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have missiles in Italy. We have missiles in England. Our Polaris submarines prowl theirwaters. Our B-52 bombers circle right off the Aleutians, very near Soviet territory. We have them surrounded, Miss Jensen. If we ever pull the trigger, they might not have time to react. We must have them scared half to death. Cuba’s their only ally in this hemisphere. So why not match our strategy? Surround us, too? Didn’t Bacon teach you the virtues of tit-for-tat?”
    “The first rule of conflict theory is to keep the other side guessing,” Margo said. She knew she might be blundering into a trap, but a wrong answer, Nana always said, is better than none. “They can’t know for sure what’s in your mind, and they have to worry that you might overreact to small provocations. Like the playground bully you mentioned in class. Somebody to stay away from. That’s in Schelling’s book.”
    A flicker in the clever eyes. “You’ve been reading ahead, I see.”
    “Yes, sir. My point is, the Soviets couldn’t be sure how we’d respond. They might think putting missiles in Cuba just equalizes the situation. But we might not see it that way. We might see a threat. We might even go to war to keep missiles out of Cuba. That’s why they wouldn’t do it. Because the stakes are too high. They’d be crazy,” she said, and wondered whether, in her enthusiasm, she’d gone too far: a thing that tended to happen when her mouth ran ahead of her brain in the excitement of the intellectual moment. But this was argument, and argument was what she loved best.
    “That all sounds rather methodological of you, Miss Jensen. Trying to fit people to formulas rather than the other way around. But the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. There is such a thing as a mad ideology. I seem to recall that we just recently fought a war against one, although I suspect you were busy being born at the time.” Despite the rebuke, Niemeyer’s tone was placid. It was a compliment, everyone said, that he would even bother to correct you. “Tell me something, Miss Jensen. Do you love your country?”
    She looked for a trap, found none. On the adjoining walkway, the alumnus and his wife kept pace. “Of course I do,” she said.
    “Despite how we treat your people?” Niemeyer made a clucking sound: the question was rhetorical. “Tell me, then, Miss Jensen. When you say you love your country, do you love it, say, as much as an immigrant who becomes a citizen does?”
    “I think so. I hope so.”
    They had reached the government department. Niemeyer stood close to her on the granite steps, forcing her to lean against the balustrade as his assistants filed past. “Are you aware, Miss Jensen, that the citizenship oath required of naturalized citizens includes the promise to fight for the country if called upon?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And does that apply to the ordinary citizen as well? To you, say, Miss Jensen? Would you fight? Would you risk your life? If, say, the country’s survival were at stake?”
    “I would.” She did not understand why he was pressing the point. “It would be my duty.”
    “Oh, that’s a fine answer, I must say. You’ll do excellently well.” He actually patted her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, then,” said the great man, and scurried inside.
    Margo stood alone on the step, unaccountably worried. Niemeyer had been all bonhomie, but she had the peculiar sense that he had just signed her up for something. At last she shrugged, and turned away, just in time to notice the alumnus in the funny hat snapping her picture.
II
    That was Wednesday. On Saturday afternoon, everybody went to the stadium to watch Cornell play football against Colgate. Clouds scudded across a gray sky. In the frigid wind whipping up from the lake, the ball fluttered all over the field. Margo sat high in the student section with a brace of friends. She wasn’t much of a fan, but went because Tom loved sports. They even shared a blanket, but she