“I’m glad,” Mrs. Mavole said. Then suddenly and loudly she said, “O my God, how can I say I’m glad? I’m not. I’m not. We’re all a long time dead. He was such a happy little boy and he’ll be a long time dead.” She was propped up among the pillows of the bed and her body moved back and forth with her keening.

What the hell did he expect? He came here of his own free will. What did he expect? Two choruses of something mellow, progressive, and fine? O man, O man, Oman! A fat old broad in a nine-by-nine box with a sweat-maker who can’t get with it. How can I continue to live, he shouted at high scream under the nave of his encompassing skull, if people are going to continue to carry bundles of pain on top of their heads like Haitian laundresses, then fling the bundles at random into the face of any bright stroller who happened to be passing by? All right. He had helped this fat broad to find herself some ghoulish kicks. What else did they want from him?

“The wrong man died, Mrs. Mavole,” Raymond sobbed. “How I wish it could have been me. Not Eddie. Me. Me.” He hid his face in her large, motherly breasts as she lay back on the pillows of the bed.

Through arrangements beyond his control, Raymond had developed into a man who sagged fearfully within a suit of stifling armor, imprisoned for the length of his life from casque to solleret. It was heavy, immovable armor, this thick defense, which had been constructed mainly at his mother’s forge, hammered under his stepfather’s noise, tempered by the bitter tears of his father’s betrayal. Raymond also distrusted all other living people because they had not warned his father of his mother.

Raymond had been shown too early that if he smiled his stepfather was encouraged to bray laughter; if he spoke, his mother felt compelled to reply in the only way she knew how to reply, which was to urge him to seek popularity and power with all life-force. So he had deliberately developed the ability to be shunned instantly no matter where he went and notwithstanding extraneous conditions. He had achieved this state consciously after year upon year of unconscious rehearsal of the manifest paraphernalia of arrogance and contempt, then exceeded it. The shell of armor that encased Raymond, by the horrid tracery of its design, presented him as one of the least likeable men of his century. He knew that to be a fact, and yet he did not know it because he thought the armor was all one with himself, as is a turtle’s shell.

He had been told who he was only by his whimpering unconscious mind: a motherless (by choice), fatherless (by treachery), friendless (by circumstance), and joyless (by consequence) man who would continue to refuse emphatically to live and who, autocratically and unequivocally, did not intend to die. He was a marooned balloonist, supported by nothing visible, looking down on everybody and everything, but yearning to be seen so that, at least, he could be given some credit for an otherwise profitless ascension.

That was what Raymond’s ambivalence was like. He was held in a paradox of callousness and feeling: the armor, which he told the world he was, and the feeling, which was what he did not know he was, and blind to both in a darkness of despair which could neither be seen nor see itself.

He had been able to weep with Mr. and Mrs. Mavole because the door had been closed and because he knew he would be careful never to be seen by those two slobs again.

At seven-twenty on the morning after he had reached St. Louis, there was a discreet but firm knocking at Raymond’s hotel room door. These peremptory sounds just happened to come at a moment when Raymond was exchanging intense joy with the young newspaper-woman he had met the day before. When the knocking had first hit the door, Raymond had heard it clearly enough but he was just busy enough to be determined to ignore it, but the young woman had gone rigid, not in any attitude of idiosyncratic orgasm, but as any healthy, respectable young woman would have done under similar circumstances in a hotel room in any city smaller than Tokyo.

Lights of rage and resentment exploded in Raymond’s head. He stared down at the sweet, frightened face under him as though he hated her for not being as defiant as a drunken whore in a night court, then he threw himself off her, nearly falling out of bed. He regained his balance, slowly pulled on the dark blue dressing gown, and walking very close to the door of the room, said into the crack, “Who is it?”

“Sergeant Shaw?”

“Yes.”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation.” It was a calm, sane, tenor voice.

“What?” Raymond said. “Come on!” His voice was low and angry.

“Open up.”

Raymond looked over his shoulder, registering amazement, either to see whether Mardell had heard what he had heard or to find out if she looked like a fugitive. She was chalk-white and solemn.

“What do you want?” Raymond asked.

“We want Sergeant Raymond Shaw.” Raymond stared at the door. His face began to fill with a claret flush that clashed unpleasantly with the Nile-green wallpaper directly beside him. “Open up!” the voice said.

“I will like hell open up,” Raymond said. “How dare you pound on this door at this time of the morning and issue your country constable’s orders? There are telephones in the lobby if you needed to make some kind of urgent inquiry. I said, how dare you?” The hauteur in Raymond’s voice held no bluster and its threat of implicit punishment startled the girl on the bed even more than the FBI’s arrival. “What the hell do you want from Sergeant Raymond Shaw?” he snarled.

“Well—uh—we have been asked—”

“Asked? Asked?”

“—we have been asked to see that you meet the Army plane which is being sent to pick you up at the Lambert Airport in an hour and fifteen minutes. At eight forty-five.”

“You couldn’t have called me from your home, or some law-school telephone booth?”

There was a strained silence, then: “We will not continue to discuss this with you from behind a door.” Raymond walked quickly to the telephone. He was stiff with anger, as though it had rusted his joints. He picked up the receiver and rattled the bar. He told the operator to please get him the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, D.C.

“Sergeant,” the voice said distinctly through the door, “we have orders to put you on that plane. Our orders are just as mandatory as any you ever got in the Army.”

“Listen to what I’m going to say on this phone, then we’ll talk about orders,” Raymond said nastily. “I don’t take any orders from the FBI or the Bureau of Printing and Engraving or the Division of Conservation and Wild Life, and if you have any written orders for me from the United States Army, slide them under the door. Then you can wait for me in the lobby, if you still think you have to, and the Air Force can wait for me at the airport until I make my mind up.”

“Now, just one minute here, son—” The voice had turned ominous.

“Did they tell you I am being flown to Washington to get a Medal of Honor at the White House?” Maybe that silly hunk of iron he had never asked for would be useful for something just once. This kind of a square bought that stuff. A Medal of Honor was like a lot of money; it was very hard to get, so it took on a lot of magic powers.

“Are you that Sergeant Shaw?”

“That’s me.” He spoke to the phone. “Right. I’ll hold on.”

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” the FBI man said. “I’ll be standing near the desk when you come down. Sorry.”

Holding the telephone and waiting for the call, Raymond sat down on the edge of the bed, then leaned over and kissed the girl very softly at a soft place right under her rigid right nipple, but he didn’t smile at her because he was preoccupied with the call. “Hello, Mayflower? This is St. Louis, Missouri, calling Senator John Iselin. Sergeant Raymond Shaw.” There was a short wait. “Hello, Mother. Put your husband on. It’s Raymond. I said put your husband on!” He waited.