Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (2 page)

 
          
 
Burnham glanced idly at the amount of the
check, but it looked reasonable. "What do I know? I put it in the bank,
and I spend it, and when I spend too much the bank sends me a naughty-boy slip
and I give them ten dollars."

 
          
 
Renfro sensed that he was being teased, and he
hated to be teased because he didn't know how to respond to teasing—
"Shove it!" being unacceptable in the corridors of DOE. But then it
occurred to him that Burnham was simply being candid. He leaned forward and
pointed at the check and said, "May I?"

 
          
 
"Sure."

 
          
 
Renfro plucked the check from Burnham's
fingers and, pointing at the maze of boxes on the stub, began to speak in a
low, calm voice, the voice one would use to instruct a wayward but not
malevolent child.

 
          
 
"As of close-of-business today, you will
have been with DOE for three years and six months, as a GS-15 step 8. Your base
salary has been fifty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars per annum, paid
biweekly at the gross salary rate of one thousand, one hundred and five dollars
and seventy-seven cents per week, or two thousand, two hundred and eleven
dollars and fifty-four cents per check, minus, first. Federal withholding tax
of ... "

 
          
 
Burnham's mind bid adieu to the torrent of
statistics, and his voice hummed an agreeable "Mmmmmm" in tones
modulated to convey concentration, fascination and comprehension.

 
          
 
"Now!" Renfro stabbed a particular
figure, and Burnham's mind raced to refocus. "At close-of-business today,
time-in-grade moves you from GS-15 step 8 to GS-15 step 9!
Congratulations!"

 
          
 
At a loss for an appropriate response, Burnham
said, "Right."

 
          
 
"Don't you see?” Renfro waved the check
before Burnham's face. "Fifty-nine thousand, eight hundred dollars per
annum, paid biweekly at the gross salary rate of . . . "

 
          
 
Burnham snatched the check back from Renfro,
and his eyes traveled down to the last box on the stub, the one that showed the
net amount. The true, after-tax, in-the-pocket, spending-money increase for two
weeks' work was $48.17. He looked up at Renfro and said, "You do this for
a living?"

 
          
 
"Do what?"

 
          
 
"Scurry from department to department,
conducting . . . circumcision ceremonies to celebrate a lousy forty-dollar
raise? You could've called, for a quarter."

 
          
 
Renfro stiffened. "Mr. Burnham, the money
is just a symbol. Elevation to GS-15 step 9 carries with it a great deal more
than a raise in pay. As of close-of-business today, you will be in the—how
should I put it?—in the stratosphere of DOE. You will have"—and here he
lowered his voice in what could have been reverence or secrecy or
both—"you will have . . . Q Clearance."

 
          
 
Burnham didn't know what to say. Was this good
news or bad news? Did it mean anything, or was it but one more of the totemic
badges that gave bureaucrats the incentive to go on?

 
          
 
He gazed at Renfro, suddenly seeing the man as
more than a man, as an incarnation of many things grand and grave: of the ant
colony that was the federal government, of the paranoia and insecurity that
hung over
Washington
like sour gas, of the entire federal budget
deficit.

 
          
 
"Lucky me!" he cried. "Does
this mean that I get to tear a piece off the President's niece?"

 
          
 
Renfro gripped the edge of Burnham's desk so
hard that his fingernails left dents in the varnish. "How could you?"
he gasped. "How could you joke about Q Clearance? It's . . . no . . .
joke!"

 
          
 
"If you say so," Burnham said
pleasantly. "But dare I ask what the hell it is?"

 
          
 
"Of course." Renfro made a busy
motion with his tie. "Of course. Code Q is the security classification
used for atomic energy documents. A government employee may be cleared Top
Secret—I imagine everyone in the White House complete is—but without a Q
Clearance he can't see any paperwork or receive any information about atomic
energy. Q Clearance gives you access to all materials pertaining to atomic
energy."

 
          
 
"What do I want with a Q Clearance?"

 
          
 
"So you can have access to materials
pertaining to atomic energy. On a need-to-know basis, of course."

 
          
 
"That's that, then. I don't need to know
any of it, and I don't have any of it."

 
          
 
"You will. It will be sent to you."

 
          
 
"Why? I don't understand half the crap
DOE sends me now. Why do I want more?"

 
          
 
"What you want has nothing to do with it.
It's what you must have, now that you're a GS-15 step 9."

 
          
 
"But I don't need it."

 
          
 
"Of course you do."

