To MUTREAUX, Pete Garden said, "This is what you have to face and accept. As we play, Mary Anne McClain will be at the board beside you at all times. If we lose, Mary will kill you."

Mutreaux said woodenly, "I know. It was obvious as soon as Pat died that my life now depends on our winning." He sat massaging his throat and drinking hot tea. "And more indirectly, so do your lives, too."

"That's so," Joe Schilling said.

"It should begin any time," Mary Anne said, "if I understand them, anyhow. They should begin to arrive on Terra within the next half hour." She had seated herself at the far end of the kitchen of the McClain apartment; in the living room the amorphous shape of E. B. Black could be made out through the open door, consulting with human members of the West Coast police agency. At least six people were active in the living room now, and more were arriving.

"We've got to start for Carmel," Pete said. By vidphone he had arranged with his psychiatrist, Doctor Macy at Salt Lake City, for the phenothiazine spansules to be prepared; the spansules would be flown to Carmel from one of the pharmaceutical houses in San Francisco direct to the condominium apartment, to be received by Bill Calumine acting for the group, as he always had.

"How long does it take for the phenothiazine to begin acting?" Joe Schilling asked Pete.

"Once he's taken it into his system it should take effect immediately." Pete said. "Assuming Mutreaux hasn't been taking any up to now." And, since it acted to blunt his Psi-talent, that was highly unlikely.

The four of them, checked out by E. B. Black, left San

Rafael for Carmel in Joe Schilling's ill-tempered old car, Pete's following directly behind them, empty. On the trip almost nothing was said. Mary Anne stared blankly out the window. Dave Mutreaux sat slumped inertly, occasionally touching his injured throat. Joe Schilling and Pete sat together in the front seat.

This may be the final time we make this trip, Pete realized.

They reached Carmel reasonably quickly. Pete parked the car, shut off the motor and the creaky Rushmore circuit, and the four of them got out.

Standing in the dark, waiting for them, he saw a group of people.

Something about them chilled him. There were four of them, three men and a woman. Getting a flashlight from the glove compartment of his own car, which had come to a halt at the curb behind Max, he shone the light on the soundless, waiting group.

After a long pause Joe Schilling muttered, "I see."

"That's right," Dave Mutreaux said. "That's exactly how it will be played. I hope for all our sakes you can go on."

"Hell," Pete said shortly, "we can."

The four noiseless figures waiting for them were Titanian simulacra.

Of themselves. A vug Peter Garden, a vug Joe Schilling, a vug Dave Mutreaux, and, slightly behind the others, a vug Mary Anne McClain. The last was not as effective, not as substantial, as the others. Mary Anne was a problem for the Titanians. Even in this regard.

To the four simulacra, Pete said, "And if we lose?"

His counterpart, the vug Pete Garden, said in precisely the same tone, "If and when you lose, Mr. Garden, your presence is no longer required in The Game and I replace you. It's as simple as that."

"Cannibalism," Joe Schilling said gratingly.

"No," the vug Joe Schilling contradicted. "Cannibalism occurs when a member of a species feeds on other members of that species. We are not of the same species as you." The vug Joe Schilling smiled, and it was the smile familiar

from years back to Pete Garden; it was a superb imitation.

The group upstairs in the apartment, Pete thought, the others of Pretty Blue Fox, have simulacra appeared for them, too?

"Correct," the vug Peter Garden answered. "So shall we proceed on up? The Game should begin at once; there is no reason for further delay." It started toward the stairs, knowing the way.

That was the terrible part, the part which sickened Pete Garden; the alacrity of the vug as it ascended the stairs. Its certitude, as if it had made this climb a thousand times before.

It was already at home, here on Terra, in the midst of their customary lives. Shuddering, he watched the other three simulacra follow equally rapidly. And then he and his companions started into reluctant motion.

Above them the door opened; the vug Peter Garden entered the con-apt of the Game-playing group Pretty Blue Fox.

"Hello!" it greeted those within the room.

Stuart Marks—or was it the simulacrum of Stuart Marks?— regarded it with horror and then stammered, "I guess everybody's here, now." He—or it—stepped out onto the porch and peered down. "Hi."

"Greetings," Pete Garden said, laconically.

They faced one another across the table, the Titanian simulacra on one side, Pretty Blue Fox plus Dave Mutreaux and Mary Anne McClain on the other.

"Cigar?" Joe Schilling said to Pete.

"No thanks," Pete murmured.

Across from them the vug simulacrum of Joe Schilling turned to the Pete Garden beside it and said, "Cigar?"

"No thanks," the vug Pete Garden answered.

Pete Garden said to Bill Calumine, "Did the shipment arrive from the San Francisco pharmaceutical house? We've got to have it before we can begin. I hope no one intends to dispute that."

The vug Pete Garden said, "A noteworthy idea you have fastened onto, in this erratic crippling of your pre-cog's sen-

sory apparatus. You are absolutely correct; it will go a great distance toward evening our relative strengths." It grinned at the group Pretty Blue Fox, up and down the Game-table. "We have no objection to waiting until your medication arrives; anything else would be unfair."

Answering it, Pete Garden said, "I believe you've got to wait; we obviously won't begin to play until then. So don't make it appear that you're doing us a big favor." His voice shook, slightly.

Leaning over, Bill Calumine said, "Sorry. It's already there, in the kitchen."

Rising from his chair, Pete Garden went with Dave Mutreaux into the kitchen of the condominium apartment. In the center of the kitchen table, with trays of half-melted ice, lemons, bottles of mixer, glasses and bitters, he saw a package wrapped in brown paper, sealed with tape.

"Just think," Mutreaux said meditatively, as Pete unwrapped the package. "If this doesn't work, what happened to Patricia and the others in the organization, there in Nevada, will happen to me." He seemed relatively calm, however. "I don't sense the ominous disregard of all order and legality in these moderates," he said, "that I do in the Wa Pei Nan, with Doctor Philipson and those like him. Or rather, like it." He scrutinized Pete as Pete took a phenothiazine spansule from the bottle. "If you know the time-phasing of the granules within," he said, "the vugs will be able to—"

"I don't," Pete said shortly, as he filled a glass with water at the tap. "The ethical house making up these spansules was told that the range would vary between instantaneous full-action to any sequence of partial action to no action whatsoever. In addition, it was told to make up several spansules, one varying from another." He added, "And I've picked a spansule at random. Physically it's identical in appearance to the others." He held out the spansule and the glass of water to Mutreaux.

Somberly, Mutreaux swallowed the spansule.

"I will tell you one thing," Mutreaux said, "for your own information. Several years ago, as an experiment, I tried a phenothiazine derivative. It had a colossal effect on my pre-cognitive ability." He smiled fleetingly at Pete. "As I told

you before we went over to Pat McClain's this idea of yours is an adequate solution to our problems, as nearly as I can foresee. Congratulations."