up, the boy was not with them.

"Hello, skinny-britches," he greeted his daughter.

Nora grinned and came over to kiss him. Her hair dangled about his face,
and he noticed that it was blacker than usual, with the gray streaks
gone from it again.

"You smell good," he said.

"You don't, Pops. You smell like a sot. Naughty!"

"Where's Ken?"

She moistened her lips nervously and looked away. "He couldn't come. He
had to take a driver's lesson. He really couldn't help it. If he didn't
go, he'd lose his turn, and then he wouldn't finish before he goes back
to the academy." She looked at him apologetically.

"It's all right, Nora."

"If he missed it, he wouldn't get his copter license until summer."

"It's okay. Copters! Hell, the boy should be in jets by now!"

Several breaths passed in silence. She gazed absently toward the window
and shook her head. "No jets, Pop. Not for Ken."

He glowered at her. "Listen! How'll he get into space? He's got to get
his jet licenses first. Can't get in rockets without 'em."

Nora shot a quick glance at her mother. Martha rolled her eyes as if
sighing patiently. Nora went to the window to stare down toward the
Keith terrace. She tucked a cigaret between scarlet lips, lit it, blew
nervous smoke against the pane.

"Mom, can't you call them and have that racket stopped?"

"Donny says he likes it."

Nora's eyes flitted over the scene below. "Female butterflies and
puppy-dogs in sport jackets. And the cadets." She snorted. "Cadets!
Imagine Ron Keith the Third ever going to space. The old man buys his
way into the academy, and they throw a brawl as if Ronny passed the
Compets."

"Maybe he did," growled Old Donegal.

"Hah!"

"They live in a different world, I guess," Martha sighed.

"If it weren't for men like Pops, they'd never've made their fortune."

"I like the music, I tell you," grumbled the old man.

"I'm half-a-mind to go over there and tell them off," Nora murmured.

"Let them alone. Just so they'll stop the racket for blast-away."

"Look at them!--polite little pattern-cuts, all alike. They take
pre-space, because it's the thing to do. Then they quit before the
pay-off comes."

"How do you know they'll quit?"

"That party--I bet it cost six months' pay, spacer's pay," she went on,
ignoring him. "And what do real spacers get? Oley gets killed, and Pop's
pension wouldn't feed the Keiths' cat."

"You don't understand, girl."

"I lost Oley. I understand eno