Yossarian looked at him soberly and tried another approach.

	"Is Orr crazy?"

	"He sure is," Doc Daneeka said.

	"Can you ground him?"
	
	"I sure can but first he has to ask me to. That's part of the
rule."

	"Then why doesn't he ask you to?"

	"Because he's crazy," Doc Daneeka said. "He has to be crazy to
keep flying combat missions after all the close calls he's had. Sure I can
ground Orr. But first he has to ask me to."

	"That's all he has to do to be grounded?"

	"That's all. Let him ask me."

	"And then you can ground him?" Yossarian asked.

	"No, then I can't ground him."

	"You mean there's a catch?"

	"Sure there is a catch," Doc Daneeka replied. "Catch-22. Anyone
who wants to get out of combat duty isn't really crazy."

	There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, that specified
that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real
and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could
be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no
longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to
fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane, he had to fly
them. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of the
clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

	"That's some catch, that Catch-22," he observed.

	"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka replied.

				   * * *

	"In sixty days you'll be fighting Billy Petrolle," the colonel
with the big fat moustache roared. "And you think it's a big fat joke."

	"I don't think it's a joke, sir," Clevinger replied.

	"Don't interrupt."

	"Yes, sir."

	"And say 'sir' when you do," ordered Major Metcalf.

	"Yes, sir."

	"Weren't you just ordered not to interrupt?" Major Metcalf
inquired coldly.

	"But I didn't interrupt, sir," Clevinger protested.

	"No. And you didn't say 'sir', either. Add that to the charges
against him," Major Metcalf directed the corporal who could take
shorthand. "Failure to say 'sir' to superior officers when not
interrupting them."

	"Metcalf," said the colonel, "you're a goddam fool. Do you know
that?"

	Major Metcalf swallowed with difficulty. "Yes, sir."

	"Then keep your goddam mouth shut. You don't make sense."

	There were three members of the Action Board, the bloated colonel
with the big fat mustache, Lieutenant Scheisskopf and Major Metcalf, who
was trying to develop a steely gaze. As a member of the Action Board,
Lieutenant Scheisskopf was one of the judges who would weigh the merits of
the case against Clevinger as presented by the prosecutor. Lieutenant
Scheisskopf was also the prosecutor. Clevinger had an officer defending
him. The officer defending him was Lieutenant Scheisskopf.

	It was all very confusing to Clevinger, who began vibrating in
terror as the colonel surged to his feet like a gigantic belch and
threatened to rip his stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb. One
day he had stumbled while marching to class ; the next day he was formally
charged with "breaking ranks while in formation, felonious assault,
indiscriminate behavior, mopery, high treason, provoking, being a smart
guy, listening to classical music and so on." In short, they threw the
book at him, and there he was, standing in dread before the bloated
colonel, who roared once more that in sixty days he would be fighting
Billy Petrolle and demanded to know how the hell he would like being
washed out and shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies. Clevinger
replied with courtesy that he would not like it ; he was a dope who would
rather be a corpse than bury one. The colonel sat down and settled back,
calm and cagey suddenly, and ingratiatingly polite.

	"What did you mean," he inquired slowly, "when you said we
couldn't punish you?"

	"When, sir?"

	"I'm asking the questions. You're answering them."

	"Yes, sir. I - "

	"Did you think we brought you here to ask questions and for me to
answer them?"

	"No, sir. I - "

	"What did we bring you here for?"

	"To answer questions."

	"You're goddam right," roared the colonel. "Now suppose you start
answering some before I break your goddam head. Just what the hell did you
mean, you bastard, when you said we couldn't punish you?"

	"I don't think I ever made that statement, sir."

	"Will you speak up, please? I couldn't hear you."

	"Yes, sir. I - "

	"Will you speak up, please? He couldn't hear you."

	"Yes, sir. I - "

	"Metcalf."

	"Sir?"

	"Didn't I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut?"

	"Yes, sir."

	"Then keep your stupid mouth shut when I tell you to keep your
stupid mouth shut. Do you understand? Will you speak up, please? I
couldn't hear you."

	"Yes, sir. I - "

	"Metcalf, is that your foot I'm stepping on?"

	"No, sir. It must be Lieutenant Scheisskopf's foot."

	"It isn't my foot," said Lieutenant Scheisskopf.

	"Then maybe it is my foot after all," said Major Metcalf.

