it all the way."

"They seem like nice people. Claude. Couldn't we talk to them ... make some sort of deal?"

"A deal? What sort of deal?"

"A hundred acres is a lot of land—an awful lot of land.... Maybe the Whitings would—"

"Uh uh. No good. I've already felt him out on that. I had the same idea last night, so I came right out and asked him if he'd settle for fifty acres apiece.... He refused. Oh, he was nice enough about it. But he gave me to understand it was all or nothing with him."

"I'm hungry," Billy said.

Claude looked at his wife. "So am I. Let's go over to the mess hall. That's where the Whitings went, I think."

"Claude?"

"Yes, Joan."

"Let's not sit with them, if we meet them there."

"All right, honey. Let's not."

They were halfway to the door when Leon Stubbs came out of the inner office. He smiled.

"Mind stepping inside a moment?" he said.

When Claude hesitated, he added: "Perhaps Mrs. Marshall had better come in too."

They followed him inside where the Director indicated two chairs alongside the desk.

"I've been checking your claims," he said. "And since you were still here, I didn't think it advisable to prolong the suspense."

Claude glanced at his wife.

"You mean it's all right ... the land is ours?"

The Director sat down and spread open a pair of folders on the desk. For a long while he stared at them—comparing them. He shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Marshall. I'm afraid it isn't all right."

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