"Sherry will do nicely, thank you."
A sherry drinker is capable of anything, J.L. thought. He poured the wine into a high stemmed glass and mixed another bourbon for himself; this time going a little easier on the ice.
The young man held the stem between spidery fingers, turning it slowly, delicately sniffing the bouquet.
J.L. wished Glory or Marge would rescue him. He couldn't think of a thing to say. What could one say to a male sherry drinker?
"What do you think of the international situation?" J.L. asked, just to break the uncomfortable silence.
"What international situation?"
"I mean do you think we are headed for war?" J.L. was sorry he had asked the harmless question.
The young man laughed derisively. "What an idea. Of course there won't be a war," he said.
"Why do you say that?" He wanted to see how far Stringer would go.
"It's quite evident isn't it? War has been threatening for more than fifty years. It will probably continue to threaten for fifty more. It gives our government and that of our enemies the excuse to build enough munitions to take up the slack in the economy between production and the ability to consume what we produce."