“Four may keep a secret if three of them are dead.”
-Benjamin Franklin
“Right on the dot, as usual.”
George smiled as he sat down opposite the blue-eyed lab assistant. Martha Aurelia lived up to her name: she was truly radiant with her gold hair and bright, pale complexion. She was also ‘bright’ in the sense that she was smart, good-humored, and extremely perceptive.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “My teachers always said if you were on time, you were late, and if you were early, you were on time. But you’re on time and…on time. Like, right on time. Every time.”
Her voice had just the hint of an accent; the remnant, she said, of growing up in the Bronx.
“Just punctual,” he shrugged. “Family trait.”
They met, as usual, in a Vietnamese restaurant on the corner a block from his apartment in San Luis Obispo, one of the smaller cities that made up the greater San Ignatio area. It was a clean, cozy little place; one of those family enterprises in which everything, from making the food to cleaning the floor, had been done with the same pride and care as if it were their own home and the customers were invited guests.
“Only way I can be on time is if I shoot at being ten minutes early,” Martha said, shaking her head. “I think the New York subways spoiled my sense of timing; they were always late.”
He smiled as the waiter came to take their orders. After he had gone, Martha lowered her voice and asked “So how did it go?”
“What?”
“You know,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Our visitor.”
George frowned.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about it.”
“No,” she admitted. “Not to most people. But I’m pretty sure I’m okay. Most of the time I know more than you do.”
“True,” he admitted. “But I don’t think that means I can just tell you anything.”
“I’m not asking anything,” she said. “Come on, George; I already know most of it; General came for inspection, wasn’t impressed with C-90. Unless that was an act.”
“Nope, really thought it was a letdown,” he said, shaking his head. “Alright, guess it can’t hurt to tell you he wasn’t that impressed with Dr. Chesler’s work either.”
“What’d he have?”
“Performance enhancers,” George said. “But…I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
She waved her hand dismissively.
“I’ve already forgotten. Did he like anything we were doing?”
“Well,” said George. “I don’t know. I didn’t see the last one. But, if I had to guess, that was the only thing that impressed him.”
“But…you don’t know what it was?”
“No idea.”
She sighed.
“What’s the good of being involved in secret research if they still keep things from you?”
“I think that’s sort of the point,” he said.
Martha shrugged and sipped her tea.
“What was wrong with the performance enhancers?” she asked.
“I thought you said you forgot about them,” he frowned.
“So I did,” she said. “What was wrong with those things-which-I-don’t-remember-what-they-were?”
He laughed and gave in.
“Dr. Arnold said they had some nasty side-effects, but he didn’t go into details. I think aside from the extra secret project, you guys are the best we’ve got. At least yours only has a ‘risk’ of side-effects.”
She grimaced.
“Actually,” she said, lowering her voice. “Between you, me, and the plant, Dr. King kind of understated the risks. There’s a reason we haven’t moved up to human trials.”
“Oh,” George sighed, feeling somewhat deflated.
“So, what it sounds like we’re saying,” she said. “Is that the Birkin Center really didn’t deserve all that grant money.”
“Well, it’s only been, what, six months? Seven?”
“More like nine or ten,” she said. “I don’t have a good head for dates.”
“Still,” he said doggedly. “You can’t expect too much in that kind of time period. There’s still time.”
“I imagine that’s what Dr. Arnold told the General,” she said.
Probably, he thought, but didn’t want to say so.
Their food arrived, and they fell silent for a while as they started eating.
“George,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. What is it?”
She played with her food a little, as though trying to come up with the best way of voicing her concerns.
“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” she said at last.
“What do you mean?”
“Us. In the lab. I mean, we’re doing all this work, but it’s all for war. It’s all so that we can help some people kill other people they don’t agree with.”
He looked at her in surprise. This was the first inclination he’d ever had that she might harbor such doubts.
“That’s kind of an understatement,” he said slowly. “Saying that we ‘disagree’ with the Communists, I mean.”
“Well, that’s what it comes down to, right?” she said. “That we just have a different view of how countries ought to be governed.”
“I suppose,” he said with a bit of a laugh. “And if I lived back in 1840s, I’d also ‘disagree’ with slaveholders.”
