Abruptly, clearly, Jeannette spoke to him: "Orv, don’t stare at the floor like that ... turn out your flash ... you’ve got to get out of that bus ... crawl out ... tell Zinc ... both of you have to leave ... do something about getting out ... get up..." He dragged himself to the engine and leaned against it. Can’t stay here ... move! Eyes to the periscope he submerged: below surface he observed his mother painting a watercolor, a stand of trees along the Nile, brilliant green against brilliant sun on the river: The torpedo raced toward Persepolis, sand, Persian sand, sun, flies, flies on the ruined city, flies in the shah’s palace: another ruin to the starboard: flies on our food: the dune moved: this was Notre Dame, its buttresses bombed, water high along the apse: wasn’t that bell from Claude Debussy’s music? Water had flooded the Louvre, or was it the bombings that had wrecked the building? Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa lay on the floor. Gold was washing over the frame: if he hurried he might save the painting. Save? How? Hunkered over, cold, he felt he had been isolated for years: everywhere was the impenetrable: dazed, he sagged against the wall; then, peering out, he realized the sky was a flame above the emplacement. So Bretten was burning. Shelling grew distinct. Burning clouds seemed to be approaching. Dennison regarded the sand bags for a long time. "They’re gone," he said to Zinc, hand on his shoulder. "There’s nobody up there. See. Look. Nothing. See in the light from the sky, nothing. Landel ran for it. He got away. Come on ... let’s get out of this mess..." Through wavering light from the town and the clouds he thought he saw somebody stumbling toward 9. "Zinc, look, somebody’s coming." "Where?" "It’s Landel." They waited, waited. It was nobody and Zinc sank into pain. Dennison lit his flash and fumbled about for their canteen. Shaking its near-emptiness, he drank, then pushed it at Zinc, who drained it. "Bah, it tastes bad." "Let’s go." "Where?" Zinc asked. "Look at the sky ... there’s light enough for us to see ... Bretten’s done for..." "What about Landel?" Zinc asked. "Hell with him!" "Then, let’s go." He found his flash; the canteen was floating on the tank floor, cap off; Dennison unbolted the turret; as he spun a bolt he felt for his automatic; leaning down he yelled at Zinc: "Have we any grenades?" "No grenades." Outside, in the protection of the tank, they saw that their shovels were still wired to the cab. They thought of putting the bus in action. Could be safer than wandering. What about the battery? Gas but not enough juice. Splashing in water they walked a few steps. "Hopeless," said Dennison. "Leave the damn thing." Crewmen appeared--stepped out of the dark, the sky coloration on their helmets: there appeared to be eight or ten, plastered with mud, sopping, their flashlights hooded. A guy loosened his helmet strap and said: "I’m Captain Kernie. You two alone?"