And now this. Dressed in surgical scrubs, shaved, smoothed, hair cut, he found himself being rolled into the same conference room as before, once again to a rabbinical audience of men who had done much and who spoke little. As before, it seemed Gershon Gold was in charge. The Director would sit, imperturbably unimpressed, in his central seat, and the comedy material would be supplied by the man called Cohen, who announced, “Freshly returned from his recon in Hell, the possibly insane Gunnery Sergeant Swagger, USMC. How did you find the weather down there, Sergeant Swagger?”

“It ain’t the humidity,” said Bob. “It’s the heat.”

“Excellent,” said Cohen. “If he can banter at a time like this, he’s ready for the rabbinate.”

“All right,” said Gold, “no need to go over tactical details, as Lieutenant Commander Motter and the others have been debriefed extensively, and all accounts are in accord. Time now to hear Sergeant Swagger’s read on the situation and his action recommendations. I suppose there’s really only one question, in the end. Our soldiers—I include you, sir—killed eleven men that night. We were able to get right thumbprints off of ten of them. No Juba. So, have you reason to believe he was the eleventh man—that is, the chap who melted himself before your eyes? He was obviously impossible to fingerprint.”

This hadn’t occurred to Swagger, and, in a second, he realized why.

“No possibility. Because whoever he was, he died the happiest man on earth. You could read it on his face. When the lighter flicked on, he knew he’d won. He’d done his job. I’d guess that job was destroying the evidence, and he knew also that Juba had not been taken. He was happy to face his god. You don’t see that much in the West. Then he was gone in flame. As to the implications, I don’t know. But I can read the signs for indicators, if you want.”

“That is exactly what we want, Sergeant Swagger.”

“Sure,” he said. “I didn’t get a clear look, and it was a little hot to be taking notes—the pen would have melted. Still, I think I got something. I was in a place I’d been before. I was in the shop of a dedicated shooter, and he was in the midst of, or possibly had finished, a serious project.”

“And that is?”

“He was trying to find a load.”

“The meaning evades us,” said Gold. “Can you be more specific? We are not NRA members.”

“Sure,” said Bob. “Most folks think shooting is divided into two components. You have a bullet, number one, which you put in a gun, number two. Pull the trigger, and a hole appears somewhere, wanted or not.”

“I take it there’s more.”

“A bit,” said Swagger.

“Is this going to be long and boring?” asked Cohen.