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In the Crystal City underground mall he found a toy store and purchased a plastic model of the air force's new stealth fighter； the F…l 17。 He also bought a tube of glue。 Then he boarded the Metro blue train for the ride to Rosslyn。
When the subway surfaced near the Key Bridge； Jake stared gloomily at the raindrops smearing the dirt on the windows as the train rocked along under a dark gray sky； then it raced noisily back into another hole in the ground and like his fellow passengers； he refocused his eyes vacantly on nothing as he instinctively created his own little private space。
He felt relieved when the doors finally opened and he joined the other passengers surging across the platform； through the turnstiles； then onto the world's longest escalator。 The moving stair ascended slowly up the gloomy； slanting shaft bearing its veterans of purgatory。 Amid the jostling； pushing； hustling throng； he was carried along as part of the flow。 This morning he had been a tourist。 Now he was as much a part of this human river as any of them。 Morning and evening he would be an anonymous face in the mob： hurry along； hurry； push and shove gently； persistently； insistently； demanding equal vigor and speed from every set of legs； equal privacy from every set of blank； unfocused eyes。 Hurry； hurry along。
Rain was still falling when he reached the sidewalk。 He paused and turned his collar up against the damp and chill； then set off for the giant condo plex four blocks away。
Most of the people scurrying past him on the sidewalk had done this every working day for years。 They were moles； he told himself glumly； blind creatures of the dark； damp places where the sun and wind never reached； unaware that the universe held anything but the dismal corridors where they lived out their pathetic lives。 And now he was one of them。
He stopped at the corner； the model in the box under his arm。 People swirled around him； their heads down； their eyes on the concrete。 Callie wouldn't get home to the flat for another hour。
He turned and walked back against the flow of the crowd toward the station exit。 Right across the street from the exit was a Roy Rogers。 He paid for a cup of coffee and found a seat near the atrium window where he could watch the gray people bent against the wind and the raindrops sliding down the glass。
The euphoria he had felt when he talked to Vice Admiral Henry this morning was pletely gone。 Now he had a job。。。 a paperwork job； going to endless meetings and listening to reports and writing remendations and trying to keep from going crazy。 A job in the bureaucracy。 A staff job； the one he had fought against； refused to take； pulled every string to avoid； all these years。 In the puzzle palace； the place where good ideas go to die。
It could have been worse； of course。 He could have been assigned to design the new officer fitness report form。
Like many officers who spent their careers in operational billets； Jake Grafton loathed the bureaucrats； held them in a secret contempt which he tried to suppress with varying degrees of success。 In the years since World War II； the bureaucracy had grown lush and verdant here in Washington。 Every member of Congress had twenty aides。 Every social problem had a staff of paper pushers 〃managing〃 it。 The military was just as bad。 Joint mands with a staff of a thousand to fifteen hundred people were mon。
Perhaps it happens because we are human。 The people in the military endlessly analyze and train for the last war because no one knows what the next one will be like。 New equipment and technologies deepen the gloom which always cloaks the future。 Yesterday's warriors retire and new ones inherit the stars and the offices； and so it goes through generations； until at last every office is filled with men who have never heard a shot fired in anger or known a single problem that good； sound staff work； carefully couched in bureaucratese； could not 〃manage〃 satisfactorily。 Inevitably the gloom bees Stygian。 Future war bees a profound enigma that workaday admirals and generals and congressmen cannot penetrate。 So the staffs proliferate as each responsible person seeks expert help with his day…to…day duties and the insoluble policy conundrums。
Another war would be necessary to teach the new generation the ancient truths。 But in the Pax Americana following World War II； Vietnam accelerated the damage rather than arrested it。
In its aftermath Vietnam appeared to many as the first inadvertent； incautious step toward the nuclear inferno that would destroy life on this planet。 Frightened by the new technologies and fearful of the inprehensible political forces at work throughout the world； citizens and soldiers sought…demanded…quantifiable truths and controls that would prevent the war that had bee unthinkable； the future war that had bee； for the generations that had known only peace； the ultimate obscenity。 Laws and regulations and inprehensible organizational charts multiplied like bacteria in a petri dish。 Engineers with pocket calculators became soothsayers to the terrified。
All of this Jake Grafton knew； and knowing it； was powerless to change。 And now he was one of them； one of the faceless savants charged with creating salvation on his desk and placing it in the out basket。
Over on the beach it was probably raining like this。 The wind would be moaning around the house and leaking around the windowpanes。 The surf would be pounding on the sand。 It would be a great evening for a walk along the beach under a gray sky； by that gray sea。 Suddenly he felt an overpowering longing to feel the wind in his hair and the salt air in his nostrils。
Oh； to be there and not here！ Not here with the problems and the hassles and the responsibilities。
His eye fell upon the bag that the clerk had placed the F…I17 model in。 He ripped out the staple and slid the box from the bag。 The artist had painted the plane black。 It had twin vertical stabilizers； slanted in at the bottom； and flat sides all over the place； all of which he suspected were devilishly expensive to manufacture。 The intakes were on top of the fuselage； behind the canopy。 How would the engines get air when the pilot was pulling Gs； maneuvering？ He stared at the picture。 No doubt this plane was fly…by…wire with a flight control puter stabilizing the machine and automatically trimming。 But what would it feel like to fly it？ What would be the weight and performance penalty to get this thing aboard ship？ How much were they going to cost？ Could these machines ever be worth the astronomical sums the manufacturers would want to charge？ The politicians would decide。
Jake drained his coffee and threw the cup in the trash can by the door。 He pulled the bag up over the box and rolled the excess tightly； then pushed the door open and stepped out into the evening。
〃Hi； darling；〃 Callie said brightly when she came home and found Jake assembling the model on the kitchen table。
〃Hey； beautiful。〃 Jake looked up and grinned at her； then resumed his chore of gluing the landing gear into the wheel wells。
〃So how was the first day back at the office？〃
Jake laid the plastic model on the diagram and leaned back in his chair。 He stre