	"Move it."

	"Yes, sir. You'll have to move your foot first, colonel. It's on
top of mine."

	"Are you telling me to move my foot?"

	"No, sir. Oh, no, sir."

	"Then move your foot and keep your stupid mouth shut. Will you
speak up, please? I still couldn't hear you."

	"Yes, sir. I said that I didn't say that you couldn't punish me."

	"Just what the hell are you talking about?"

	"I'm answering your question, sir."

	"What question?"

	" Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard, when you said we
couldn't punish you?' " said the corporal who could take shorthand,
reading from his steno pad.

	"All right," said the colonel. "Just what the hell did you mean?"

	"I didn't say you couldn't punish me, sir."

	"When?" asked the colonel.

	"When what, sir?"

	"Now you're asking me questions again."

	"I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand your question."

	"When didn't you say we couldn't punish you? Don't you understand
my question?"

	"No, sir. I don't understand."

	"You've just told us that. Now suppose you answer my question."

	"But how can I answer it?"

	"That's another question you're asking me."

	"I'm sorry, sir. But I don't know how to answer it. I never said
you couldn't punish me."

	"Now you're telling us when you did say it. I'm asking you to tell
us when you didn't say it."

	Clevinger took a deep breath. "I always didn't say you couldn't
punish me, sir."

	"That's much better, Mr. Clevinger, even though it is a barefaced
lie. Last night in the latrine. Didn't you whisper that we couldn't punish
you to that other dirty son of a bitch we don't like? What's his name?"

	"Yossarian, sir," Lieutenant Scheisskopf said.

	"Yes, Yossarian. That's right. Yossarian. Yossarian? Is that his
name? Yossarian? What the hell kind of a name is Yossarian?"

	Lieutenant Scheisskopf had the facts at his finger tips. "It's
Yossarian's name, sir," he explained.

	"Yes, I suppose it is. Didn't you whisper to Yossarian that we
couldn't punish you?"

	"Oh, no, sir. I whispered to him that you couldn't find me guilty
-"

	"I may be stupid," interrupted the colonel, "but the distinction
escapes me. I guess I am pretty stupid, because the distinction escapes
me."

	"W - "

	"You're a windy son of a bitch, aren't you? Nobody asked you for
clarification and you're giving me clarification. I was making a
statement, not asking for clarification. You are a windy son of a bitch,
aren't you?"

	"No, sir."

	"No, sir? Are you calling me a goddam liar?"

	"Oh, no, sir."

	"Then you're a windy son of a bitch, aren't you?"

	"No, sir."

	"Are you trying to pick a fight with me?"

	"No, sir."

	"Are you a windy son of a bitch?"

	"No, sir."

	"Goddammit, you are trying to pick a fight with me. For two
stinking cents I'd jump over this big fat table and rip your stinking,
cowardly body apart limb from limb."

	"Do it! Do it!" cried Major Metcalf.

	"Metcalf, you stinking son of a bitch. Didn't I tell you to keep
your stinking, cowardly, stupid mouth shut?"

	"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

	"Then suppose you do it."

	"I was only trying to learn, sir. The only way a person can learn
is by trying."

	"Who says so?"

	"Everybody says so, sir. Even Lieutenant Scheisskopf says so."

	"Do you say so?"

	"Yes, sir," said Lieutenant Scheisskopf. "But everybody says so."

	"Well, Metcalf, suppose you try keeping that stupid mouth of yours
shut, and maybe that's the way you'll learn how. Now, where were we? Read
me back the last line."

	" 'Read me back the last line,' " read back the corporal who could
take shorthand.

	"Not my last line, stupid!" the colonel shouted. "Somebody
else's."

	" 'Read me back the last line,' " read back the corporal.

	"That's my last line again!" shrieked the colonel, turning purple
with anger.

	"Oh, no, sir," corrected the corporal. "That's my last line. I
read it to you just a moment ago. Don't you remember, sir? It was only a
moment ago."

	"Oh, my God! Read me back his last line, stupid. Say, what the
hell's your name anyway?"

	"Popinjay, sir."

	"Well, you're next, Popinjay. As soon as his trial ends, your
trial begins. Get it?"

	"Yes, sir. What will I be charged with?"

	"What the hell difference does that make? Did you hear what he
asked me? You're going to learn, Popinjay - the minute we finish with
Clevinger you're going to learn. Cadet Clevinger, what did - You are Cadet
Clevinger, aren't you, and not Popinjay?"

