"I passed," said Tom, forcing a smile. "But, Dad, I didn't want a
surprise party. Really, I--"
"Nonsense." Dad straightened. "This is the happiest moment of our
lives--or at least it _should_ be."
Dad grinned. An understanding, intimate and gentle, flickered across
his handsome, gray-thatched features. For an instant Tom felt that he
was not alone.
Then the grin faded. Dad resumed his role of proud and blustering
father. Light glittered on his three rows of Driver's Ribbons. The huge
Blue Ribbon of Honor was in their center, like a blue flower in an evil
garden of bronze accident stars, crimson fatality ribbons and silver
death's-heads.
In a moment of desperation Tom turned to Mom. The sadness was still in
her face, but it seemed over-shadowed by pride. What was it she'd once
said? "It's terrible, Tom, to think of your becoming a Driver, but it'd
be a hundred times more terrible _not_ to see you become one."
He knew now that he was alone, an exile, and Mom and Dad were
strangers. After all, how could one person, entrenched in his own
little world of calm security, truly know another's fear and loneliness?
"Just a little celebration," Dad was saying. "You wouldn't be a Driver
unless we gave you a real send-off. All our friends are here, Tom.
Uncle Mack and Aunt Edith and Bill Ackerman and Lou Dorrance--"
No, Dad, Tom thought. Not our friends. _Your_ friends. Don't you
remember that a man of twenty who isn't a Driver has no friends?
A lank, loose-jowled man jostled between them. Tom realized that Uncle
Mack was babbling at him.
"Knew you'd make it, Tom. Never believed what some people said 'bout
you being afraid. My boy, of course, enlisted when he was only
seventeen. Over thirty now, but he still Drives now and then. Got a
special license, you know. Only last week--"