called out, raising his voice, "has anybody made out any of these and not logged them in the book?"

There was no response to the inquiry, and he put both identification cards in a typewriter and typed briefly and rapidly on them.

"I need an officer to sign these!" he called out again, and one of the civilians, a slight, tall man, walked to the desk.

Despite the Smith Wesson.38 snub-nose revolver on his hip, he looked like a clerk. He waited until Ruttman finished typing, and then took the card from him and scrawled his name on it. Then he looked at McCoy.

"You're McCoy?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Not that I'm not glad to see you, but you weren't due to report in until the fifteenth."

"I reported in early, sir."

"You'll regret that," the officer said. " 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!' "

He walked back where he had come from. McCoy saw that he was making notations on a large map. Next to the map were aerial photographs and a stack of teletype paper liberally stamped "SECRET" in large letters.

"You want to sign this, Lieutenant?" Sergeant Ruttman asked.

There was space for two signatures on the identification: the holder and the issuing officer. The tall skinny civilian had already signed it. According to the card, he was Lieutenant Colonel F.L. Rickabee, USMC. He sure as Christ didn't look like any lieutenant colonel McCoy had ever seen before. He didn't even look much like a Marine.

"Just your signature, again," Ruttman said. "No rank."

"You didn't give me back my ID card," McCoy said.

"You don't get it back," Ruttman said, and then apparently had doubts. He raised his voice. "Does he get his ID card back?"

"No," the tall thin man who looked like a clerk called back. "Not anymore. They changed the policy."

As if McCoy hadn't heard the exchange, Ruttman said, "You don't get it back, Lieutenant."

The tall skinny clerk-type had another thought and turned from his map and SECRET teletype messages.

"How long is it going to take to get him his credentials?"

"I'm just about to take his picture," Ruttman said.

"Today, you mean? He'll get his credentials today?"

"He'll have them by lunchtime," Ruttman said, confidently.

"Okay," the clerk-type said, and returned his attention to the map.

Based on the total absence of military courtesy (Ruttman had not once said "sir," much less "aye, aye, sir," to him, and the clerk-type hadn't seemed to care) McCoy decided that the clerk-type was not Lieutenant Colonel F.L. Rickabee, USMC. It was common practice for junior officers to sign senior officers' names to routine forms, sometimes initialing the signature and sometimes not. He went further with his theory: The tall skinny clerk was probably a warrant officer. Warrant officers were old-time noncoms, generally with some special skill. They wore officer's uniforms, could go to the Officers' Club, and were entitled to a salute, but the most senior chief warrant officer ranked below the most junior second lieutenant. And a warrant officer, particularly a new one, would probably not get all excited if an old-time noncom like Ruttman didn't treat him as if he was a lieutenant or a captain.

Ruttman stood McCoy against a backdrop, at which was pointed a Speed Graphic four-by-five-inch plate camera-

"Take off your blouse and your field scarf, and the bars," Ruttman ordered, "and put this on."

He handed McCoy a soiled, well-worn, striped necktie.

McCoy looked at him in disbelief.

"The way I'll shoot this," Ruttman explained, "that shirt'll look just like an Arrow."

He took McCoy's picture twice, "to make sure I get it," then led him to a table where he inked his fingers. He put his thumb print on both of the ID cards, and then took another full set on a standard fingerprint card.

Ruttman handed him a towel and bottle of alcohol to clean his hands, and then said, "That's it, here, Lieutenant. Now you go see Major Almond. He's in the last office down the passageway."

There was no sign hanging on Major J.J. Almond's door, either; but aside from that, he was what McCoy expected a Marine major to be. He was a short man, but muscular, and so erect he seemed taller than he was. And he was in uniform. His desk was shipshape, and two flags were on poles behind his desk, the Marine flag and the national colors.

And to the left of Major Almond's desk was a door with another sign: LT. COL. F.L. RICKABEE, USMC, COMMANDING. It was clear to McCoy now that he'd just gone through some sort of administrative service office where they made out ID cards and did that sort of thing, and that he was now about to face his new commanding officer.