"Yes," he said.

"Then it's agreed," Patricia said. And she went on dust-mopping.

Pete said, "Tell me why you changed your mind about seeing me. What did you pick up in my mind? It must have been fairly important."

"I'd rather not say," Patricia answered.

"Please."

"The telepathic faculty has one basic drawback. You may not know this. It tends to pick up too much; it's too sensitive to marginal or merely latent thoughts in people, what the old psychologists called the 'unconscious mind.' There's a relationship between the telepathic faculty and paranoia; the latter is the involuntary reception of other people's suppressed hostile and aggressive thoughts."

"What did you read in my unconscious, Pat?"

"I—read a syndrome of potential action. If I were a pre-cog I could tell you more. You may do it; you may not. But—" She glanced up at him. "It's a violent act, and it has to do with death."

"Death," he echoed.

"Perhaps," Patricia said, "you'll attempt suicide. I don't know; it's inchoate, still. It has to do with death—and with Jerome Luckman."

"And it's so bad that it would make you reverse yourself in your decision not to have anything to do with me."

Patricia said, "It would be wrong of me, after picking up such a syndrome, to simply abandon you."

"Thanks," he said, tartly.

"I don't want it on my conscience. I'd hate to hear on Nats Katz' program tomorrow or the day after that you'd taken that overdose of Emphytal that you're obsessively preoccupied with." She smiled at him, but it was a colorless smile, devoid of joy.

"I'll see you at one-thirty," Pete said. "At Third and Market." Unless, he thought, the inchoate syndrome having to do with violence and death and Jerome Luckman becomes actual before then.

"It may," Patricia said somberly. "That's another quality of the unconscious, it stands outside of time. You can't tell,

in reading it, whether you're picking up something minutes away from actualization or days away or even years. It's all blurred together."

Wordlessly, Pete turned and strode out of the apartment, away from her.

The next he knew he was riding in his car, high over the desert.

He knew, instantly, that it was much later.

Snapping on the radio transmitter he said, "Give me a time signal."

The mechanical voice from the speaker said, "Six P.M. Mountain Standard Time, Mr. Garden."

Where am I? he asked himself. "Where is this?" he said to the car. "Nevada?" It looked like Nevada, barren and empty.

The car said, "Eastern Utah."

"When did I leave the Coast?"

"Two hours ago, Mr. Garden."

"What have I done during the last five hours?"

The car said, "At nine-thirty you drove from Marin County, California to Carmel, to the Game Room in the Carmel condominium apartment building."

"Whom did I seer

"I don't know."

"Continue," he said, breathing shallowly.

"You stayed there one hour. Then you came out and took off for Berkeley."

"Berkeley!" he said.

"You landed at the Claremont Hotel. You stayed there only a short time, only a few minutes. Then you took off for San Francisco. You landed at San Francisco State College and went into the administration building."

"You don't know what I did there, do you?"

"No, Mr. Garden. You were there an hour. Then you came out and took off once more. This time you landed at a parking lot in downtown San Francisco, at Fourth and Market; you parked me there and set out on foot"

"Going which way?"

"I didn't notice."

"Go ahead."

"You returned at two-fifteen, got back in, and directed me to fly in an East course. I have done so ever since."

"And we didn't land anywhere since San Francisco?"

"No, Mr. Garden. And by the way, I'm very short of fuel. We should come down at Salt Lake City, if possible."

"All right," he said. "Head that way."

"Thank you, Mr. Garden," the car said, and altered its course.

Pete sat for a time and then he switched on the transmitter and vidphoned his apartment in San Rafael.

On the small screen Carol Holt Garden's face appeared. "Oh hello," she said. "Where are you? Bill Calumine called; he's getting the group together early this evening to discuss strategy. He wants to be sure both you and I are there."

"Did Joe Schilling show up?"

"Yes. What do you mean? You came back to the apartment early this morning and sat out in your car talking to him; you talked out there so I wouldn't hear."

Pete said hoarsely, "What happened after that?"

"I don't understand your question."

"What did I do?" he demanded. "Did I go anywhere with Joe Schilling? Where is he now?"

"I don't know where he is now," Carol said. "What on earth is the matter with you? Don't you know what you did today? Do you always have periods of amnesia?"

Pete grated, "Just tell me what happened."

"You sat in the car talking to Joe Schilling and then he went off, I guess. Anyhow you came back upstairs alone and said to me— Just a second, I have something on the stove." She disappeared from the screen; he waited, counting the seconds, until at last she returned. "Sorry. Let's see. You came back upstairs—" Carol paused, meditating. "We talked. Then you went downstairs again, and that's the last I've seen of you, until you called just now."

"What did you and I talk about?"

"You told me that you wanted to play with Mr. Schilling as your partner tonight." Carol's voice was cold, withdrawn emotionally. "We, shall I say, discussed it. Argued about it,

actually. In the end—" She glared at him. "If you don't know—"

"I don't," he said.

Carol said, "There's no reason why I should tell you. Ask Joe, if you want to know; I'm sure you informed him."

"Where is he?"

"I have no idea," Carol said, and broke the connection. The tiny image of her on the vidscreen died.

I'm sure, he said to himself, that I arranged with Joe for him to play as my partner, tonight. But that's not the problem.

The problem—it was not what did I do? but why don't I remember? I may have done nothing at all; that is, nothing that was unusual or important. Although going to Berkeley... perhaps I wanted to pick up some of my things which I'd left, he decided.

But according to the Rushmore Effect of the car, he had not gone to his old apartment; he had gone to the Clare-mont, and that was where Lucky Luckman was staying.

Evidently he had seen—or had tried to see—Luckman.

He thought, I'd better get hold of Joe Schilling. Find him and talk to him. Tell him that for reasons unknown to me I'm missing almost an entire day. The shock of what Pat McClain said—could that explain it?

And evidently he had met Patricia in downtown San Francisco as they had agreed.

If so, what had they done?

What was his relationship with her, now? Perhaps he had been successful; perhaps, on the other hand, he had only antagonized her further. No way to tell. And the visit to San Francisco State College...

Evidently he had sought out Pat's daughter, Mary Anne.

Good lord. What a day to lose!

Using the car's transmitter he phoned Joe Schilling's record shop in New Mexico and got a Rushmore variety of answering device. "Mr. Schilling is not currently here. He and his parrot are on the Pacific Coast; you can contact him through Marin County Bindman Peter Garden at San Rafael."

Oh no you can't, Pete said to himself. And cut the connection with a wild swipe of his hand.

After a time he vidphoned Freya Garden Gaines.

"Oh, hello there, Peter," Freya said, looking pleased to hear from him. "Where are you? We're all supposed to get together at—"

"I'm hunting for Joe Schilling," he said. "You know where he is?"

"No. I haven't seen him. Did you bring him out to the Coast to play against Luckman?"