"I've been wondering what happened to you," Andrew Foster said. "I understand you have had a very interesting afternoon."
"Fascinating," Pick agreed. "Well, we went out to the house, Grandfather."
"You had no trouble getting there?"
"Not a bit, Sir."
"Nothing's broken, or anything like that?"
"No, Sir."
"I just had a talk with Richmond Fowler," Andrew Foster said. "He said to tell you that he would do what he could, because of your father; but he could make no promises."
"I see."
The waiter delivered a quart bottle of Famous Grouse, held it over a glass, and poured. It was nearly full before Andrew Foster said, "Thank you." He took a large swallow, then turned to his grandson.
"Pick, damn it, I've covered for you before, but this! My God, even for you, this is spectacular!"
"Yes," Pick said, wholly unrepentant. "I rather thought it was myself."
"Why?"
"It seemed like a marvelous idea at the time, didn't it, George?"
"No, it didn't," George said.
"Did it pass through your mind what your father's reaction to this is going to be when he finds out about it?"
"No. But on the other hand, Dad's in no position to say anything to me about it."
"Meaning what?" the old man snapped.
"Meaning that Dad swam the Golden Gate. That was considerably more dangerous than flying up it and under the bridge."
"Christ, will you shut up!" Hart said, aware that their conversation was now the subject of a good deal of attention.
Almost immediately, he was sure that there was reason for his concern. A lieutenant, in greens and wearing wings, walked up to them.
"Lieutenant Pickering, I believe?" he said.
"Well, if it isn't Lieutenant Stecker, the pride of Marine Aviation. I didn't expect you until tomorrow."
"I came out a day early," Lieutenant Stecker said. "I'll tell you about it later." Hart sensed the question had made Stecker uncomfortable.
The proof came when Stecker pulled the newspaper to him, visibly glad for a chance to change the subject.
"I saw this in the airport," he said. "What kind of an idiot would do something like that?"
"As George Washington said to his daddy," Pick said happily, "I cannot tell a lie."
"Will you shut the hell up!" Hart snapped.
"Holy Christ! Really?" Stecker said.
"He's kidding, of course," Hart said.
"He kiddeth not. Oh, excuse me. Lieutenant Stecker, may I present my grandfather, Mr. Foster? And Sergeant Hart?"
"How do you do, Lieutenant?" Andrew Foster said.
"I think we ought to get out of here," Hart said.
"I think the sergeant is right," Andrew Foster said.
"I'm having a fine time right where I am," Pick said.
"Listen to me, you jackass," Stecker flared. "You will either leave here under your own power or I will coldcock you and carry you out." Pick looked at him a moment.
"For some strange reason, I think you're serious."
"I'm serious."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Hart said.
"Let's go," Stecker said.
Pick met his eyes for a moment and then shrugged. "I'm outnumbered."
They walked out of the bar.
Halfway across the lobby, Andrew Foster said, "I think you had better either get out of the hotel or go to Sergeant Hart's room. In case someone is looking for you."
"They won't know where to even start looking for me until sometime tomorrow."
"Where's your room, Sergeant?" Stecker asked.
Hart pulled the key from his pocket.
"Eleven-fifteen," he said.
"Let's go," Stecker said, and took Pick's arm and propelled him toward the bank of elevators.
"I don't know why you're pissed," Pick said to Stecker in Hart's room-a three-bedroom-plus-sitting-room suite. "You weren't there. Even if they catch me and stand me before a firing squad, you're not involved."
"You had no goddamned right to involve the sergeant in this," Stecker said. "Jesus Christ, it's a court-martial offense to be wearing civilian clothing! Not to mention the insanity of your flight under the goddamned bridge!"