“Call me Yo-Yo.”
“Thank you, Yo-Yo.”
All that Yo-Yo Yossarian had been able to find out since was that whatever significance the chaplain represented to whoever were his official captors was only monetary, military, scientific, industrial, diplomatic, and international.
He learned this from Milo Minderbinder.
“Heavy water?” said Milo, when Yossarian, for the second
time in his life, went to him in desperation for illicit assistance on a matter of government business. “How much is heavy water selling for?”
“It fluctuates, Milo. A lot. And there’s a gas that comes from it that costs even more. About $30,000 a gram, right now. But that’s not the point.”
“How much is a gram?”
“About one-thirtieth of an ounce. But that’s not the point.”
“Thirty thousand dollars for one-thirtieth of an ounce? That sounds almost as good as drugs, doesn’t it?” Milo spoke with his eyes fixed on a distance speculatively, each brown iris pointing off in a different direction, and with his mustache twitching in a cadence of attentiveness. “Is there much of a demand for heavy water?”
“Every country wants it. But that’s not the point.”
“What’s it used for?”
“Nuclear energy, mainly. And atomic warheads.”
“That sounds much better than drugs,” Milo went on as though fascinated. “Would you say that heavy water is as good a growth industry as illegal drugs?”
“I would not call heavy water a growth industry,” Yossarian answered wryly. “But all of this is not what I’m talking about. Milo, I want to find out where he is.”
“Where who is?”
“Tappman. The one I’m talking to you about. He was the chaplain in the army with us.”
“I was in the army with a lot of people.”
“He gave you a character reference when you nearly got in trouble for bombing your own air base.”
“I get a lot of character references. Heavy water? Yes? That’s what it’s called? What is the gas?”
“Tritium. But that’s not the point.”
“Yes. I think I can get interested in that. What makes heavy water?”
“Chaplain Tappman does, for one. Milo, I want to find him and get him back before anything happens to him.”
“And I want to help you find him,” promised Milo, who had already succeeded in placing one of his M&M E&A marketing directors on the team carrying out the covert examinations and interrogation of the chaplain.
“How’d you manage that?” Yossarian asked in wonderment.
“That wasn’t hard,” said Milo. “I simply said it was in the national interest.”
“Is it in the national interest?”
“What’s good for M&M E&A is good for the nation, isn’t it?” answered Milo, who had just gone off again to Washington with Eugene Wintergreen for a second presentation of the new secret bomber he had in mind that went faster than sound and made no noise and could not be seen.
3
“You can’t hear it and you can’t see it. It makes no noise and is invisible. It will go faster than sound and slower than sound.”
“Is that why you call it sub-supersonic, Mr. Minderbinder?”
“Yes.”
“When would you want it to go slower than sound?”
“When it’s landing and when it’s taking off, for example.”
“And sometimes to conserve fuel, when that’s preferable.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wintergreen.”
“Will it go faster than light?” asked a general of lowest standing with rimless bifocals who was one in the uniformed half-circle of twelve military officials who sat on the far side of the curving walnut table divided perfectly into two lines of six on both sides of the figure with highest rank, who sat in the center like a monarch, a high priest, or a chief executive officer.
“Almost as fast.”
“Just about as fast.”
“We could even probably make it go faster than light if that’s what you believe you’d like us to do.”
“With just a few simple modifications, if that’s what you believe you think best.”
“There would be, possibly, a slight increase in fuel consumption, but that wouldn’t matter.”
“Faster than the speed of light? I like the ring of that, Mr. Minderbinder. I like the ring of that.”
“So do we, sir. So do we.”
“Wait a minute, please wait just one minute, Mr. Minderbinder. Let me ask something,” slowly cut in a puzzled colonel with a professional demeanor who just one month before had been awarded an honorary doctorate in physics by a leading technological university after steering a research grant of meaningful substance that way which he was now certified by the degree from that university to be qualified to oversee. “There’s something I don’t get. Why would your bomber be noiseless? We have supersonic planes flying now, don’t we, and we can hear the sonic booms, can’t we?”
“It would be noiseless to the crew, Colonel Pickering,” Milo Minderbinder explained carefully.
“Unless they slowed down and allowed the noise to catch up,” added ex-PFC Wintergreen.
“Why would that be important to the enemy, whether the men in our plane could hear the noise of their own plane or not?”
“It might not be important to the enemy, but it could be important to the crew. Some of them may be aloft a long time, for months and months with the procedures for aerial refueling I recommend.”
“Even for years if that’s strategic, with the refueling planes we’ll develop that go just as fast and have a longer range.”
“Will they be invisible too?”
“Of course.”
“If you want them to be.”
“And make no noise?”
“The crew won’t hear them.”
“Unless they go slow.”
“I see, Mr. Wintergreen. It’s all very clever.”
“Thank you, Colonel Pickering.”
“How large is the crew of your second-strike defensive attack bomber?” asked a major on the other end.
“Just two.”
“That’s good. I mean I think it’s good. Maybe it’s not so good. We may have to think it through.”