	"Yes, sir."

	"Good. What did - "

	"I'm Popinjay, sir."

	"Popinjay, is your father a millionaire, or a member of the
Senate?"

	"No, sir."

	"Then you're up shit creek, Popinjay, without a paddle. He's not a
general or a high-ranking member of the Administration, is he?"

	"No, sir."

	"That's good. What does your father do?"

	"He's dead, sir."

	"That's very good. You really are up the creek, Popinjay. Is
Popinjay really your name? Just what the hell kind of a name is Popinjay,
anyway? I don't like it."

	"It's Popinjay's name, sir," Lieutenant Scheisskopf explained.

	"Well, I don't like it, Popinjay, and I just can't wait to rip
your stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb. Cadet Clevinger, will
you please repeat what the hell it was you did or didn't whisper to
Yossarian late last night in the latrine?"

	"Yes, sir. I said that you couldn't find me guilty - "

	"We'll take it from there. Precisely what did you mean, Cadet
Clevinger, when you said we couldn't find you guilty?"

	"I didn't say you couldn't find me guilty, sir."

	"When?"

	"When what, sir?"

	"Goddammit, are you going to start pumping me again?"

	"No, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

	"Then answer the question. When didn't you say we couldn't find
you guilty?"

	"Late last night in the latrine, sir."

	"Is that the only time you didn't say it?"

	"No, sir. I always didn't say you couldn't find me guilty, sir.
What I did say to Yossarian was - "

	"Nobody asked you what you did say to Yossarian. We asked you what
you didn't say to him. We're not at all interested in what you did say to
Yossarian. Is that clear?"

	"Yes, sir."

	"Then we'll go on. What did you say to Yossarian?"

	"I said to him, sir, that you couldn't find me guilty of the
offense with which I am charged and still be faithful to the cause of ..."

	"Of what? You're mumbling."

	"Stop mumbling."

	"Yes, sir."

	"And mumble 'sir' when you do."

	"Metcalf, you bastard!"

	"Yes, sir," mumbled Clevinger. "Of justice, sir. That you couldn't
find - "

	"Justice?" The colonel was astounded. "What is justice?"

	"Justice, sir - "

	"That's not what justice is," the colonel jeered, and began
pounding the table again with his big fat hand. "That's what Karl Marx is.
I'll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor
on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine
of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of
warning. Garroting. That's what justice is when we've all got to be tough
enough and rough enough to fight Billy Petrolle. From the hip. Get it?"

	"No, sir."

	"Don't sir me!"

	"Yes, sir."

	"And say 'sir' when you don't," ordered Major Metcalf.

				   * * *


	"Colonel Cathcart is our commanding officer and we must obey him.
Why don't you fly four more missions and see what happens?"

	"I don't want to."

	"Suppose we let you pick your missions and fly milk runs?" Major
Major said. "That way you can fly the four missions and not run any
risks."

	"I don't want to fly milk runs. I don't want to be in the war
anymore."

	"Would you like to see our country lose?" Major Major asked.

	"We won't lose. We've got more men, more money, and more material.
There are ten million men in uniform who could replace me. Some people are
getting killed and a lot more are making money and having fun. Let
somebody else get killed."

	"But suppose everybody on our side felt that way?"

	"Then I'd certainly be a damned fool to feel any other way.
Wouldn't I?"


				   * * *

	"It takes brains not to make money," Colonel Cargill wrote in one
of the homiletic memoranda he regularly prepared for circulation over
General Peckem's signature. "Any fool can make money these days and most
of them do. But what about people with talent and brains? Name, for
example, one poet who makes money."

	"T. S. Eliot," ex-P. F. C. Wintergreen said in his mail-sorting
cubicle at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters and slammed down the
telephone without identifying himself.

	Colonel Cargill, in Rome, was perplexed.

	"Who was it?" asked General Peckem.

	"I don't know," Colonel Cargill replied.

	"What did he want?" "I don't know."

	"Well, what did he say?"

	" 'T. S. Eliot'," Colonel Cargill informed him.

	"What's that?"

	"'T. S. Eliot'," Colonel Cargill repeated.

	"Just 'T. S. -"'

	"Yes, sir. That's all he said. Just 'T. S. Eliot'."

