Closing Time

  Noodles Cook stared fiercely at the wall and made up his mind sooner to forfeit his position of prestige with the incoming administration than deal with a person like this one with a conjecture like that one.

  He was staring, he saw, at a large, simplified chart, hanging as art, of the disposition of forces at the battle of Gettysburg. Noodles began brooding on the historical past. Possibly it had always been thus, he was thinking, between sovereign and adviser, that the subordinate was in all ways but rank the superior. It was then that Noodles, in exhausted desperation, snapped out in command the solution that in the end saved the day:

  Use the Democrat!

  What?

  "Yes, use the fucking Democrat." He swept objections aside by anticipating them. "He was a Kennedy Democrat, so what does that mean? That guy is as bad as the rest of us. You'll get better press coverage for being bipartisan. And when you turn unpopular, you can blame him for swearing you in."

  Porter Lovejoy's vision was vindicated again. In briefing Noodles he had stressed the good use the Vice President could make of him. The need was immediate, the opportunities unlimited. There would be an interview. "How much should I tell him?" Noodles had wanted to know. Porter Lovejoy beamed owlishly. "As much as he lets you. Actually, you will be interviewing him to see if you want the job, although he won't know it." And how, Noodles wondered, amused, would he manage that? Porter Lovejoy merely beamed again. The code name?

  "Don't bring that up now," Porter Lovejoy cautioned. "He chose it himself, you know. You will have no trouble."

  "Come in, come in, come in," said the Vice President jovially to Noodles Cook, after convivial salutations in the anteroom that Noodles found bewilderingly informal.

  It surprised him that the younger man of distinguished title had come bounding out to welcome him warmly. Noodles barely had time to note the high school and college pennants on the walls of the reception room. He could not take count of the large number of television screens, all of them tuned to different channels. "Waiting for old clips and sound bites," the girls there explained, giggling, and Noodles could not tell whether that was serious or not.

  "I've been looking forward to meeting you," the Vice President went on convincingly. "Varoom, varoom, varoom," he said confidentially when they were alone, with the door closed. "That's from a video game I'm undefeated at called Indianapolis Speedway. Do you know it? You will. Are you good at video games? I'll bet I can beat you. Well, now, please tell me all about yourself. I'm dying to know more."

  For Noodles, this was child's play. "Well, sir, what is there about me you'd like to find out? Where should I begin?"

  "The thing about me," answered the Vice President, "is that when I've set my mind to do something, I've always been able to accomplish it. I'm not going to cry over spilt milk, and what's past is past. Once I set a goal, I pursue that goal with a vengeance."

  "I see," said Noodles, after a minute's surprise, when he guessed that a chance was being offered to comment. "And are you saying that you had the goal of becoming Vice President?"

  "Oh, yes, definitely, definitely. And I pursued that goal with a vengeance."

  "What did you do?"

  "I said yes when they asked me to accept it. You see, Mr. Cook--may I call you Noodles? Thank you. It's a privilege--to me the word that best describes the office of Vice President is be prepared. Or is that two words?"

  "I believe it's two."

  "Thank you. I don't think I could get an answer that clear from any of my other tutors. And that's what I want to continue to pursue with a vengeance. Being prepared. Obviously, the more days you have as Vice President, the better prepared you are to be President. Don't you agree?"

  Noodles dodged that question adroitly. "And is that the goal you want to pursue with a vengeance next?"

  "It's the main job of the Vice President, isn't it? My other tutors agree."

  "Does the President know?"

  "I would not pursue it with a vengeance now unless he gave his full approval. Is there anything more you wish to know about me that will help me decide if you're good enough for the job? Porter Lovejoy says you are."

  "Well, sir," said Noodles Cook, and went ahead gingerly. "Is there anything you're taking on now that you feel you might not be perfectly equipped to do entirely on your own?"

  "No. I can't think of a thing."

  "Then why do you feel you need another tutor?"

  "To help me with questions like that one. You see, I made a mistake in college of not really applying myself to my studies, and I regret that."

  "You got passing grades anyway, didn't you?"

  "As good as those I got when I did apply myself. You've been to college, Mr. Cook? You're an educated man?"

