“But don’t you see? That was a massive withdrawal from academic competition. Sam got his scholarship because he was a minor prodigy at chemistry. So what does he major in? Philosophy. That bout of mono was actually a breakdown. He wasn’t functioning relative to the real world.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw him haggling over the price of hashish. He was probably just having a good time. But what’s got you so frothy all of a sudden?”

“He’s changed his name to Lance Sterling.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Lance Sterling. He hasn’t been to a psychology class all year. He came in yesterday wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of cap pistols in holsters on his belt. He told Mr. Leden he’d changed his name to Lance Sterling. He spent the whole class firing off caps whenever he approved of what somebody said. Really! Rebel yells and the whole business. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. It’s not goddamn funny!”

Down the long cafeteria a small, bowlegged figure strolled toward us. Sam’s guns clinked as they shifted in their holsters. His hat was red felt, from a dime store, tied beneath his chin by a white string. He smiled sweetly, and held a white coffee mug in one grubby hand. He walked gingerly, afraid of catching his invisible spurs in the carpet. He tipped his hat to me.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

“Hi.”

He settled the red Stetson on the back of his head and straddled a chair. He warmed his hands on the white mug; his eyes twinkled. Rennel glowered.

“Those are nice guns,” I said. “Can I see?”

“Yeah. Got ’em at Woolworths for five dollars. Note the revolving cylinder and filed sights. I’ve been practicing my fast draw.”

“Show me.”

Sam kicked the chair over as he leapt away from it. He whipped the gun out, fired three times, and then fell, twitching and moaning, onto the floor. The caps cracked loud in the deserted room. The gunpowder tang bit hard in my nose. His hand convulsed and the pistol rattled to the floor.

“Can you do that left-handed, too?”

“No. But you know, I figured out that two-gun slingers must have worn their guns with the butts facing forward so they could have a cross-armed draw.”

He demonstrated and let me fire some caps. One of the cooks, the chubby little Russian who read Anna Karenina in the original, came out of the kitchen and stood with her hands folded into her apron. She looked at Sam fondly.

“Did you really change your name?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t go to court about it, but I’m not answering to Sam anymore. You can call me Lance.”

“Could you tell me why?” Rennel asked, as though inquiring about Sam’s bowel movements.