"We heard about Freddie," Mr. Friedlander said in a chill voice. "Will you please go downstairs?"
"You heard baloney, or you wouldn't be talking like that. Freddie ain't dead."
"What did you say?" Mr. Friedlander stood perfectly still, in the center of the room, his back to the stove, trying to peer through the window which by now had frosted over. Mrs. Friedlander had stopped her crying, hands clasped in front of her, below her waist, in an obsequious Oriental pose which the Karadi promoted.
"I said Freddie ain't dead."
"What are you talking about?"
"Heard it on the short-wave, by God. Wouldn't kid about a thing like this. I came busting in here to tell you, only that quisling was here and I had to wait."
"You mean it's you who owns the short-wave set downstairs?" demanded Mr. Friedlander. "I never stopped on the landing. I always ran upstairs. You see, I didn't want to know who owned the short-wave, who listened to the—"
"The free radio, other side of the Rockies? Go ahead, say it. Listen to me, Mr. Friedlander. Those Karadi ain't here to stay. If you stopped to think of it a minute, you'd understand like the rest of us."
"The rest of you?"
"Well, a lot of us, anyway. They don't need us. We have nothing they want. They enjoy making us knuckle under, is all. Something in their makeup, I don't know what. They won't stay here forever, though some of us won't be around long enough to see them go."