“I think it’s slightly different,” she chuckled.
“Maybe, but the point is you could define every conflict as a ‘disagreement,’ but when it comes to Communism and Freedom, well, that’s one hell of a disagreement.”
“I guess,” she sighed. “I just think there’s a better way to settle it than by going around killing each other.”
“Of course there is,” said George. “But the trouble is, you’ve gotta get both sides to agree to use that ‘better way,’ and they usually don’t. In World War Two, it would have been better for all sides if the Germans and the Japanese had just agreed to stop invading other countries and practicing genocide. But since they didn’t, we couldn’t use that better way.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Point taken. And I suppose there’s no point in asking whether you think we even have any business in Africa?”
“Well, Kenya is our ally, and they’re under attack,” he pointed out. “Besides, it’s much better for everyone, and especially them, if they don’t fall under Communist rule. Think about it; not only would that make the other side stronger and ours weaker, but consider all the people who would end up suffering and dying if it goes to Communism?”
“I think there are plenty of people suffering under the present Kenyan regime,” she said. “Have you heard of some of the things that go on over there?”
“Yes,” he said. “And it’s terrible, and I hope they reform once the war is over. But bad as things are, a Communist regime would be worse. Just go ask the Vietnamese whether they would have preferred for us to have pulled out and left them to Ho Chi Min and his goons.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” she sighed. “And…well, I don’t know, but don’t you feel kind of weird helping to make things that are designed to take lives?”
“I don’t think of it like that,” he answered. “The way I see it, the better weapons our boys have, the sooner the war will be over and the less people die and suffer because of it. Besides, what we’re making will protect freedom, and freedom is the only real path to peace.”
“So, when everyone thinks like us, we won’t have to fight them anymore?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. The conversation had briefly invigorated him, but now he was starting to feel his lack of sleep again. “I just meant that the more free people in the world, the less cause there will be for war.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I just said,” she laughed.
“No, no!” he insisted. It was like his brain had suddenly reached the end of its tether and he couldn’t think clearly any more. “Freedom isn’t about thinking like us, it’s about…oh, heck; I can’t explain it now.”
Martha raised her hands like a football player and said “score!” very softly. George glared at her.
“Just kidding,” she said.
“Look, if you feel that way, why’d you take this job in the first place?”
“Two reasons,” she said. “First, I’m helping to make something that will heal people, not kill them. Second, I’m a graduate student in desperate need of real-world experience to put on my resume. Why’d you take the job? Patriotic fervor?”
“It’s…kind of complicated,” he said.
“I’m good with complicated things,” she said, smiling and settling in to listen.
George couldn’t help smiling at her playfulness. He’d always avoided this subject with her since it was kind of embarrassing to him, but, well, couldn’t avoid it forever, could he?
“I come from a long line of soldiers,” he began. “All the way back to my great-great-great grandfather, who was part of Grant’s army during the Civil War. Every man in my family that I know of has fought for this country. Many of them died for it. It sort of brings it all home when you’ve got that kind of history; makes you realize just how valuable what we have here really is.”
He lapsed into silence for a moment, thinking.
“Anyway,” he went on. “Only thing I ever wanted to do was join the military: preferably the Marine Corps. But…”
He tapped his left ear morosely.
“This thing here doesn’t work so good.”
Martha reached over a snapped her fingers a couple times next to his head. He shook his head.
“Nothing. See, I caught a fever a couple years back. Fell through the ice while fishing. Kind of a dull story, but the point is, I was laid up for weeks, nearly died, and by the end of it…”
He tapped his ear again.
“I still tried to enlist, of course. Thought they might make an exception. But, they didn’t. So, I tried to go to college, but that didn’t work out…”
“What do you mean, didn’t work out?”
George jumped and looked up. Ben Osborne stood behind him, grinning broadly.
“Hey, how long have you been there?” he exclaimed, giving his friend a playful punch in the stomach.
“Long enough,” he answered. “I was wondering when you’d cotton on to me. Hi, Martha.”
“Well, this is a surprise,” said George. “Imagine a captain of industry like you lowering himself to dine with us peons.”
“Who says I’m dining with you?” asked Ben, sliding into the booth next to Martha. “Anyway, what’s all this about ‘not working out’? That hurts me!”
