She pinched her lips together and shook her head. "I lie to myself, Martha. You know how much I lie to myself?" She nodded slowly and stroked his gray temples. "I lie to myself about Ken, and about dying. If Ken turned spacer, I wouldn't die--that's what I told myself. You know?" She shook her head. "Don't talk, Donny, please." "A man makes his own soul, Martha." "That's not true. You shouldn't say things like that." "A man makes his own soul, but it dies with him, unless he can pour it into his kids and his grandchildren before he goes. I lied to myself. Ken's a yellow-belly. Nora made him one, and the boots won't fit." "Don't, Donny. You'll excite yourself again." "I was going to give him the boots--the over-boots with magnasoles. But they won't fit him. They won't ever fit him. He's a lily-livered lap-dog, and he whines. Bring me my boots, woman." "Donny!" "The boots, they're in my locker in the attic. I want them." "What on earth!" "Bring me my goddam space boots and put them on my feet. I'm going to wear them." "You can't; the priest's coming." "Well, get them anyway. What time is it? You didn't let me sleep through the moon-run blast, did you?" She shook her head. "It's half an hour yet ... I'll get the boots if you promise not to make me put them on you." "I want them on." "You can't, until Father Paul's finished." "Do I have to get my feet buttered?" She sighed. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that. I wish you wouldn't, Donny. It's sacrilege, you know it is." "All right--'anointed'," he corrected wearily. "Yes, you do." "The boots, woman, the boots." She went to get them. While she was gone, the doorbell rang, and he heard her quick footsteps on the stairs, and then Father Paul's voice asking about the patient. Old Donegal groaned inwardly. After the priest, the doctor would come, at the usual time, to see if he were dead yet. The doctor had let him come home from the hospital to die, and the doctor was getting impatient. Why don't they let me alone? he growled. Why don't they let me handle it in my own way, and stop making a fuss over it? I can die and do a good job of it without a lot of outside interference, and I wish they'd quit picking at me with syringes and sacraments and enemas. All he wanted was a chance to listen to the orchestra on the Keith terrace, to drink the rest of his whiskey, and to hear the beast blast-away for the satellite on the first lap of the run to Luna. * * * * * It's going to be my last day, he thought. My eyes are going fuzzy, and I can't breathe right, and the throbbing's hurting my head. Whether he lived through the night wouldn't matter, because delirium was coming over him, and then there would be the coma, and the symbolic fight to keep him pumping and panting. I'd rather die tonight and get it over with, he thought, but they probably won't let me go. He heard their voices coming up the stairs ...