versity, lavishing upon his son all of the best, clothes, cars, vacations at ski resorts and Florida beaches, when he had nothing with which to be lavish, forever failing at job after job, yet forever convinced he was about to be manager, vice president, chairman of the board-Harry was dauntlessly and irretrievably conventional. The shock would have torn him apart.

With a shake of his head, Robie poured Jack Daniels over ice cubes, set the three squat glasses on a tray and, trying to stop trembling, carried them into the living room.

Art was saying, "So I thought I'd try a few portraits tonight."

Harry was examining the camera. He was shorter than his older brother, square and sturdy, his yellow hair at 40 thinning above a ruddy, genial face, hopeful, innocent blue eyes. "Yes, sir, our little yellow brothers know their stuff. Beautiful piece of equipment. Jimmy's doing great with the one I bought him. Did I tell you he took a red ribbon at the Fair this year? Next year it'll be a blue, or his old man doesn't know a sure thing when he sees it. Kid's hardly ever out of that darkroom I built for him in the garage. He looked up, saw Robie, and his geniality evaporated. "Oh, hello Robie. You still around?" He took a glass from the tray and sat down.

"I'm still around," Robie smiled. He was used to Harry's hostility. It no longer bothered him. There was nothing hard to understand about it. Harry simply resented anybody else getting anything from his brother. For Robie to keep out of Harry's way was no hardship. It pained him to see how patiently time and again Art parted with money to support Harry's fantastic pretensions. And without thanks. Jimmy's camera and darkroom, for example, had both been paid for by Art.

"You two will want to talk." He handed Art his drink. "I'll go type some bills. Holler if you want more booze. I'll get it."

"We'll manage," Art smiled. "Thanks, Robie."

"Yeah," Harry grunted. Then he sat forward, eagerly gripping Art's knee. "Doc, you know how much it means to a woman to keep up with the rest of the gals. There's this European tour Esther Parkinson and the other Chamber of Commerce wives want to take. The thing about it is, it won't only help Helen, it'll help me, too, if I can swing it. When you think of the good it can do, it seems a shame not to be able to raise a few hundred miserable bucks...

Robie shut the bedroom door, set his glass on the desk, snapped on the intense little lamp over the glossy blue portable, and sat down to sort receipts. For an hour he tapped the white plastic keys. Art came in for his check book and went out again. Robie heard the front door shut. Then Art was back, bending over him. He turned up his face and Art kissed his mouth. He smelled of whisky, good cologne, and, 18 hours since he'd shaved, his face was raspy. Robie nipped his ear. "Any objection to bed?"

Beside the bed there was a phone. Hours later it rang. Art rolled heavily away from the warm and naked boy asleep beside him. His big hand groped out for the instrument, fumbled it, bumped it painfully against

his mouth.

"Doctor speaking."

"Doc, Myra's water busted," the receiver squawked. "Guess the baby's coming. You want to get out here?"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes, Andy." Art swung his feet to the floor, reached out in the dark for his shirt. "Don't panic. This kind of thing happens a thousand times a day. Nothing to get excited about." He