George laughed. “Well, I guess what I meant was it didn’t work out academically; socially wasn’t so bad.”
“I take it that’s where you two met?” said Martha.
Ben nodded.
“We spent a while knocking each other around, then went out for drinks.”
“Huh?”
“Boxing,” George explained. “Only thing at college I was any good at.”
“I seem to remember you being alright at history,” said Ben.
“Oh, I was,” said George. “Just not so good at writing papers or citing my sources or anything like that.”
“Anyway,” Ben went on. “Going to school got you your dream job, didn’t it?”
George frowned at him. He’d hardly call his present occupation his ‘dream job.’
“Okay,” Ben amended, seeing his expression. “But it’s close, isn’t it? I mean, you’re doing your bit, right?”
“In a way,” he muttered.
Ben watched his friend for a moment, and George thought he caught a slightly mocking smile on his face. Ben was the good-looking one of the two, the one who was good with women, the energetic, charismatic sportsman who liked to climb mountains and race yachts around the world when he wasn’t closing multi-million dollar deals. George, by contrast, was rougher and somewhat awkward in company with strangers, and his interests mostly amounted to reading newspapers and history books, livened by the occasional fishing trip or baseball game. He knew that his flamboyant friend thought him a little quaint and even ridiculous with his country upbringing and heartfelt notions of duty and honor and patriotism, but George didn’t mind. That was to be expected, and Ben never really acted like he thought George was a cut or two beneath him. It was just in the occasional look – like this one – that George thought he caught the vanity slipping out a bit.
The mocking smile faded into a commiserating grimace.
“You know,” said Ben. “I always thought that was kind of silly; with your ear and all that. All soldiers go deaf eventually; what’s the problem? Besides, you wouldn’t have been the least promising recruit to go through Parris Island: from what I hear, Corporal Pyle barely made it through basic, and look what happened to him!”
“Parris Island is for recruits east of the Mississippi,” George corrected him. “I would have gone to San Diego. And Corporal Pyle wasn’t half-deaf.”
“Details,” Ben shrugged. “Point is, they should have let you in. Though, considering what’s going on now, you’re probably pretty grateful they didn’t.”
George shook his head.
“Makes it worse,” he said. “With the fight being that tough, it makes me feel even more that I should be in it. Harder the fight, the more the country needs her boys to step up.”
“You tried to step up,” said Ben. “No one can say you didn’t.”
“Besides,” Martha put it. “You wouldn’t be helping anything by going over and getting yourself shot.”
George smiled.
“It’s a sweet and seemly thing to die for one’s country,” he quoted.
“That’s what they said right before the Somme,” Ben muttered.
“Well, whether it works out or not, a man who does his duty in battle doesn’t have to worry about whether his life was a waste,” George said, a little more sharply than he meant.
“Your life isn’t a waste,” said Martha.
“That’s not what I meant,” he muttered, which was…half true.
George stabbed at the last bit of duck on his plate and popped it in his mouth. Ben and Martha glanced at each other.
“Anyway,” said Ben heartily. “I’m not slumming with you proletarian types just to talk politics; I come bearing gifts.”
He winked and reached into his coat pocket.
“Invitations,” he declared, handing them the folded papers. “To the party on Saturday. Well, technically not a party, since it’s supposed to be a sign of support to our gallant military.” He gestured theatrically at George.
“Marks a year since the formal declaration of war,” George said dully, not caring for his friend’s gesture.
“Exactly,” said Ben. “But, just as important…or a close second,” he added, seeing the expression on George’s face. “It is going to be the turning point of my career.”
“Taking up catering, are you?” asked Martha.
“What?” he said, caught off guard by her casual flippancy. “No! It’s going to be the night that I close the deal I’ve been working on for almost a whole year; the deal that will set my career for life.”
“Oh, the German thing,” George said. He was cheering up a little at Ben’s exuberance.
“Yes, the ‘German thing,’” Ben seemed slightly annoyed that they were taking this so lightly. “I’ve got it all set up; the very last piece of the puzzle is going to be put into place that night, and I want you guys to be there when I seal the deal. Trust me, it’ll be a night to remember.”
