I'm not forgetting why _he_ hated the printed word.
But that's looking a gift horse in the mouth."

Doak sipped his coffee. His voice was casual. "Why did he hate the
printed word?"

"He couldn't read anything but the simplest words. The tutors his
father hired and fired to get some learning into that man! He was just
hopeless, that's all."

Doak smiled. "Well, he seems to have done all right without it. I'd
like to have his money."

"And his brain?" Martha asked.

"Just his money," Doak said. "And maybe I'll get some of it before I
give up on him."

He happened to glance at Martha after he finished saying that. Her
face was coldly skeptical and he had an uncomfortable feeling that his
lie hadn't registered with her at all.

In his room, as he undressed, as he hung his clothes in the small
closet, he felt the folded thickness of the dupligraphed magazine in
his jacket pocket.

What more did he need? Tomorrow he'd take the first train back to
Milwaukee and the first plane from Milwaukee. Here was evidence and he
realized now it wasn't something he would be wise to tackle alone. A
few weeks' work by a half dozen operatives and the entire
publisher-reader organization would be spotted and ready for one
unified move.

Local authorities were subject to local loyalties and one leak could
scare off the whole organization. He could be back in Washington
before noon, which would give him a full day and a half of free time,
of June time. To say nothing of the nights.

Why should he hang around this whistle stop for a wasted week-end,
holding kitchen conversations with the unmighty living?

But that Martha, that lovely, that proud and knowing gal.... The
crickets helped him to Dreamland.

The morning sun was bright on the quilted bedspread when he opened his
eyes. There was no sound of meal preparation in the house, no
dialogue. Was it early?

It was ten o'clock. Not since he was a child had he enjoyed as long
and satisfying a sleep as this.

When he came out of the bathroom Mrs. Klein was in the hall. "About
five minutes?" she asked.

"Make it two," he told her and winked. "I'm starving."

Martha had already gone to work. Doak sat down alone to popovers and
oatmeal, eggs and Canadian bacon. And real coffee. He had an almost
animal sense of well being. His decision to go back to Washington,
which had seemed so final last night, was fading under the Dubbinville
spell.

After breakfast he walked down to the