What I just read is MAGIC. There's no question about that.
"Yes, Sir."
Hon met his eyes for a moment, and then nodded.
"Lesson Two deals with administrative procedures," Hon said. "If you look under the table, you will find a wastebasket. In the wastebasket is a paper bag. The bag is stamped TOP SECRET-BURN in large letters. It is intended for TOP SECRET material that is to be burned. TOP SECRET material includes this lined pad you have been writing on. Not just the pages you wrote on, but the whole pad, because your pencil made impressions on pages underneath the top one. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I'm about to give you a key to the dungeon and the combination to one of the file drawers. You will memorize the combination. When you come to work here-which will be at any hour something comes in-if I'm not here, you will find that material in your drawer. You will make your translation-one copy only-and when you leave, you will put that in your drawer with the original material and make sure it is locked. Then you will take your notes, if you made any, or if you have written on a pad, anything at all, put them in the burn bag, and, accompanied by one of the guards, take it to an incinerator and burn it. You'll find a supply of burn bags in your drawer. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You will not, repeat not, burn anything that I give you."
"Yes, Sir."
"You will not take anything from this room, except burn bag material in a burn bag, unless specifically directed to do so by either Captain Pickering or myself."
"Yes, Sir."
"The people around here have been told that you are a cryptographic clerk-typist. If anyone, anyone, ever asks you what you're really doing in here, you will tell me instantly. If I'm not available, find Captain Pickering and tell him."
"Yes, Sir."
"To my considerable surprise, when I went to scrounge a typewriter, I managed to get two. I carried one down here. When you are doing MAGIC... Shit!" Hon stopped abruptly, and then continued, "When you use the typewriter to do translations for me, you will use a ribbon reserved for that purpose and kept in your file drawer. When that wears out, you will dispose of it via the burn bag. But you will not leave the ribbon in the typewriter when you leave the room... even to take a leak. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
Lieutenant Hon handed him a large key.
"Wear this on your dog tag chain," he said. "And for Christ's sake, don't lose it."
"No, Sir."
"OK. Go get the typewriter outside, and the box of ribbons, and bring them in here. Then we'll show you the incinerator, and the procedure to burn things. And finally, we'll get the other typewriter, before the supply officer changes his mind, and lock it in the car."
The phone was ringing.
Moore left his-mostly failed-love letter and walked across the library to the telephone.
"Sergeant Moore, Sir."
"Major Banning, Sergeant. I understand you have the car out there?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Is there any reason you could not drive to the airport and pick up some people, and then run past the Menzies and pick me up?"
"No, Sir."
"There'll be two Marine officers waiting for you. A Colonel Goettge and a Major Dillon. Can you leave right now?"
"As soon as I hang up, Sir."
"I'll be waiting in front," Banning said and hung up.
Moore went back to the typewriter, pulled his letter to his beloved from it, read it with very little satisfaction, and started to tear it up. Then he changed his mind.
He laid the letter on the table, took a pen, and wrote, "Duty calls. I have to run. I love you more than life itself."
He addressed an envelope, wrote "free" where a stamp would normally be placed, stuffed the letter in it, and put it in his pocket. There was an Army Post Office Box at the airfield. He would mail the letter to Barbara first and then go pick up the officers.
As he drove the Studebaker to the airport, he thought that "I love you more than life itself was a pretty well-turned phrase and was sort of pleased that Major Banning's call had rescued him from more time at the typewriter.
(Two)
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS, SOUTHWEST PACIFIC
HOTEL MENZIES
MELBOURNE, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
1600 HOURS 1 JULY 1942
When Lieutenant Pluto Hon heard the key turning in the steel door, he quickly covered what he was working on with its TOP SECRET cover sheet and stood up. There were only three people with a key to the room, and he had told Sergeant John Marston Moore to stay at The Elms until he sent for him. Ergo, whoever was unlocking the door had to be Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR.
"How are you, Pluto?" Pickering greeted him with a smile. "What can I do for you?"
"Sir, I just asked your clerk to let me know when you had a free minute. You didn't have to come down here."
"So she said," Pickering said. "What's up?"
"Well, first, did Major Banning get to you?"
"About tonight?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Yes, he did. And you're invited, too, of course. Is that what you wanted to ask?"
"No, Sir," Hon said, and then with obvious reluctance he plunged ahead: "Sir, I'm sorry I let my mouth run away from me and asked you for Sergeant Moore."
"Oh? How come?"
"Sir, and it's obviously my fault, it's already gotten out of hand."