Mrs. Mennen’s eyes flickered—the look that Shipman could remember from childhood; the look that said, That’s the whole trouble, there isn’t anything for you to do, and you don’t fool me for a minute—then she nodded, and went off.

He longed for the courage to fire her, but he knew he could never do this; and not merely because she was a fixture, either.

But why? Why couldn’t he?

Rupert jumped up suddenly, planting forepaws on his master’s chest. Shipman knocked the dog away gently and began thinking about which rifle he ought to take, what clothes he ought to wear, for the tournament. There was nothing else in his mind; not even the worry about the long empty weeks after the games. . . .

“Mr. Shipman?”

He turned. A young man stood near him, smiling.

“Go on, Rupert,” he said gruffly. He always used a gruff tone around strangers. The dog frisked a moment, paused, leaped upon the visitor.

“Down, goddamnit!”

“No, wait, it’s okay,” the young man said. He rubbed the dog’s ears, patted him, then watched as Rupert retreated to the cage.

“Did he get your suit dirty?”

“No, it’s fine. I like dogs. You are Mr. Shipman?”

“That’s right.”

“My name is Adam Cramer.” The stranger had a firm grip; and he looked at your face when he spoke. Shipman locked the kennel, muttered something, fumbled for his pipe.

“I know you must think it’s a little odd for me to come bursting in on you like this, and I’m sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” the young man grinned, “quite a bit, sir. I think you’ll be interested in hearing about it.”

Shipman tamped some tobacco down in his pipe and applied a match. “I guess I’ve heard that somewhere before,” he said.

“This is a little different, sir. You see, I’m not trying to sell you anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

The stranger stopped smiling. “Mr. Shipman, I’ve come down from Washington, D.C., as a representative of the Society of National American Patriots. Have you heard of the organization?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“We’re a group dedicated to helping the people of America understand the meaning of the Constitution. When we heard about the court’s decision to integrate Negroes with whites in the high school here in Caxton, we decided to carry out an investigation—an investigation on how the people of Caxton feel about it. That’s why I’m here.”

“Well,” Shipman said, “what do you want from me?”

“You’re considered one of the most important civic figures of Caxton, sir,” the young man went on, “so I simply would like to get your opinion.”

“On what?”

“The integration issue.”