"Then my wife died. Then my son come back from the Navy, and got himself hurt real bad. Both legs gone, above the knees. It took all the money I had to pay the doctors. I quit work to take care of my son. He was in a bad way. When he got so he could look after himself a little, I went looking for my job back, only I didn't get it. And since then I haven't found nothing."
"Well," said Kintyre, "there's the welfare, and rehabilitation—"
Gene turned around and said a short obscenity.
"That's what they'll do for you," he added. "They found me a job basket weaving. Basket weaving! Kee-rist, I was a gunner's mate in the Navy. Basket weaving!"
"I'm a Navy man myself," ventured Kintyre. "Or was, after Pearl Harbor. Destroyers."
"What rank were you? A brown-nosing officer, I'll bet."
"Well—"
"A brass hat. Kee-rist." Gene Michaelis turned back to his television.
"I'm sorry," muttered his father. "It's not so easy for him, you know. He was as strong and lively a young fellow as you could hope to see. God, six months ago! Now what's he got to do all day?"
"I'm not offended," said Kintyre. I would, in fact, be inclined to take offense only at a system of so-called education which has so little discipline left in it that its victims are unable to do more than watch this monkey show when the evil days have come. But that is not of immediate relevance.