Feet shuffled inside. The door opened. Kintyre looked slightly upward, into a lined heavy face with a thick hook nose and small black eyes and a gray bristle of hair. The man had shoulders like a Mack truck, and there wasn't much of a belly on him yet. He wore faded work clothes. The smell of cheap wine was thick around him. "What do you want?" he said. "Mr. Michaelis? My name's Kintyre. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes." "We're not buying any, and if you're from the finance company you can--" Michaelis completed the suggestion. "Neither," said Kintyre mildly. "Call me a sort of ambassador." Puzzled, Michaelis stood aside. Kintyre walked into a one-room apartment with a curtained-off cooking area. A wall bed was opened out, unmade. There were a few chairs, a table with a half-empty gallon of red ink on it, a television set, a tobacco haze, much dust and many old newspapers on the floor. Gene Michaelis occupied a decaying armchair. He was a young, black-haired version of his father, and would have been rather handsome if he smiled. He wore flannel pajamas which had not been washed for some time. His legs stuck rigidly out before him, ending in shoes whose heels rested on the floor. Two canes leaned within reach. He was smoking, drinking wine, and watching the screen; he did not stop when Kintyre entered. "I'm sorry the place is such a mess," said Peter Michaelis. He spoke fast, with an alcoholic slur. "It's kind of hard. My wife's dead, and my son has to live with me and he can't do nothing. When I get home from looking for work, all day looking for a job, I'm too tired to clean up." He made vague dusting motions over a chair. "Siddown. Drink?" "No, thanks." Kintyre lowered himself. "I came--" "I was already down in the world when this happened last year," said Michaelis. "I owned my own boat once. Yes, I did. The _Ruthie M_. But then she got sunk, and there wasn't enough insurance to get another, and well, I ended up as a deckhand again. Me, who'd owned my own boat." He sat and blinked muzzily at his guest. "I'm sorry to hear that. But--" "Then my wife died. Then my son come back from the Navy, and got himself hurt real bad. Both legs gone, above the knees. It took all the money I had to pay the doctors. I quit work to take care of my son. He was in a bad way. When he got so he could look after himself a little, I went looking for my job back, only I didn't get it. And since then I haven't found nothing." "Well," said Kintyre, "there's the welfare, and rehabilitation--" Gene turned around and said a short obscenity. "That's what they'll do for you," he added. "They found me a job basket weaving. _Basket weaving!_ Kee-rist, I was a gunner's mate in the Navy. Basket weaving!" "I'm a Navy man myself," ventured Kintyre. "Or was, after Pearl Harbor. Destroyers." "What rank were you? A brown-nosing officer, I'll bet." "Well--" "A brass hat. Kee-rist." Gene Michaelis turned back to his television.