"I don't know his name," Ragle said. "Or even if it's a man." Or, he thought, even if he or she exists.

The Kesselmans smiled at him trustingly. Supposing, of course, that what he meant was not as cryptic as it sounded.

"Would you like to call a tow truck?" Mrs. Kesselman said. But her son spoke up.

"Nobody'll send a tow truck up here at night," he said. "We've had that out with the different garages. They won't budge."

"That's true," Mrs. Kesselman said. "Oh dear. This is a problem. We've always dreaded this happening to us. But it never has. Of course we know the road so well, after so many years."

The younger Kesselman said, "I'd be glad to drive you to your friend's place, if you have any idea where it is. Or I could drive you back down to the highway, or into town." He glanced at his mother and she nodded in agreement.

"That's very kind of you," Ragle said. But he did not want to leave; he placed himself at the fireplace, warming himself and enjoying the peacefulness of the room. It seemed to him to be in some respects the most civilized house he had been in that he could remember. The prints on the walls. The lack of clutter. No useless bric-a-brac. And everything arranged with taste, the books, the furniture, the drapes... it satisfied his strong innate sense of order. His awareness of pattern. There exists a real esthetic balance here, he decided. That's why it's so restful.

Mrs. Kesselman waited for him to do or say something. When he continued to stand at the fireplace she said, "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes," he said. "Thanks."

"I'll see what there is," Mrs. Kesselman said. "Excuse me." She departed from the room. Her son remained.

"Kind of cold out," her son said.

"Yes," Ragle said.

Awkwardly, the young man stuck out his hand. "My name's Garret," he said. They shook hands. "I'm in the interior decorating field."

That explained the taste shown in the room. "This looks very nice," Ragle said.

"What line are you in?" Garret Kesselman asked.

"I'm involved in newspaper work," Ragle said.

"Oh, I'll be darned," Garret said. "No kidding. That must be a fascinating business. When I was in school I took a couple of years of journalism."

Mrs. Kesselman returned with a tray on which were three small glasses and an unusual-shaped bottle. "Tennessee sourmash whiskey," she said, setting the tray down on the glasstopped coffee table. "From the oldest distillery in the country. Jack Daniel's black label."

"I never heard of it," Ragle said, "but it sounds wonderful."

"It's excellent whiskey," Garret said, handing Ragle a glass of the stuff. "Something like Canadian whiskey."

"I'm a beer drinker, usually," Ragle said. He tasted the sourmash whiskey and it seemed all right. "Fine," he said.

The three of them said nothing, then.

"It seems a bad time to be driving around looking for someone," Mrs. Kesselman said, when Ragle had finished his glass of whiskey and was pouring himself a second. "Most people tackle this hill during the daylight hours." She seated herself facing him. Her son perched on the arm of the couch.

Ragle said, "I had a quarrel with my wife and I couldn't stand it any more. I had to get out."

"How unfortunate," Mrs. Kesselman said.

"I didn't even stop to pack my clothes," Ragle said. "No objective in mind, just getting away. Then I remembered this friend and I thought I might be able to hole up with him for a while, until I got my bearings. Haven't seen him in years. He probably moved away a long time ago. It's lousy when a marriage breaks up. Like the end of the world."

"Yes," Mrs. Kesselman agreed.

Ragle said, "How about letting me stay here tonight?"

They glanced at each other. Embarrassed, they both started to answer at once. The gist of it was no.

"I have to stay somewhere," Ragle said. He reached into his coat pocket and rooted about for his wallet. Getting it out he opened it up and counted his money. "I've got a couple hundred dollars on me," he said. "I can pay you according to the inconvenience it causes you. Money for inconvenience."

Mrs. Kesselman said, "Let us have a chance to talk it over." Arising, she motioned to her son. The two of them disappeared into the other room; the door shut after them.

I've got to stay here, Ragle said to himself. He poured himself another glass of the sour-mash whiskey and walked back to the fireplace with it, to stand in the warmth.

That pick-up truck, he thought to himself. With its radio. It must have belonged to _them_; otherwise it wouldn't have had a radio. The boy at the Standard Station... he represented them.

Proof, Ragle said to himself. The radio is proof. It's not in my mind. It's a fact.

_By their fruits, ye shall know them_, he thought. And their fruits are that they communicate by radio.

The door opened. Mrs. Kesselman and her son returned. "We've talked it over," she said, sitting down on the couch across from Ragle. Her son stood by her, looking grave. "It's obvious to us that you're in distress. We'll allow you to stay, seeing that you are clearly in some unfortunate situation. But we want you to be honest with us, and we don't feel you have. There's more to your situation than you've told us so far."

Ragle said, "You're right."

The Kesselmans exchanged glances.

"I was driving around intending to commit suicide," Ragle said. "I meant to get up speed and leave the road. Crack up in a ditch. But I lost my nerve."

The Kesselmans stared at him in horror. "Oh no," Mrs. Kesselman said. She got up and started toward him. "Mr. Gumm--"

"My name's not Gumm," Ragle said. But obviously they recognized him. Had recognized him from the start.

Everybody in the universe knows me. I shouldn't be surprised. In fact I'm not surprised.

"I knew who you were," Mrs. Kesselman said, "but I didn't want to embarrass you if you didn't feel inclined to tell us."

Garret said, "If you don't mind my asking, who is Mr. Gumm? I guess I should know, but I don't."

His mother said, "Dear, this is the Mr. Gumm who keeps winning the contest in the _Gazette_. Remember last week on TV we saw, that film about him." To Ragle, she said, "Oh, I know all about you. Years ago I used to enter contests. In fact--" She laughed. "In 1937 I entered the Old Gold contest. I got all the way up to the top; I got every single puzzle right."

"She cheated, though," her son said.

"Yes," Mrs. Kesselman said. "A girl friend and I used to slip out on our lunch hour with five dollars we pooled together, and buy a dope-sheet from a little old newsvendor who slipped it to us from under the counter."

Garret said, "I hope you don't mind sleeping down in the basement. It's not really a basement; we made it into a rumpus room a few years back. There's a bathroom and a bed down there... we've been using it for guests who couldn't make it back down the hill."

"You don't still intend to -- do away with yourself, do you?" Mrs. Kesselman asked. "Hasn't that left your mind?"

"Yes," Ragle said.

With relief, she said, "I'm so glad. As a fellow contest enterer I'd take it very hard. We're all looking to you to keep winning."

"Just think," Garret said. "We'll go down in history as the persons who kept--" he stumbled over the name -- "Mr. Gumm from yielding to the impulse toward self-destruction. Our names will be linked with his. Fame."

"Fame," Ragle agreed.

Another round of Tennessee sour-mash whiskey was poured. The three of them sat about the living room, drinking it and watching one another.