'There, there,' an SP said, 'King Kong doesn't talk. He growls.'
So the boatswain's mate growled, and made a leap for an old electric fan overhead. Round and round he went, uttering ape yells and pounding his chest. SP's and cops milled around down below, bewildered, some of the braver making grabs for his feet.
'Now what?' said one cop. This was answered by the fan, which gave way, dumping the boatswain's mate in their midst. They jumped on and managed to secure him with three or four guard belts. A cop brought in a small dolly from the garage next door, loaded the boatswain's mate on and rolled him off.
'Hey,' said one of the SP's. 'Lookit there in the drunk tank. That is Pig Bodine that's wanted down in Norfolk for desertion.'
Pig opened an eye at them. 'Oh well,' he said, closed the eye and went back to sleep.
The cops came around to tell Profane he could go. 'So long, Pig,' said Profane.
'Give Paola six for me,' Pig grunted, shoeless, half asleep.
Back at the flophouse Stencil had a poker game going which was about to break up because of the next shift coming on. 'Just as well,' Stencil said, 'they've about cleaned Stencil out.'
'You're soft,' Profane said, 'you let them win on purpose.'
'No,' Stencil said. 'Money will be needed for the trip.'
'It's set?'
'All set.'
Somehow, it seemed to Profane, things never should have come this far.
III
Now there was a private going-away party, just Profane and Rachel, about two weeks later. After the passport photos and the booster shots and the rest, Stencil acted like his valet, removing all official roadblocks by some magic of his own.
Eigenvalue kept cool. Stencil even went to see him - perhaps as a test of the guts he'd need to confront whatever of V. was still on Malta. They discussed the concept of property and agreed that a true owner need not have physical possession. If the soul-dentist knew (as Stencil was nearly sure he did), then 'owner,' Eigenvalue - defined, was Eigenvalue; Stencil - defined, V. It was a complete failure of communication. They parted friends.
Sunday night Profane spent in Rachel's room with one sentimental magnum of champagne. Roony slept in Esther's room. For two weeks he'd done little else but sleep.
Later Profane lay with his head in her lap, her long hair falling over to cover him and keep him warm. It being September the landlord was still reluctant about heat. They were both naked. Profane rested his ear near her labia majora, as if it were a mouth there, which could speak to him. Rachel was absently listening to the champagne bottle.
'Listen,' she whispered, holding the mouth of the bottle near his free ear. He heard carbon dioxide coming out of solution, magnified in a false-bottomed echo chamber.
'It's a happy sound.'
'Yes.' What percentage was there in telling her what it really sounded like? At Anthroresearch Associates there'd been radiation counters - and radiation - enough to make the place sound like a locust-season gone mad.
Next day they sailed. Fulbright types crowded them at the rail of the Susanna Squaducci. Coils of crepe, showers of confetti and a band, all rented, made things look festive. 'Ciao,' the Crew called. 'Ciao.'
'Sahha,' said Paola.
'Sahha,' echoed Profane.
Chapter Sixteen
Valletta
I
Now there was a sun-shower over Valletta, and even a rainbow. Howie Surd the drunken yeoman lay on his stomach under mount 52, head propped on arms, staring at a British landing craft that chugged its way through the rainy Harbour. Fat Clyde from Chi, who was 6' 1'/ 142 pounds, came from Winnetka and had been christened Harvey, stood by the lifelines spitting dreamily down into the drydock.
'Fat Clyde,' bellowed Howie.
'No,' said Fat Clyde. 'Whatever it is.'
He must have been upset. Nobody ever says things like that to a yeoman. 'I'm going over tonight,' Howie said gently, 'and I need a raincoat because it is raining out, as you may have noticed.'
Fat Clyde took a white hat out of his back pocket and tugged it down over his head like a cloche. 'I also got liberty,' he said.
Bitch box came on. 'Now turn in all paint and paint brushes to the paint locker,' it said.
'About that time,' said Howie. He crawled out from under the gun mount and squatted on the 01 deck. The rain came down and ran into his ears and down his neck and he watched the sun smearing the sky red over Valletta. 'What is wrong, hey, Fat Clyde.'
'Oh,' said Fat Clyde and spat over the side. His eyes followed the white drop of spit all the way down. Howie gave up after about five minutes of silence. He went around the starboard side and down the ladder to bother Tiger Youngblood the spud coxswain who sat at the bottom of the ladder right outside the galley slicing cucumbers.
Fat Clyde yawned. It rained in his mouth, but he didn't seem to notice. He had a problem. Being an ectomorph, he was inclined to brood. He was a gunner's mate third, and normally it would be none of his business except that his rack was directly over Pappy Hod's, and since arrival in Valletta, Malta, Pappy had commenced talking to himself. Not loud; not loud
