Walter J. Sheldon

“ I don't want anybody to get the idea I'm a hero type—a professional volunteer. But I'm a career officer, and overseas duty is the quickest way to tactical unit command, which is important on the record. The lack of it has kept many a perfectly good colonel from getting his first star and making that final big step.
So I worked hard, and of course, sent in another request for transfer, this time under the provisions of a different set of regulations. And I didn't think about Zon Twenty again until about a week later, one afternoon, when the phone rang. ”

“ I said. I didn't—then. "You just answer my questions, and I'll answer yours. Mine first."
"All right," he said. "Very well."
And I started my barrage. When would the Final War start? He told me. How would it start? He told me that. Who would be the belligerents, and what weapons and techniques would be used at first, and what new ones would be developed? He knew. Where would the major campaigns be fought—how many troops would be involved? I got the whole story. I scribbled furiously and put it on paper.
Afterwards, he asked his questions. ”

“ The future? I doubt it. Unless in some way time and space actually curve back upon themselves, as some think."
"Uh huh," I said, and drank my coffee and finally left Clipper Moskowitz.
After that I did manage to forget about Zon Twenty temporarily. It was a busy week. The draft quota had gone up, and Personnel Planning had worked out new criteria for classification, and I had to study these to apply them to analysis. This won't make much sense to you unless you've worked in a military headquarters yourself. I worked. ”

“ Moskowitz at a far table, and remembered that he was a great science fan, always talking about rockets and reaching the moon, and that sort of thing—we had one argument about why a rocket works in a vacuum, such as space, and he hammered the table and drew diagrams and quoted Newton, and I'm still not convinced. Anyway, I went over and sat next to Clipper.
"'Lo, Larry. How's it?" he said.
"Routine," I said. "Latest request for overseas duty turned down. I'll probably die in the Pentagon with my pencil still behind my ear." ”

“ Zon Twenty speaking."
"Oh. 'Scuse me," I said. "I must have dialed wrong."
That was euphemism—misplaced loyalty, maybe. I didn't dial the wrong number, and I knew it. But high brass had installed a new automatic dialing system in the Pentagon as an economy measure, and it produced so many wrong numbers and entanglements that I think it actually must have cost more money in the long run than the old-fashioned live operator system—but then that shouldn't surprise you if you've ever been connected with the military.
I was about to hang up after my apology. The voice on the other end said: "Wait! ”