They started out, then Hanlon stopped the admiral with a hand on his arm. "Please, sir," his face was flaming, his eyes miserable, but his voice was fairly steady. "Please don't call me 'Sir' all the time. It may be that my position as an SS man carries that distinction, but it makes me nervous. A youngster like me has no business being called 'Sir' by a top brass like you who has worked nearly half a century to achieve the honor."
Admiral Hawarden grinned suddenly, and hugged Hanlon with a fatherly gesture. "You're all right, Son, and I'm for you. From now on you're simply 'Newton'. Anything to make you ... hey, 'Newton'? Are you...?"
Hanlon nodded. "His son."
The admiral's eyes glowed. "Wonderful man, your dad. One of the Corps' greatest."
The young man swallowed hard. "I think so, too."
They had been working nearly a quarter of an hour, sorting through the voluminous papers in the minister's desk and files, when another Corps lieutenant came in, his hand bandaged.
"What happened to you, Patrick?" Hawarden asked in surprise.
"That blasted toogan bit me, and I had to get my hand dressed."
"What toogan?"
"One that must have been Bohr's pet. It was flying all about the room yelling and cussing us out. I was crossing to the corner of the room, there, when it screamed and bulleted over, slashing my hand when I threw it up to protect my face."