"Zero length."

"What do I see?"

"I don't know."

The guard pushed him stumbling across the line. When he turned to recross he looked directly in the man's face. A long-headed type, half intelligent, small bright eyes.

Oswald turned to face the urinal, requested permission to cross.

"I'm looking at your sideburns. What am I looking at?"

"My sideburns."

"The hair on your sideburns will not exceed what length when fully extended."

"One-eighth inch."

The guard extended the hair between his thumb and index finger, twisting for effect. Oswald let his head lean that way, not so much to ease the pain, which was mild, as to show he would not accept pain stoically in these circumstances. The guard released and then popped him in the head with the heel of his hand.

Oswald requested permission to cross the line.

"The length of the hair at the top of the head will not exceed how many inches maximum."

"Maximum three inches."

He waited for the guard to grab a handful.

"The fly of the trousers shall hang in what kind of line and shall not do what when they are what."

"The fly of the trousers shall hang in a vertical line and shall not gap when they are unzipped."

The guard reached around and grabbed him by the nuts.

"I know the type."

"Aye aye sir."

"I spot the type a mile away."

"Aye aye sir."

"The type that can't stand pain."

"Aye aye sir."

"The sniveling phony Marine."

A prisoner approached the second white line, requested permission to cross. The guard looked over, slowly. He let go of Oswald's crotch. It was raining again. He detached the billy club from his belt and approached the second prisoner.

"What's your name?"

"Nineteen."

"Don't you know the code, Nineteen?"

"I requested permission to cross the line."

"You didn't request permission to talk." The guard jabbed him lightly in the ribs. "Prisoners are silent. We observe the international rules of warfare in this head. This is my head. Nobody talks without my say-so."

He jabbed the prisoner with the billy club.

"Prisoners run silent. They fall to the deck silent when struck. Do you know how to fall, Nineteen?"

The guard jabbed twice, then three more times, harder, before Nineteen realized he was supposed to fall down, which he did, crumpling slowly, in careful stages. His right shoulder touched the white line. The guard kicked him back over.

"We observe the principles of night movement in this head. What is the first principle of night movement, Nineteen?"

"Run at night only in an emergency."

The guard swung the club without bothering to lean toward the prisoner, using a casual backhand stroke, grazing the man's elbow. The guard did not look at the man as he swung. This was one of the features of the local style.

The guard looked at Oswald.

"Why did I hit him?"

"He recited principle number two."

The guard swung the club, hitting the man in the shoulder.

"In this head we know our manual word for word," the guard told the crumpled man, standing with his back to him. "We say nothing in this head that does not come from the manual. We kill silent and with surprise."

Oswald needed desperately to piss.

"In the final assualt," said the guard, "it is the individual Marine, with his rifle and his what, who closes with the enemy and destroys him."

"Bayonet," the prisoner said.

"A vigorous bayonet assault, executed by Marines eager to drive home cold steel, can do what, what, what."

Silence from the man on the deck. He tightened his fetal knot a second before the guard stepped back half a stride and swung the club in a wide arc, striking the knee this time. Oswald was eager to be called.

The guard looked at Oswald, who said at once, "A vigorous bayonet assault, executed by Marines eager to drive home cold steel, can strike terror in the ranks of the enemy."

The guard swung the club backwards once more, striking Nineteen on the arm. Oswald felt a slight satisfaction. The guard made a point of gazing into the distance as he struck his blows.

Oswald sensed the guard's interest shift his way. He was ready for the question.

"Principle number one."

"Get the blade into the enemy."

"Principle number two."

"Be ruthless, vicious and fast in your attack."

The guard took half a step, switched the billy to his left hand and swun'g it hard, striking Oswald's collarbone. He was genuinely surprised. He thought they'd reached an understanding. The blow knocked him back three steps and forced him to one knee. He'd thought he was through getting hit for the day.

"There are no right answers," the guard advised, looking into the distance.

Oswald got to his feet, approached the white line, stood staring at the urinal. He requested permission to cross.

"To execute the slash, do what."

"One, assume the guard position."

"Then what."

"Two, step forward fifteen inches with the left foot, keeping the right foot in place."

The guard swung the club, hitting him in the arm. He was sweaty with the need to piss, his upper body moist and chill.

"There are no right answers in this head. It is the stupidest arrogance to give an answer that you think is right."

The guard jabbed him in the ribs with the butt end of the stick. The other man, Nineteen, was still crumpled on the deck.

The guard swung the club, smashing Oswald on the upper back. The idea seemed to be why bother with questions. Oswald made a decision to let the piss come flowing out. It was an anger and a compensation. He felt it flow down his leg, knowing deep relief, deliverance, good health everywhere, long life to all.

The guard swung the club, hitting the side of Oswald's neck.

He put his hands over the back of his head, covering up. The last blow put the guard strangely on edge. He stood looking into the distance but was different from before, mouth hanging open, a dead spot in his eye, and Oswald knew they were all one word away from a private carnage of the type you hear about from time to time, nameless and undetailed.

He watched the puddle take shape on the floor, his arms crossed at the back of his head. He needed a moment to think.

He sighed deeply, stepping up to the white line. He looked straight ahead and lowered his hands slowly to his sides. It was his sense of things that if he moved slowly and openly and did not show terror, the guard would stand off. The guard's mental condition had to be taken into account. They were all here to see to it that the guard came through. Oswald believed that the man crumpled on the deck knew this as well as he did. He sensed the man's awareness of the moment. They had to let the moment cohere, build itself back to something they all recognized as a rainy Wednesday in Japan.

He stood at the white line and waited.

Dupard whispered in the dark.

"I definitely get the idea they want to send me home in a box.

LIBRA • JOS

The first minute I put on the green service coat, I look like I'm dead. It's a coffin suit for a fool. I seen it on the spot."

"I liked the uniform," Ozzie told him. "It was great how it looked. I was surprised how great I felt. I kept it cleaned and mothproofed. I kept heavy objects out of the pockets. I looked in the mirror and said it's me."

"Nice joke. They told my mother. Get him in the service, Mrs. Dupard. The streets of America getting crazy by the day. Your boy is safe with us."

"That's what they told my mother."

"They sent me to JP to save me from West Dallas niggers. Believe this booshit? They put me behind bars so nobody slips off with my wallet and shoes."

"It's the whole huge system. We're a zero in the system."

"They give me their special attention. Better believe."