His father was there, sitting in a big overstuffed chair, and when Pete came close he snapped on the fluorescents and tamped his pipe out in a big ash tray.
“What is it, son?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter, Pop.”
“Pete! You can’t fool me, so don’t try. I’m an old hand at intrigue. Now, what’s bothering you?”
“I said it was nothing!”
“Shh! You’ll wake your mother. You don’t leave a party and stay out till three o’clock if it’s nothing.”
“All right,” Pete admitted. “It’s something. But I can’t tell you what. Maybe someday, after I can fix it —”
“Bad?”
Pete nodded glumly. “Pretty bad. But trust me, Pop—no matter what happens, no matter what things may look like —”
Big Pete cleared his throat loudly. “Go on to bed now! Of course I’ll trust you! Only you’ll have to be at that tower of