	"I wonder what it means," General Peckem reflected. Colonel
Cargill wondered, too. "T. S. Eliot," General Peckem mused.

	"T. S. Eliot," Colonel Cargill echoed with the same funereal
puzzlement.

	General Peckem roused himself after a moment with an unctuous and
benignant smile. His expression was shrewd and sophisticated. His eyes
gleamed maliciously. "Have someone get me General Dreedle," he requested
Colonel Cargill. "Don't let him know who's calling." Colonel Cargill
handed him the phone.

	"T. S. Eliot," General Peckem said, and hung up.

	"Who was it?" asked Colonel Moodus. General Dreedle, in Corsica, 
did not reply. Colonel Moodus was General Dreedle's son-in- law, and 
General Dreedle, at the insistence of his wife and against his own better 
judgment, had taken him into the military business.  General Dreedle gazed 
at Colonel Moodus with level hatred. He detested the very sight of his 
son-in-law, who was his aide and therefore in constant attendance upon 
him. He had opposed his daughter's marriage to Colonel Moodus because he 
disliked attending weddings. Wearing a menacing and pre-occupied scowl, 
General Dreedle moved to the full-length mirror in his office and stared 
at his stocky reflection. He had a grizzled, broad-browed head with 
iron-grey tufts over his eyes and a blunt and belligerent jaw. He brooded 
in ponderous speculation over the cryptic message he had just received. 
Slowly his face softened with an idea, and he curled his lips with wicked 
pleasure.

	"Get Peckem," he told Colonel Moodus. "Don't let the bastard know
who's calling."

	"Who was it?" asked Colonel Cargill, back in Rome.

	"That same person," General Peckem replied with a definite trace
of alarm.  "Now he's after me."

	"What did he want?"

	"I don't know."

	"What did he say?"

	"The same thing."

	"'T.S.Eliot'?"

	"Yes, 'T.S.Eliot'.? That's all he said." General Peckem had a
hopeful thought. "Perhaps it's a new code or something, like the colors of
the day. Why don't you have someone check with Communications and see if
it's a new code or something or the colors of the day?"  Communications
answered that T. S. Eliot was not a new code or the colors of the day.

	Colonel Cargill had the next idea. "Maybe I ought to phone
Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters and see if they know anything about
it. They have a clerk up there named Wintergreen I'm pretty close to. He's
the one who tipped me off that our prose was too prolix."

	Ex-P. F. C. Wintergreen told Cargill that there was no record at
Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters of a T. S. Eliot.

                                   * * *


	"What would they do to me," he asked in confidential tones, "if I
refuse to fly them?"

	"We'd probably shoot you," ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen replied.

	"We?" Yossarian cried in surprise. "What do you mean we? Since
when are you on their side?"

	"If you're going to be shot, whose side do you expect me to be
on?" ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen retorted.

				   * * *

	Clevinger agreed with ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen that it was
Yossarian's job to get killed over Bologna and was livid with condemnation
when Yossarian confessed that it was he who had moved the bomb line and
caused the mission to be canceled.

	"Why the hell not?" Yossarian snarled, arguing all the more
vehemently because he suspected he was wrong. "Am I supposed to get my ass
shot off because the colonel wants to be a general?"

	"What about the men on the mainland?" Clevinger demanded with just
as much emotion. "Are they supposed to get their asses shot off just
because you don't want to go? Those men are entitled to air support!"

	"But not necessarily by me. Look, they don't care who knocks out
those ammunition dumps. The only reason we're going is because that
bastard Cathcart volunteered us."

	"Oh I know all that," Clevinger assured him, he gaunt face pale
and his agitated eyes swimming in sincerity. "But the fact remains that
the ammunition dumps are still standing. You know very well that I don't
approve of Colonel Cathcart any more than you do. But it's not for us to
determine what targets must be destroyed or who's to destroy them or -"

	"Or who gets killed doing it? And why?"

	"Yes, even that. We have no right to question -"

	"You're insane!"

	"- no right to question -"

	"Do you really mean that it's not my business how or why I get
killed and that it is Colonel Cathcart's? Do you really mean that?"

	"Yes, I do," Clevinger insisted, seeming unsure. "There are men
entrusted with winning the war who are in a much better position than we
are to decide what targets have to be bombed."

