of course, against all common sense, but
he was easily able to ignore that objection. It had been made before:
against the astronomy of Copernicus, and the geography of Columbus, and
the biology of Darwin, and the industrial technology of Samuel Colt, and
the military doctrines of Charles de Gaulle. Today's common sense had a
habit of turning into tomorrow's utter nonsense. What he needed, right
now, but bad, was a theory that would explain what had happened to him.

Understanding was beginning to dawn when Mrs. Stauber came out to
announce midday dinner.

"I hope you von't mind haffin' it so early," she apologized. "Mein
sister, Jennie, offer in Nippenose, she iss sick; I vant to go see her,
dis afternoon, yet. I'll be back in blenty time to get supper, Mr.
Hartley."

"Hey, Dad!" Allan spoke up. "Why can't we get our own supper, and have a
picnic, like? That'd be fun, and Mrs. Stauber could stay as long as she
wanted to."

His father looked at him. Such consideration for others was a most
gratifying deviation from the juvenile norm; dawn of altruism, or
something. He gave hearty assent:

"Why, of course, Mrs. Stauber. Allan and I can shift for ourselves, this
evening; can't we, Allan? You needn't come back till tomorrow morning."

"_Ach_, t'ank you! T'ank you so mooch, Mr. Hartley."

At dinner, Allan got out from under the burden of conversation by
questioning his father about the War and luring him into a lengthy
dissertation on the difficulties of the forthcoming invasion of Japan.
In view of what he remembered of the next twenty-four hours, Allan was
secretly amused. His father was sure that the War would run on to
mid-1946.

After dinner, they returned to the porch, Hartley _pere_ smoking a cigar
and carrying out several law books. He only glanced at these
occasionally; for the most part, he sat and blew smoke rings, and
watched them float away. Some thrice-guilty felon was about to be
triumphantly acquitted by a weeping jury; Allan could recognize a
courtroom masterpiece in the process of incubation.

* * * * *

It was several hours later that the crunch of feet on the walk caused
father and son to look up simultaneously. The approaching visitor was a
tall man in a rumpled black suit; he had knobby wrists and big, awkward
hands; black hair flecked with gray, and a harsh, bigoted face. Allan
remembered him. Frank Gutchall. Lived on Campbell Street; a religious
fanatic, an