“Mors stupebit,” the voices sang. “Et natura, cum resurget creatura, judicanti responsura.” They sang on and on.

Daylight rattled through the elegant hotel room, uncovering stately shapes which, Joe Chip blinkingly saw, were articles of furnishings: great hand-printed drapes of a neo-silkscreen sort that depicted man’s ascent from the unicellular organisms of the Cambrian Period to the first heavier-than-air flight at the beginning of the twentieth century. A magnificent pseudo-mahogany dresser, four variegated crypto-chrome-plated reclining chairs… he groggily admired the splendor of the hotel room and then he realized with a tremor of keen disappointment, that Wendy had not come knocking at the door. Or else he had not heard her; he had been sleeping too deeply.

Thus, the new empire of his hegemony had vanished in the moment it had begun.

With numbing gloom—a remnant of yesterday—pervading him, he lurched from the big bed, found his clothes and dressed. It was cold, unusually so; he noticed that and pondered on it. Then he lifted the phone receiver and dialed for room service.

“—pay him back if at all possible,” the receiver declared in his ear. “First, of course, it has to be established whether Stanton Mick actually involved himself, or if a mere homosimulacric substitute was in action against us, and if so why, and if not then how—” The voice droned on, speaking to itself and not to Joe. It seemed as unaware of him as if he did not exist. “From all our previous reports,” the voice declared, “it would appear that Mick acts generally in a reputable manner and in accord with legal and ethical practices established throughout the System. In view of this—”

Joe hung up the phone and stood dizzily swaying, trying to clear his head. Runciter’s voice. Beyond any doubt. He again picked up the phone, listened once more.

“—lawsuit by Mick, who can afford and is accustomed to litigation of that nature. Our own legal staff certainly should be consulted before we make a formal report to the Society. It would be libel if made public and grounds for a suit claiming false arrest if—”

“Runciter!” Joe said. He said it loudly. “—unable to verify probably for at least—” Joe hung up. I don’t understand this, he said to himself. Going into the bathroom, he splashed icy water on his face, combed his hair with a sanitary, free hotel comb, then, after meditating for a time, shaved with the sanitary, free hotel throwaway razor. He slapped sanitary, free hotel aftershave onto his chin, neck and jowls, unwrapped the sanitary, free hotel glass and drank from it. Did the moratorium finally manage to revive him? he wondered. And wired him up to my phone? Runciter, as soon as he came around, would want to talk to me, probably before anyone else. But if so, why can’t he hear me back? Why does it consist of one-way transmission only? Is it only a technical defect which will clear up?

Returning to the phone, he picked up the receiver once more with the idea of calling the Beloved Brethren Moratorium.

“—not the ideal person to manage the firm, in view of his confused personal difficulties, particularly—”

I can’t call, Joe realized. He hung up the receiver. I can’t even get room service.

In a corner of the large room a chime sounded and a tinkling mechanical voice called, “I’m your free homeopape machine, a service supplied exclusively by all the fine Rootes hotels throughout Earth and the colonies. Simply dial the classification of news that you wish, and in a matter of seconds I’ll speedily provide you with a fresh, up-to-the-minute homeopape tailored to your individual requirements; and, let me repeat, at no cost to you!”

“Okay,” Joe said, and crossed the room to the machine. Maybe by now, he reflected, news of Runciter’s murder has gotten out. The news media cover all admissions to moratoriums routinely. He pressed the button marked high-type interplan info. At once the machine began to clank out a printed sheet, which he gathered up as fast as it emerged.

No mention of Runciter. Too soon? Or had the Society managed to suppress it? Or Al, he thought; maybe Al slipped a few poscreds to the owner of the moratorium. But—he, himself had all of Al’s money. Al couldn’t buy off anybody to do anything.

A knock sounded on the hotel room door.

Putting down the homeopape, Joe made his way cautiously to the door, thinking, It’s probably Pat Conley; she’s trapped me here. On the other hand, it might be someone from New York, here to pick me up and take me back there. Theoretically, he conjectured, it could even be Wendy. But that did not seem likely. Not now, not this late.

It could also be an assassin dispatched by Hollis. He could be killing us off one by one.

Joe opened the door.

Quivering with unease, wringing his pulpy hands together, Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang stood in the doorway mumbling. “I just don’t understand it, Mr. Chip. We worked all night in relays. We just are not getting a single spark. And yet we ran an electroencephalograph and the ’gram shows faint but unmistakable cerebral activity. So the afterlife is there, but we still can’t seem to tap it. We’ve got probes at every part of the cortex now. I don’t know what else we can do, sir.”

“Is there measurable brain metabolism?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir. We called in an outside expert from another moratorium, and he detected it, using his own equipment. It’s a normal amount too. Just what you’d expect immediately after death.”

“How did you know where to find me?” Joe asked.

“We called Mr. Hammond in New York. Then I tried to call you, here at your hotel, but your phone has been busy all morning. That’s why I found it necessary to come here in person.”

“It’s broken,” Joe said. “The phone. I can’t call out either.”

The moratorium owner said, “Mr. Hammond tried to contact you too, with no success. He asked me to give you a message from him, something he wants you to do here in Zurich before you start back to New York.”

“He wants to remind me,” Joe said, “to consult Ella.”

“To tell her about her husband’s unfortunate, untimely death.”

“Can I borrow a couple of poscreds from you?” Joe said. “So I can eat breakfast?”

“Mr. Hammond warned me that you would try to borrow money from me. He informed me that he already provided you with sufficient funds to pay for your hotel room, plus a round of drinks, as well as—”

“Al based his estimate on the assumption that I would rent a more modest room than this. However, nothing smaller than this was available, which Al did not foresee. You can add it onto the statement which you will be presenting to Runciter Associates at the end of the month. I am, as Al probably told you, now acting director of the firm. You’re dealing with a positive-thinking, powerful man here, who has worked his way step by step to the top. I could, as you must well realize, reconsider our basic policy decision as to which moratorium we wish to patronize; we might, for example, prefer one nearer New York.”

Grumpily, von Vogelsang reached within his tweed toga and brought out an ersatz alligator-skin wallet, which he dug into.

“It’s a harsh world we’re living in,” Joe said, accepting the money. “The rule is ‘Dog eat dog.’ ”

“Mr. Hammond gave me further information to pass on to you. The ship from your New York office will arrive in Zurich two hours from now. Approximately.”