"Well, to judge by the look on his face, making an honest woman of her is high on Koffler's list of things to do."

"She's a widow," Moore went on. "Her husband was killed in North Africa. They had his memorial service the day before she and Koffler..."

"What are you saying? That Koffler has been sucked in by a designing woman?"

"No, Sir. Not at all. She's been disowned by her family, if that's the word."

"And meanwhile, Koffler was on Buka?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How is she living?"

"Well, she had a job. But she lost that."

"I hired her, Sir, to work for us," Moore said.

"Good idea. But what's the problem? Koffler's back. He wants to marry her..."

"We're having a problem with that, Sir. The SWPOA Command Policy is to discourage marriages between Australians and Americans. They throw all sorts of roadblocks up. For all practical purposes, marriages between Australians and lower-grade enlisted men, below staff sergeant, are forbidden." (SWPOA was the abbreviation for the South West Pacific Ocean Area., which was MacArthur's area of responsibility in the Pacific.)

"No problem. We'll make Koffler a staff sergeant."

"There's more, Sir."

"I'll deal with it," Pickering said. "Tell Koffler to relax."

How I don't know. But certainly, someone who has been flown across the world at the direct order of the President of the United States to arrange a peace between the chief of American espionage and the Supreme Commander of the South West Pacific Ocean Area should be able to deal with the problem of a Marine buck sergeant who has knocked up his girlfriend.

"Does General MacArthur know I'm back?"

"I can't see how he could, Sir."

"I thought perhaps they'd sent word from Washington."

"I don't think so, Sir. Wouldn't that have been a 'personal for General MacArthur'?"

"Probably. Almost certainly."

"I keep pretty well up on that file, Sir," Pluto Hon said. "There hasn't been anything."

"Well, that at least gives me today. I need a bath, a couple of drinks, and a long nap. I'll call over there at five o'clock or so and ask for an appointment in the morning."

"There's a couple of things I think you should see, Sir," Pluto said.

"This morning?" Pickering asked.

"Yes, Sir."

When Pickering came out of his bedroom into the living room of Water Lily Cottage, Pluto Hon and John Marston Moore were waiting for him. Pickering was wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe over nothing at all, and he was feeling-and looking-fresh from a long hot shower.

In the middle of room, they'd set up a map board-a sheet of plywood placed on an artist's tripod. Maps (and other large documents) were tacked onto the plywood. A sheet of oilcloth covered the maps and documents; it could be lifted to expose them.

An upholstered chair, obviously intended for him, had been moved from its usual place against the wall so that it squarely faced the map board.

"Very professional," Pickering said.

"We practice our briefings here," Pluto said seriously. "It's a waste of time, but General Willoughby's big on briefing the Supreme Commander with maps and charts."

"You don't work for Willoughby," Pickering said. "And you don't have time to waste."

Pluto didn't reply. Pickering knew that his silence was an answer in itself.

"How bad has it been, Pluto? Let's have it."

"I don't want to sound like I'm whining, Sir."

"Let's have it, Pluto."

"The point has been made to me, Sir, by various senior officers, that I am a first lieutenant, and that first lieutenants do what they're told."

"You're talking about MAGIC intercept briefings, right?" Pickering asked.

"Yes, Sir. I believe it is General Willoughby's rationale that since he has no one on his staff cleared for MAGIC, he can't have them prepare MAGIC briefings for the Supreme Commander. That leaves us."

"Left you. Past tense," Pickering said. "For one thing, MacArthur doesn't need kindergarten-level briefings; he has an encyclopedic memory. For another, I can't afford to have either of you wasting your time playing brass-hat games. The next time Willoughby calls, your reply is, quote, 'Sir, General Pickering doesn't believe that a formal briefing is necessary.' Unquote. If he has any questions, tell him to call me."

"General, as I said on the wharf, General, Sir, welcome home!" Pluto said.

"But since you've already gone to all this trouble, Pluto, brief me." "Yes, Sir," Pluto said. Moore walked to the map board-limped, Pickering thought; limped painfully; his legs are nowhere near healed-and flipped the oilcloth cover off, revealing a map of the Solomon Islands. There was something out of the ordinary about it. After a moment, he knew what it was.

"Don't tell me that map's not classified?"

"Sir, that's another decision I took on my own," Pluto said. "We start with MacArthur's situation map. Maps. Actually three. MacArthur had one; Willoughby had a second; and G-3 had a third. All classified TOP SECRET. For our purposes, before Willoughby started the briefing business, we used to just go to G-3 with an overlay. Nothing on the overlay but MAGIC information. No problem, in other words. We just locked the door, did our thing on the overlay with our MAGIC intelligence, and then took the overlay back to the dungeon with us. But when we started having to take a map with us to brief MacArthur..."

"What I'm looking at is a TOP SECRET situation map, to which MAGIC intelligence has been added?"

"Yes, Sir. General Willoughby said the Supreme Commander doesn't like overlays."

"And," Pickering said, "because you thought there was a possibility that this map might get out of your hands-with MAGIC intelligence on it-you decided not to stamp it TOP SECRET...."

"Yes, Sir. We don't let this map out of our hands. It's been chemically treated, so it practically explodes when you put a match to it-"

"Finish your briefing," Pickering interrupted. "Take the MAGIC data off onto an overlay, and burn the map."

"Yes, Sir," Pluto said. "Sir, how much of a briefing did you get from Major Banning in Hawaii?"

"A damned good one. I presume you know what he told me? How much of it is still valid?"