	"We are talking about two different things," Yossarian answered
with exaggerated weariness. "You are talking about the relationship of the
Air Corps to the infantry. You are talking about winning the war, and I am
talking about winning the war and keeping alive."

	"Exactly," Clevinger snapped smugly. "And which do you think is
more important?"
	
	"To whom?" Yossarian shot back. "Open your eyes, Clevinger. It
doesn't make a damned bit of difference who wins the war to someone who's
dead."

	Clevinger sat for a moment as though he'd been slapped.
"Congratulations!"  he exclaimed bitterly... "I can't think of another
attitude that could be dependent upon to give greater comfort to the
enemy."

	"The enemy," retorted Yossarian with weighted precision, "is
anybody who's going to get you killed, no matter which side he's on, and
that includes Colonel Cathcart. And don't you forget that, because the
longer you remember it, the longer you might live."

				   * * *


	Clevinger was dead. That was the basic flaw in his philosophy.

				   * * *

	His heart cracked, and he fell in love. He wondered if she would
marry him.

	"Tu sei pazzo," she told him with a pleasant laugh.

	"Why am I crazy?" he asked.

	"Perchè non posso sposare."

	"Why can't you get married?"

	"Because I am not a virgin," she answered.

	"What has that got to do with it?"

	"Who will marry me? No one wants a girl who is not a virgin."

	"I will. I'll marry you."

	"Ma non posso sposarti."

	"Why can't you marry me?"

	"Perchè sei pozzo."

	"Why am I crazy?"

	"Perchè vuoi sposarmi."

	Yossarian wrinkled his forehead with quizzical amusement. "You
won't marry me because I'm crazy, and you say I'm crazy because I want to
marry you. Is that right?"

	"Si".
                        
				   * * *

	"And don't tell me God works in mysterious ways," Yossarian
continued, hurtling on over her objection. "There's nothing so mysterious
about it.  He's not working at all. He's playing. Or else, He's forgotten
all about us. That's the kind of God you people talk about - a country
bumpkin, a clumsy, bungling, brainless, conceited, uncouth hayseed. Good
God, how much reverence can you have for a supreme being who finds it
necessary to include such phenomena as phlegm and tooth decay in His
divine system of creation? What in the world was running through that
warped, evil, scatological mind of His when he robbed old people of their
power to control their bowel movements? Why in the world did He ever
create pain?"

	"Pain?" Lieutenant Schiesskopf's wife pounced upon the word
victoriously.  "Pain is a useful symptom. Pain is a warning to us about
bodily dangers."

	"And who created the dangers?" Yossarian demanded, He laughed
caustically.  "Oh, He was really being charitable to us when He gave us
pain! Why couldn't He have used a doorbell instead to notify us, or one of
His celestial choirs? Or a system of blue-and-red neon tubes right in the
middle of each person's forehead? Any jukebox manufacturer worth his salt
could have done that. Why couldn't He?"

	"People would certainly look silly walking around with red neon
tubes in the middle of their foreheads."

	"They certainly look beautiful now writhing in agony or stupified
with morphine, don't they? What a colossal, immortal blunderer! When you
consider the opportunity and power he had to really do a job, and then
look at the stupid ugly little mess He made of it instead, His sheer
incompetence is almost staggering. It's obvious. He never met a payroll.  
Why, no self-respecting businessman would hire a bungler like Him as even
a shipping clerk!"

	"You'd better not talk that way about Him, honey," she warned him
reprovingly in a low and hostile voice. "He might punish you."

	"Isn't He punishing me enough?" Yossarian snorted resentfully.
"You know, we mustn't let him get away with it. Oh no, we certainly
mustn't let Him get away scot-free for all the sorrow He's caused us.
Someday I'm going to make Him pay. I know when. On the Judgement Day. Yes,
that's the day I'll be close enough to reach out and grab that little
yokel by His neck and -"

	"Stop it! Stop it!"

	"What the hell are you getting so upset about?" he asked her
bewilderedly in a tone of contrite amusement. "I thought you didn't
believe in God."
  
	"I don't," she sobbed, burting violently into tears. "But the God
I don't believe in is a good God, a just God, a merciful God. He's not the
mean and stupid God you make him out to be."

	Yossarian laughed and turned her arms loose. "Let's have a little
more religious freedom between us," he proposed obligingly. "You don't
believe in a God you want to, and I won't believe in a God I want to. Is
that a deal?"

