The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

Peter nodded and said, “Yes sir, just like you were.”

The lieutenant, his face red, eyes bugging, said, “What do you mean by that? Are you saying I was a pissy-assed cadet?”

“No, sir,” Peter said, feeling the sweat pour out from his arrjipits. “I would never say ‘pissy-assed’ in reference to you, sir.”

“What would you say?” the lieutenant said, almost screaming.

Peter looked from the corners of his eyes at the other cadets and instructors. Most of them were paying no attention or pretending not to. Some were grinning.

“I would never mention you,” Peter said.

“What? Because I’m not worth mentioning, is that it? Frigate, you try me! I don’t like your attitude on the ground or in the air. But to get back to the subject despite all your efforts to avoid it! Why in hell can’t you hear me when I can hear you? Is it because you don’t want to hear me?

“Well, that’s dangerous, Frigate! It’s frightening, too. You scare the hell out of me! Do you know how many of those stubby-winged BT-12’s spin in every week? Those sons of bitches have got a builtin spin, cadet. Even when an instructor tells his ape-brained student to spin it deliberately, and he’s got his hand on the stick, ready to take over, the sons of bitches sometimes still keep on spinning!

“So I sure as hell don’t want to tell you to turn right and have you think I’m telling you to spin her and catch me off guard. You could have us twenty feet deep in the ground before I could take to the chute! Okay, what is the matter with your ears?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said miserably. “Maybe it’s wax. Wax builds up in my ears. It’s a family trait, sir. I have to have the wax blown out every six months.”

“I’ll blow out more than wax out of another place than your ears, mister! Didn’t the doctor check out your ears? Sure he did! So don’t tell me it’s wax! You just don’t want to hear me! And why? God knows why! Or maybe you hate me so much you don’t care if you die just so you take me with you? Is that it?”

Peter would not have been surprised to see the lieutenant foaming at the mouth.

“No, sir.”

“No, sir, what?”

“No, sir, to any of that.”

“You mean you’re denying everything? You did turn left when I said turn right, didn’t you? Don’t tell me I’m a liar!”

“No, sir.”

The lieutenant paused, then said, “Why are you smiling, Frigate?”

“I didn’t know I was,” Peter said. That was true. He was really in mental and physical distress. So why had he smiled?

“You’re crazy, Frigate!” the lieutenant shouted. A captain, standing behind him, frowned. But he made no move to interfere.

“I don’t want to see you again, Frigate, until you have a written testimonial from a doctor that your ears are okay. Do you hear that?”

Peter nodded. ”

“Yes, sir, I hear you.”

“You’re grounded until I get that report. But I want it at flight time, tomorrow, when I take you up again, God help me!”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said and almost saluted. That would have been another excuse for the instructor to ream him out. Saluting was not done in the flight room.

He looked back as he checked in his parachute. The captain and the lieutenant were talking earnestly. What were they saying about him? That he ought to be washed out?

Maybe he should be. He really couldn’t hear his instructor. Only half of the lieutenant’s frenzied gabble came through intelligibly on the tubes. It wasn’t because of wax. Or the high altitude. Or anything physically wrong with his hearing.

It would be years later before he knew that he just did not want to hear the lieutenant.

“He was right,” Peter said.

“Who was right?” Eve said. She was sitting up in bed, leaning on one arm, looking down at him. Her body was covered with thick varicolored towels tabbed together, and the hood still shrouded her face.

Peter sat up and stretched. The inside of the hut was dark; the drums and bugles along the bank sounded faintly. Nearby, a neigh­bor was banging on his fish-skin-and-bamboo drum as if he were trying to wake up the whole world. “Nothing.”