"We had better go on in," Ragle said.

The door opened for them by electric eye. Just like the supermarket, Ragle thought.

Both boys watched them as they self-consciously seated themselves in one of the booths. The interior of the diner, the fixtures and signs and lighting, seemed ordinary to him. Ads for a number of foods... but the prices made no sense. 4.5, 6.7, 2.0. Obviously not dollars and cents. Ragle stared around him, as if he were trying to decide what he wanted. The waitress began to gather up her order pad.

One of the boys, nodding his topknotted head toward Vic and Ragle, said audibly, "Necktie-fellows, them smell frightfright."

His companion laughed.

The waitress, stationing herself at their booth, said, "Good evening."

"Good evening," Vic muttered.

"What would you like?" the waitress asked.

Ragle said, "What do you recommend?"

"Oh, depends on how hungry you are," the waitress said.

The money, Ragle thought. The damn money. He said, "How about a ham and cheese sandwich and coffee."

Vic said, "The same for me. And some pie a la mode."

"Pardon?" the waitress said, writing.

"Pie with ice cream," Vic said.

"Oh," she said. Nodding, she returned to the counter.

One of the boys said in a clear voice, "Necktie-fellows, many old thing-sign. You s'pose--" He stuck his thumbs in his ears. The other boy snickered.

When the sandwiches and coffee had been brought, and the waitress had gone off, one of the boys swiveled around in his chair to face them. The tattooing on his cheeks, Ragle noticed, had been carried out in design on his arm bracelets. He gazed at the intricate lines, and at last he identified the figures. The designs had been copied from Attic vases. Athena and her owl. Kore rising from the Earth.

The boy said directly to him and Vic, "Hey, you lunatic." The flesh at the back of Ragle's neck began to crawl. He pretended to concentrate on his sandwich; across from him Vic, sweating and pale, did the same.

"Hey," the boy said.

The waitress said, "Cut it out, or out of here for you."

To her, the boy said, "Necktie-fellow." Again he stuck his thumbs in his ears. The waitress did not seem impressed.

I can't stand it, Ragle thought. I can't live through this. The driver was right. To Vic he said, "Let's go."

"Fine," Vic said. He arose, grasping his sandwich, bent down to drink the last of his coffee, and then started for the door.

Now the cheek, Ragle thought. So we're doomed. We can't win.

"We have to get going," he said to the waitress. "Never mind the pie. How much?" He groped in his coat pocket, a futile gesture.

The waitress added up the bill. "Eleven-Nine," she said.

Ragle opened his wallet. The two boys watched. So did the waitress. When they saw the money, the paper banknotes, the waitress said, "Oh dear. I haven't seen paper money in years. I guess it's still good." To the first of the boys she said, "Ralf, does the government still redeem those old paper notes?"

The boy nodded.

"Wait," the waitress said. She recomputed the bill. "That'll be one-forty," she said. "But I'll have to give you your change in tokes. If that's all right." Apologetically, she dug a handful of small plastic wafers from the register, and as he gave her a five-dollar bill she handed back six of the wafers. "Thank you," she said.

As he and Vic left, the waitress seated herself with a paperbound book and resumed her reading at a flattened page.

"What an ordeal," Vic said. They walked along, both of them eating the last of their sandwiches. "Those kids. Those ghastly damn kids."

_Lunatic_, Ragle thought. Did they recognize me?

At the corner he and Vic stopped. "What now?" Vic said. "Anyhow, we can use our money. And we've got some of theirs." He lit his cigarette lighter to inspect one of the wafers. "It's plastic," he said. "Obviously a substitute for metal. Very light. Like those wartime ration tokens."

Yes, Ragle thought. Wartime ration tokens. Pennies made out of some nondescript alloy, not copper. And now, tokes. Tokens.

"But there's no blackout," he said. "They have their lights on.

"It's not the same any more," Vic said. "Lights was when--" He broke off. "I don't understand," he said. "I remember World War Two. But I guess I don't, do I? That's the whole point. That was fifty years ago. Before I was born. I never lived through the 'thirties and 'forties. Neither did you. All we know about it -- they must have taught us."

"Or we read it," Ragle said.

"Don't we know enough now?" Vic said. "We're out. We've seen it." He shuddered. "They had their teeth filed."

Ragle said, "That was almost pidgin English they were talking.

"I guess so."

"And African tribal markings. And garments." But they looked at me and one of them said, _Hey, you lunatic_. "They know," he said. "About me. But they don't care." Somehow, that made him feel more uneasy. Spectators. The cynical, mocking young faces.

"It's surprising they're not in the army," Vic said.

"They probably will be." To him, the boys had not appeared old enough. More like sixteen or seventeen.

As he and Vic stood on the corner, footsteps echoed along the dark, deserted street.

Two shapes approached them.

"Hey, you lunatic," one of them said. Leisurely, the two boys emerged in the street light of the intersection, their arms folded, their faces blank and impersonal. "Hold you-self stopstop."

The boy on the left reached into his robe and produced a leather case. From it he selected a cigar and a small pair of gold scissors; he cut off one end of the cigar and placed the cigar in his mouth. His companion, with equal ritual, brought forth a jeweled cigar lighter and lit his friend's cigar.

The boy smoking the cigar said, "Necktie-fellows, you carry dead chuck-chuck. Wait-lady, she make foulupgoweewee."

The money, Ragle understood. The waitress shouldn't have accepted it. The boys had told her to, but they had known what the driver had known; it was no longer legal tender.

"So what?" Vic said, also following their broken jargon.

The boy with the jeweled lighter said, "Bigchiefs, they fixee. No? No? So." He held out his hand. "Bigchiefs fixee, necktiefellows fixee fat chuck-chuck."

"Give him some of the tokens," Vic said, under his breath. Ragle counted four of the six tokes into the boy's open hand. The boy bowed from the waist; his topknot grazed the sidewalk. Beside him his companion stood impassively upright, ignoring the transaction.

"You necktie-fellows, you got woojy?" the boy with the lighter said emotionlessly.

"Necktie-fellows eyeball on pavement," the boy with the lighter said. Both he and his companion nodded. Now they had taken on a somber air, as if something important had entered into the questioning. "Flop-flop," the boy with the cigar lighter said. "Right, necktie-fellows? Flop-flop." He clapped his hands, back to back, like a seal. Both Ragle and Vic watched in fascination.

"Sure," Vic said.

The two boys conferred. Then the first, puffing on his cigar and scowling, said, "Dead chuck-chuck for plenty woojy. You go joe no?"

"No," his companion put in quickly, striking him on the chest with the flat of his hand. "Baby go joe no chuck-chuck. Flop ma flop, ma flop-flop. Necktie-fellows flop-flop you-self." Wheeling, he started off, craning his neck and weaving his head from side to side.

"Wait a minute," Ragle said, as the other boy prepared to do the same. "Let's talk it over."

Both boys halted, turned and regarded him with amazement.

Then the boy with the cigar held out his hand. "Dead chuckchuck," he said.