“He wouldn’t dare without it,” Culver said. “What I can’t figure out is why Regiment gave him the O.K. on it.” “The swine. The little swine. It’s not on account of H & S Company. You know that. It’s because it’s an exploit. He wants to be known as a tough guy, a boondocker.” “There’s one consolation, though,” said Culver, after a pause, “if it’ll help you any.” “What, for God’s sake?” “Old Rocky, or whatever they call him, is going to hike along, too.” “You think so?” Mannix said doubtfully. “I know so. So do you. He wouldn’t dare not push along with his men.” Mannix was silent for a moment. Then he said viciously, as if obsessed with the idea that no act of Templeton’s could remain untainted by a prime and calculated evil: “But the son of a bitch! He’s made for that sort of thing. He’s been running around the boondocks for six years getting in shape while sane people like you and me were home living like humans and taking it easy. Billy Lawrence, too. They’re both gung ho. These fat civilians can’t take that sort of thing. My God! Hobbs! Look at that radioman, Hobbs. That guy’s going to keel over two minutes out--” He rose suddenly to his feet and stretched, his voice stifled by the long, indrawn breath of a yawn. “Aaa-h, fuck it. I’m going to hit the sack.” “Why don’t you?” “Fine bed. A poncho in a pile of poison ivy. My ass looks like a chessboard from chigger bites. Jesus, if Mimi could see me now.” He paused and pawed at his red-rimmed eyes. “Yeah,” he said, blinking at his watch, “I think I will.” He slapped Culver on the back, without much heartiness. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sport. Stay loose.” Then he lumbered from the tent, mumbling something: _be in for fifty years_.