good. I could look up at the sky and that plus the readings gave me enough to go on, so my guesses worked out more times than not."
"I imagine weather conditions were of prime importance to the Navy and Army," Mrs. Keitelbein said.
He answered, "A storm could wreck a landing operation, scatter a convoy of supply carriers. Change the course of the war."
"Maybe that’s where you got your practice," Walter said. "For the contest. Making book on the weather."
At that, Ragle laughed, "Yes," he said. "That’s what he and I did; we made book on it. I’d say it was going to rain at ten o’clock and he’d bet me it wouldn’t. We managed to fritter away a couple of years doing that. That, and drinking beer. When they brought in our supplies once a month they left off a standard ration of beer—standard, we figured, for a platoon. Only trouble was, we had no way to cool it. Warm beer, day after day." How it took him back to remember all that. Twelve, thirteen years ago ... He had been thirty-three years old. An employee in a steam laundry when the draft-notice showed up in the mailbox.
"Hey, Mom," Walter said excitedly. "I got a real good idea; what about Mr. Gumm talking to the class about his military experiences? He could give them a sense of participation; you know, the immediacy of the danger and all that. He probably remembers a whole bunch of training they gave the GIs about safety and what to do under fire and emergency situations."
Ragle said, "That’s about all there is; what IQ told you."
"But you remember stories the other guys swapped, about air-raids and bombing," Walter persisted. "They don’t have to actually have happened to you."
Kids are all about the same, Ragle thought. This boy talked along the lines Sammy talked. Sammy was ten; this boy was say, sixteen. But he liked both of them. And he took it as a compliment.
Fame, he thought. This is my reward for being the greatest—or longest—winner in the history of puzzle contests. Boys between the ages of ten and sixteen think I’m somebody.
It amused him. And he said, "I’ll wear my full general’s uniform when I show up Tuesday."
The boy’s eyes widened; then he tried to stiffen and appear blasé. "No kidding?" he said. "A full general? Four star?"
"Absolutely," he said, as solemnly as possible. Mrs. Keitelbein smiled, and he smiled across at her.
At five-thirty, when the store had been closed and locked up, Vic Nielson called the three or four checkers over together.
"Listen," he said. All day he had been planning this out. The window shades were down; the customers had left. At the registers one of the store’s assistant managers had started counting the money and setting the tapes for tomorrow. "I want you people to do me a favor. It’s a psychological experiment. It’ll only take thirty seconds. Okay?" Especially he appealed to Liz; she was the power among the checkers, and if she said okay the others probably would.
"Can’t it be done tomorrow!" Liz said. She already had her coat on, and she had changed from low heels to high heels. In them she seemed like some majestic three-dimensional pineapple juice display poster.
Vic said, "My wife’s parked out in the lot waiting. If I don’t get out there in a minute or so, she’ll start honking. So you know this won’t take long."
The other checkers, male, small, watched Liz for her reaction. They still had on their white aprons, and their pencils behind their ears.
"All right," she said. Waggling her finger at him she said, "But you better be telling the truth; we better be right out of here."
He walked over to the produce department, shook a paper bag loose from one of the bins, and began blowing it up. Liz and the other checkers gazed at him dully.
"What I want you to do is this," he said, throttling the full bag of air. "I’m going to pop this bag and then I’m going to yell a command at you. I want you to do exactly what I say; don’t think about it—just do it when you
"I imagine weather conditions were of prime importance to the Navy and Army," Mrs. Keitelbein said.
He answered, "A storm could wreck a landing operation, scatter a convoy of supply carriers. Change the course of the war."
"Maybe that’s where you got your practice," Walter said. "For the contest. Making book on the weather."
At that, Ragle laughed, "Yes," he said. "That’s what he and I did; we made book on it. I’d say it was going to rain at ten o’clock and he’d bet me it wouldn’t. We managed to fritter away a couple of years doing that. That, and drinking beer. When they brought in our supplies once a month they left off a standard ration of beer—standard, we figured, for a platoon. Only trouble was, we had no way to cool it. Warm beer, day after day." How it took him back to remember all that. Twelve, thirteen years ago ... He had been thirty-three years old. An employee in a steam laundry when the draft-notice showed up in the mailbox.
"Hey, Mom," Walter said excitedly. "I got a real good idea; what about Mr. Gumm talking to the class about his military experiences? He could give them a sense of participation; you know, the immediacy of the danger and all that. He probably remembers a whole bunch of training they gave the GIs about safety and what to do under fire and emergency situations."
Ragle said, "That’s about all there is; what IQ told you."
"But you remember stories the other guys swapped, about air-raids and bombing," Walter persisted. "They don’t have to actually have happened to you."
Kids are all about the same, Ragle thought. This boy talked along the lines Sammy talked. Sammy was ten; this boy was say, sixteen. But he liked both of them. And he took it as a compliment.
Fame, he thought. This is my reward for being the greatest—or longest—winner in the history of puzzle contests. Boys between the ages of ten and sixteen think I’m somebody.
It amused him. And he said, "I’ll wear my full general’s uniform when I show up Tuesday."
The boy’s eyes widened; then he tried to stiffen and appear blasé. "No kidding?" he said. "A full general? Four star?"
"Absolutely," he said, as solemnly as possible. Mrs. Keitelbein smiled, and he smiled across at her.
At five-thirty, when the store had been closed and locked up, Vic Nielson called the three or four checkers over together.
"Listen," he said. All day he had been planning this out. The window shades were down; the customers had left. At the registers one of the store’s assistant managers had started counting the money and setting the tapes for tomorrow. "I want you people to do me a favor. It’s a psychological experiment. It’ll only take thirty seconds. Okay?" Especially he appealed to Liz; she was the power among the checkers, and if she said okay the others probably would.
"Can’t it be done tomorrow!" Liz said. She already had her coat on, and she had changed from low heels to high heels. In them she seemed like some majestic three-dimensional pineapple juice display poster.
Vic said, "My wife’s parked out in the lot waiting. If I don’t get out there in a minute or so, she’ll start honking. So you know this won’t take long."
The other checkers, male, small, watched Liz for her reaction. They still had on their white aprons, and their pencils behind their ears.
"All right," she said. Waggling her finger at him she said, "But you better be telling the truth; we better be right out of here."
He walked over to the produce department, shook a paper bag loose from one of the bins, and began blowing it up. Liz and the other checkers gazed at him dully.
"What I want you to do is this," he said, throttling the full bag of air. "I’m going to pop this bag and then I’m going to yell a command at you. I want you to do exactly what I say; don’t think about it—just do it when you
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