Adam worked hard and honestly and sadly. He could not get over the feeling that the young men he passed to the army were under sentence of death. And because he knew he was weak, he grew more and more stern and painstaking and much less likely to accept an excuse or a borderline disability. He took the lists home with him, called on parents, in fact, did much more work than was expected of him. He felt like a hanging judge who hates the gallows.

Henry Stanton watched Adam grow more gaunt and more silent, and Henry was a man who liked fun—needed it. A sour-pussed associate could make him sick.

“Relax,” he told Adam. “You’re trying to carry the weight of the war. Now, look—it’s not your responsibility. You got put in here with a set of rules. Just follow the rules and relax. You aren’t running the war.”

Adam moved the slats of the blind so that the late afternoon sun would not shine in his eyes, and he gazed down at the harsh parallel lines the sun threw on his desk. “I know,” he said wearily. “Oh, I know that! But, Henry, it’s when there’s a choice, and it’s my own judgment of the merits, that’s when it gets me. I passed Judge Kendal’s boy and he was killed in training.”

“It’s not your business, Adam. Why don’t you take a few drinks at night? Go to a movie—sleep on it.” Henry put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest and leaned back in his chair. “While we’re talking about it, Adam, it seems to me it don’t do a candidate a damn bit of good for you to worry. You pass boys I could be talked into letting off.”

“I know,” said Adam. “I wonder how long it will last?”

Henry inspected him shrewdly and took a pencil from his stuffed vest pocket and rubbed the eraser against his big white front teeth. “I see what you mean,” he said softly.

Adam looked at him, startled. “What do I mean?” he demanded.

“Now don’t get huffy. I never thought I was lucky before, just having girls.”

Adam traced one of the slat shadows on his desk with his forefinger. “Yes,” he said in a voice as soft as a sigh.

“It’s a long time before your boys will be called up.”

“Yes.” Adam’s finger entered a line of light and slid slowly back.

Henry said, “I’d hate to—”

“Hate to what?”

“I was just wondering how I’d feel if I had to pass on my own sons.”

“I’d resign,” said Adam.

“Yes. I can see that. A man would be tempted to reject them—I mean, his own.”

“No,” said Adam. “I’d resign because I couldn’t reject them. A man couldn’t let his own go free.”

Henry laced his fingers and made one big fist of his two hands and laid the fist on the desk in front of him. His face was querulous. “No,” he said, “you’re right. A man couldn’t.” Henry liked fun and avoided when he could any solemn or serious matter, for he confused these with sorrow. “How’s Aron doing at Stanford?”