"If you hear from him," Pete said, "tell him to go to my apartment in San Rafael and stay there."

"Okay," Freya said. "Is something wrong?"

"Maybe so," he said, and rang off.

I wish to hell I knew, he said to himself.

To the car he said, "Do you have enough fuel to head directly back to San Rafael without stopping at Salt Lake City?"

"No, Mr. Garden," the car said.

"Get your damn fuel, then," he told it, "and then let's get back to California as fast as possible."

"All right, but there's no point in being angry at me; it was your instructions that brought us to this place."

He cursed at the car. And sat impatiently waiting as it nosed down toward deserted, vast Salt Lake City below.

WHEN FINALLY he got back to San Rafael it was evening; he switched on the landing lights of the car and came to rest at the curb before his apartment building.

As he stepped out, a shape emerged from the darkness, hurrying toward him. "Pete!"

It was, he made out, Patricia McClain; she wore a long heavy coat and her hair was tied back in a knot. "What is it?" he said, catching her air of alarm and urgency.

"Just a second." She came close to him, breathless, gasp-

ing, her eyes dilated with fear. "I want to scan your mind."

"What's happened?"

"My god," she said. "You don't remember. The whole day's lost to you; Pete, be careful. I better go—my husband's waiting. Goodbye, I'll see you as soon as I can; don't try to get in touch with me, I'll call you." She stared at him for an instant and then she disappeared down the street, rushing away into the darkness.

He went on, then, up the stairs to his apartment.

In the living room, large, red-bearded Joseph Schilling sat waiting; seeing him, Schilling at once rose to his feet. "Where have you been?"

Pete said, "Is Carol here or are you alone?" He glanced around him. There was no sign of her.

"I haven't seen her since this morning. Since the three of us were together here in the apartment. I was talking to your former wife, Freya, and she told me that you—"

"How did you get in," Pete said, "if Carol isn't here?"

"The apartment was unlocked."

Pete said, "Listen, Joe. Something's happened, today."

"You mean Luckman's disappearance?"

Staring at him, chilled, Pete said, "I didn't know Luck-man had disappeared."

"Of course you do; you're the one who told me." Now Schilling stared back at him.

They were both silent.

Schilling said, "You called me from your car; you caught me at the con-apt in Carmel; I was studying recordings of your group's past Gameplays. And then later on I heard it over Nats Katz' afternoon program. Luckman disappeared this morning."

"And he hasn't been found?"

"No." Schilling grabbed Pete by the shoulder. "Why don't you remember?"

"I had an encounter. With a telepath."

"Pat McClain? You told me; you were remarkably upset. I could tell, I know you. You alluded to something she had picked up in your unconscious, something having to do with your obsessive suicidal impulses, you said. And then you suddenly signed off and broke the circuit."

"I saw her again just now," Pete said. Her warning; probably it had to do with Luckman's disappearance. Did Patricia think he had something to do with it?

Schilling said, "I'll fix you a drink." He went over to the cabinet by the large living room windows. "While I was waiting for you I managed to find where you keep it. This scotch isn't bad, but as far as I'm concerned there's nothing quite like—"

"I haven't eaten dinner," Pete said. "I don't want a drink." He went into the kitchen, to the refrigerator, with the vague idea of preparing some sort of meal.

"There's some very fine kosher-style corn beef; I picked it up at a delicatessen in San Francisco, it and dark bread and slaw."

"Okay." Pete got the food out.

"We don't have much time to get to Carmel. We're supposed to be there early. But if Luckman doesn't show up-"

"Are the police looking for him? Have they been called in?"

"I don't know. You didn't say and neither did Katz."

Pete said, "Did I tell you how I happened to know about it?"

"No."

"This is terrible," Pete said. He cut two thick slices of the dark bread; his hands were shaking.

"Why?"

"I don't know why. Doesn't it strike you that way?"

Schilling shrugged. "Maybe it would be a good thing if someone did him in. We should have such bad luck every day. Wouldn't this solve our collective problems? His widow would have to play his hand and we can beat Dotty Luckman; I know her system and it's mediocre." He, too, cut himself some of the dark bread and helped himself to the kosher-style corn beef.

The vidphone rang.

"You get it," Pete said. He felt dread.

"Sure." Schilling strode into the living room. "Hello," his voice came to Pete.

Bill Calumine's voice: "Something's come up. I want everyone at Carmel immediately."

"Okay, we'll leave now." Schilling returned to the kitchen.

"I heard," Pete said.

"Leave a note for your wife Carol."

"Telling her what?"

"Don't you know that either? Telling her to get down to Carmel; the agreement we arrived at—remember?—is for me to play the hands but for her to sit in and watch from behind me, seeing what I draw and how I play each turn. You don't remember that either, do you?"

Pete said, "No."

"She wasn't very pleased." Schilling got his hat and Coat from the closet. "But you figured you'd come up with something just dandy, there. Come on; it's time to leave. Bring your corn beef sandwich along."

As they left the apartment and came out into the hall they met Carol Holt Garden; she was stepping from the elevator. Her face looked tired. Seeing them, she halted.

"Well?" she said listlessly. "I suppose you heard."

Schilling said, "We heard from Bill Calumine, if that's what you mean."

"I mean," Carol said, "about Luckman. Since I've already called the police. If you want to see, come downstairs."

By the elevator, the three of them descended to the ground floor, and Carol led them to her car, parked behind Schilling's and Pete's at the curb.

"I discovered it in mid-flight," she said woodenly, leaning against the hood of the car, hands in her coat pockets. "I was flying along and I happened to wonder if I'd left my purse at my old apartment, where I and my previous husband lived. I was there today, getting some things I had forgotten."

Pete and Joe Schilling opened the door to her car.

"I switched on the dome light," Carol said. "And saw it. It must have been put in while I was parked at my old apartment, but it's barely possible that it was done even earlier, when I was here this morning." She added, "You can see that he—it—is way down on the floor, out of sight.

I—touched it, trying to find my purse." She was silent, then.

By the glare of the dome light, Pete saw the body jammed behind the front seats of the car. It was Luckman; no doubt of it. Even in death, the round, plump-cheeked face was recognizable. It was not ruddy, now. It was, in the artificial light, a pulpy gray.

"I called the police at once," Carol said, "and arranged to meet them here." Sirens were now audible in the black sky above them, a long way off.