The Turing Option

“There are a lot more than a few, I assure you! But I’ll tell them what you said. They are trying hard and doing damn well at this assignment.”

“Tell the cooks that I like the food too.”

“The chow hall will be delighted.”

“Chow hall?”

“That’s another name for the mess hall.”

“Mess?”

Woody smiled. “You’re a civilian at heart. We’ve got to teach you to talk like a dogface.”

“Bark you mean?” They both laughed. “Woody, even though I’m not in the Army — is there a chance that a civilian dogface could have a meal in your chow hall?”

“You’re more than welcome. Have all your meals there with the grunts if you like.”

“But I’m not in the Army.”

The Major’s perpetual twisted grin widened at the thought. “Mister, you are the Army. You are the only reason that we are here and not jumping out of planes every day. And I know that a lot of the troops would like to meet you and talk to you.” He glanced up at the time readout on the wall. “Do you drink beer?”

“Is there a Pope in Rome?”

“Come along, then. We’ll have a brew in the club until the chow hall opens at six.”

“There’s a club here? That’s the first I heard.”

Woody stood and led the way. “A military secret which, I would appreciate, you didn’t word about among the Megalobe civilian types. As far as I can find out the entire establishment is dry outside these walls. But this building right now is a military base for my paratroop unit. All army bases have an officer’s club, separate ones for the NCOs and E.M. as well—” He saw Brian’s eyes widen. “The military probably invented acronyms, they love them so much. Noncommissioned officers and enlisted men. This unit is too small for all that boozing discrimination — so we got this all-ranks club.”

He opened the door marked security area — military personnel only and led the way inside. It wasn’t a big room, but in the few weeks that the paratroopers had been here they had managed to add some personal touches. A dart board on one wall, some flags, guidons and photographs — a nude girl on a poster with impossibly large breasts — tables and chairs. And the bottle-filled, beer-pump-sporting bar at the far end.

“How about Tiger beer from Singapore?” Woody asked. “Just tapped a fresh keg.”

“Never heard of it, much less tasted it. Draw away!”

The beer was cold and delicious, the bar itself fascinating. “Some of the troops will be coming in soon, they’ll be happy to meet you,” Woody said, drawing two more glasses. “There is only one thing that I’ll ask of you — don’t talk about your work. None of them will speak to you about what goes on in the laboratory — that order is out — so please don’t volunteer. Hell, even I don’t know what you are doing in there — nor do I want to know. Top Secret, we’ve been told, and that’s all the orders we need. Other than that, shoot the breeze.”

“Shoot the breeze! My vocabulary grows apace!”

Soldiers, some of whom he recognized from their guard duties, came in one by one. They seemed please to meet him personally at last, to shake his hand. He was their age, in fact older than most, and he listened with pleasure to their coarse military camaraderie — heard heroic bragging about sexual prowess and learned some fascinating vulgarities that he had never dreamed existed. And all the time he was listening he never let on that he was only fourteen years old. He was growing up faster every moment!

They told stories and old, familiar jokes. He was included in the talk and was asked what part of the States he came from, phrased politely but with the implication that they were puzzled about his brogue. The soldiers of Irish descent were full of questions and they all listened eagerly when he told them about growing up in Ireland. Later they went into dinner together — getting him a line tray and supplying him with plenty of advice on what to eat and what to avoid.

All in all it was an enjoyable evening and he resolved to eat in the mess hall again, whenever he could. What with all the talk and friendliness, what the Irish called good crack — not to forget all the beers either, he had pulled completely out of the glooms. The grunts were a great bunch of government-issue dogfaces. He would still start the day alone with coffee and toast, since he hated to talk to anyone first thing in the morning. And he had got into the habit of making himself a sandwich to take to the lab for lunch.

But he was going to join the human race for dinner just as often as he could. Or at least that portion of it represented by the 82d Airborne. Come to think of it the human race really was well represented there. White and black, Asian and Latin. They were all good guys.

He went to sleep smiling. The dreams did not bother him this night.

23 February 22, 2024

Brian was sitting on the edge of the decorative planter when Shelly came out of the Megalobe visitors’ quarters the next morning.

“How is it in there?” he asked as they started toward the lab, the attendant bodyguards walking before and behind.