  "Yes, I have, sir. I have my graduate degrees."

  "Good. I went to college too, you know. We have much in common and should get along--better, I hope"--and here a sound of the querulous crept in--"than I am getting along with those others. I have a feeling they make jokes about me behind my back. Looking back, I should have pursued philosophy and history and economics and things of that sort in college more. I'm making up for that now."

  "How--" Noodles started to ask, and changed his mind. "Sir, my experience has been--"

  "I'm not going to cry over spilt milk, and that's past."

  "My experience has been," Noodles threaded his way onward obsequiously, "as a student, and even when teaching a bit, that people do what they are. A person interested in athletics, golf, and parties will spend time at athletic events, golf, and parties. It is very difficult in later life to grow interested in subjects like philosophy and history and economics if one was not attracted to them earlier."

  "Yes. And it's never too late either," said the Vice President, and Noodles did not know whether they were in agreement or not. "Lately I have been studying the Napoleonic Wars, to sort of round out my education."

  For a second or two Noodles sat motionless. "Which ones?" was all he could think to reply.

  "Was there more than one?"

  "That was not my field," answered Noodles Cook, and began to give up hope.

  "And I'm doing the battle of Antietam too," he heard the man who was next in line for the presidency continue. "And after that I'm going to have a crack at Bull Run. That was really a great war, that Civil War. We've not had one like it since, have we? You'd be very surprised, but Bull Run is only a short car ride from here, with a police escort."

  "Are you preparing for war?"

  "I'm broadening myself. And I believe in being prepared. All of the rest of the work of a President is pretty hard, it seems to me, and sort of dull. I'm having all of these battles put onto videocassettes and turned into games where either side can win. Varoom, varoom, varoom! Gettysburg too. Do you like video games? Which is your favorite?"

  "I don't have a favorite," Noodles muttered, downcast.

  "Soon you will. Come look at these."

  On a cabinet beneath a video screen--there was a video screen with game controls in many recesses in the office--to which the Vice President walked him lay the game called Indianapolis Speedway. Noodles saw others, called Bombs Away and Beat the Draft.

  And one more, called Die Laughing.

  His host gave a chuckle. "I have nine college men on my staff with eleven doctoral degrees, and not one has been able to beat me at any of these a single time. Doesn't that tell you a lot about higher education in this country today?"

  "Yes," said Noodles.

  "What does it tell you?"

  "A lot," said Noodles.

  "I feel that way too. There's a new one coming out just for me, called Triage. Do you know it?"

  "No."

  "Triage is a word that comes from the French, and in case there's a big war and we have to decide which few should survive in our underground shelters--"

  "I know what the word means, Mr. Vice President!" Noodles interrupted, with more asperity than he had intended. "I just don't know the game," he explained, forcing
a smile.

  "Soon you will. I'll break you in on it first. It's fun and challenging. You would have your favorites and I would have mine, and only one of us could win and decide who would live and who would die. We'll enjoy it. I think I'll want you to specialize in Triage because you never can tell when we really might have to put it into play, and I don't think those others are up to it. Okay?"

  "Yes, Mr. Vice President."

  "And don't be so formal, Noodles. Call me Prick."

  Noodles was appalled. "I could not do that!" he retorted emphatically in a reflex of spontaneous defiance.

  "Try."

  "No, I won't."

  "Not even if it means your job?"

  "No, not even then, Mr. Prick--I mean Mr. Vice President."

  "See? You'll soon be doing it easily. Take a look at these other things Porter Lovejoy says you can handle. How much do you know about heavy water?"

  "Almost nothing at all," said Noodles, feeling himself on firmer ground. "It's got something to do with nuclear reactions, doesn't it?"

  "Don't ask me. It says something like that here. I don't know much about it either, so already we've got a good meeting of the minds."

  "What's the problem?"

  "Well, they've got this man in custody who's producing it without a license. A retired chaplain from the old army air corps, it says, back in World War II."

  "Why don't you make him stop?"

  "He can't stop. He's producing it sort of, if you know what I mean, biologically."

  "No. I don't know what you mean."

