ed the general store, the two filling stations, and then
the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.

He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, talking to the clerk. She was
laughing, rocking back and forth.

Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was
drinking hot chocolate, with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as
he slid into the seat beside her.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Am I intruding?"

"No." She shook her head. Her eyes were large and dark. "Not at all."

The clerk came over. "What do you want?"

Conger looked at the chocolate. "Same as she has."

Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She
smiled at him. "By the way. You don't know my name. Lora Hunt."

She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to
do with it. "Conger is my name," he murmured.

"Conger? Is that your last or first name?"

"Last or first?" He hesitated. "Last. Omar Conger."

"Omar?" She laughed. "That's like the poet, Omar Khayyam."

"I don't know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few
works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough--" He
broke off. She was staring. He flushed. "Where I come from," he
finished.

"The Church? Which church do you mean?"

"The Church." He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it
gratefully. Lora was still watching him.

"You're an unusual person," she said. "Bill didn't like you, but he
never likes anything different. He's so--so prosaic. Don't you think
that when a person gets older he should become--broadened in his
outlook?"

Conger nodded.

"He says foreign people ought to stay where they belong, not come here.
But you're not so foreign. He means orientals; you know."

Conger nodded.

The screen door opened behind them. Bill came into the room. He stared
at them. "Well," he said.

Conger turned. "Hello."

"Well." Bill sat down. "Hello, Lora." He was looking at Conger. "I
didn't expect to see you here."

Conger tensed. He could feel the hostility of the boy. "Something wrong
with that?"

"No. Nothing wrong with it."

There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. "Come on. Let's go."

"Go?" She was astonished. "Why?"

"Just go!" He grabbed her hand. "Come on! The car's outside."

"Why, Bill Willet," Lora said. "You're jealous!"

"Who is this guy?" Bill said. "Do you know anything about him? Look at
him, his beard--"

She flared. "So