“Ben, you know I can’t keep track of these deals of yours,” George sighed. “What makes this one so special anyway?”
“Because,” said Ben, grinning. “Once this purchase goes through, I will be in just the right place for a very interesting opportunity that may be coming up in a few months.”
He tapped his nose conspiratorially.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but it seems that Centron Farms just might be having a vacancy in is management staff. Specifically, the corporate executive officer.”
Now that got George’s attention. He and Martha both made gasps of astonishment, but Ben quickly shushed them.
“Nothing’s for sure yet,” he said. “And I wasn’t supposed to say anything, so don’t you dare tell anyone.”
“Xander Calvan is retiring?” George asked in an amazed undertone. “I didn’t think that was possible!”
George admired the CEO of Centron Farms greatly. He’d read his autobiography back in high school and had considered Calvan one of the great modern examples of the American Dream come true. Calvan, like him, had been born on a farm and grown up poor, then had clawed his way up to success through sheer grit and determination. He had not struck him as the kind of man who would retire in his forties, even if he had accumulated more wealth than most nations.
“Not exactly,” Ben said. “Again, all this is incredibly secret stuff…”
“Please,” said Martha. “George and I both work at a top-secret lab: keeping secrets is our job.”
Ben chuckled.
“Well, the fact is, the board is wondering whether Calvan might not be more of a liability than an asset these days. I mean, he’s brilliant and all, but he’s kind of extreme in his views and doesn’t have a very good public image.”
“He values freedom,” said George. “What’s wrong with that?”
“He has a tendency to think of the company as his own personal property; that’s not good for business. We’re wondering whether it might not be a good idea, now that we’re on the top of the world and all, to replace the war-time chief with a more…palatable face. So to speak.”
“And you’re very palatable,” said Martha, batting her eyes playfully.
“But, what makes you think that it’ll be your palatable face the board chooses?” George asked.
“The German deal for one,” said Ben. “It’s a brilliant move; gonna bring in buckets of money each year. And there’s the fact that I have experience actually running a company.”
“A company you sold a year after taking control,” George pointed out.
“The second most successful telecommunication company in America!” Ben retorted, raising his voice slightly. Then, catching himself, he lowered it to a near whisper.
“Anyway, like I said, there’s nothing certain. I figure my odds are probably about fifty-fifty. Once this deal goes off, I’m the company’s golden boy. So, even if I don’t get it this time, guess who will be first choice when the next chance comes around.”
He grinned with excitement.
“And Saturday night is going to seal the deal,” he said. “Think about it; won’t it be nice to be able to say you were there when the future CEO of Centron Farms had his defining triumph? That’ll be something to tell the grandkids, right?”
George smiled indulgently. Ben got that way sometimes, and it didn’t do any good to suggest that perhaps being present for one step in achieving his ambition might not be the life-altering event he thought it was.
“Alright,” he said. “You talked me into it. I’ll be there.”
“Me too,” said Martha, who was either genuinely interested or a lot better at feigning interest than George was. “Sounds like fun.”
“I assume there’ll be food,” George said.
“And drinks,” Martha added.
“Right, that too.”
“Of course,” Ben answered. “But be sure to dress up; I don’t want to embarrass the board by inviting a couple of slobs.”
“I have a dress,” said Martha.
Ben looked expectantly at George.
“Hmmm…borrow your spare tux?”
They all laughed.
“Hey,” said Martha, frowning suddenly. “That’s not who I think it is, is it?”
George followed her gaze to see none other than his own boss, Peter Joshua, sitting at the table right across from them. They had been so absorbed in their own conversation that they hadn’t seen him come in.
“Uh…Mr. Joshua?”
Joshua raised his glass in greeting.
“Cheers.”
“Sir, what are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” he said. “I have to eat somewhere.”
“But…but aren’t you supposed to be still at work?”
“Half day,” he said simply. “Don’t let me interrupt you; we’re off duty, remember?”
He smiled and returned to his meal.
“Well, that’s weird,” said Ben.
George and Martha looked at each other, and he saw she was thinking the same thing he was. Why was Joshua really here, when had he arrived and how much, if anything, had he overheard?
Next Week:
Chapter Five: Mooky and Slicer
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