"Old," he mused, "--so very old. Ironic, isn't it? Our lives are being wrecked by things that should have been destroyed and forgotten a hundred years ago." A sudden frown contorted his dark features. _Tick-de-tock, tick-de-tock_, said the antique clock. "A hundred years old," he repeated. His mouth became a hard, thin line. "Edith, I think I know why Ronnie wanted to read, why he fell into the trap so easily." "What do you mean, David?" Dad nodded at the clock, and the slow, smouldering anger returned to his face. "It's _your_ fault, Edith. You've always liked old things. That clock of your great-great-grandmother's. Those old prints on the wall. That stamp collection you started for Ronnie--stamps dated way back to the 1940's." Mom's face paled. "I don't understand." "You've interested Ronnie in old things. To a child in its formative years, in a pleasant house, these things symbolize peace and security. Ronnie's been conditioned from the very time of his birth to like old things. It was natural for him to be attracted by books. And we were just too stupid to realize it." Mom whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry, David." Hot anger flashed in Dad's eyes. "It isn't enough to be sorry. Don't you see what this means? Ronnie'll have to be memory-washed back to the time of birth. He'll have to start life all over again." "No, David, no!" "And in my position I can't afford to have an eight-year-old son with the mind of a new-born baby. It's got to be Abandonment, Edith, there's no other way. The boy can start life over in a reformatory, with a complete memory-wash. He'll never know we existed, and he'll never bother us again." Mom ran up to Dad. She put her hands on his shoulders. Great sobs burst from her shaking body. "You can't, David! I won't let--" He slapped her then with the palm of his hand. The sound was like a pistol shot in the hot, tight air. Dad stood now like a colossus carved of black ice. His right hand was still upraised, ready to strike again. Then his hand fell. His mind seemed to be toying with a new thought, a new concept. He seized one of the books on the hassock. "Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the name of this book?" "_The--The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_," said Mom through her sobs. He grabbed the second book, held it before her shimmering vision. "And the name of this?" "_Tarzan of The Apes._" Mom's voice was a barely audible croak. "Who's the author?" "Edgar Rice Burroughs." "And this one?" "_The Wizard of Oz._" "Who wrote it?" "L. Frank Baum." He threw the books to the floor. He stepped backward. His face was a mask of combined sorrow, disbelief, and rage. "_Edith._" He spat the name as if it were acid on his tongue. "Edith, _you can read_!" * * * * * Mom sucked in her sobs. Her chalk-white cheeks were still streaked with rivulets of tears.