Snake said little till they had filled their meal trays and had seated themselves. He sipped coffee, smoked half a Marlboro, stared at his tray. "Makes you light-headed after doing without for so long. And more food than we used to get in two days."

"They take good care of us here. You can go back for more if you want."

"Why?"

"Try those pancakes. Like Mom used to make."

Michael had just begun to appreciate the investment that had gone into this place. Where, in Red China, did you find a cook able to whip up a midwestern breakfast and make it taste Iowa on a frosty autumn morning? Where did you get ham, bacon, eggs, sausage, grits, biscuits, gravy, cornbread, cereal, to prepare to each man's taste? Twenty-four brands of cigarettes. Coke, Pepsi, and Seven-Up. Bud, Busch, Burgie, Coors, Hamm's, Miller's, Pabst, Schlitz, and a dozen others, in a beer cooler that was open two hours every evening…

All the comforts of home. But no Playboy in the library. No newspapers or periodicals from home, except the like of the Daily Worker, and especially selected excerpts from editorial columns.

Snake didn't press. He downed half his meal before noting, "I thought there'd be more people around. They kept taking guys out of every camp I was ever in."

Only two Americans not of the new class were around. Like Michael, they were graduates.

"This is just the orientation center. Only gets used when there's a new class. The main installation is huge. And getting bigger every day." Chinese lifetermers, condemned to see the sun nevermore, provided the labor digging the academy ever deeper and larger. "We have six national divisions, all separate, all broken up into as many independent sections as are necessary. The American division is the biggest right now, but the Russian and Burmese are pretty big too." He frowned, wondering why that should be. Nobody knew what the hell was going on outside. The isolation kept you from finding out from anybody who had been there recently. Guys from the camps only knew what had happened before their capture.

It was like living on the moon, trying to follow current events through a telescope.

He shouldn't be telling Snake anything. It wasn't his job. "Most of our graduates go back to special camps."

That hadn't always been the plan. But the threat of commando raids aimed at rescuing POWs had made the director decide that someone should be available for recapture.

Then, too, he was unsure of the extent and efficacy of the CIA networks in the North. He feared a constant, unexplained depletion of prisoner populations would alert the enemy. As it was, the operation limped, crippled by balky, obstinate Vietnamese officials. The middle echelons, it seemed, cooperated as little as possible.

Security was the reason, of course. Only Ho and General Giap had ever been in the know.

Graduates were kept quarantined, doing post-graduate work, being brought ever more into line. The hypnotic treatments, needed to make the majority ignorant of what they were, was delicate, took ages to perfect, and occasionally needed reinforcement.

Michael spent another hour introducing Snake to his new world.

"Mike, I've had it," Cantrell finally protested. "I've got to sleep."

Cash harkened back to his own long, harrowing plane ride. "Sure. I understand. Go ahead. I'll see you in the morning."

Michael retreated to his own room, a bedroom-office off the dormitory. He lay on his bunk a long time, staring at the concrete ceiling.

Snake was still Snake. He was still Michael Cash. But Time had been nurturing one of its infamous treasons. The old bond, wrought between men who had helped one another survive a prisonward hell march, had worn.

He hadn't been there to share and ease the pain when Snake had taken the injuries to his leg and soul. Snake hadn't been here. They just hadn't shared in too long.

A single tear dribbled from Michael's right eye. He brushed it away irritably. Then he moved to his desk, to lose himself in his language studies.

Little of his graduate work was Marxist. The director wanted his special men to have skills making them suitable for the widest possible employment. Michael was pursuing a curriculum ranging from hard science to the softest liberal arts. It was more intense than any he had known in college. And he had his duties as well.

This was higher education without the beer parties and football. And girls.

Michael hardly remembered what a woman was anymore.

In that way the institution mirrored its director thoroughly.

The first class Monday was a simple and honest, if incomplete, lecture describing the academy and its purpose. Michael sat at the back and made notes. Each little reaction went down. A committee of instructors would review them before making course assignments.

The next session was an introduction to Marxist thought. The twenty students fidgeted under a barrage of ideas they found offensive. A navy flier named Jorgenson thundered "Bullshit!" during a cataloging of the crimes of American capitalist-imperialism.

The instructor peeped over round-lensed, wire-framed glasses quizzically, glanced at Cash, continued.

Jorgenson came to Michael during lunch.

"Lieutenant, you said tell you our problems. I've got one. The Chink cocksucker on the chow line won't let me have any coffee or cigarettes. How come? He let everybody else."

Cash glanced at the man's tray. Standard meal. Water to drink. Good. He nodded, ignoring Jorgenson's defiance. "So I see."

"Well, how come? Why me? You said-"

"Mealtimes make good times to reflect on our shortcomings. On our egoisms and willful errors. Reflect while you eat."

Michael caught Snake's thoughtful look. He understood.

Jorgenson ate in silence. He had figured it out too.

These early lessons would be gentle, subtle. Resistance, the director felt, could be more easily disarmed that way.

From that luncheon on Snake was the worst offender. And Cash knew he meant to ease the pressure on the others. He could handle the shit. It had nothing to do with any feud with the Chinese Communists. He loathed them no more than other Statists.

Orientation week dragged.

Michael had a tough night Saturday. His assignment recommendations were due.

Snake was his best friend in this half of the world. Not once had Cantrell condemned him for his change of faith, nor had he been less friendly than in the past, despite the new distance between them. But the man wouldn't let their friendship shape his behavior.