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know?”
    Cyrus stared bleakly out the open door into the darkness. “Yes, he knows.”
    “He won’t like it. It’s not right for him.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Cyrus said, and he repeated loudly, “It doesn’t matter,” and his tone said, “Shut your mouth. This is not your affair.” They were silent a moment, and then he said almost in a tone of apology, “It isn’t as though he were your child.”
    Alice did not reply.
    The boys walked down the dark rutty road. Ahead they could see a few pinched lights where the village was.
    “Want to go in and see if anything’s stirring at the inn?” Charles asked.
    “I hadn’t thought of it,” said Adam.
    “Then what the hell are you walking out at night for?”
    “You didn’t have to come,” said Adam.
    Charles moved close to him. “What did he say to you this afternoon? I saw you walking together. What did he say?”
    “He just talked about the army—like always.”
    “Didn’t look like that to me,” Charles said suspiciously. “I saw him leaning close, talking the way he talks to men—not telling, talking.”
    “He was telling,” Adam said patiently, and he had to control his breath, for a little fear had begun to press up against his stomach. He took as deep a gulp of air as he could and held it to push back at the fear.
    “What did he tell you?” Charles demanded again.
    “About the army and how it is to be a soldier.”
    “I don’t believe you,” said Charles. “I think you’re a goddam mealy-mouthed liar. What’re you trying to get away with?”
    “Nothing,” said Adam.
    Charles said harshly, “Your crazy mother drowned herself. Maybe she took a look at you. That’d do it.”
    Adam let out his breath gently, pressing down the dismal fear. He was silent.
    Charles cried, “You’re trying to take him away! I don’t know how you’re going about it. What do you think you’re doing?”
    “Nothing,” said Adam.
    Charles jumped in front of him so that Adam had to stop, his chest almost against his brother’s chest. Adam backed away, but carefully, as one backs away from a snake.
    “Look at his birthday!” Charles shouted. “I took six bits and I bought him a knife made in Germany—three blades and a corkscrew, pearl-handled. Where’s that knife? Do you ever see him use it? Did he give it to you? I never even saw him hone it. Have you got that knife in your pocket? What did he do with it? ‘Thanks,’ he said, like that. And that’s the last I heard of a pearl-handled German knife that cost six bits.”
    Rage was in his voice, and Adam felt the creeping fear; but he knew also that he had a moment left. Too many times he had seen the destructive machine that chopped down anything standing in its way. Rage came first and then a coldness, a possession; noncommittal eyes and a pleased smile and no voice at all, only a whisper. When that happened murder was on the way, but cool, deft murder, and hands that worked precisely, delicately. Adam swallowed saliva to dampen his dry throat. He could think of nothing to say that would be heard, for once in rage his brother would not listen, would not even hear. He bulked darkly in front of Adam, shorter, wider, thicker, but still not crouched. In the starlight his lips shone with wetness, but there was no smile yet and his voice still raged.
    “What did you do on his birthday? You think I didn’t see? Did you spend six bits or even four bits? You brought him a mongrel pup you picked up in the woodlot. You laughed like a fool and said it would make a good bird dog. That dog sleeps in his room. He plays with it while he’s reading. He’s got it all trained. And where’s the knife? ‘Thanks,’ he said, just Thanks.’ ” Charles spoke in a whisper, and his shoulders dropped.
    Adam made one desperate jump backward and raised his hands to guard his face. His brother moved precisely, each foot planted firmly. One fist lanced delicately to get the range, and then the bitter-frozen