He'd be dead.
He considered the idea for a moment, but when a person is First Lieutenant McCauley's age, dying is something that happens to somebody else. You can't imagine it happening to you. It's a sort of reverse of being born, but you can't imagine that either, though it happened.
He sat up and kicked his feet over the side of the cot. He felt a little bit relieved. He was excited, now that he remembered what was in the works for today, but it wasn't a solemn feeling. He got up and looked at himself in the small square mirror over the washstand. He looked exactly as he always did. He felt the same way. Well-l, maybe a little more awake and alive than usual, because he'd been horribly afraid that something would happen and the shoot would be called off. But it hadn't—so far.
He went down the hall to the showers, trailing a towel over his shoulder. He showered, thinking zestfully about the prospects. There'd be no trouble about the weather. At this base clouds were exceptional and a cloud cover that hindered even visual tracking was almost unknown. Suddenly he wanted to sing, but he restrained himself. As lucky as he felt, it might sound like showing off.
The door of the shower room opened and somebody came in.
"Hi, National Hero. You in there?" It was Randy's voice, slightly sardonic.
"Ain't nobody here but us chickens, boss," McCauley answered cheerfully. "Nary a hero."
Randy grunted.
"How d'you feel, Ed?"
"Wet," said McCauley. He turned off the shower and began to towel himself. When he emerged, Randy searched his face, his anxiety showing on his own.