A crackpot, Graham thought. Too late now he realized that he should have asked the man’s business before admitting him. It would be an embarrassing interview—he disliked being rude, yet only rudeness was effective.
“Dr. Graham, the weapon on which you are working—”
The visitor stopped and turned his head as the door that led to a bedroom opened and a boy of fifteen came in. The boy didn’t notice Niemand; he ran to Graham.
“Daddy, will you read to me now?” The boy of fifteen laughed the sweet laughter of a child of four.
Graham put an arm around the boy. He looked at his visitor, wondering whether he had known about the boy. From the lack of surprise on Niemand’s face, Graham felt sure he had known.
“Harry”—Graham’s voice was warm with affection—“Daddy’s busy. Just for a little while. Go back to your room; I’ll come and read to you soon.”
“ Chicken Little? You’ll read me Chicken Little?”
“If you wish. Now run along. Wait. Harry, this is Mr. Niemand.”
The boy smiled bashfully at the visitor. Niemand said, “Hi, Harry,” and smiled back at him, holding out his hand. Graham, watching, was sure now that Niemand had known: the smile and the gesture were for the boy’s mental age, not his physical one.
The boy took Niemand’s hand. For a moment it seemed that he was going to climb into Niemand’s lap, and Graham pulled him back gently. He said, “Go to your room now, Harry.”