Yonatan threw his things on the ground, scratched himself, and looked about him. The shadow of the mountains cut the moonlit sky. Dogs barked hoarsely. In the nearby darkness some girls were singing. A smell of campfire smoke drifted among the tents and shacks. With a muffled drone punctuated by little backfires a generator throbbed away. Yonatan had been in Ein-Husub before, once with a hiking party and again two years ago, when his unit reassembled here after a nocturnal sortie into Jordanian territory near As-Safi, at the southern end of the Dead Sea. Even if someone around here knows me, he thought, they’ll never recognize me now. But just to be on the safe side he put on his old woolen cap, pulled it down over his eyes, and raised the collar of his jacket almost to his ears.

For a few minutes Yonatan stood motionless beside a filthy ditch running between two prefabs. He looked like a cross between a soldier and a gypsy. Yellow lights shone far off in the darkness. He tried to think ahead. First find something to eat and drink and water to fill his canteen. The second thing was to crawl into this ditch or find some trees somewhere where he could unroll his sleeping bag. Before sacking out, though, he’d better swipe a couple of blankets because it would probably get very cold here tonight. Tomorrow he would have the whole morning to kill. He would have to go over the map carefully to make sure of the safest route to take. His best bet would be to leave Ein-Husub at about two in the afternoon, hitch a ride south to Bir-Meliha, and then head eastward on foot into Wadi Musa, in the general direction of Jabel Harun. There must be some old guidebook available around here that would tell all about Petra. He should oil his gun too.

And I’ve already gone seventeen hours without a cigarette! That means everything is shipshape and right on schedule. All I need right now is food and blankets. C’mon, pal, let’s see some action.

“Hi, baby.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you by any chance from around here?”

“I’m by any chance from around Haifa.”

“But you’re stationed here?”

“May I have the pleasure of knowing who’s asking?”

“That’s beside the point. The point is that I’m about to perish from hunger.”

“That’s all very well, sir, but maybe you’d like to tell me just who you belong to anyway.”

“You’re going philosophical on me. But if you’re really interested, and provided you give me something to eat first, I’ll be happy to give you a short course on Justice and the theory of who we belong to. What do you say?”