Ib’s mouth twisted as though he were enjoying a private joke. “Arab,” he answered. “And a Muslim. Don’t worry, Haver Shelli. I’ve been damned well checked out. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Arabs worked at the Yoshua installations,” put in Zvi.

  “My parents may have been Palestinians, but I am Israeli,” answered the other. “My grandfather told me that my people used to die by the thousands from hunger, thirst, disease and exposure. But that was before the Jews came. My parents considered him a traitor. They, and the rest of my people cannot accept your strange ways. You are too alien to them and they don’t wish to learn. My grandfather urged me to go to the university. My father disowned me.”

  “I’m sorry,” answered Zvi.

  The other grimaced. “It is no matter,” he answered. “My father would have me herding goats.”

  Zvi laughed and remembered his own father’s failure to understand. “We are doubly friends,” answered Zvi. “I too saw the world as it is. My family has been in this country since the time of the Spanish Inquisition. I am Sephardic and learned to adapt. Nothing is given to us, my friend. Whether it is a nation or a fine home. You must fight to gain it. And you must take care of it.”

  “I agree with your point, if not your metaphor,” answered Ib.

  “Then you are not Israeli,” answered Zvi. His eyes twinkled at the other.

  “I didn’t say that I agreed with Israel’s manner of coming into existence. Merely that I agreed with its existence.”

  “You are a very intelligent man, Ib. How is it that you are only a Sergeant Major?”

  “I was once with the Mossaad,” said Ibrahim quietly.

  “I don’t know what their pay scale is, but it is certainly higher than the Air Force. Why did you quit?”

  “It was I who discovered how they perfected the bomb,” was the answer. “It is a painful thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Zvi answered. How long it had remained a secret of the Persian government, Zvi himself did not know. But when it finally got out, it had made headlines around the world. By using political prisoners, Kurds and the Sunni who refused to acknowledge his power… The successor of the Great Mamoud… The ‘Imam of the Time’s Caliph’… ‘The Twelfth Iman’s Caliph’… had dispensed with the need for expensive shielding. Those who had worked with the deadly radioactive materials were dead within three weeks. “The Persians and Arabs themselves did not want such a government,” Zvi finally said.

  “Revolutions rarely work for the better,” was Ib’s reply. “The Imamim Shi’ah in that country are only after one thing. The uncooperative intellectuals there are either dead or in prison. The unschooled are happy. They don’t know the difference between real and perverted religion.”

  “Are not the Catholic temples filled with idols,” quoted Zvi.

  Ibrahim nodded. “We traditionally regard both the Christians and the Jews as ‘People of the Book,’ not as Infidels.”

  “The Crusades didn’t help much,” said Zvi.

  “Neither did the Israeli War of Independence.”

  The answer made Zvi’s blood run cold. He quickly changed the subject. “Did anything happen during the night?”

  “One of the missiles, Yoshua Heth, is out of order. Decay in the grain of one of the boosters. One of the Kalebs was blinded by a laser.”

  “That happens all the time,” put in Zvi. “They’re probably trying to sneak somebody across the border. I always dislike the blindspot that leaves. At any rate, Sharm el Sheik’s already got another on the pad. It’ll be in orbit before this shift is out. I wish we didn’t have to clear things with Cairo. It would be a lot faster.”

  “Here we are.” Ib braked the jeep to a halt.

  “Thanks!” said Zvi. “I owe you a glass of tea sometime.”

  Ib grinned. “I think I would like that. See you later.”

  “Salaam,” responded Zvi in Arabic. He was rewarded with a toothy grin.

  As the jeep roared away, Zvi turned to a small pump shed. He brought a key out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock on the door. On entering, there was nothing to show that the interior was any more than it was supposed to be. There was the whine of an electric pump in one corner. The drip… drip of water on prestressed concrete and light tile. A nest of hoes, rakes, shovels… stood leaning against one of the walls. Near the door, as though something were intended to hang there, was a nail. Turning back to the door and being careful to stand on a tile of a slightly different color than the rest, Zvi gave the nail a twist. Almost immediately, the tile began to sink into the floor and, Zvi with it. Above Zvi’s head, another tile closed. In the darkness, the concrete of the shaft whispered past. Finally, the ring of a chime announced his arrival. A double door slid open and Zvi found himself facing a small room. Next to the elevator, a knot of three men sat hunched over a Backgammon board. A man behind a desk stood up. “You are late for the first time in three years, Seren Sivan. Shmuel will be angry.”