				   * * *

	"I don't understand why you buy eggs at seven cents a piece in
Malta and sell them for five cents."

	"I do it to make a profit."

	"But how can you make a profit? You lose two cents an egg."

	"But I make a profit of three and a quarter cents an egg by
selling them at four and a quarter cents an egg to the people in Malta I
buy them from for seven cents an egg. Of course, I don't make the profit.
The syndicate makes the profit. And everybody has a share."

	Yossarian felt he was beginning to understand. "And the people you
sell the eggs to at four and a quarter cents a piece make a profit of two
and three quarter cents a piece when they sell them back to you at seven
cents a piece. Is that right? Why don't you sell the eggs directly to you
and eliminate the people you buy them from?"

	"Because I am the people I buy them from," Milo explained. "I make
a profit of three and a quarter cents a piece when I sell them to me and a
profit of two and three quarter cents apiece when I buy them back from me.  
That's a total profit of six cents an egg. I lose only two cents an egg
when I sell them to the mess halls at five cents apiece, and that's how I
can make a profit buying eggs for seven cents apiece and selling them for
five cents apiece. I pay only one cent a piece at the hen when I buy them
in Sicily."

	"In Malta," Yossarian corrected. "You buy your eggs in Malta, not
Sicily."

	Milo chortled proudly. "I don't buy eggs from Malta," he
confessed... "I buy them in Sicily at one cent apiece and transfer them to
Malta secretly at four and a half cents apiece in order to get the price
of eggs up to seven cents when people come to Malta looking for them."

	"Why do people come to Malta for eggs when they're so expensive
there?"

	"Because they've always done it that way."

	"Why don't they look for eggs in Sicily?"

	"Because they've never done it that way."

	"Now I really don't understand. Why don't you sell your mess halls
the eggs for seven cents apiece instead of for five cents apiece?"

	"Because my mess halls would have no need for me then. Anyone can
buy seven-cents apiece eggs for seven cents apiece."

	"Why don't they bypass you and buy the eggs directly from you in
Malta at four and a quarter cents apiece?"

	"Because I wouldn't sell it to them."

	"Why wouldn't you sell it to them?"

	"Because then there wouldn't be as much room for a profit..."

	"Then you do make a profit for yourself," Yossarian declared.

	"Of course I do. But it all goes to the syndicate. And everybody
has a share. Don't you understand? It's exactly what happens with those
plum tomatoes I sell to Colonel Cathcart."

	"Buy," Yossarian corrected him. "You don't sell plum tomatoes to
Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. You buy plum tomatoes from them."

	"No, sell," Milo corrected Yossarian. "I distribute my plum
tomatoes in markets all over Pianosa under an assumed name so that Colonel
Cathcart and Colonel Korn can buy them up from me under their assumed
names at four cents apiece and sell them back to me the next day at five
cents apiece.  They make a profit of one cent apiece, I make a profit of
three and a half cents apiece, and everybody comes out ahead."

	"Do I have a share?"

	"Everybody has a share."

	"Does Orr have a share?"

	"Everybody has a share."

	"And Hungry Joe? He has a share too?"

	"Everybody has a share."

	"Well, I'll be damned."

				   * * *

	"America," he said, "will lose the war. And Italy will win it."

	"America is the strongest and most prosperous nation on earth,"  
Nately informed him with lofty fervor and dignity. "And the American
fighting man is second to none."

	"Exactly," agreed the old man pleasantly, with a hint of taunting
amusement. "Italy, on the other hand, is one of the least prosperous
nations on earth. And the Italian fighting man is probably second to all.  
And that's exactly why my country is doing so well in this war while your
country is doing so poorly."
				   * * *

	``I'm sorry I laughed at you. But Italy was occupied by the
Germans and is now being occupied by us. You don't call that doing very
well, do you?''

	``But of course I do,'' exclaimed the old man cheerfully. ``The
Germans are being driven out, and we are still here. In a few years you
will be gone, too, and we will still be here. You see, Italy is really a
very poor and weak country, and that's what makes us so strong. Italian
soldiers are not dying any more. But American and German soldiers are. I
call that doing extremely well. Yes, I am quite certain that Italy will
survive this war and still be in existence long after your own country has
been destroyed.''

	Nately could scarcely believe his ears. He had never heard such
shocking blasphemies before, and he wondered with instinctive logic why
G-men did not appear to lock the traitorous old man up. ``America is not
going to be destroyed'' he shouted passionately.

