“Oh.” Shipman scratched his leg. He studied his visitor carefully, decided finally that if he was a salesman, he was a clever one, and it would be more entertaining to listen to a clever salesman than to practice with the dogs. “I can’t spend a lot of time,” he said.

“I realize that you’re busy; but I promise it won’t take long.”

“All right. Let’s go on back to the house, though. It’s hotter than hell out here.”

They started back across the lawn, which had been freshly watered­ by Lucas. It put out a clean, washed smell.

“You have a beautiful house, Mr. Shipman.”

Verne grunted. The house had been planned as a Colonial mansion, complete with porch and hammock and pillars; but the wood hadn’t lasted, and he’d been obliged to rebuild. He tried to keep it traditional, but small things went wrong. It somehow lacked the dignity of the old place. It was a facsimile. Maybe I’m a facsimile, too, he’d thought, once. All of us, everything. Stinking little imitations. Except for Mrs. Mennen . . .

“It has a real sort of quietness to it.”

“In here.”

Shipman went in first, striding with almost deliberate clumsiness through the cream-colored living room, past the grand piano, to the library.

He closed the door, motioned Adam Cramer to the large leather couch, and took his accustomed place behind the desk.

“Okay,” he said, “what is it you want to know?”

“Well, sir, primarily this: how you stand—whether you’re for integration or against it.”

“Mister,” Shipman said, “I’m a Southerner. I was born and raised in this country, and so were my folks. I don’t mind telling you that I go right along with everybody else. I didn’t like it when it first come up, and I don’t like it now.” He was a bit surprised at the firmness of his voice. The truth was, he hadn’t thought about the question at all for several months. He’d never felt particularly concerned.

“Our organization agrees with you. We believe that the ruling is one of the greatest wrongs this government has ever perpetrated.”

Shipman could see that it wouldn’t do to display his indifference to a Northern outsider. Might be a newspaperman, or something. “It’s a damn shame, all right.”

“More than that, Mr. Shipman. We feel that it is the first big step toward the mongrelization of the entire white race in America.”

Such a thing had never occurred to Shipman. He nodded noncommittally, and said “Yeah.” It was odd to hear this sort of talk from so young a kid. When he was Adam Cramer’s age, he was concerned with girls, mostly, and independence—for himself. Political issues then, as now, fell into the same category as mathematics and philosophy and the like. Certainly he had never had such a serious expression!