"I'll say it can. Loose talk. Five years minimum is my guess--not that my guess is any better than anybody else's." He prowled around the room. His somber expression did not lighten. "I knew it," the woman said at length. "You, too--even after the last one.... You haven't said anything, so I thought, perhaps...." "I know I didn't. There was always the chance that we wouldn't get drawn into it. If you say so, though, I'll stay home." "Am I apt to? I let you go when you were really in danger...." "What do you mean by _that_ crack?" he interrupted. "Regulations. One year too old--Thank Heaven!" "So what? They'll need technical experts, bad. They'll make exceptions." "Possibly. Desk jobs. Desk officers don't get killed in action--or even wounded. Why, perhaps, with the children all grown up and married, we won't even have to be separated." "Another angle--financial." "Pooh! Who cares about that? Besides, for a man out of a job...." "From you, I'll let that one pass. Thanks, Eunie--you're an ace. I'll shoot 'em a wire." The telegram was sent. The Kinnisons waited. And waited. Until, about the middle of January, beautifully-phrased and beautifully-mimeographed letters began to arrive. "The War Department recognizes the value of your previous military experience and appreciates your willingness once again to take up arms in defense of the country ... Veteran Officer's Questionnaire ... please fill out completely ... Form 191A ... Form 170 in duplicate ... Form 315.... Impossible to forecast the extent to which the War Department may ultimately utilize the services which you and thousands of others have so generously offered ... Form ... Form.... Not to be construed as meaning that you have been permanently rejected ... Form ... Advise you that while at the present time the War Department is unable to use you...." "Wouldn't that fry you to a crisp?" Kinnison demanded. "What in hell have they got in their heads--sawdust? They think that because I'm fifty one years old I've got one foot in the grave--I'll bet four dollars that I'm in better shape than that cursed Major General and his whole damned staff!" "I don't doubt it, dear." Eunice's smile was, however, mostly of relief. "But here's an ad--it's been running for a week." "CHEMICAL ENGINEERS ... shell loading plant ... within seventy-five miles of Townville ... over five years experience ... organic chemistry ... technology ... explosives...." "They want _you_," Eunice declared, soberly. "Well, I'm a Ph.D. in Organic. I've had more than five years experience in both organic chemistry and technology. If I don't know something about explosives I did a smart job of fooling Dean Montrose, back at Gosh Whatta University. I'll write 'em a letter." He wrote. He filled out a form. The telephone rang.