Jiro scowled. “Old man Okano is a highway robber,” he said. But this time his glee didn’t come back. He knew he couldn’t have got a better price from anybody else, Japanese, Chinese, or haole. Diesel fuel was heading straight through the roof. The Army needed a lot of it, and, as his sons had said, no more was coming in from the mainland. And gasoline was going up even faster than diesel fuel. Which meant…

“All right, we won’t get rich,” Jiro said. He was less upset than he might have been. He wouldn’t have known what to do as a rich man anyhow.

Kenzo asked, “What happens when there is no more fuel? Can we take the engine off the sampan and rig a mast? Hiroshi and I don’t know anything about handling a sail.”

“I’ve done it, back when I was young,” Jiro said. “I think I can still manage. I’d want somebody who really knows what he’s doing to see to the rigging, I expect.” He stuck a hand in his pocket. Something like that wouldn’t come cheap. His imagined wealth seemed to be dripping away even faster than he’d got it.

THE DAY AFTER Christmas, Joe Crosetti reported to the San Francisco Naval Aviation Selection Board. A big blond Swede named Lundquist chaired the board. He looked at Joe’s papers and smiled. “Are you any relation to Frankie Crosetti, young man?” he asked.

Joe smiled, too, in a resigned way. If he had a dime for every time somebody’d asked him if he was related to the Yankees’ shortstop, he might have been making more dough than Frankie was. “No, sir, not that I know of,” he answered. “Oh, there may be some kind of connection between his family and mine back in the old country, but it’s nothing anybody can prove.”

“Okay. Doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Lundquist said. “I wondered, that’s all. How old are you, son?”

“I’m nineteen, Mr. Lundquist.” Crosetti knew he looked younger. He was five-seven and on the skinny side, with a narrow, swarthy face and a thick shock of curly black hair. He did have a five o’clock shadow that came out at three, but it was five after nine in the morning now; he’d got to the board as soon as it opened, and he’d shaved just a couple of hours before.

“You graduated from high school…?”

“A year and a half ago, sir. My diploma’s in with my papers.”

“All right. And what are you doing now?”

“I’m a mechanic at Scalzi’s garage, sir,” Joe answered. “My old man’s a fisherman. Sometimes on weekends I go out with him. I used to do it every summer and Christmas vacation till I got this job.”

“So you know your way around the water, do you?”

“A little bit, maybe. I’m an okay sailor, but I’m not a sailor, you know what I mean?”

Lundquist and the rest of the men on the board looked at one another. Joe tried to figure out what that meant, but he couldn’t. The chairman said, “When you were in high school, did you play any sports?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe answered. “I played second base on the baseball team, and I was a backup guard on the basketball team.”

“No football?”

Joe shook his head. “I like playing touch in the park, but I’m not a great big guy.” That was an understatement. “I didn’t have a prayer of making the team. How come you want to know?”

“Teamwork,” Lundquist told him. “Basketball is good, football’s even better. Baseball shows coordination, but less of the other.”

One of the other men spoke up: “Second and short need it more than other positions. They have to work together if they’re going to turn double plays.” His wiry build suggested he might have been a middle infielder in his day. Whether or not, he was dead right, and Joe nodded. He and Danny Fitzpatrick, his shortstop, had taken endless ground balls and practiced 6-4-3 and 4-6-3 double plays till each knew in his sleep what the other was going to do.

Lundquist scribbled a note. He asked, “Have you got any flying experience?”

“No, sir,” Joe admitted, wondering how much trouble the admission would get him in. Again, he couldn’t tell what Lundquist was thinking. The man had one of the deadest pans Joe had ever seen; he wouldn’t have wanted to play poker against him.

“But you do drive a car as well as work on them?” Lundquist persisted.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Joe said. “I’ve had my license since I was sixteen.”

“Any accidents?”

“No, sir.”

“Tickets?”

“Just one.” Joe thought about lying, but they could check. The ticket might not wash him out. If they nailed him in a lie, he figured that was all she wrote.

The selection-board chairman shuffled through his folder. “I see you have your letters of recommendation in place.” He looked over each of them in turn. “Your boss and your two high-school coaches. They know you pretty well?”

“If they don’t, nobody does.” Joe wondered if he should have tried to get letters from important people-judges or politicians, maybe. The only trouble was, he didn’t know anybody like that. I’m an ordinary Joe, he thought, and grinned a little.

“One more question,” Lundquist said. “Why do you want to do this?”

“Why? Sir, the day after the Japs jumped on Pearl Harbor, my old man tried to join the Army. He wanted to hit back, and so do I. They wouldn’t take him-he’s forty-five, and he’s got a bad back and a bad shoulder. But I was so proud of him, I can’t even tell you. And what he did got me thinking. If we are going to hit back at the Japs, who’ll get in the first licks? Pilots flying off carriers, looks like to me. So that’s what I want to do.”

The man who looked as if he’d played second or short remarked, “Kid’s got a head on his shoulders.” That made Joe feel about ten feet tall. He tried not to be dumber than he could help, but he was no big brain. If they wanted guys with high foreheads and thick glasses to fly their fighters, he was out of luck.

“Why don’t you step outside?” Lundquist told him. “We need to talk about you behind your back for a little while.” Joe did a double take when he heard that. Lundquist was a cool customer, but maybe he was okay underneath.

Joe could hear them muttering about him in there. If he put his ear to the door, he might make out what they were saying. He didn’t do it. It was something else where getting caught would land him in hot water. Not doing it turned out to be smart. Ten seconds later, two guys in sailor suits turned the corner and came past him. They paid him no more attention than if he were part of the linoleum. But if he’d been leaning up against the door, that would have been a different story.

He wanted a cigarette, but didn’t pull the pack of Luckys out of his pocket. He didn’t want to have a butt in his mouth when they called him back in, and it’d be just his luck to get halfway down the smoke when the door opened.

Again, that turned out to be the right move, because a couple of minutes later the door did open. “Come on in, son,” Lundquist said. “Have a seat.” As usual, his face gave no clue to what he was thinking. He might have been about to give Joe what he wanted, or to arrest him and send him to Alcatraz.

Silence stretched. Joe craved that cigarette more than ever. It would have calmed his nerves, slowed his pounding heart. Finally he couldn’t stand it any more, and said, “Well?”

“Well, we’re going to make you an appointment with the psychological officers,” Lundquist said. “If they don’t say you’ve got an unfortunate tendency to raise hedgehogs in your hat, we’ll see if the Navy can make a flyboy out of you.”

“Thank you, sir!” The words seemed cold and useless to Joe. What he really wanted to do was turn handsprings.

“No promises, mind you, but you don’t look too bad,” Lundquist said.

The man who looked like a middle infielder added, “You had all your paperwork in order the first time you came in. That’s a good sign right there-you’d be amazed how many people have to try three times before they bring us everything we need. No promises, no, but my guess is you’ve got what it takes.”