"It was not there," the vug replied in agreement. "I scanned him, too. Yet it's clearly there now."

They both turned toward Pete.

JOE SCHILLING SAID, "I don't think you killed Luckman, Pete. I also don't think you called Bill Calumine and told him you were going to. I think someone or something is manipulating our minds. That thought was not in Calumine's head originally; both cops scanned him." He was silent then.

The two of them were at the Hall of Justice in San Francisco, awaiting the arraignment. It was an hour later.

"When do you think Sharp will be here?" Pete said.

"Any time." Schilling paced about. "Calumine obviously is sincere; he actually believes you said that to him."

There was a commotion down the corridor and Laird Sharp appeared, wearing a heavy blue overcoat and carry-

ing a briefcase; he strode toward them. "I've already talked to the district attorney. I got them to lower the charge from homicide to simply knowledge of a homicide and deliberate concealment of the knowledge from the police. I pointed out that you're a Bindman, you own property in California. You can be trusted out on bail. We'll have a bond broker in here and get you right out."

Pete said, "Thanks."

"It's my job," Sharp said, "After all, you're paying me. I understand you've had a change of authority in your group; who's your spinner, now that Calumine is out?"

"My quondam wife, Freya Garden Gaines," Pete said.

"Your quondam or your goddam wife?" Sharp asked, cupping his ear. "Anyhow, the real question is can you swing the group so that they'll help pay my fee? Or are you alone in this?"

Joe Schilling said, "It doesn't matter; in any case I'll guarantee your fee."

"I ask," Sharp said, "because my fee would differ according to whether it's an individual or a group." He examined his watch. "Well, let's get the arraignment over and the bond broker in here, and then let's go somewhere and have a cup of coffee and talk the situation over."

"Fine," Schilling said, nodding. "We've got a good man, here," he said to Pete. "Without Laird you'd be in here on an unbailable offense."

"I know," Pete said, tensely.

"Let me ask you point blank," Laird Sharp said, across the table to Pete. "Did you kill Jerome Lucky Luckman?"

Pete said, "I don't know." He explained why.

Scowling, Laird Sharp said, "Six persons, you say. Name of god; what's going on, here? So you could have killed him. You or any one of you or several or even all." He fingered a sugar cube. "I'll tell you. a piece of bad news. The Widow Luckman, Dotty, is putting great pressure on the police to break this case. That means they're going to try for a conviction as soon as possible, and it'll be before a military court... it's that damn Concordat; we've never gotten out from under it."

"I realize that," Pete said. He felt tired.

"The police have given me a written transcript of the investigating officers' report," Sharp said, reaching into his briefcase. "I had to pull a few strings, but here it is." He brought a voluminous document from his briefcase and pushed his coffee cup aside to lay it out on the table. "I've already glanced at it. This E. B. Black found in your memory an encounter with a woman named Patricia McClain who told you that you were about to perform an act of violence having to do with Luckman's death."

"No," Pete said. "Having to do with Luckman and death. It's not quite the same thing."

The lawyer eyed him keenly. "Very true, Garden." He returned to the document.

"Counselor," Schilling said, "they have no real case against Pete. Outside of that phony memory that Calumine has—"

"They've got nothing." Sharp nodded. "Except the amnesia, and you share that with five other group-members. But the problem is that they'll be digging around trying to get more dope on you, beginning from the assumption that you are guilty. And by starting with that as a premise, god knows what they may be able to find. You say your auto-auto said, you dropped by Berkeley sometime today... where Luckman was staying. You don't know why or even if you managed to reach him. God, you may have done it all right, Garden. But we'll presume you didn't, for the purposes of our case. Is there anyone that you personally suspect, and if so, why?"

"No one," Pete said.

"Incidentally," Sharp said, "I happen to know something about Mr. Calumine's attorney, Bert Barth. He's an excellent man. If you deposed Calumine on Barth's account you were in error; Barth is inclined to be cautious, but once he gets started you can't pull him loose."

Pete and Joe Schilling glanced at each other.

"Anyhow," Sharp said, "the die is cast. I think your best bet, Mr. Garden, is to look up your Psionic woman friend Pat McClain and find out what you and she did today and what she read in your mind while you were with her."

"Okay," Pete said. He agreed.

"Shall we go there now?" Sharp said, putting his document away in his briefcase and rising to his feet. "It's only ten o'clock; we may be able to catch her before she goes to bed."

Also standing up, Pete said, "There's a problem. She has a husband. Whom I've never met. If you understand me."

Sharp nodded. "I see." He meditated. "Maybe she'd be willing to fly here to San Francisco; I'll give her a call. If not, is there any other place you can think of?"

"Not your apartment," Joe Schilling said. "Carol's there." He regarded Pete somberly. "I have a place now. You don't remember, but you found it for me, in your present bind, San Anselmo. It's about two miles from your own apartment. If you want, I'll call Pat McClain; she no doubt remembers me. Both she and Al, her husband, have bought Jussi Bjoerling records from me. I'll tell her to meet us at my apartment."

"Fine," Pete said.

Joe Schilling went to the vidphone in the back of the restaurant to call.

"He's a nice guy," Sharp said to Pete as they waited.

"Yes," Pete agreed.

"Do you think he killed Luckman?"

Startled, Pete jerked his head, stared at his lawyer.

"Don't become unglued," Sharp said smoothly. "I was just curious. You are my client, Garden; as far as I'm professionally concerned, everyone else is a suspect over and above you, even Joe Schilling whom I've known for eighty-five years."

"You're a jerry?" Pete said, surprised. With such energy, Pete had assumed Sharp to be no more than forty or fifty.

"Yes," Sharp said, I'm a geriatric, like yourself. One hundred and fifteen years old." He sat broodingly twisting a match folder up into a ball. "Schilling could have done it; he's hated Luckman for years. You know the story of how Luckman reduced him to penury."

"Then why did he wait until now?"

Glancing at him, Sharp said, "Schilling came out here to play Luckman again. Right? He was positive he could beat Luckman if they ever tangled again; he's been telling him-

self that all this time, ever since Lucky beat him. Maybe Joe got out here, all prepared to play for your group against Luckman, then lost his nerve... discovered at the last moment that when it came right down to it, he couldn't beat Luckman after all—or at least feared he couldn't."

"I see," Pete said.

"So he was in an untenable position, committed to playing and beating Luckman, not merely for himself but for his friends... and he knew he simply could not do it. What other way out than to—" Sharp broke off; Joe Schilling was crossing the near-empty restaurant, returning to the table. "It's a compelling theory, anyhow," Sharp said, and turned to greet Joe Schilling.

"What's an interesting theory?" Joe said, seating himself.

Sharp said, "The theory that a single enormously powerful agency is at work manipulating the minds of the members of Pretty Blue Fox, turning them into a corporate instrument of its will."