  “Trouble with the car,” explained Zvi. “Tell Shmuel not to be too put out.”

  The other grinned. “There’s a rumor going around that they’re going to be cutting our shifts from four to an hour each. Knesset seems to think that we aren’t keeping on our toes.”

  “It would cut the strain some. But I think we can handle what we’ve got. If you will excuse me…”

  Zvi inserted a card into a slot and again pressed his hand against the glass pane of a box before the door. He waved a greeting to the other men, as the door slid open.

  The door slid shut. The bickering of the men in the outer office was lost in silence. Compared even to the sunlight of early morning, the room was cool and dark.

  Directly ahead of him was a map, a computer display of a gigantic scale. Flanking each of its sides were three television screens. One was adjusted to infra-red false color. The second was taken by natural light in full color. The third was nearly blank, adjusted to the ultraviolet radiation that was absorbed in the Earth’s upper atmosphere. Pictures from the orbiting Kaleb satellites. Theoretically, the UV image would show the radiation released by the explosion of an atomic bomb on Earth’s surface. In front of each division of three television screens sat two figures. Each had its own console of knobs, keys and switches. Each console was illuminated by the blank faces of two computer readout screens.

  One of the figures turned. Her blonde hair glowed eerily in the green light. “Shalom, Putz! You’re late! We thought you’d gone to Synagogue!”

  “There’s nothing about today in The Commandments,” was Zvi’s curt reply.

  P’nina smiled. “I doubt if there would be,” she responded. “The destruction of the first temple happened long after Torah.” A wicked smile played about P’nina’s lips. “My favorite two Commandments are positive ones,” she said. “Numbers one ninety two and one ninety three.”

  Zvi felt another appalling dig coming at his beliefs. He opened his mouth in an attempt to change the subjects, thus diverting it. But Shmuel, seeing his discomfort, interrupted.

  “And what two Commandments might those be?” he asked P’nina.

  “Deuteronomy, Twenty three, verses ten to fourteen. Dig a latrine.”

  Zvi sighed. “Okay, Shmuel,” he said. “You have your answer and the shift is over. Get going!”

  “I’m waiting to find out why that would be her favorite Commandment! Memories of bootcamp couldn’t have faded that rapidly!”

  “Because,” said P’nina. “The passage ends; ‘For the Lord thy God walks in the midst of thy camp.’ ” And as though enough salt hadn’t been rubbed into Zvi’s wound, she climaxed it with a mental picture so absurd that it was bound to bring a guffaw… From an atheist. “Nachon, Putz?” she added.

  Shmuel threw back his head in laughter. If Zvi reddened, it was with embarrassment. Rage wasn’t permitted in the bunker.

  At last, Shmuel rose from his chair. “Serves you right for being late, Zvi. I’ll see you tomorrow. Shalom.”

  “Do you always have to do that to me?” Zvi asked P’nina as the door slid closed.

  P’nina’s name was Hebrew for pearl, and the whiteness of her teeth reflected it as she gave him another of her wicked smiles. “Couldn’t resist,” she answered. “But, to be perfectly frank, I had to get him out of here some way. I thought he’d never leave!” She reached into her purse, extracting a book, a pome-granite, two figs and a banana. These she placed on the table that formed part of her console. The book was opened as Zvi turned attentively to the screens. He had thought of reporting her, but was stopped by her remark; “If anything happens, Putz. You’re nervous enough to let me know.”

  At the first surprise inspection, he found that a thoughtful workman had placed a chime both in the outer office and the Slik itself. The arrival of the elevator clanged in both rooms. With the book and a single movement, she whisked the fruit into a drawer. The book followed. By the time the inspecting general entered, the drawer was closed and both of her feet were on the floor.

