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into each other only once by chance
     on her premises, much to her embarrassment and theirs.
    They lunched on curried shrimp at a window facing acres of parked cars, for Pearson did not rate an office with a river view.
     The topic of the lunch was forty-eight Skyhawk light attack bombers, contracted for by Israel some time ago and still not
     delivered. Pearson explained, coughing a lot, that since the United States was now embargoing all weapons shipments to the
     Middle East, and urging the Soviets to do the same, delivery of the Skyhawks at present was not feasible. Barak protested
     with heat that this was highly unsatisfactory, because the Russians, while pondering the embargo proposal, were continuing
     to rearm Egypt and Syria at an alarming rate. Halliday was at the meeting, it soon emerged, to help the easygoing Pearson
     stall off Barak. This the airman did with dry authority.
    “General, Israel has wiped out all hostile air forces in your region,” he said. “Your air superiority is absolute. You can’t
     deny that. The urgency of our delivering the Skyhawks just now therefore escapes me.”
    “The urgency, Colonel, as I’ve just pointed out to the Assistant Secretary, is Russian resupply to our enemies. Clearly that
     compels us to start to resupply ourselves. Air superiority isn’t a static thing. When Arab aircraft outnumber our squadrons
     three or four to one — we project a period of eighteen months from now at the present rate, with newer MiGs, by the way —
     our position could become awkward.”
    “Airplanes don’t fly themselves,” retorted Halliday, forking up curry. “Your air victory decimated their pilot pool, and it’ll
     be a long time regenerating.”
    “With Russian instructors? Why?” Barak disliked shrimp, so he was picking at the bread and butter. “Arab manpower is infinite,
     compared to ours. Training a quality pilot takes a year.”
    “Zev, Russian instructors can’t instill the motivation your pilots have,” Pearson put in.
    “True, because we fight for national survival, and the Arabs don’t. Is that a reason to withhold from us the wherewithal to
     fight?”
    Pearson coughed hard, and glanced at the impassive air force colonel. “Zev’s a good arguer, isn’t he?”
    Halliday merely nodded. He had spoken his piece, nailing down the undeclared and unpalatable fact that President Johnson and
     the State Department were mending fences with the Arabs, and that Pearson, though friendly, was helpless. Barak wasted no
     more words on the Skyhawks, and the meeting ended with sparring about ammunition replenishment and parts for Patton tanks,
     during which Halliday was silent and Pearson vague.
    Barak and Halliday left the office together. In the corridor Barak was ready for a cool curt goodbye, but Halliday surprised
     him. “General, where’s your car?”
    “Parking lot E.”
    “So’s mine. May we talk a bit?”
    “By all means.”
    Halliday told him as they traversed the tortuous Pentagon rings and stairwells that the superintendent of the Air Force Academy,
     his old wingmate, was eager to invite an Israeli squadron leader to lecture on the great air victory. “He has in mind Colonel
     Benny Luria. You must know him.”
    “Very well.”
    “Would you approach Luria? The superintendent wants him for sometime in November.”
    “I’m sure Benny would be honored, if he can do it. I’ll have to go through air force channels, of course. Otherwise there’s
     Avihu Bin Nun, another great squadron leader, also Ron Pecker —”
    “The word is that Luria’s an able speaker.”
    “That’s the truth. I’ll get on this at once.”
    “I’ll be greatly obliged.”
    They came outside in a chilly mist, and Halliday surprised him even more. “Have you heard from Emily?”
    Barak mustered all his calm to reply, “Not since she left New Delhi.”
    Emily Cunningham had in fact written him only once on her round-the-world trip, mentioning that her correspondence with