  "Well, that's what it says here on this synopsis of a summary of this classified folder, code name Tap Water. He eats and drinks like the rest of us, but what comes out of him, I guess, is this heavy water. He was researched and developed by a private corporation, M & M E & A, that now has an option on him and a patent pending."

  "Where have they got him?"

  "Underground somewhere, in case he decides to turn radioactive. He was in contact with some kind of associate just before they nabbed him, and his wife and this other guy talk on the telephone in code regularly and pretend to know nothing about anything. Nothing dirty between them yet. He talks on the telephone to a nurse also, and a lot that's dirty may be starting between those two. It's as though they never heard of AIDS. And there may be a Belgian spy connection with the new European Economic Community. The Belgian is swallowing again,' she reported to him, the last time they spoke."

  "Well, what do you want to do about him?"

  "Oh, we could easily have him killed by one of our antiterrorist units, if it comes to that. But we may need him, because we're having a problem with a shortage of tritium too. How much do you know about tritium, Noodles?"

  "Tritium? I've never heard of it."

  "Good. You can be objective. I think it's a radioactive gas of some kind that we need for our hydrogen bombs and other things. They can get it from heavy water, and this chaplain could be very valuable if he can train others to start passing heavy water too. The President hasn't got much patience for this and wants me to handle it. I don't have the patience for it either, so I'll give it to you."

  "Me?" exclaimed Noodles, with surprise. "You mean I'm hired?"

  "We've been talking, haven't we? Let me know what you think I should recommend."

  He handed Noodles a red folder of some bulk with a top sheet with a one-sentence precis of an abstract of a digest of a synopsis of a status report of a summary of a condensation about a retired military chaplain of seventy-one who was manufacturing heavy water internally without a license and was now secretly in custody for examination and interrogation. Noodles knew little about heavy water and nothing about tritium, but he knew enough to betray no flicker of recognition when he read the names John Yossarian and Milo Minderbinder, although he pondered somberly over the nurse Melissa MacIntosh, of whom he had never heard, and a roommate named Angela Moore or Angela Moore-cock, and about a mysterious Belgian agent in a New York hospital with throat cancer, about whom the nurse regularly transmitted coded messages by telephone, and a suave, well-dressed mystery man who appeared to be keeping the others under surveillance, either to snoop or as bodyguard. As a connoisseur of expository writing, Noodles was impressed by the genius of an author to abridge so much into a single sentence.

  "You want me to decide?" Noodles murmured finally with puzzlement.

  "Why not you? And then here's this other thing, about someone with a perfect warplane he wants us to buy and someone else with a better perfect warplane that he wants us to buy, and we can only buy one."

  "What does Porter Lovejoy say?"

  "He's busy preparing for his trial. I want you to judge."

  "I believe I'm not qualified."

  "I believe in the flood," the Vice President replied.

  "I don't think I heard that."

  "I believe in the flood."

  "What flood?" Noodles was befuddled again.

  "Noah's flood, of course. The one in the Bible. So does my wife. Don't you know about it?"

  Through narrowed eyes Noodles searched the guileless countenance for some twinkle of play. "I'm not sure I know what you mean. You believe it was wet?"

  "I believe that it's true. In every detail."

  "That he took the male and the female of every animal species?"

  "That's what it says."

  "Sir," said Noodles, with civility. "We have by now catalogued more kinds of animal and insect life than anyone could possibly collect in a lifetime and put onto a ship that size. How would he get them, where would he put them, to say nothing of room for himself and the families of his children, and the problems of the storage of food and the removal of waste in those forty days and nights of rain?"

  "You do know about it!"

  "I've heard. And for a hundred and fifty days and nights afterward, when the rain stopped."

  "You know about that too!" The Vice President regarded him approvingly. "Then you probably also know that evolution is bunk. I hate evolution."

  "Where did all this animal life we know about now come from? There are three or four hundred thousand different species of beetles alone."

  "Oh, they probably just evolved."

  "In only seven thousand years? That's about all it was, as biblical time is measured."

  "You can look it up, Noodles. Everything we need to know about the creation of the world is right there in the Bible, put down in plain English." The Vice President regarded him placidly. "I know there are skeptics. They are all of them Reds. They are all of them wrong."

