After breakfast next morning Jingles came in to get the pan. "How you feel today?" he asked Rickey.

"Okay."

"Yesterday I think you don’t feel well." The chinaman put his hand in his pocket. He must be planning to stay a while. Rickey did not speak. He only shook his head slightly, avoiding the chinaman’s gaze.

"Perhaps there is something on your conscience then?" The chinaman began to jingle.

Rickey looked at him, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, and looked down at his hands.

"You sure you feel well?"

"I’m okay." The prisoner didn’t look up.

"Perhaps there is something you want?" The jingling was louder.

"No—yes!" Rickey looked up suddenly. "How about a deck of cards so we’ll have something to do besides just sit here?"

"Cards?" Still jingling. "I will ask the superior. Perhaps he will agree that you should have something to occupy your time." Then in a different tone: "I suppose it is difficult to live with your thoughts, isn’t it?" There was accusation of some sort in the last, faint but recognizable. "I will see about the cards." He continued to jingle as he went out the door and walked away.

"Perhaps," Ghant mused when Jingles had gone, "Jingles has the first shot at us now, because he found the first lead. I wonder what the bastard has in his pocket that jingles."

The corporal didn’t answer; he knew Ghant was just thinking aloud. Jingles returned shortly, carrying a handful of papers, but no cards.

"I could not get cards," the chinaman announced on entering. "Maybe later can get for you. But I bring something for you to read. Do you like to read?"

"That’s better than nothing," Rickey answered. To himself he added, "Even if it is propaganda." Maybe there would be some of the U. S. communist papers. They were entertaining in their absurdity, at least, and one could glean a little accurate information between the lines.

"Ah, yes," Jingles agreed. "Here, you take." He gave the papers to Rickey. "I know you will prefer reading to talking with me, so I leave you." He turned and went out.

"When he was gone, the prisoners looked to the papers. They saw at once they were pamphlets—no newspapers. They were of good paper with a slick finish. Rickey picked up the top one and both men looked at the cover. There were only a few words on it, in letters not much larger than typewriter "caps"; but the title hit them with the impact of a four-inch-high headline: DEPOSITION OF LT. COL. WM. S. WENDON.

The prisoners looked at each other. It wasn’t necessary to say anything. Rickey flung the pamphlet against the wall. It struck on its edge, bounced off a bit, and fluttered down on the young man’s outstretched foot. Rick kicked it away. He might have considered it symbolic of the communist strategy of repetition. No matter how hard, or how far you flung their propaganda aside, they shoved it back at you again and again until you tired of throwing it away and simply let it "lie."

The prisoners looked through most of the papers. All were the same. "Confessions" to germ warfare.

"Makes it pretty clear, doesn’t it?" Ghant asked.

Rickey nodded, his face glum.

After a time, Ghant picked up the first "deposition" and thumbed the pages. There were a few pictures inside. Together they looked at them. In the picture of Wendon "signing his confession" they picked out Specs in the background.

It was Specs who brought lunch. "Ah, you have something to read," he said. "Do you like to read?"

"Not this crap." Rickey was sorry as soon as he’d said it. He hadn’t intended to answer aloud.

"What is it you read?" Specs asked as if he didn’t know. He picked up one of the papers. "Oh, I see! Yes, of course, it is not pleasant for you to read this. I can understand, especially you two." Ghant noted the tensing of Spec’s neck as the chinaman held his breath to make his face flush. "But neither is it pleasant for the victims of such a beastly crime!" The enemy spat out the words.

The thick lenses, magnifying the eyes, enhanced the venomous glare with which the chinaman looked at them. The flush faded a little when he took a breath and came back as he held it again. He glared as long as he could hold his breath, then snorted as though in disgust, turned and stormed out, and slammed the door behind him.

Ghant moved quickly to the small hole in the paper. Outside, all traces of the pretended passion were gone. Specs exchanged a word with the guard. He stood in thought for a moment, looking back at the door studiously. After a time, he turned and strolled away, slapping idly at a sunflower bud on a stalk bent over the path.

"Why can’t I keep my damn mouth shut?" Rickey cursed himself again. Ghant, watching Specs through the pinhole, didn’t answer.

"He’s gone now," the captain said, moving from the door.

Rickey searched the captain’s face for a sign of condemnation. There was none. It didn’t even enter Ghant’s mind to blame the young man for what had just happened.

"Goddam! He sure blew his top on that one, didn’t he?" Rickey said. "Did you notice his eyes?"

"Those glasses make his eyes look worse than they are. It was all an act, Rick, the whole thing."

"I don’t think so. Didn’t you notice his face, how red he got?"

"Dammit, that’s part of the act." Ghant explained the trick. "They pretend so you’ll think they’re mad; and that way maybe they can get you mad. Don’t you see it, Rick? They want us to get mad, to lose our tempers so we’ll say things without thinking. Meanwhile, they just pretend and keep themselves cool so they know just what they’re doing. It’s all part of the planning—what we talked about before—’doin’ it cold."

Rickey seemed to understand, but Ghant wondered whether the corporal really had taken in what he’d told him. The best he could hope for was that the young fellow wouldn’t do something still more rash and get himself, or both of them, in a worse predicament.

The next day there were more of the casual visits. Bim came and worked into a discussion of the literature" they had to read. He held papers in his hand, but didn’t offer them. "You know some of these people?" Bim indicated the stack of "confessions." The question was to both men; neither answered.