  He found her both amusing and repulsive. Time after time, he’d thought of reporting her for an acid word that she had given him. These and her nicknaming him with a Yiddish obscenity had really bothered him until:

  It had been two years before, at a Synagogue picnic, on the beach at Ceasaria. After the food had been eaten, he and a group of Shul members decided to engage in a game of soccer. He kicked at the ball with his bare feet and it glanced off to the side. Spitting into the sand, he chased it beneath the arches of the old Roman aquaduct. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the shade within the moldering arches. He knocked a diminutive figure to the ground.

  “Oh! Sorry!” he apologized as he took a slender wrist into his hand. Pulling her to her feet, his eyes swept over a blindingly beautiful figure in a two piece bathing suit. They came to rest in a pair of familiar blue eyes.

  “P’nina!” he exclaimed. “Shalom! Come and meet the group! There is plenty of tea and beer! Drink with us! Some chicken may be left…”

  “Zvi, no! Please! I parked the car down near the old fortress. I’ve been walking here… Swimming and thinking. I saw you playing and stopped to watch… I can’t spend any time with you out of the Slik. I’d love to come and play with you and your friends… But… Someday... If anything goes wrong in the Slik… I might have to kill you. I’m very fond of you, Zvi. More fond than I should be. For my sake… For the sake of our Nation… Don’t make your death under those circumstances impossible!”

  Without warning, the slender arms went around his neck. The rapid kiss that she gave him was salted with a tear. She turned and ran.

  It was with some confusion that he retrieved the ball and joined the group. He had only been, as with Ib, making an attempt to be friendly. Until that time he hadn’t understood that P’nina’s more than Israeli rudeness had been a mask, as much for herself, as for him.

  He remembered the controversy which had broken out when it was revealed that the sexes were mixed. That two people of the opposite sex were locked together in a room beneath the ground. With women like P’nina, Israel had nothing to fear.

  His thoughts were interrupted by P’nina’s laughter. She was gazing into the book.

  “Shalom Aliechem?” Zvi asked.

  Disgust showed on P’nina’s features. “Is he the only humorist that you know about?” she asked. “No, this is an American writer. Robert Benchly.” She put down the book. “You have met Ibrahim?” she asked.

  “You mean the Arab?” he asked. “Ken. He drove me in.”

  P’nina smiled. “Nothing to worry about,” she answered. “He used to work for the Mossaad.”

  “My father used to work for the Mossaad.”

  “Then maybe that’s not such a recommendation,” answered P’nina.

  The barb was lost on Zvi, for in his imagination, the roar of his father’s laughter filled the rooms. It had been just before midterms at Technion. His father worked hard with the others, but frequently was called away on ‘government business.’ Sometimes for weeks or months at a time. Everyone on the Moshav had suspected that he was an agent. But nobody asked.

  Zvi had been studying aircraft mechanics at the time. He remembered the tattered blue cover of the book. The varnished feel of its yellowing pages. The smell of dust and paper. He remembered how that smell fought with the smell of new turned earth coming through an open kitchen window. And he remembered how his studies were interrupted by the hard plunk of a bottle on the table. He looked up at the yellow, red, white and black label.

  From there, he looked into the face of his father. It was a furred silhouette against the glare of the kitchen bulb.

  “Drink!” his father laughingly commanded. Vast arms swung wide. “Tomorrow, you return to Haifa! There was never such a Purim and you missed it! Your cousin! Ha! Ha! What a beautiful Esther she made! What a long flowing gown!” His father winked. “As long and flowing as a gown can be… On a four year old!” He threw back his head in laughter.

  Zvi looked back at his book. “I won’t be a farmer,” he said.

  “Who said that I was asking you to become one?” His father turned his back, folded his arms and sat on the table. “Ah! But you missed such a harvest last year!” He clenched his fist and shook it. “You never saw such beautiful bananas! And so many oranges, grapes, lemons!” The glow went out of his eyes and he lowered his fist.

  “Son,” he said. “I’m not asking you to become a farmer. I’m merely asking you to be happy!”