	``Never?'' prodded the old man softly. ``Well...'' Nately
faltered. The old man laughed indulgently, holding in check a deeper, more
explosive delight. His goading remained gentle. ``Rome was destroyed,
Greece was destroyed, Persia was destroyed, Spain was destroyed. All great
countries are destroyed. Why not yours? How much longer do you really
think your own country will last? Forever? Keep in mind that the earth
itself is destined to be destroyed by the sun in twenty-five million years
or so.''

	Nately squirmed uncomfortably. ``Well, forever is a long time, I
guess.''

	``A million years?'' persisted the jeering old man with keen,
sadistic zest. ``A half million ?'' The frog is almost five hundred
million years old. Could you really say with much certainty that America,
with all its strength and prosperity, with its fighting man that is second
to none, and with its standard of living that is the highest in the world,
will last as long as... the frog??

				   * * *

	"I don't believe anything you tell me," Nately replied... "The
only thing I do believe is that America is going to win the war."

	"You put so much stock in winning wars. The real trick lies in
losing wars, in knowing which wars can be lost. Italy has been losing wars
for centuries, and just see how spendidly we've done nonetheless. France
wins wars and is in a continual state of crisis. Germany loses and
prospers. Look at our own recent history. Italy won a war in Ethiopia and
promptly stumbled into serious trouble. Victory gave us such insane
delusions of grandeur that we helped start a world war we hadn't a chance
of winning.  But now that we're losing again, everything has taken a turn
for the better, and we will certainly come out on top again if we succeed
in being defeated."

				   * * *


	"You're out of your goddamn head!" Yossarian shouted at him
emphatically, seizing him by the shirt front. "Do you know that? Now keep
your stupid mouth shut and listen to me."

	Doc Daneeka wrenched himself away. "Don't you dare talk to me like
that. I'm a licensed physician."

	"Then keep your stupid licensed physician's mouth shut and listen
to what they told me up at the hospital. I'm crazy. Did you know that?"

	"So?"

	"Really crazy."

	"So?"

	"I'm nuts. Cuckoo. Don't you understand? I'm off my rocker.  They
sent someone else home in my place by mistake. They've got a licensed
physician up at the hospital who examined me, and that was his verdict.
I'm really insane."

	"So?"

	"So?" Yossarian was puzzled by Doc Danneka's inability to
comprehend. "Don't you see what that means? Now you can take me off combat
duty and send me home.  They're no going to send a crazy man out to be
killed, are they?"

	"Who else will go?"

                                   * * *


	"There must have been a reason," Yossarian persisted, pounding his
fist into his hand. "They couldn't just barge in here and chase everyone
out."
      
	"No reason," wailed the old woman. "No reason."

	"What right did they have?"

	"Catch-22."

	"What?" Yossarian froze in his tracks with fear and alarm and felt
his whole body begin to tingle. "What did you say?"

	"Catch-22," the old woman repeated, rocking her head up and down.  
"Catch-22. Catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can't stop
them from doing."

	"What the hell are you talking about?" Yossarian shouted at her in
bewildered, furious protest. "How did you know it was Catch-22? Who the
hell told you it was Catch-22?"

	"The soldiers with the hard white hats a clubs. The girls were
crying.  'Did we do anything wrong?' they said. The men said no and pushed
them away out the door with the ends of their clubs. 'Then why are you
chasing us out?' the girls said. 'Catch-22,' the men said. 'What right do
you have?' the girls said. 'Catch-22,' the men said. All they kept saying
was 'Catch-22, Catch-22.' What does it mean, Catch-22? What is Catch-22?"

	"Didn't they show it to you?" Yossarian demanded, stamping about
in anger and distress. "Didn't you even make them read it?"

	"They don't have to show us Catch-22," the old woman answered.
"The law says they don't have to."

	"What law says they don't have to?"

	"Catch-22."

                                   * * *

	"I'm cold," Snowden whimpered. "I'm cold."

	"There, there," Yossarian mumbled mechanically in a voice too low
to be heard.  "There, there."

	Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt
goose pimples clacking all over him as he gazed down despondently at the
grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to
read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden's
secret. Drop him out a window and he'll fall. Set fire to him and he'll
burn. Bury him and he'll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit
gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden's secret. Ripeness was all.


                                   * * *