"I found him," she said to Ragle when she brought in the sandwich and glass of apple cider. "So you don't have to worry about what he's doing; I'll take him downtown with me."

Accepting the sandwich, Ragle said, "You know, maybe I'd have been better off if I'd got mixed up playing the ponies."

She laughed. "You wouldn't have won anything."

"Maybe so." He began reflexively to eat. But he did not touch the apple cider; he preferred the warm beer from the can that he had been nursing for an hour or so. How can he do that intricate math and drink warm beer? she asked herself as she found her coat and purse and rushed out of the house to the car. You'd think it would muddle up his brain. But he's used to it. During his stint in the service he had got the habit of swilling warm beer day in, day out. For two years he and a buddy had been stationed on a minuscule atoll in the Pacific, manning a weather station and radio transmitter.

Late-afternoon traffic, as always, was intense. But the Volkswagen sneaked through the openings, and she made good time. Larger, clumsier cars seemed bogged down, like stranded land turtles.

The smartest investment we ever made, she said to herself. Buying a small foreign car. And it'll never wear out; those Germans build with such precision. Except that they had had minor clutch trouble, and in only fifteen thousand miles... but nothing was perfect. In all the world. Certainly not in this day and age, with H-bombs and Russia and rising prices.

Pressed to the window, Sammy said, "Why can't we have one of those Mercs? Why do we have to have a dinky little car that looks like a beetle?" His disgust was manifest.

Feeling outraged -- her son a traitor right here at her bosom -- she said, "Listen, young man; you know absolutely nothing about cars. You don't have to make payments or steer through this darn traffic, or wax them. So you keep your opinions to yourself."