“Two are cheaper to train than four.”
“I think that may be right, Mr. Minderbinder.”
The man in the center, who was ensconced on a chair half a foot higher than the rest, brought a halt to this dialogue by clearing his throat as a proclamation of intent, and he seemed at last to be ready to say something. The room fell still. For more than twenty minutes he had looked lost, all alone unsmilingly in cumbersome rumination, his muscled jaws working away tirelessly and methodically as though chewing on some tough food for thought. His complexion was tan, his face and torso were lean, and of all those who were in the room he looked the most fit physically.
“Does light move?” he asked finally.
“Oh, yes, certainly light moves, General Binger,” Milo Minderbinder answered promptly.
“Faster than anything,” ex-PFC Wintergreen added helpfully. “Light is just about the fastest thing there is.”
“And one of the brightest too.”
Binger turned in doubt to the six men on his left, and four of them nodded in corroboration.
“Are you sure?” he asked, frowning, and swiveled his sober mien to the six subordinates on his right.
Two of them nodded, and one shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s funny,” Binger said slowly, with a flat smile and a brief sniffle of humorless laughter. “I am looking at that light over there on the small table, and it seems to me that it is standing perfectly still.”
“That’s because it’s moving so fast,” offered Milo quickly.
“It’s moving faster than light,” said Wintergreen.
“You can’t see light when it’s moving,” one of his officers explained to him fearfully, as though putting his life
on the line.
“That’s right, Major, thank you,” Milo said, nodding rapidly.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Minderbinder.”
“It’s like a bullet from a gun,” said Wintergreen.
“You can’t see the bullet when it’s traveling, but you certainly know it’s been there when it strikes the target.”
“Unless you’re the target.”
“You can see light only when it isn’t there,” said Milo.
“Let me show you,” said Wintergreen, surging to his feet as though losing patience. He stepped to the table and switched off the lamp, putting that corner of the room into shadow. “See that?”
“Now I see what you mean, Gene,” Binger said, and all in the room seemed at length in accord. “Yes, I’m beginning to see the light, eh? Get it? Wouldn’t it be a coup,” he went on wistfully when the loud, perfunctory laughter died down, “if we could train our men to march at the speed of light when we have our parades? That would really be a beautiful sight for the Joint Chiefs to see, wouldn’t it?”
“Except,” corrected a thin, young lieutenant colonel impertinently at the very end of one side of the table before he gave himself a chance to think twice, speaking while all of the others were still bobbing their heads, “we wouldn’t be able to see them, would we?”
“I’m afraid we couldn’t, if they went at the speed of light.”
“Here’s an idea to consider,” said Milo usefully. “You could just tell the Joint Chiefs and everyone else watching that they were marching that fast and no one would be able to contradict you. You would get all the credit without doing the work. They would never even have to practice, would they?”
“Would they have to be there?”
“No, they would be invisible, the whole parade. You wouldn’t even need any men if they were going to march that fast.”
“Milo, that’s a good idea to consider, an invisible parade, without any men marching. We could have had one at the inauguration.” With this speculation, General Binger relaxed his military bearing and slumped sideways along the arm of his chair. “Put simply, Milo, what does your plane look like?”
“On radar? It won’t be seen. Not even when fully armed with all its nuclear weapons.”
“To us. In photographs and drawings. When we want to show off.”
“Put simply, General, our plane is a flying wing with a heavy arsenal of nuclear weapons, shaped on the order of the B-2 Stealth. Please keep that quiet.”
“The B-2 Stealth?” cried Binger, sitting up with a shock.
“But better than the Stealth,” Milo put in hastily.
“Very much better, oh, very much better than the Stealth indeed!” Wintergreen added in support.
Binger pondered a moment while the whole crowd was tense, then loosened and slanted back again on his armrest, grinning. “Milo, I think all of us like what I’m hearing from you today. Better than the Stealth? I should hope so. It would certainly be a big feather in my cap if we can put your planes through while those others are still trying to salvage something from the wreckage of their Stealth. And a black eye for them.”
Milo spoke boldly. “I have to tell you, sir, that I have considered the alternatives and definitely think it would be in the best interests of the nation if you gave us all the money we want to go ahead with my plane.”
“I don’t disagree. And I also think it would be in the best interests of the nation if we went ahead with your plane and I was promoted to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
“Hear, hear!” chorused the men on both sides of Binger, who beamed as though shy, and there went through the room for several seconds the low, subsiding vibration of the soles of men’s shoes being scuffled against the floor.
“Hubba-hubba,” said Binger, cutting off this unrehearsed display of devotion with another smile and a nod. “Milo, what do you call your airplane? We’ll have to know when we want to discuss it.”
“The M&M E&A Sub-Supersonic Invisible and Noiseless Defensive Second-Strike Offensive Attack Bomber.”
“That’s a good name for a second-strike attack bomber. It will look good in a proposal.”
“It sort of suggested itself, sir.”
“It seemed obvious,” said Wintergreen.
