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ceiling. "Since sixty-two days."
    "You're lonely." He shrugged. "I could be your friend, Jimmy."
    "You could?"
    She stood up and held out her hand. "Show me around the place? I want to see how the other half lives."
    The changeling was confused. If she wanted the kind of union that Deborah had, she was going about it in an indirect way. It took her hand, though—she squeezed it, and the changeling returned the soft gesture—and followed her out of the breakfast nook. They walked around into the kitchen.
    It was spotless and elegant. Tile and gleaming enamel everywhere; a constellation of stemware hanging over a bar, shining brass pots and pans on the wall. A Mexican cook, small and fat and timorous, cowering in the corner.
    "Buenos Mas," Dutch said. "Jimmy me muestra la casa."
    "Bueno, bueno," she said, and turned her attention back to the clean pot she was scrubbing.
    Through the kitchen into the dining room, heavy mahogany table under a glittering crystal chandelier, gas converted to electricity. Old paintings on the walls.
    A new painting over the fireplace in the formal living room, of Mr. and Mrs. Berry standing on a lawn with a little boy and a Dalmatian. "Is that you?"
    "No." The changeling thought. "Was who was me."
    The furniture in this room was antique, very English, reupholstered in a lush red velvet. It didn't see much use.
    "It's hard to believe there's a Depression on," she said. The changeling shrugged. It had only heard the word in its psychological sense.
    The music room was cheerful, north light flooding through a picture window that looked down over a formal garden. There was a Steinway baby grand and a harp.
    She plucked the deepest bass string. "Do you play these?"
    "No." The harp was new; he'd never tried it.
    "That's surprising. I should think they would make you take piano lessons, considering..."
    The changeling sat down on the stool, uncovered the keys, and played the opening bars of "Appassionata."
    Jimmy returned her stare. "I play this."
    "I understand." It began to play soft chords in a strange rotation, not quite random. It didn't know the words for them, but they were alternating major and minor chords, wheeling on the flatted third. The effect was unearthly, not quite irritating.
    She stood behind Jimmy and kneaded his well-muscled shoulders. "Could we ... see your room?"
    It stood up silently. This part it understood.
    She walked demurely beside Jimmy, admiring his grace. "You get a lot of exercise?" He shrugged. "Swimming? Tennis?"
    "I do those." Of course it could lie in bed all day and stay in perfect shape—or any shape it wanted. It was exactly the shape Jimmy had been when it dissected him.
    They went through the library, yard after yard of books with uniform leather binding, into the main hall, parquet floor under a domed sky-light of stained glass. Jimmy led her up wide curving steps to his floor, the third.
    "Big place," she said. "Are you an only child?"
    "Not a child." He opened the door to his bedroom.
    "I suppose not." There was an incongruous hospital bed in one corner of the large room, and an elegant four-poster. It was still rumpled, the remains of breakfast on a serving tray. The wallpaper was beige silk. Double glass doors led to a balcony. She crossed the room and opened the doors and stood in the fresh breeze, salt air and flowers. Below her, two men were working on the formal gardens.
    Behind her, Jimmy said, "Take off your clothes and put them on the dresser."
    "We don't waste time, do we?" She stepped back into the room. "Why don't you take yours off first?" She went back to the door and locked it.
    Jimmy pulled off his white cashmere sweater and the T-shirt beneath it, and stepped out of his sandals and white ducks. Hard muscles and a small penis, which evidently hadn't taken notice of her yet. He lay down on the bed.
    She sat on the bed and ran a teasing finger down his chest and abdomen. When she touched his pubic hair, the penis sprang up like a tripped