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residence? Suppose I had hundreds of friends and acquaintances? Suppose I had a job and-
    And there was a knock on the door, and he said, "Come in, Lilly," and his mother came in.

6
    She didn't seem to have aged a year in the seven since he'd last seen her. He was twenty-five, now, which meant that she was crowding thirty-nine. But she appeared to be in her very early thirties, say about thirty-one or -two. She looked like… like… Why, of course! Moira Langtry! That was who she reminded him of. You couldn't say that they actually looked like each other; they were both brunettes and about the same size, but there was absolutely no facial resemblance. It was more a type similarity than a personal one. They were both members of the same flock; women who knew just what it took to preserve and enhance their natural attractiveness. Women who were either endowed with what it took, or spared no effort in getting it.
    Lilly took a chair diffidently, unsure of her welcome, quickly explaining that she was in Los Angeles on business. "I'm handling playback money at the tracks, Roy. I'll be getting back to Baltimore as soon as the races are over."
    Roy nodded equably. The explanation was reasonable. Playback-knocking the odds down on a horse by heavy pari-mutuel betting- was common in bigtime bookmaking.
    "I'm glad to see you, Lilly. I'd have been hurt if you hadn't dropped by."
    "And I'm glad to see you, Roy. I-" She looked around the room, leaning forward a little to peer into the bathroom. Slowly, her diffidence gave way to a puzzled frown. "Roy," she said. "What's this all about? Why are you living in a place like this?"
    "What's wrong with it?"
    "Stop kidding me! It isn't you, that's what wrong. Just look at it! Look at those corny clown pictures! That's a sample of my son's taste? Roy Dillon goes for corn.
    Roy would have laughed if he hadn't been so weak. The four pictures were his own additions to the decorations. Concealed in their box frames was his grifted dough. Fifty-two thousand dollars in cash.
    He murmured that he had rented the place as he found it, the best that he could afford. After all, he was just a commission salesman and…
    "And that's another thing," Lilly said. "Four years in a town like Los Angeles, and a peanut selling job is the best you can do! You expect me to believe that? It's a front, isn't it? This dump is a front. You're working an angle, and don't tell me you're not because I wrote the book!"
    "Lilly…" His faint voice seemed to come from miles away. "Lilly, mind your own damned business…"
    She said nothing for a moment, recovering from his rebuke, reminding herself that he was more stranger than son. Then, half- pleading, "You don't have to do it, Roy. You've got so much on the ball-so much more than I ever had-and -… You know what it does to a person, Roy. I-"
    His eyes were closed. An apparent signal to shut up or get out. Forcing a smile, she said, Okay, she wouldn't start scolding the minute she saw him.
    "Why are you still in bed-s-son? Are you sick?"
    "Nothing," he muttered. "Just…"
    She came over to the side of the bed. Timidly, she put the palm of her hand to his forehead; let out a startled gasp. "Why, Roy, you're ice cold! What-" Light bloomed over his pillows as she switched on the table lamp. He heard another gasp. "Roy, what's the matter? You're as white as a sheet!"
    "Nothin'…" His lips barely moved. "No s-sweat, Lilly."
    Suddenly, he had become terribly frightened. He knew, without knowing why, that he was dying. And with the terrible fear of death was an unbearable sadness. Unbearable because there was no one who cared, no one to assuage it. No one, no one at all, to share it with him.
    Only one death, Roy? Well, what are you kicking about?
    But they can't eat you, can they? They can kill you, but they can't eat you .
    "Don't!" he sobbed, his voice pushing up through an overpowering drowsiness. "D-don't laugh at me-I-"
    "I won't! I'm not laughing, honey! I- Listen to me,