Oliver laughed hysterically. "Trouble?" he said. "Don't think of it." The man seemed to be measuring him with his eyes, and said at last: "You'd better go and not talk about us. We're enemies of the Mob." Oliver said after a pause: "So am I. Don't go away. I'll be back with some clothes and food for you and the lady. Then I can help you to my place. I'm an enemy of the Mob too. I just never knew it until now." He started off and then turned. "You won't go away? I mean it. I want to help you. I can't seem to help myself, but perhaps there's something--" The man said tiredly: "We won't go away." Oliver hurried off. There was something mingled with the scent of the pine forest tonight. He was half-way home before he identified it: oil smoke. XX Lee swore and said: "I can get up if I want to." "You'll stay in bed whether you want to or not," Charles told her. "You're a sick woman." "I'm a very bad-tempered woman and that means I'm convalescent. Ask anybody." "I'll go right out into the street and do that, darling." She got out of bed and wrapped Oliver's dressing gown around her. "I'm hungry again," she said. "He'll be back soon. You've left nothing but some frozen--worms, looks like. Shall I defrost them?" "Please don't trouble. I can wait." "Window!" he snapped. She ducked back and swore again, this time at herself. "Sorry," she said. "Which will do us a whole hell of a lot of good if somebody saw me and started wondering." Oliver came in with packages. Lee kissed him and he grinned shyly. "Trout," he whispered. She grabbed the packages and flew to the kitchenette. "The way to Lee Falcaro's heart," Charles mused. "How's your throat, Ken?" "No pain, today," Oliver whispered. "Latham says I can talk as much as I like. And I've got things to talk about." He opened his coat and hauled out a flat package that had been stuffed under his belt. "Stolen from the factory. Brushes, pens, tubes of ink, drawing instruments. My friends, you are going to return to Syndic Territory in style, with passes and permits galore." Lee returned. "Trout's frying," she said. "I heard that about the passes. Are you _sure_ you can fake them?" His face fell. "Eight years at the Chicago Art Institute," he whispered. "Three years at Original Reproductions, Inc. Eleven years at Picasso Oils and Etchings, where I am now third figure man in the Blue Department. I really think I deserve your confidence." "Ken, we trust and love you. If it weren't for the difference in your ages I'd marry you _and_ Charles. Now what about the Chicagoans? Hold it--the fish!"