After reading it twice, he now guessed that until an hour ago he’d been riding shotgun over a research team that was developing a military application for Multiverse Theory. But the angry, horror-struck men on whom they were calling knew no such thing. Indeed, there was nothing in their world that might prepare them for such a fantastic concept. For them, the most primitive form of radar was still a marvel. Television was an obscure and probably useless invention; jet engines and helicopters were only found in the pages of adventure magazines. And high-steppin’ niggers with uppity dames in tow did not waltz aboard the USS Enterprise like they owned the joint. Not after admitting they were responsible for the deaths of so many good men in the hour just gone.

Suddenly a squad of armed marines double-timed toward the Seahawk, nearly bringing the truce to a premature end. Jones was forced to scramble forward, waving them down so that they wouldn’t be decapitated by an unfortunate dip of the still-turning rotors. Seeing him charge, three men shouldered their arms and drew a bead.

“Crazy black bastard,” spat the sergeant in charge of the detail as he continued forward.

Jones sank to one knee and motioned for them to drop, too, gesturing frantically at the rotors.

“Get down! Get down, you assholes!” he yelled over the diminishing whine.

Finally the sergeant got the message, and they halted their advance. Kolhammer emerged and joined Halabi. Both bent nearly double to emphasize Jones’s warnings. They joined him, and together they hastened out of the danger zone. The helos powered down and their crews exited. Kolhammer had thought it might reduce some of the tension if they were to move away from the controls.

High above them, the group of men clustered outside the pilothouse watched the performance.

“Check out the tail on that chicken,” urged a navigator from the torpedo squadron.

“Yeah, but get an eyeful of the jigaboo she’s travelin’ with, Mack. That guy’s gotta be eight foot tall.”

“Hell, I could beat him fair and square . . .”

“You couldn’t beat an egg, you palooza . . .”

“I’m going down,” said Ensign Curtis, more to himself than anyone else. He was ignored by everyone except Lieutenant Commander Black, who pushed off the rail and followed him back inside.

“What’s your feeling about this, Wally?” he asked as they made their way down to the flight deck.

Curtis was so worked up by the rush and excitement that he forgot to be intimidated by the older, more senior man.

“It’s something big, sir. Why, I’ll bet you it’s something we can’t even imagine yet, like something out of Amazing Stories.”

“You a betting man, Ensign?” teased Black.

“Uh, no, sir. Gambling is a sin, and against regulations, Lieutenant, I just meant . . .”

“It’s all right, son, I wouldn’t take your bet anyway. I have a feeling I’d do my dough cold.”