  “I am happy, Father.”

  “With books?! I want you to dance, to drink, to sing, to play! To find yourself some nice girl! But continue to laugh! That is why God put us here!” His father sighed. “But how can I ask you to continue what you have not begun? Why, even soccer, you treat like an attack from Syria!”

  It was the last time he had seen his father.

  He had continued studying that night and returned to Haifa before his father’s awakening.

  An Islamic leader was assassinated nearly a thousand kilometers away. Nations were disemboweled. Absorbed. Jordan became a province named New Palestine.

  His father’s dark skin, hair and eyes blended perfectly with those of the Arabs streaming across New Allenby Bridge.

  His father never came back.

  Once again, P’nina’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Here’s the blindspot,” she said.

  Zvi looked up. The three color television screens, which showed what was picked up by the orbiting Kaleb satellites, were filled with snow. His eyes returned to the readout screens and he noticed another change.

  “We’ve got three launches from Tehran, P’nina.”

  She straightened in her seat. “Call Slik Aleph.”

  Zvi picked up the phone and hit the aleph on the punch board. “Slik Aleph? This is Slik Gimmel. We’ve got a reading of three launches from Tehran. Have you the same reading?”

  “This is Slik Aleph, Gimmel. We have a copy.”

  “This is Slik Yod Daleth,” broke in a voice from a speaker on their consoles. “Slikim Heth and Yod confirm your readouts. We’ve got trouble. Should we wake the Old Man?”

  “Ken,” whispered Zvi.

  He and P’nina simultaneously pushed identical blue buttons on their consoles. A majority decision was shown by the button’s answering glow.

  Above, a siren sounded. A group of terrified farm workers ran for the administration building.

  At another Slik, another member of the Palavir picked up a red phone. He didn’t bother punching in a number. In a modest Jerusalem home, a Knesset office and a parked automobile, identical phones were already ringing.

  After a pause. “I’ve got the Old Man,” came a voice. “He’s getting on the hotline to Mecca.”

  “Two more launches from Jidda.” Zvi looked down at his readout screen.

  “We’ve definitely got a critical situation here. Might they be attacking Turkey?”

  “Aw, come on! Every Arab country that they have was taken by invasion or work from within! Why bother with a missile attack?”

  “Let’s see what the Old Man says…”

  “Negative on Turkish attack. The missiles, if they exist, are headed in our direction.”

  “Could it be Cypress?” came a voice.

  “Look at your map!”

  “The Old Man says that Tehran denies any launches. They warn that any attack will be met by retaliation.”

  “Any attack will be met by retaliation!” cursed Zvi under his breath.

  “Could those three from Tehran have been a mistake?”

  “Just a second,” said a voice. “I’ll see if the Old Man can talk Mecca into calling the Tehran base.”

  “What about Jidda?” asked P’nina. “Slick Seventeen?”

  “Possibly the launches from Tehran were sensed and the other two were sent as a panic response.”

  “They shouldn’t have been,” answered P’nina. “There was a full minute… One minute exactly, between launches. They may not have the Yoshua, but their response time should be as effective as our own. Read your reports from Mossaad.”

  “Four more from Damam.”

  “The Old Man says that they deny any attack.”

  “Goddamnit!” cursed P’nina under her breath. “They haven’t had time to call their base!”

  “Tell the Old Man that we’ve got eight missiles headed in our direction. If it’s a mistake, they’d better find out pretty damn fast!”

  “The Old Man says to go to condition yellow as soon as those missiles cut their thrust. If the targeting displays show military targets, activate!”

  Zvi raised his brows. “The agricultural center’s going to be awfully pissed if we activate under a false alarm.”

  “They’ll be more pissed if we take no action at all,” answered P’nina. “Their families live here.” She began punching the aleph button, trying to get through to the red phone.

  “Tell them about Yoshua, if you have to!” she said when the button finally illuminated itself.

  Zvi began counting aloud and then silently to himself. “We have six from Isfahn,” he said. “Still better than twelve hundred kilometers from our borders. If they think this is a surprise attack, they’re insane! We couldn’t be given more response time!”