  "There's the case of Mark Twain," Noodles could not restrain himself from arguing.

  "Oh, I know that name!" the Vice President cried, with great vanity and joy. "Mark Twain is that great American humorist from my neighboring state of Missouri, isn't he?"

  "Missouri is not a neighboring state of Indiana, sir. And your great American humorist Mark Twain ridiculed the Bible, despised Christianity, detested our imperialistic foreign policy, and heaped piles of scorn on every particular in the story of Noah and his ark, especially for the housefly."

  "Obviously," the Vice President replied, with no loss of equanimity, "we are talking about different Mark Twains."

  Noodles was enraged. "There was only one, sir," he said softly, and smiled. "If you like, I'll prepare a summary of his statements and leave it with one of your secretaries."

  "No, I hate written things. Put it on a video, and maybe we can turn it into a game. I really can't see why some people who read have so much trouble coming to grips with the simple truths that are put down there so clearly. And please don't call me sir, Noodles. You're so much older than I am. Won't you call me Prick?"

  "No, sir, I won't call you prick."

  "Everyone else does. You have a right to. I have taken an oath to support that constitutional right."

  "Look, you prick--" Noodles had jumped to his feet and was glancing around frantically, for a blackboard, for chalk and a pointer, for anything! "Water seeks its own
level."

  "Yes, I've heard that."

  "Mount Everest is close to five miles high. For the earth to be covered with water, there would have to be water everywhere on the globe that was close to five miles deep."

  His future employer nodded, pleased that he finally seemed to be getting through. "There was that much water then."

  "Then the waters receded. Where could they recede to?"

  "Into the oceans, of course."

  "Where were the oceans, if the world was under water?"

  "Underneath the flood, of course," was the unhesitating reply, and the genial man rose. "If you look at a map, Noodles, you will see where the oceans are. And you will also see that Missouri does border on my state of Indiana."

  "He believes in the flood!" Noodles Cook, still stewing, and speaking almost in a shout, reported immediately to Porter Lovejoy. It was the first time in the relationship that he had presented himself to his sponsor with anything other than a conspiratorial contentment.

  Porter Lovejoy was unruffled. "So does his wife."

  "I'll want more money!"

  "The job doesn't call for it."

  "Change the job!"

  "I'll talk to Capone."

  His health was good, he was not on welfare, and it was understood now by all involved that as the secretary in charge of health, education and welfare in the new cabinet, Noodles would focus his energies entirely on the education of the President.

  BOOK

  FIVE

  13

  Tritium

  Heavy water was up another two points, read the fax in the M & M office in Rockefeller Center in New York, on the same floor, and in much the same spot, in which Sammy Singer had spent almost all his adult working life with Time magazine, an office that, as Michael Yossarian again saw, had windows overlooking the fabled skating rink far below, the glittering, frozen centerpiece of the venerable Japanese real estate complex obtained for money earlier from the vanishing Rockefeller financial dynasty. The rink was the same site on which Sammy years before had, with Glenda, gone ice skating for the first time in his life, and didn't fall, and had gone again with her on more than one long lunch hour after they commenced seeing each other regularly, while she was still pressing him to come live with her in her West Side apartment, together with her three children and her remarkable frontier mother from Wisconsin, who approved of Sammy and departed gladly to live again with a sister on a small family farm after he did--none of the New York parents he knew, not even his own, were ever so gracefully self-sacrificing--and tritium, the gas derived from heavy water, had gained an additional two hundred and sixteen points on the international radioactive commodity exchanges in Geneva, Tokyo, Bonn, Iraq, Iran, Nigeria, China, Pakistan, London, and New York. The rise in tritium was buoyed optimistically by the natural property of that hydrogen isotope to degenerate at a predictable rate in atomic weapons, necessitating periodic replenishment, and the enticing disposition of the gas to lessen in quantity between the time it was sealed by the shipper and the hour it was received by the purchaser, who, more commonly than not, was a manufacturer of novelties or marking devices with outer surfaces intrinsically luminous or an assembler and supplier of nuclear warheads.