“On the contrary,” Yossarian corrected. “He found out how right he was. We packed it away by the plateful and clamored for more. We all knew we were sick, but we had no idea we’d been poisoned.”

Milo sniffed in consternation twice, like a shaggy brown hare. “In that case, I certainly do want to get him over to the administrative side. I don’t want anything like that happening while I’m in charge. You see,” he confided earnestly, “what I hope to do is give the men in this squadron the best meals in the whole world. That’s really something to shoot at, isn’t it? If a mess officer aims at anything less, it seems to me, he has no right being mess officer. Don’t you agree?”

Yossarian turned slowly to gaze at Milo with probing distrust. He saw a simple, sincere face that was incapable of subtlety or guile, an honest, frank face with disunited large eyes, rusty hair, black eyebrows and an unfortunate reddish-brown mustache. Milo had a long, thin nose with sniffing, damp nostrils heading sharply off to the right, always pointing away from where the rest of him was looking. It was the face of a man of hardened integrity who could no more consciously violate the moral principles on which his virtue rested than he could transform himself into a despicable toad. One of these moral principles was that it was never a sin to charge as much as the traffic would bear. He was capable of mighty paroxysms of righteous indignation, and he was indignant as could be when he learned that a C.I.D. man was in the area looking for him.

“He’s not looking for you,” Yossarian said, trying to placate him. “He’s looking for someone up in the hospital who’s been signing Washington Irving’s name to the letters he’s been censoring.”

“I never signed Washington Irving’s name to any letters,” Milo declared.

“Of course not.”

“But that’s just a trick to get me to confess I’ve been making money in the black market.” Milo hauled violently at a disheveled hunk of his off-colored mustache. “I don’t like guys like that. Always snooping around people like us. Why doesn’t the government get after ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, if it wants to do some good? He’s got no respect for rules and regulations and keeps cutting prices on me.”

Milo’s mustache was unfortunate because the separated halves never matched. They were like Milo’s disunited eyes, which never looked at the same thing at the same time. Milo could see more things than most people, but he could see none of them too distinctly. In contrast to his reaction to news of the C.I.D. man, he learned with calm courage from Yossarian that Colonel Cathcart had raised the number of missions to fifty-five.

“We’re at war,” he said. “And there’s no use complaining about the number of missions we have to fly. If the colonel says we have to fly fifty-five missions, we have to fly them.”

“Well, I don’t have to fly them,” Yossarian vowed. “I’ll go see Major Major.”

“How can you? Major Major never sees anybody.”

“Then I’ll go back into the hospital.”

“You just came out of the hospital ten days ago,” Milo reminded him reprovingly. “You can’t keep running into the hospital every time something happens you don’t like. No, the best thing to do is fly the missions. It’s our duty.”

Milo had rigid scruples that would not even allow him to borrow a package of pitted dates from the mess hall that day of McWatt’s stolen bedsheet, for the food at the mess hall was all still the property of the government.

“But I can borrow it from you,” he explained to Yossarian, “since all this fruit is yours once you get it from me with Doctor Daneeka’s letter. You can do whatever you want to with it, even sell it at a high profit instead of giving it away free. Wouldn’t you want to do that together?”

“No.”

Milo gave up. “Then lend me one package of pitted dates,” he requested. “I’ll give it back to you. I swear I will, and there’ll be a little something extra for you.”

Milo proved good as his word and handed Yossarian a quarter of McWatt’s yellow bedsheet when he returned with the unopened package of dates and with the grinning thief with the sweet tooth who had stolen the bedsheet from McWatt’s tent. The piece of bedsheet now belonged to Yossarian. He had earned it while napping, although he did not understand how. Neither did McWatt.

“What’s this?” cried McWatt, staring in mystification at the ripped half of his bedsheet.

“It’s half of the bedsheet that was stolen from your tent this morning,” Milo explained. “I’ll bet you didn’t even know it was stolen.”

“Why should anyone want to steal half a bedsheet?” Yossarian asked.

Milo grew flustered. “You don’t understand,” he protested. “He stole the whole bedsheet, and I got it back with the package of pitted dates you invested. That’s why the quarter of the bedsheet is yours. You made a very handsome return on your investment, particularly since you’ve gotten back every pitted date you gave me.” Milo next addressed himself to McWatt. “Half the bedsheet is yours because it was all yours to begin with, and I really don’t understand what you’re complaining about, since you wouldn’t have any part of it if Captain Yossarian and I hadn’t intervened in your behalf.”

“Who’s complaining?” McWatt exclaimed. “I’m just trying to figure out what I can do with half a bedsheet.”

“There are lots of things you can do with half a bedsheet,” Milo assured him. “The remaining quarter of the bedsheet I’ve set aside for myself as a reward for my enterprise, work and initiative. It’s not for myself, you understand, but for the syndicate. That’s something you might do with half the bedsheet. You can leave it in the syndicate and watch it grow.”

“What syndicate?”

“The syndicate I’d like to form someday so that I can give you men the good food you deserve.”

“You want to form a syndicate?”

“Yes, I do. No, a mart. Do you know what a mart is?”

“It’s a place where you buy things, isn’t it?”

“And sell things,” corrected Milo.

“And sell things.”

“All my life I’ve wanted a mart. You can do lots of things if you’ve got a mart. But you’ve got to have a mart.”

“You want a mart?”

“And every man will have a share.”

Yossarian was still puzzled, for it was a business matter, and there was much about business matters that always puzzled him.

“Let me try to explain it again,” Milo offered with growing weariness and exasperation, jerking his thumb toward the thief with the sweet tooth, still grinning beside him. “I knew he wanted the dates more than the bedsheet. Since he doesn’t understand a word of English, I made it a point to conduct the whole transaction in English.”

“Why didn’t you just hit him over the head and take the bedsheet away from him?” Yossarian asked.

Pressing his lips together with dignity, Milo shook his head. “That would have been most unjust,” he scolded firmly. “Force is wrong, and two wrongs never make a right. It was much better my way. When I held the dates out to him and reached for the bedsheet, he probably thought I was offering to trade.”

“What were you doing?”

“Actually, I was offering to trade, but since he doesn’t understand English, I can always deny it.”

“Suppose he gets angry and wants the dates?”

“Why, we’ll just hit him over the head and take them away from him,” Milo answered without hesitation. He looked from Yossarian to McWatt and back again. “I really can’t see what everyone is complaining about. We’re all much better off than before. Everybody is happy but this thief, and there’s no sense worrying about him, since he doesn’t even speak our language and deserves whatever he gets. Don’t you understand?”

But Yossarian still didn’t understand either how Milo could buy eggs in Malta for seven cents apiece and sell them at a profit in Pianosa for five cents.