The crimson witch

against their parents. He argued with himself that he was lucky, lucky to be coming into all of this. Money, power, importance, security. It was all his, all his when he wanted to take it, all his when he was ready to lift the reins from his father's hands. Lucky…
        And then Arnold Turnet had died. Ironic, really. A napalm storage tank had exploded, showering the administration building and doing away with Arnold Turnet in much the same fashion it would have zealously done away with an ignorant yellow-skinned Oriental had it not exploded prematurely and had it been sent, as intended, to war.
        With Arnold Turnet's death came something else, something very good: Jake Turnet's freedom.
        That part of him that had been yelling out without using words, that little voice that he had been repressing would suddenly not be repressed any longer. It bubbled out of his core, throbbed from his soul and took control of him, making him realize that it had not been a minority portion of his soul, but a majority and that he had been repressing the wrong feelings to please his father. The voice whispered his future to him, turning him on-and turning him off to the scene his father had so painstakingly painted for him.
        He did not pick up the slack reins of Turnet Munitions, Being twenty-one and of legal age, he had every right to do just that, but other desires, other dreams swelled in his mind. He set up three trust funds: one half of the profits were to go to rehabilitating war victims-on both sides-and to establishing homes for orphans of war; another fourth was set up in his name and produced a regular allowance for him; the final fourth was put back into the company. He was not being hypocritical, he reasoned. If he closed Turnet Munitions, someone else would produce the same weapons and use the profits to better themselves. This way, at least, some of the ill-gotten money was being returned into an effort to improve the lot of those that the war deprived of the simple things. Those who were deprived of their lives could not be atoned for, and he did not try. War was the game of Mankind, not the game of his family. He felt little, if any, anguish. Next, he placed all of the affairs of Turnet Munitions into the pudgy hands of Wilson Abrams, the chief attorney of the firm, doubling the man's salary to an incredible figure that had caused Mrs. Abrams to pass out-before she went on an unrestrained shopping spree in an effort to see if she could wipe out at least some of the raise. Then, with business affairs completely relegated to other, more capable men, he quit his business administration courses at Princeton and transferred to a much smaller college where he could come to know the people as people and not just as faces or numbers. He took up the study of English Literature and settled down to his new role as hippie drop-out artist. He wrote some poetry.
        And he met some people.
        Some strange people.
        There was Leona the Nymph, a silver-haired wraith who had a great deal of trouble keeping her clothes on or her desires in chains, but a person with great understanding and a heart warmer than that of any stereotype Hollywood mammie the world had ever seen. She wanted her fun, and she might be a bit pushy in getting it, but she also assumed the burdens of her lovers, took on their problems and carried them for them so that her lovers received more than pleasure for pleasure given-they received a confidant, an ally against the rest of the world for as long as they wanted her.
        There was John the Avenger, the Negro football star who maintained himself on scholarship and allowance. He was torn between being the black militant he knew he should be and accepting the money for playing and winning games for a white team and a white school. It was the oldest dilemma of all- whether or not to sacrifice his personal well-being for a cause, a cause that very well might never notice his presence or his sacrifices anyway.
        And there was Jennie of the Dark Hair, John's girl, a liberal thinker, usually wrapped up in some new philosophy, but fun to be with and pretty to watch.
        The three of them helped to introduce him to PBT, the drug that didn't expand the mind, but which turned the mind in upon itself so that one might explore inner vistas and roadways of self-discovery.
        And there had been that night…
        He had received his weekly allowance check in the