“Well, I didn’t like being forced. I’d have gone on my own hook, if I’d have thought there was a real need.”
“Hunh? Oh. The army. The draft.”
“Yeah. A guy hates to be hauled anywhere by the ears.”
“Sure.”
“Jimmie. Do you really think there really is a need?”
“Yeah.”
Biff’s eagerness diminished. “Well, I wish I did. I’d enlist, maybe, if I did. I mean—I would.”
The younger man was staring at his bedclothes. The older was looking into blank space, painfully. Biff meant what he was saying. When he recovered he might try to enlist. And if he did, sooner or later, his secret record would overtake him—and he’d be sent home. Psychotic. Then what would Biff do? What would he do if the best impulse he’d ever had was—tossed in his face? People said, “The Baileys are all big—and quick-tempered—but they’re good citizens.”
Maybe.
Jimmie spoke nonchalantly. “Well, you can decide that later. I—”