Orr studied Yossarian over his shoulder, his moist lips drawn back around convex rows of large buck teeth. Reaching sideways, he dug a bottle of warm beer out of his foot locker, and he handed it to Yossarian after prying off the cap. Neither said a word. Yossarian sipped the bubbles off the top and tilted his head back. Orr watched him cunningly with a noiseless grin. Yossarian eyed Orr guardedly. Orr snickered with a slight, mucid sibilance and turned back to his work, squatting. Yossarian grew tense.
“Don’t start,” he begged in a threatening voice, both hands tightening around his beer bottle. “Don’t start working on your stove.”
Orr cackled quietly. “I’m almost finished.”
“No, you’re not. You’re about to begin.”
“Here’s the valve. See? It’s almost all together.”
“And you’re about to take it apart. I know what you’re doing, you bastard. I’ve seen you do it three hundred times.”
Orr shivered with glee. “I want to get the leak in this gasoline line out,” he explained. “I’ve got it down now to where it’s only an ooze.”
“I can’t watch you,” Yossarian confessed tonelessly. “If you want to work with something big, that’s okay. But that valve is filled with tiny parts, and I just haven’t got the patience right now to watch you working so hard over things that are so goddam small and unimportant.”
“Just because they’re small doesn’t mean they’re unimportant.”
“I don’t care.”
“Once more?”
“When I’m not around. You’re a happy imbecile and you don’t know what it means to feel the way I do. Things happen to me when you work over small things that I can’t even begin to explain. I find out that I can’t stand you. I start to hate you, and I’m soon thinking seriously about busting this bottle down on your head or stabbing you in the neck with that hunting knife there. Do you understand?”
Orr nodded very intelligently. “I won’t take the valve apart now,” he said, and began taking it apart, working with slow, tireless, interminable precision, his rustic, ungainly face bent very close to the floor, picking painstakingly at the minute mechanism in his fingers with such limitless, plodding concentration that he seemed scarcely to be thinking of it at all.
Yossarian cursed him silently and made up his mind to ignore him. “What the hell’s your hurry with that stove, anyway?” he barked out a moment later in spite of himself. “It’s still hot out. We’re probably going swimming later. What are you worried about the cold for?”
“The days are getting shorter,” Orr observed philosophically. “I’d like to get this all finished for you while there’s still time. You’ll have the best stove in the squadron when I’m through. It will burn all night with this feed control I’m fixing, and these metal plates will radiate the heat all over the tent. If you leave a helmet full of water on this thing when you go to sleep, you’ll have warm water to wash with all ready for you when you wake up. Won’t that be nice? If you want to cook eggs or soup, all you’ll have to do is set the pot down here and turn the fire up.”
“What do you mean, me?” Yossarian wanted to know. “Where are you going to be?”
Orr’s stunted torso shook suddenly with a muffled spasm of amusement. “I don’t know,” he exclaimed, and a weird, wavering giggle gushed out suddenly through chattering buck teeth like an exploding jet of emotion. He was still laughing when he continued, and his voice was clogged with saliva. “If they keep on shooting me down this way, I don’t know where I’m going to be.”
Yossarian was moved. “Why don’t you try to stop flying, Orr? You’ve got an excuse.”
“I’ve only got eighteen missions.”
“But you’ve been shot down on almost every one. You’re either ditching or crash-landing every time you go up.”
“Oh, I don’t mind flying missions. I guess they’re lots of fun. You ought to try flying a few with me when you’re not flying lead. Just for laughs. Tee-hee.” Orr gazed up at Yossarian through the corners of his eyes with a look of pointed mirth.
Yossarian avoided his stare. “They’ve got me flying lead again.”
“When you’re not flying lead. If you had my brains, do you know what you’d do? You’d go right to Piltchard and Wren and tell them you want to fly with me.”
“And get shot down with you every time you go up? What’s the fun in that?”