glee—so like the Karadi themselves—Mr. Friedlander made a mental note to stop inviting the old man to share their dinner.

"Yes, sir, great news," chirped Mr. Davidson. Then: "Who's your friend?"

"He's from the Karadi Newspaper," Mrs. Friedlander explained. "Here to see about placing an announcement in the paper."

"Damned quisling," spat Mr. Davidson. The old folks certainly had privileges. That remark would mean a month of overtime for Mr. Friedlander, who turned earthenware kitchen pots on an archaic wheel. All it earned Mr. Davidson was a scowl from the man from the Karadi Newspaper.

"What great news are you talking about?" the man wanted to know.

"Great news? Who said anything about great news? Why don't you mind your own business, anyway?"

"You said it, old man. Great news, you said. I want to know."

"Maybe I did and maybe I didn't."

"You did."

"Don't always remember. Just what were we talking about? Freddie Friedlander, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Like I said, great news. We all don't get to die a hero's death. No, sir. Lookit me, now. Die in bed one of these nights, just like that." Claw-like fingers snapped and made a singularly dry sound. "Who'll care? Who'll know until I don't show up for dinner one night? Great news. Great thing to die a hero's death, I always say."

The man from the Karadi Newspaper smiled. "I certainly misunderstood you, old timer. I like your attitude. If the boy is dead, let's look at the bright side of the picture."

All at once, Mrs. Friedlander wailed Freddie's name and cupped her face in coarse, work-hardened hands. "Freddie's dead," she sobbed. "Dead, dead, dead...."

Mr. Friedlander gulped and turned away. If he touched her now he would break down too. He plopped a fork in the turnip mash and made little tracks with the tines, criss-crossing them like the tracks in the deserted railroad yards down by the river.

"You see," the man from the Karadi Newspaper 

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