The car slowed, made a U-turn, and stopped. There were no streetlights in this area; only the dark houses, and the full dark trees. “You don’t really think I’m crazy, do you?” Adam Cramer asked, in a soft voice.

“I guess not.”

The car’s wheels spun on the loose gravel and headed down the black hill . . .

“This is it, here.”

They pulled into the crowded parking lot, and got out of the car.

Rusty’s was a big log cabin. A sign in the window advertised Draught Beer—10¢. Ella led the way to the door.

Inside, the place was crowded with teen-agers. Many of them had cigarettes—which they handled awkwardly and self-consciously—and a few nursed glasses of beer. A juke box in the corner blared a rock-’n’-roll tune.

Some of the youngsters waved at Ella when she came in. She looked for a sign of Hank Kitchen, but he wasn’t there. It was pretty early, though.

They took chairs at a large table occupied by two boys and a girl, none of whom bothered to stand.

“Hi,” the girl said. She glanced coyly at Adam, then, with a certain admiration, at Ella.

“This,” Ella said, “is Mr. Adam Cramer. Adam, Lucy Egan, Danny and George Humboldt.”

A large man in a white apron appeared almost at once. “Two cokes,” Adam said. “I never could stand the taste of beer. Used to try to pretend I liked it, but it just didn’t work.”

Danny and George Humboldt grinned. “Same with me,” George said. He was a moon-faced, rather fat young man, with a very thick accent. “But I figured I’d mature to it, you know?”

“Maybe I will, too,” Adam said, “but right now—ugh!”

“Yeah, man,” George said, winking at Ella. “Ugh.”

“What’s old Hank doing these days?” Danny Humboldt asked.

Ella shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I just plain wouldn’t know about him.” She paused. “Adam, here, comes from Hollywood.”

“That a fact?” George said. “What the hell’s somebody from Hollywood doing in this jerkwater town, that’s what I’d like to know.”

Danny lit a fresh cigarette from his previous one. “I bet I could give a pretty good guess.” Then the music stopped, there was an electric hesitation, and another record came on. George Humboldt pounded the tabletop for a few moments, then said: “Hey, Ella, let’s show ’em.”

Ella shook her head. “Not right now, George.”

“Come on, come on, it ain’t gonna kill you. Tomorrow we die, you know what I mean; tonight we live. Come on.”

The fat boy got up, pulled back Ella’s chair.

“Go on,” Adam said affably. “I’m not much of a dancer, anyway.”

Ella and George began to move to the music, which was a fast fox-trot.