“I agree, Gene. Milo,” Binger went on, while the rest of the room was still, “please put something down on paper for me while we work this over a little more. Just a few glowing paragraphs. Sooner or later, I’m afraid, we will have to ask for more details. But I already know I’m going to want to run for the gold with this one and pass it right along.”
“To the little prick?” Milo burst out with hope.
“Oh, no, it’s still a little too soon for Little Prick,” Binger replied with humoring jollity. “Although I sure do wish I could go directly to him now. No, there are channels we must go through, above us and below us, and there are those civilians in the Department of Defense. In the end Rosenblatt will have to approve, I guess. I want to sell this concept and start building support for you. You’re not the only one after this, you realize.”
“Who are the others?”
“I’m not sure I know. Strangelove is one. I don’t know all the rest.”
“Strangelove?” said Milo.
“That German?” sneered Wintergreen.
“He was pushing the Stealth.”
“What’s he up to now?”
“I’m not all that sure,” Binger confessed. “But he has this Strangelove All-Purpose Do-It-Yourself Defensive First Second or Third Strike Indestructible Fantastic State-of-the-Art B-Ware Offensive Attack Bomber he wants to sell. Take a look at his new business card. One of the security agents in our unit stole it from one of the security agents in another unit in procurement with which we are in mortal competition and just about ready to go to war. Your bomber will help.”
The business card passed down was of best quality, it appeared, with the double eagle of the Austro-Hungarian empire imprinted in black and with raised lettering of auburn gold that read: Elliott Strangelove Associates. Fine Contacts and Advice. Secondhand Influence Bought and Sold. Bombast on Demand. Notice: The Information on This Card Is Classified.
Milo was downcast.
“May I make a copy?”
“Please take it,” pressed Binger. “I brought it for you. It would pretty much be the end of our chances in this affair if one of someone else’s security agents found in our possession a business card stolen from one of someone else’s security agents. Milo, we’re all in a race to deliver a defense weapon that could lead to the end of the world and bring victory to the winner who uses it first. Whoever sponsors that baby could be elevated to a Joint Chief of Staff.”
“Then I hope you’ll move fast,” said Wintergreen churlishly, speaking his mind with a sulking and irascible disgruntlement he did not try to disguise. “We don’t like to just keep sitting around with a hot product like this one.”
“Just give me that page or two on what you’ve been telling us today so we’ll know what we are talking about when we talk to people about what you’ve been talking about to us today. And we will move right along as fast as we can. As fast as light, eh? Get it? And oh, Milo, there’s one thing more we forgot to ask you, and I suppose we should. It’s touchy, so I’m sorry. Will these planes of yours work?”
“Will they work?”
“Will they do the job you say they will? The future of the world may depend on it.”
“Would I lie to you?” said Milo Minderbinder.
“When the future of the world may depend on it?” said ex-PFC Wintergreen.
“I would sooner lie to my wife, sir.”
“Thank you, Milo. Thank you, Gene. I know I can count on that promise.”
“General Binger,” said Wintergreen, with the pained solemnity of a man taking umbrage, “I understand what war is like. With all due respect, I think there is no one on earth who knows it better than I do. In the big war I served overseas as a PFC. I dug ditches in Colo
rado. I sorted mail in a small mail room in the Mediterranean when the Normandy invasion was planned and executed. I was there on D day, in my mail room, I mean, and it was not much bigger than this room we’re in today. I stuck my neck out in the Rome-Arno campaign with stolen Zippo lighters for our fighting men in the Italian theater of operations.”
“I did that with eggs,” said Milo.
“We don’t have to be reminded of all that’s at stake. I understand the enemy, and I know what all of us are up against. No one in this room has a stronger understanding than I have of my responsibilities in this matter or a deeper commitment to my duty to fulfill them.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said General Binger to him humbly.
“Unless it’s you, General, or Mr. Minderbinder here. Or any of your colleagues at the table with you, sir.
“I knew those bastards were going to ask for something,” he said with a growl to Milo as soon as the two of them had left the room and were together outside.
“Wintergreen,” whispered Milo, as they moved away from the august building from which they had just made their exit,
“will these planes of ours work?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“If the future of the world is going to depend on it, I think the future of M&M E&A may be affected, too. I think we ought to have something put down on paper pretty fast so they can move right along, shouldn’t we? We’ll need some punchy sales copy for a booklet or leaflet. Who can we get who’s good at that?”
“Yossarian?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He might object.”
“Fuck him,” said Wintergreen. “We can ignore him again.”
“I wish you wouldn’t swear so much in the nation’s capital.”
“No one but you can hear me.”
Milo looked apprehensive, shaking his head, and the uneven halves of his russet-gray mustache flickered unevenly, as though the two were not attached to the same upper lip. “No, not Yossarian. He’s been objecting a lot lately. I really don’t think I want him to know any more about what we’re doing than he’s already found out.”
“How come?”
Milo continued shaking his head. “I’m not sure I trust him. I think he’s still honest.”
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