He slid the doors slightly apart and slipped almost guiltily into the room. It had been a library at one lime, or a parlor, the kind of a room where women of an earlier generation had once served tea to one another. Now it was too dark to see the walls clearly. The high windows were muffled in dark draperies. The only light in the large room was a ceiling spot illuminating the casket. Kinsman's mother lay there embed- ded in white satin, her eyes closed peacefully, her hands folded over a plain sky-blue dress.

He did not recognize her at first. The cancer had taken away so much of her flesh that only a taut covering of skin stretched across the bony understructure of her face. All the fullness of her mouth and brow were gone. She was a gaunt skeleton of the mother he had known.

Her skin looked waxy, unreal. Kinsman stared down at her for a long time, thinking. She's so tiny. I never realized she was so tiny.

He knelt at the mahogany prayer rail in front of the casket but found that he had nothing to say. He felt absolutely numb inside; no grief, no guilt, nothing. Empty. But in his mind he heard her voice from earlier years.

Chester, get down from that tree before you hurt yourself!

Yes, Mommy.

You could have a fine career as a concert pianist, Chester, only you would practice instead of indulging in this ridiculous mania for flying.

Aw, Ma.

I do wish you would be more respectful of your father, Chester. He's proud of what he's accomplished and he wants you to share in it.

I'll try, Mother. But ...

I'll give you my consent, Chester, if I let you join the Air Force, it will break your poor father's heart.

I've got to get away from him, Mother. It's the only way. I'll put in for astronaut training. I won't kill anybody. It'll all work out okay, you'll see. You'll be proud of me someday.

"So you finally got here."

Kinsman turned and saw the tall, austere figure of his father framed in the doorway.

He got up from his knees quickly. "I came as soon as I could."

"Not soon enough," his father said, sliding the doors shut behind him.

Kinsman pulled in a deep breath. They had fought many battles in front of his mother. He had been a fool to hope that today could be any different,

"It . . . she went so fast," he said.

His father walked slowly toward him, a measured pace, like a monster in a child's horror tale. "At the end, yes, it was fast. The doctors said it was the Lord's mercy. But she suffered for months. You could have eased her pain."

Kinsman realized suddenly that his father was old. And probably in pain himself. The man's hair was dead white now, not a trace of its former color. His eyes had lost their fire.

"I talked with her on the phone," he said, knowing it sounded weak, defensive. "Almost every night . . ."

"You should have been here, where you belong!"

"The Air Force thought differently."

"The Air Force! That conglomeration of feeble-minded professional killers."

"That's not true and you know it."