-headed six-year-old boy sitting in the too-big
chair across from him. Bobby was a small boy with a freckled face and
skinned knees. He sat in the big chair with his feet sticking straight
out in front of him and played with a slide rule.

"I've taught you all the math I know," Ward said. "Differential,
integral, topology, Maddow's Theory of Transfinite Domains--that's as
far as I go. What's next?"

"I don't know, John. I was thinking of going in for nuclear physics,
but...."

"Go on, but what?" Ward prompted.

"Well...." Bobby gave him an embarrassed look. "I'm kind of tired of
that stuff. It's easy and not very interesting. What I'd really like--"
He broke off and began fiddling with the slide rule again.

"Yes, Bobby, what would you like?"

"You won't be mad?"

"No." Ward smiled.

"Well, I'd really like to try to write a poem--a real poem, I mean, not
advertiverse--a real poem, with rhymes and everything." He paused and
looked to see how Ward was taking it and then went on with a rush. "I
know it's almost illegal, but I want to try. I really want to."

"But why?"

"Oh, I dunno--I just want to. I remember that an old poet named Yeats
said something about writing poems--the fascination with what's
difficult. Maybe that's it."

"Well," Ward said, "it's a dangerous occupation." He looked at the boy
with wonder and pride. "Sure, Bobby, give it a try if you want to."

"Gee, thanks!" the boy said. He jumped out of the chair and started
toward the door of the study.

"Bobby," Ward called. "Tell me--can you teleport?"

"Not exactly," Bobby said. The papers on the desk in front of Ward
suddenly fluttered into the air. They did a lazy circle of the room,
swung into an echelon and performed a slow chandelle, before dropping
into Bobby's hand. "I can do that stuff. But I didn't do the tigers."

"I'm sure you didn't."

"It was a good stunt, but I wouldn't do that to you, John."

"I know. Do you know who did?"

"I'm not sure." Bobby didn't look at him now. "Anyway, it'd be
snitching."

"I'm not asking you to tell."

"Gee, I'm sorry," Bobby said. "I wanted to tell you in the yard. I knew
there was going to be a rumble, but I couldn't snitch."

"No, of course not." Ward shooed him off. "Go write your poem."

* * * * *

"But tigers!" Ann said. "Why tigers, John?"

"I suppose they were convenient."

"Tigers are never convenient."

He crossed the room, picked up the phone