Saltus was puzzled. “Well — what’s the trouble?”

“Haven’t you read the Bible?”

“No.”

“Nor the Book of Revelations?”

“I’m not much of a reader, civilian.”

“The first scroll was an original copy of the Book of Revelations — original, in that it was written at least a hundred years earlier than the book included in the Bible. And it was presented as fiction. That’s why Major Moresby is angry with me. Moresby — and people like him — don’t want the book to be a hundred years older than believed; they don’t want it to be revealed as fiction. They can’t accept the idea that the story was first written by some Qumran priest or scribe, and circulated around the country to entertain or inspire the populace. Major Moresby doesn’t want the book to be midrash.”

Saltus whistled. “I should think not! He takes all that seriously, mister. He believes in prophecies.”

“I don’t,” Chaney said. “I’m skeptical, but I’m quite willing to let others believe if they so choose. I said nothing in the book to undermine their beliefs; I offered no opinions of my own. But I did show that the first Revelations scroll was written at the Qumran school, and that it was buried in a cave a hundred years or more before the present book was written — or copied — and included in the Bible. I offered indisputable proof that the book in the Christian Bible was not only a later copy, but that it had been altered from the original. The two versions didn’t match; the seams showed. Whoever wrote the second version deleted several passages from the first and inserted new chapters more in keeping with his times. In short, he modernized it and made it more acceptable to his priest, his king, his people. His only failing was that he was a poor editor — or a poor seamstress — and his seams were visible. He did a poor job of rewriting.”

Saltus said: “And old William went up in smoke. He blamed you for everything.”

“Almost everyone did. A newspaper reviewer in Saint Louis questioned my patriotism; another in Minneapolis hinted that I was the anti-Christ, and a communist tool to boot. A newspaper in Rome skewered me with the unkindest cut of all: it printed the phrase Traduttore Traditore over the review — the Translator is a Traitor.” Despite himself a trace of bitterness was evident. “On my next holiday I’ll confine myself to something safe. I’ll dig up a ten-thousand-year-old city in the Negev, or go out and rediscover Atlantis.”

They walked in silence for a space. A car sped by them toward the busy commissary.

Chaney asked: “A personal question, Commander?”

“Fire away, mister.”

“How did you manage your rank so young?”

Saltus laughed. “You haven’t been in service?”

“No.”

“Blame it on our damned war — the wits are calling it our Thirty Years War. Promotions come faster in wartime because men and ships are lost at an accelerated rate — and they come faster to men in the line than to men on the beach. I’ve always been in the line. When the Viet Nam war passed the first five years, I started moving up; when it passed ten years without softening, I moved up faster. And when it passed fifteen years — after that phony peace, that truce — I went up like a skyrocket.” He looked at Chaney with sober expression. “We lost a lot of men and a lot of ships in those waters when the Chinese began shooting at us.”

Chaney nodded. “I’ve heard the rumors, the stories. The Israeli papers were filled with Israeli troubles, but now and then outside news was given some space.”

“You’ll hear the truth someday; it will jolt you. Washington hasn’t released the figures, but when they do you’ll get a stiff jolt in the belly. A lot of things are kept undercover in undeclared wars. Some of the things work their way into the open after a while, but others never do.” Another sidelong glance, measuring Chaney. “Do you remember when the Chinese lobbed that missile on the port city we were working? That port below Saigon?”

“No one can forget that.”

“Well, mister, our side retaliated in kind, and the Chinese lost two railroad towns that same week — Keiyang and Yungning. Two holes in the ground, and several hundred square miles of radioactive cropland. Their missile was packing a low-yield A, it was all they could manage at the time, but we hit them with two Harrys. You will please keep that under your hat until you read about it in the papers — if you ever do.”

Chaney digested the information with some alarm. “What did they do, to retaliate for that?”

“Nothing — yet. But they will, mister, they will! As soon as they think we’re asleep, they’ll clobber us with something. And hard.”

Chaney had to agree. “I suppose you’ve had more than one tour of duty in the South China Sea?”

“More than one,” Saltus told him. “On my last tour, I had two good ships torpedoed under me. Not one, but two, and Chinese subs were responsible both times. Those bastards can really shoot, mister — they’re good.”

“A Lieutenant Commander is equal to what?”

“A Major. Old William and me are buddies under the skin. But don’t be impressed. If it wasn’t for this war I’d be just another junior grade Lieutenant.”

The desire for further conversation fell away and they walked in pensive silence to the commissary. Chaney recalled with distaste his contributions to Pentagon papers concerning the coming capabilities of the Chinese. Saltus seemed to have confirmed a part of it.

Chaney went first through the serving line but paused for a moment at the end of it, balancing the tray to avoid spilling coffee. He searched the room.

“Hey — there’s Katrina!”

“Where?”

“Over there, by that far window.”

“I don’t believe in waiting for an invitation.”

“Push on, push on, I’m right behind you!”

Chaney discovered that he had spilled his coffee by the time they reached her table. He had tried to move too fast, but still lost out.

Arthur Saltus was there first. He promptly sat down in the chair nearest the young woman and transferred his breakfast dishes from the tray to the table. Saltus put his elbows on the table, peered closely at Katrina, then half turned to Chaney.

“Isn’t she lovely this morning! What would your friend Bartlett say about this?”

Chaney noted the tiny line of disapproval above her eyes. “Her very frowns are fairer far, than the smiles of other maidens are.”

“Hear! Hear!” Saltus clapped his hands in approval, and stared back impudently at nearby diners who had turned to look. “Nosey peasants,” was his loud whisper.

Kathryn van Hise struggled to maintain her reserve. “Good morning, gentlemen, Where is the Major?”

“Snoring,” Arthur Saltus retorted. “We sneaked out to have breakfast alone with you.”

“And these other two hundred characters.” Chaney waved a hand at the crowded mess hall. “This is romantic.”

“These peasants aren’t romantic,” Saltus disagreed. “They lack color and Old World charm.” He stared bleakly at the room. “Hey — mister, we could practice on them. Let’s run a survey on them, let’s find out how many of them are Republicans eating fried eggs.” Snap of fingers. “Better yet — let’s find out how many Republican stomachs have been ruined eating these Army eggs!”

Katrina made a hasty sound of warning. “Be careful of your conversation in public places. Certain subjects are restricted to the briefing room.”

Chaney said: “Quick! Switch to Aramaic. These peasants will never catch on.”

Saltus began to laugh but lust as suddenly shut it off. “I only know one word.” He seemed embarrassed.

“Then don’t repeat it,” Chaney warned. “Katrina may have studied Aramaic — she reads everything.”

“Hey — that’s not fair.”

“I do unfair things, I retaliate in kind, Commander. Last night, I sneaked into the briefing room while you were all asleep.” He turned to the young woman. “I know your secret. I know one of the alternative targets.”