“It’s because I suggested it,” Dolores said.
“No.” Kramer shook his head. “It’s not that. I didn’t expect anything like this, somebody I knew, a man I studied under. I remember him very clearly. He was a very distinct personality.”
“Good,” Gross said. “He sounds fine.”
“We can’t do it. We’re asking his death!”
“This is war,” Gross said, “and war doesn’t wait on the needs of the individual. You said that yourself. Surely he’ll volunteer; we can keep it on that basis.”
“He may already be dead,” Dolores murmured.
“We’ll find that out,” Gross said speeding up the car. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
For a long time the two of them stood studying the small wood house, overgrown with ivy, set back on the lot behind an enormous oak. The little town was silent and sleepy; once in awhile a car moved slowly along the distant highway, but that was all.
“This is the place,” Gross said to Kramer. He folded his arms. “Quite a quaint little house.”