The Negro had never seen a face so far up; it was so far that it had no look, no expression. It had neither kindness nor meanness; it was simply a face, an endless face high above him, with its smoking, billowing cigar, spreading out the whole world around him and his assistant. Bringing the whole outside universe into the little California town of Pacific Park.

Leisurely, Joseph Schilling walked along the gravel path, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the activity around him. At a pond children were feeding bread to a plump duck. In the center of the park was a bandstand, deserted. Old men sat here and there, and young, full-breasted mothers. The trees were pepper and eucalyptus, and they were extremely shady.

"Bums," Max said, trailing behind him and wiping his perspiring face with a pocket handkerchief. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Schilling said.

"You're going to talk to somebody. You're going to sit down and talk to one of these bums. You'll talk to anybody-you talked to that coon."

"I've fairly well made up my mind," Schilling said. "You have? About what?"

"We'll locate here."

"Why?" Max demanded. "Because of this park? There's one like it in every town up and down-"

"Because of this town. Here there's everything I want."

"Such as girls with big knockers."

They had reached the edge of the park. Stepping from the curb, Schilling crossed the street. "You can go find yourself a beer, if you prefer."

"Where are you going?" Max asked suspiciously.

Ahead of them was a row of modern stores. In the center of the block was a real estate office. GREB AND POTTER, the sign read. "I'm going in there," Schilling said. "Think it over."

"I've thought it over."

"You can't open your store here; you won't make any money in a town like this."

"Maybe not," Schilling said absently. "But-" He smiled. "I can sit in the park and feed bread to the duck."