Any hope J.L. might have had was dashed when the door opened to reveal Ernest Stringer, his piercing brown eyes, a tight lipped smile, and the traditional gift of candy under his arm. "Good evening, Mr. Spender," he said. "You are, I believe, expecting me." He was so thin that the current, tight fitting style made him look very like a figure constructed with pipe cleaners. J.L. did his best to appear gracious. "Come in, come in," he said, taking his hat and coat. "Glory will be in soon." The suit was up to date, but J.L. spotted other telling details. His heels were slightly lighter in color than the rest of the shoes, indicating they had been reheeled. It was also evident, to a trained eye, that the collar and cuffs of his shirt had been resized, proof that the shirt had been laundered; perhaps, even more than once. "What can I get you to drink?" J.L. asked, leading the way into the living room. "Nothing, thank you. I seldom take alcohol," the young man said. "Is that right? A young fellow like you. It certainly is fortunate that the rest of your generation doesn't share your prejudice. Alcoholic beverages account for more than five percent of total consumer purchases." "Five percent. As much as that? Well, in that case I should have something. Ah ... a glass of sherry, I think," he said, smiling with lips unparted. "Sherry? Sure you don't want something more ... more substantial?" "Sherry will do nicely, thank you." A sherry drinker is capable of anything, J.L. thought. He poured the wine into a high stemmed glass and mixed another bourbon for himself; this time going a little easier on the ice. The young man held the stem between spidery fingers, turning it slowly, delicately sniffing the bouquet. J.L. wished Glory or Marge would rescue him. He couldn't think of a thing to say. What could one say to a male sherry drinker? "What do you think of the international situation?" J.L. asked, just to break the uncomfortable silence. "What international situation?" "I mean do you think we are headed for war?" J.L. was sorry he had asked the harmless question. The young man laughed derisively. "What an idea. Of course there won't be a war," he said. "Why do you say that?" He wanted to see how far Stringer would go. "It's quite evident isn't it? War has been threatening for more than fifty years. It will probably continue to threaten for fifty more. It gives our government and that of our enemies the excuse to build enough munitions to take up the slack in the economy between production and the ability to consume what we produce." "That's ridiculous. I've never heard such nonsense." The young idiot, he thought, anyone with sense knew that to be true, but no one made a fuss about it for fear of upsetting a system that worked so well. It was an accepted fact of life, certainly preferable to actual war, and never mentioned in polite society.