 
          
 
"Why?"

 
          
 
"Because you're a GS-15 step 9, working
for DOE."

 
          
 
"I don't work for DOE. I've never set
foot in DOE. I work for the White House."

 
          
 
Renfro sighed. "I thought we'd settled
all that."

 
          
 
"I don't even write speeches on energy. I
don't know fission from fusion. All I know about nuclear is
Hiroshima
."

 
          
 
"You will."

 
          
 
"You mean they'll send me everything?
Like where all our missiles are and what they're targeted on and the launch
codes and the . . . the boom factor?"

 
          
 
"The boom factor?"

 
          
 
"Beats the shit out of me," Burnham
said. "Sounds good, though, doesn't it?"

 
          
 
"I see. Another joke." Renfro
squared his shoulders and set his jaw, reminding Burnham of John Houseman on
the Smith, Barney commercials. "There are certain things you would have to
request specifically and prove your need to know. But basic. Top Secret,
Q-classified atomic-energy materials will cross your desk."

 
          
 
"Really?" Burnham was mildly
interested. "How many?"

 
          
 
Renfro's smile vanished. "You know better
than that. I'm not at liberty to—"

 
          
 
"Okay. Forget how many. What are they
called? If I'm Q Cleared for Category 7, what's higher? Category 8?"

 
          
 
Renfro blushed. "Really ..."

 
          
 
"You mean there's stuff so secret that no
one can even know how secret? Even the names are secret? I know: They're not
called secrets; they're called . . . fizmins! So you say to some guy, 'Can you
keep a fizmin?' and right away he knows you're okay."

 
          
 
"I don't find this at all—"

 
          
 
"Now"—Burnham stared contemplatively
at the ceiling— "the stuff only the President can see, those are
superfizmins. The problem is, if only the President can see them, then nobody's
cleared to tell them to him or type them out for him, so he has no way to get
them."

 
          
 
Annoyed and impatient, Renfro drummed his knuckles
on the desk top.

 
          
 
"Tell me who can know I've got Q
Clearance," Burnham said.

 
          
 
"Only someone else who's Q Cleared."

 
          
 
"Like you."

 
          
 
Renfro nodded.

 
          
 
"How high are you cleared?"

 
          
 
"You're out of line."

 
          
 
"Sorry. I don't mean to be nosy. The thing
is, how can anybody know how high he's cleared? All he knows is what's below
him. He doesn't know anything about what's above him. Right?"

 
          
 
Renfro hesitated, then said uncertainly,
"I suppose."

 
          
 
"I mean, say I'm having lunch in the Mess
with some of the guys, and the talk turns lightly to nuclear energy, and one of
the guys says, 'I wonder what goes into that there neutron bomb.' And since I
know all about those things—being Q Cleared and all—I say—"

 
          
 
Renfro blanched. "You don't say a
thing!"

 
          
 
"Take it easy. This is just for instance.
I say, 'I happen to know it's made up of two brindles, a gristen and a pint of
phwork.' "

 
          
 
"You wouldn't—"

 
          
 
"Just an example. I told you, I don't
understand any of this crap anyway. Now, if he says, 'Yeah? No shit?' then I
know he isn't Q Cleared. Easy. But suppose some other guy at the table says,
'Not only that, but they launch it with a twelve-volt pismo, which are
manufactured at Pismo Products in
White Plains
.' Well, no question: Here's a guy with more
than your garden-variety Q Clearance."

 
          
 
"This is all very—"

 
          
 
"The point, Mr. Renfro," Burnham
said sharply, "is this: How do I know who I can talk to? How do I know
who's got Q Clearance? Is there a secret handshake? Will he be wearing a code
ring?"

 
          
 
"Don't be ridiculous."

 
          
 
"Well? Is my wife cleared?"

 
          
 
"Of course not."

 
          
 
"So what happens if we're talking about
this and that, and all of a sudden I spill something to her."

 
          
 
"Be reasonable. What classified material
would be likely to come up in a . . . nuptial . . . conversation?"

 
          
 
"Piece of cake^ My wife's involved with
saving the whales. I say to her, 'Great, let's save the whales, but did you
know that the only effective lubricant for the trigger devices for hydrogen
bombs is sperm-whale oil? We can't save all the whales.' "

 
          
 
Renfro burst out, "How did you know
that?"

 
          
 
"I read it somewhere. But suppose it was
classified. What then?"

 
          
 
“Suppose it was classified!? That's Category
7!"