“I don’t see what difference that makes, Milo. It was still your mission. And a damned good one, too, I must say. We didn’t get the bridge, but we did have a beautiful bomb pattern. I remember General Peckem commenting on it. No, Milo, I insist you count Orvieto as a mission, too.”

“If you insist, sir.”

“I do insist, Milo. Now, let’s see-you now have a grand total of six missions, which is damned good, Milo, damned good, really. Six missions is an increase of twenty per cent in just a couple of minutes, which is not bad at all, Milo, not bad at all.”

“Many of the other men have seventy missions,” Milo pointed out.

“But they never produced any chocolate-covered cotton, did they? Milo, you’re doing more than your share.”

“But they’re getting all the fame and opportunity,” Milo persisted with a petulance that bordered on sniveling. “Sir, I want to get in there and fight like the rest of the fellows. That’s what I’m here for. I want to win medals, too.”

“Yes, Milo, of course. We all want to spend more time in combat. But people like you and me serve in different ways. Look at my own record,” Colonel Cathcart uttered a deprecatory laugh. “I’ll bet it’s not generally known, Milo, that I myself have flown only four missions, is it?”

“No, sir,” Milo replied. “It’s generally known that you’ve flown only two missions. And that one of those occurred when Aarfy accidentally flew you over enemy territory while navigating you to Naples for a black-market water cooler.”

Colonel Cathcart, flushing with embarrassment, abandoned all further argument. “All right, Milo. I can’t praise you enough for what you want to do. If it really means so much to you, I’ll have Major Major assign you to the next sixty-four missions so that you can have seventy, too.”

“Thank you, Colonel, thank you, sir. You don’t know what this means.”

“Don’t mention it, Milo. I know exactly what it means.”

“No, Colonel, I don’t think you do know what it means,” Milo disagreed pointedly. “Someone will have to begin running the syndicate for me right away. It’s very complicated, and I might get shot down at any time.”

Colonel Cathcart brightened instantly at the thought and began rubbing his hands with avaricious zest. “You know, Milo, I think Colonel Korn and I might be willing to take the syndicate off your hands,” he suggested in an offhand manner, almost licking his lips in savory anticipation. “Our experience in black-market plum tomatoes should come in very useful. Where do we begin?”

Milo watched Colonel Cathcart steadily with a bland and guileless expression. “Thank you, sir, that’s very good of you. Begin with a salt-free diet for General Peckem and a fat-free diet for General Dreedle.”

“Let me get a pencil. What’s next?”

“The cedars.”

“Cedars?”

“From Lebanon.”

“Lebanon?”

“We’ve got cedars from Lebanon due at the sawmill in Oslo to be turned into shingles for the builder in Cape Cod. C.O.D. And then there’s the peas.”

“Peas?”

“That are on the high seas. We’ve got boatloads of peas that are on the high seas from Atlanta to Holland to pay for the tulips that were shipped to Geneva to pay for the cheeses that must go to Vienna M.I.F.”

“M.I.F.?”

“Money in Front. The Hapsburgs are shaky.”

“Milo.”

“And don’t forget the galvanized zinc in the warehouse at Flint. Four carloads of galvanized zinc from Flint must be flown to the smelters in Damascus by noon of the eighteenth, terms F.O.B. Calcutta two per cent ten days E.O.M. One Messerschmitt full of hemp is due in Belgrade for a C-47 and a half full of those semi-pitted dates we stuck them with from Khartoum. Use the money from the Portuguese anchovies we’re selling back to Lisbon to pay for the Egyptian cotton we’ve got coming back to us from Mamaroneck and to pick up as many oranges as you can in Spain. Always pay cash for naranjas.”

“Naranjas?”

“That’s what they call oranges in Spain, and these are Spanish oranges. And-oh, yes. Don’t forget Piltdown Man.”

“Piltdown Man?”

“Yes, Piltdown Man. The Smithsonian Institution is not in a position at this time to meet our price for a second Piltdown Man, but they are looking forward to the death of a wealthy and beloved donor and-“

“Milo.”

“France wants all the parsley we can send them, and I think we might as well, because we’ll need the francs for the lire for the pfennigs for the dates when they get back. I’ve also ordered a tremendous shipment of Peruvian balsa wood for distribution to each of the mess halls in the syndicate on a pro rata basis.”

“Balsa wood? What are the mess halls going to do with balsa wood?”

“Good balsa wood isn’t so easy to come by these days, Colonel. I just didn’t think it was a good idea to pass up the chance to buy it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Colonel Cathcart surmised vaguely with the look of somebody seasick. “And I assume the price was right.”

“The price,” said Milo, “was outrageous-positively exorbitant! But since we bought it from one of our own subsidiaries, we were happy to pay it. Look after the hides.”

“The hives?”

“The hides.”

“The hides?”

“The hides. In Buenos Aires. They have to be tanned.”

“Tanned?”

“In Newfoundland. And shipped to Helsinki N.M.I.F. before the spring thaw begins. Everything to Finland goes N.M.I.F. before the spring thaw begins.”

“No Money in Front?” guessed Colonel Cathcart.

“Good, Colonel. You have a gift, sir. And then there’s the cork.”

“The cork?”

“That must go to New York, the shoes for Toulouse, the ham for Siam, the nails from Wales, and the tangerines for New Orleans.”

“Milo.”

“We have coals in Newcastle, sir.”

Colonel Cathcart threw up his hands. “Milo, stop!” he cried, almost in tears. “It’s no use. You’re just like I am-indispensable!” He pushed his pencil aside and rose to his feet in frantic exasperation. “Milo, you can’t fly sixty-four more missions. You can’t even fly one more mission. The whole system would fall apart if anything happened to you.”

Milo nodded serenely with complacent gratification. “Sir, are you forbidding me to fly any more combat missions?”

“Milo, I forbid you to fly any more combat missions,” Colonel Cathcart declared in a tone of stern and inflexible authority.

“But that’s not fair, sir,” said Milo. “What about my record? The other men are getting all the fame and medals and publicity. Why should I be penalized just because I’m doing such a good job as mess officer?”

“No, Milo, it isn’t fair. But I don’t see anything we can do about it.”

“Maybe we can get someone else to fly my missions for me.”

“But maybe we can get someone else to fly your missions for you,” Colonel Cathcart suggested. “How about the striking coal miners in Pennsylvania and West Virginia?”

Milo shook his head. “It would take too long to train them. But why not the men in the squadron, sir? After all, I’m doing this for them. They ought to be willing to do something for me in return.”

“But why not the men in the squadron, Milo?” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed. “After all, you’re doing all this for them. They ought to be willing to do something for you in return.”

“What’s fair is fair.”

“What’s fair is fair.”

“They could take turns, sir.”

“They might even take turns flying your missions for you, Milo.”

“Who gets the credit?”

“You get the credit, Milo. And if a man wins a medal flying one of your missions, you get the medal.”

“Who dies if he gets killed?”

“Why, he dies, of course. After all, Milo, what’s fair is fair. There’s just one thing.”

“You’ll have to raise the number of missions.”

“I might have to raise the number of missions again, and I’m not sure the men will fly them. They’re still pretty sore because I jumped them to seventy. If I can get just one of the regular officers to fly more, the rest will probably follow.”