"You know Wendon," he said to Ghant. The captain shook his head.

"Do not lie!"

"I’m not lying, I don’t know him."

Bim stared at the captain; Ghant held his gaze.

"Maybe personal you don’t know him, but you know. You have seen—"

"All I’ve seen is that," Ghant indicated the pamphlet.

Their eyes locked again for a time. Ghant’s gaze remained steady and calm, despite his anger inside.

Bim turned to Rickey. "You!" he said. "You know Bender, eh?"

"Nope."

"He is from your unit."

"So what? He’s a pilot, an officer. I’m an enlisted man. I didn’t fly with him, so I didn’t know him!"

Bim gave Rick the "glare" treatment with no effect.

"Then perhaps you will recognize some of these!" The chinaman shoved the papers in his hand toward Rickey.

The young man started to reach out to take them, then stopped. Looking at the papers, his face paled. More "confessions," arranged so he could read the names.

They were the names and signatures of the rest of his crew.

Bim waited, saying nothing. The corporal kept his eyes averted. "Here, take them!" Bim said forcefully.

"No! I won’t touch ‘em!" Rickey raised his eyes, then, and looked fully at the enemy. The hatred in them blazed out. He didn’t need to steel himself for a stare-down, and probably the chinaman realized the contest might be dangerous for him. Just one of these men, he knew, could kill him with his bare hands. The desire to do that was evident in Rickey’s glare. They would most likely die in turn if they did kill him, but that would be of no benefit to Bim. Besides, he had accomplished his purpose.

"I will leave them then," Bim said, placing the papers on the floor. "Perhaps you will wish to look later to see what your friends have to say. Perhaps later you will have something to tell us also. Perhaps you wish to think for a while now."

When Bim was gone, Rickey kicked the papers. He picked some up so he could ffing them away. Ghant said nothing. One pamphlet was torn in the process; it didn’t matter. The corporal cursed and swore. He sat down, got up to pace and kick the papers some more, then sat down and cursed again. The process was repeated, until the passion wore off. Then Rickey sat with his face in his hands. Ghant averted his eyes, knowing the young man was hiding tears. What could he do to console him? Nothing. This time the answer had to come from Rick himself and whatever kind of god he honored.

"I don’t give a damn," Rickey said finally. "I still won’t do it. I’ll make them kill me first."

Now that Rick had made his decision, Ghant knew he could help by getting the boy’s mind off the "confession" of his crew. Together they picked up all the papers, and arranged them in a stack in a corner. Then Ghant led him into talk of other things—any other things he could think of.

But the enemy didn’t allow much respite. They came in a continuous stream. No forthright demands, but always the suggestion, "We think there may be something you wish to tell us about yourselves." All five chinamen came in turn, then back again for repeat visits. Sometimes there were more than one of them at a time. Sometimes just as one was leaving and the prisoners hoped for rest, another one of their tormentors appeared. Constantly, there was the same suggestion, over and over, monotonous as the drip of a leaking tap: "We think perhaps there is something you wish to tell us."

Rickey came to lean more and more on the captain, and in time the enemy noticed it. It may have been because of that they were separated, or it may have been because of what Ghant said to the "Frisco Kid."

It happened just before supper. "You guys oughta wise up," Frisco said. "No sense goin’ on this way, livin’ in a rat-trap like this."

"Doesn’t seem to be much we can do about it," Ghant reminded him. "You’re the ones that put us here."

"So we did. And we’re the ones can move you to other places— better or worse."

Ghant felt the need for release of some of his own pent-up emotion and sought an outlet that would not put Rickey and him- self in greater danger. At times the prospect of solitary confinement was not so abhorrent. In fact, as a change it could be even inviting. Boredom and monotony were two of the enemy’s most potent weapons. Any change, even physical punishment or starvation, could sometimes serve as release and relief. Sometimes it was better to have something tangible to fight, even in hopeless battle. There could be release in sparring with words, though one had to be very careful. It shouldn’t be done for any other reason than release from the monotony. Frisco’s American manner of speaking made him a natural target.

"I shouldn’t think you’d want to stay in this place," the chinaman said looking around. "Wouldn’t you rather be some place else?"

"Sure," Ghant said. "San Francisco, maybe—the International Settlement." He noted Frisco’s quick glance. "They have better Chinese restaurants there than the one we’re getting our chow from now," the captain continued, in order to make the mention of San Francisco appear incidental. The brief look of surprise on the chinaman’s face had given the captain the satisfaction he needed.

"Ah, yes," Frisco said after brief reflection. "I’ve heard that chinatown in San Francisco is a fabulous place. I hope some day to visit there."

"I’ll bet you do," said Ghant.

"And I hope someday you may also visit there again!"

"Not much I can do about that except wait and see."

"Oh, I dunno," Frisco said. "A lot depeiads on you. For instance, if there is something you feel you should tell—"

"Aw, for cripes sake," Ghant said disgustedly. "Why the hell don’t you people stop beating around the bush? Why not just come out and say you want us to make another of these phony bug-war confessions for you, instead of this ‘something you want to tell us’ routine?"

It was what the enemy had been waiting for. "Ah! So that is what is in your mind. Then there is something you have to tell! Well, you can tell us later. Now it is time for your supper. I won’t bother you while you eat. See you later."

Well, maybe it would be easier to fight, now that the issue was in the open. At supper the prisoners reaffirmed their vow to each other that they would not give in to the enemy demands. Later they were glad that they did, for that night they were separated.