He leads them down M Street, then up one of the little sidestreets, where it looks like it could be 1880, if you ignored the tracks out on the cobblestone street. Or thought of them as streetcar tracks. McPherson has a brief vision of monorailed antique street cars, then reins in his thoughts. This is business, here.…

Inside, the restaurant looks Indian. Cloth prints of Buddha and various Hindu deities hang on the walls: six-armed, elephant-headed, outlandish stuff. McPherson’s a bit worried, he prefers not to eat food he doesn’t recognize, but then the menu turns out to have twenty pages, and you can order anything you can think of, but with every meal you’ll get some fine Buddhist vegetables. That’s okay. He orders salmon fillet. Feldkirk orders some kind of Asian soup. He was stationed on Guam for several years, and developed a taste for the food. They discuss the Pacific situation for a bit. “The Soviets have got the choke points,” says Feldkirk, “but now we’re stationed outside them all, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“Leaves Japan and Korea kind of hanging.”

“True. But with the Japanese arming themselves so well, they can take the front line of their own defense. We can cover them from behind. It’s not a bad situation.”

“And Korea?”

“Well!…”

Their meals are served, and as they eat they discuss the Redskins and the Rams, then technical aspects of the war in Burma. McPherson begins to enjoy himself a bit. He likes this man, he can get along with him, he’s sort of a kindred spirit. Feldkirk talks ruefully about his two sons, both now at Annapolis. “I took them sailing a lot when we were on Guam, but I never thought it would lead to this.” McPherson laughs at his expression. Still, Annapolis is awfully hard to get into. “And your kids?” Feldkirk asks.

“Just one. He’s still hanging out in Orange County, teaching night classes and working in a real estate office part-time.” McPherson shakes his head. “He’s a strange one. A brain without a program.” And Feldkirk laughs.

Then the meals are done, they’re lingering over drinks and cheesecake, watching Washington’s finest chattering around them. Feldkirk leans back in his chair. “You’re probably wondering what I’ve got in mind for tonight.”

McPherson lifts his eyebrows: here it comes. “Sure,” he says with a smile.

“Well, we have an idea for a system that I want to discuss with you. You see, the RX-16 is almost operational now.”