"It's all in the briefcase," Sharp said, patting the leather side of it. "The police got it from Pete's mind." He smiled at her. "Now let me ask you something, Mrs. McClain. As a Psi-person, do you have contact with very many other Psi-individuals?"

"Sometimes," Pat said.

"Do you know first hand the range of Psionic ability? For instance, we all know about the telepath, the pre-cog, the psycho-kinetic, but what about the rarer talents. For example, is there a subvariety of Psi which deals with the alteration of the contents of other people's psyches? A sort of mental psycho-kinesis?"

Pat said, "Not—to my knowledge, no."

"You understand my question."

"Yes." She nodded. "But to my knowledge, which is limited, no Psi talents exist which could explain the amnesia of the six members of Pretty Blue Fox nor the alteration in Bill Calumine's mind regarding what Pete did or did not say to him."

"You say your knowledge is limited." Sharp scrutinized

her as she spoke. "Then it's not impossible that such a talent —and such a Psi-person—could exist."

"Why would a Psionic individual want to kill Luckman?" Pat asked. I

"Why would anyone want to?" Sharp said. "Obviously, someone did."

"But someone in Pretty Blue Fox. They had reasons to."

Sharp said quietly, "There is nothing in the make-up of the members of Pretty Blue Fox which would account for the capacity to cripple the memories of six people and alter the memory of a seventh."

"Does such a capacity exist anywhere that you know of?" Pat asked him.

"Yes," Sharp said. "During the war both sides used techniques of that sort. It goes all the way back to mid-twentieth century Soviet brainwashing procedures."

"Horrible," Pat said with a shudder. "One of the worst periods in our history."

At the door of the restaurant an automated news vending machine appeared, with a late edition of the Chronicle. Its Rushmore Effect bleated out, "Special coverage of the Luck-man murder case." The restaurant, except for their party, was empty; the news vending machine, being homotropic, headed toward them, still bleating. "The Chronicle's own circuit investigates and discloses startling new details not found in the Examiner or the News Call-Bulletin." It waved the newspaper in their faces.

Getting out a coin, Sharp inserted it in the slot of the machine; it at once presented him with a copy of the paper and rolled back out of the restaurant, to hunt for more people.

"What does it say?" Pat asked, as Sharp read the lead article.

"You're correct," Sharp said, nodding. "Time of death believed to be late in the afternoon. Not too long before Mrs. Garden found the body in her car. So I owe you an apology."

Joe Schilling said, "Maybe Pat's also a pre-cog. The news wasn't out yet when she told you that. She previewed this

edition in advance of its release. How useful she'd be in the newspaper business."

"Not very funny," Pat said. "That's one of the reasons why Psis become so cynical; we're so mistrusted, no matter what we do."

"Let's go somewhere that we can get a drink," Joe Schilling said. To Pete, he said, "What's a good bar in the Bay Area? You must know the situation around here; you're a sophisticate, urbane and cosmopolitan."

Pete said, "We can go to the Blind Lemon in Berkeley. It's almost two centuries old. Or should I stay out of Berkeley?" he asked Sharp.

"No reason to avoid it," Sharp said. "You're not going to run into Dotty Luckman at a bar; that's certain. You don't have a bad conscience about Berkeley, do you?"

"No," Pete said.

"I have to go home," Pat McClain said. "Goodbye." She rose to her feet.

Accompanying her to her car, Pete said, "Thanks for coming."

On the dark San Francisco sidewalk she stood by her car, stubbing her cigarette out with the toe of her slipper. "Pete," she said, "even if you did kill Luckman or helped kill him, I—still want to know you better. We were just beginning to become acquainted, this afternoon. I like you a lot." She smiled at him. "What a mess this all is. You crazy Game-players; taking it so seriously. Willing, at least some of you, to kill a human being because of it. Maybe I am glad I had to leave it; maybe I'm better off." She stood on tiptoe, kissed him. "I'll see you. I'll vidphone you when I can."

He watched her car shoot rapidly into the night sky, its signal lights winking red, on and off.

What's she mixed up in? He asked himself as he walked back into the restaurant. She'll never tell me. Perhaps I can find out through her children. For some reason it seemed important for him to know.

"You don't trust her," Joe Schilling said to him, as he sat down once more at the table. "That's too bad. I think she's fundamentally an honest person, but god knows what

she's got herself involved in. You're probably right to be suspicious."

"I'm not suspicious," Pete said. "I'm just concerned."

Sharp said, "Psi-people are different from us. You can't put your finger on exactly what it is—I mean, in addition to their talent. That girl..." He shook his head, "I was sure she was lying. How long has she been your mistress, Garden, did you say?"

"She's not," Pete said. At least he didn't think so. A shame to forget something like that, not to be certain in that aspect of one's life.

"I don't know whether to wish you luck or not," Laird Sharp said, thoughtfully.

"Wish me luck," Pete said. "I can always use it in that area."

"So to speak," Schilling said, and smiled.

When he got home to his apartment in San Rafael, Pete Garden found Carol standing at the window, gazing sightlessly out. She barely greeted him; her voice was distant and muted.

"Sharp got me out on bail," Pete said. "They've got me charged with—"

"I know." Her arms folded, Carol nodded. "They were here. The two detectives, Hawthorne and Black. Mutt and Jeff, only I can't figure out which is the easy-going one and which is supposed to be tough. They both seem tough."

"What were they doing here?" he demanded.

"Searching the apartment. They had a warrant. Hawthorne told me about Pat."

After a pause, Pete said, "That's a shame."

"No, I think it's very good. Now we know exactly where we stand, you and I, in relationship to each other. You don't need me in The Game; Joe Schilling does that. And you don't need me here, either. I'm going back to my own group. I've decided.". She pointed toward the bedroom of the apartment and he saw, on the bed, two suitcases. "Maybe you can help carry them downstairs to the car," Carol said.

"I wish you'd stay," he said.

"To be jeered at?"

"Nobody's jeering at you."

"Of course they are. Everybody in Pretty Blue Fox is, or will be. And it'll be in the papers."

"Maybe so," he said. He hadn't thought of that.

"If I hadn't found Luckman's body," Carol said, "I wouldn't know about Pat. And if I didn't know about Pat I would have tried—and possibly succeeded—in being a good wife of yours. So you can blame whoever killed Luckman for destroying our marriage."

"Maybe that's why they did it," he said. "Killed Luckman."

"I doubt it. Our marriage is hardly that important. How many wives have you had, in all?"

"Eighteen."

Carol nodded. "I've had fifteen husbands. That's thirty-three combinations of male and female. And no luck, as they say, from any of them."

"When did you last bite into a piece of rabbit-paper?"

Carol smiled thinly. "Oh, I do all the time. It wouldn't show up from us, yet. It's too early."

"Not with the new East German kind," Pete said. "I read about it. It records even an impregnation only an hour old."

"Good grief," Carol said. "Well, I don't have any of the new kind; I didn't even know it existed."

"I know an all night drugstore," Pete said, "in Berkeley. Let's fly over there and pick up a packet of the new rabbit-paper."