Mathieu gave a self-satisfied grunt when a name formed itself in his thoughts almost at once. Rick Renard, the playboy botanist, was reputed to have connections with the legendary Lindstrom family, and for that reason Mathieu had been exceptionally helpful to him. The indulgences had ranged from overlooking a sheaf of import restrictions on a fancy Rollac car to allowing publicly owned warehouses to be used for the temporary storage of botanical samples. And, providentially it seemed, Renard was soon to depart for Orbitsville. I found the way, Mathieu thought, reaching for the radiophone, unable to delay taking immediate and positive action. I’m going home at last.

It was not until his car had struck the curb for the second time that Dallen realised how the sheer mental overload of the past hour had rendered him unfit to drive.

He braked and pulled in to the side in one of the North Hill's quietest avenues. The car shuddered slightly as he switched off the engine. He located his pipe in a jacket pocket, filled it with strands of yellow and black, abstractedly staring straight ahead as he tamped them down with his finger. It seemed that each time he visited the London place he got his consciousness stretched, but the last occasion had left him with no reserve capacity whatsoever. So many new matters clamoured and competed for his consideration that he was unable to focus properly on any of them.

Impose some order. he told himself. Find patterns. The task struck him as being impossible, and the most he could do, sitting in the metal-and-glass suntrap of his car, was to pick out certain symmetries.

Karal London was dead — but Karal London could not be dead, only made discarnate. The success of his fantastic experiment had profound significance for religion and philosophy, and yet as far as emotions were concerned it seemed to have little immediate relevance. Silvia's reaction had shown that. Death continued to be Death, no matter what the cool voice of the intellect proclaimed; and men and women would still mourn its intervention just as they had always done. The racial subconscious would have to assimilate a great deal of mindon science before there dawned the era of the blithe burial or the cheerful cremation, before London was hailed as the man who put the fun into funeral.

Gerald Mathieu was dead — but Gerald Mathieu could not be dead, only made discarnate. What was the personal significance of that for Dallen? The wash of photons from a single light bulb in London's laboratory had carried the message that Mathieu, too, had entered an afterlife and would exist perhaps for ever as a mindon entity. Did that mean the whole concept of punishment by execution was now invalid? Perhaps the only genuine retribution would have lain in making the punishment fit the crime, in blasting Mathieu's physical brain with a Luddite Special and scattering its mindon counterpart to whatever kind of thin winds that blew through an extra-dimensional ether. And now it was too late even to think about that.

In any case, the dominating element of revenge had been removed from Dallen's life, and the resultant vacuum had been tilled by new emotions centred on Silvia London. Silvia was going to Orbitsville, and — further symmetry — so was he…

Feeling the mental convection begin again, the restless whirlwind of thought fragments, he seized on the prospect of leaving for the Big O. That was a concrete fact, one which involved him in practical matters and a host of auxiliary decisions. He could, for instance, go immediately to the City Hall, arrange a transfer to Orbitsville on the next scheduled flight and clear out his desk. A good clear-cut short-term goal. A way to deaden his mind and at the same time delay the moment when he would have to return home and pick up the burden represented by Cona.

The decision made, Dallen discovered he had forgotten to light his pipe. He dropped it back into his pocket, switched on the car's magnetic engine and drove down the Hill towards the centre of Madison. Bars of tree-shadow and sunlight beat silently on the vehicle in quickening tempo. Traffic was quite sparse at that time of the afternoon and it took him less than ten minutes to reach the City Hall and park near the main entrance.

He went straight to his office on the second floor and paused when he saw the unfamiliar name plate on the door. It said: M.K.L.BYROM. Dallen had forgotten that his post was being filled by a replacement Grade IV officer who had been flown down from Winnipeg. He tapped the door, walked into the office without waiting for an invitation and was surprised to find Jim Mellor, his senior deputy, who usually worked in the operations centre, seated alone at the big communications console.

"Carry!" Mellor grinned, hoisting his tall crane-like figure out of the chair, and shook Dallen's hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you that. Promotion?"

"No chance! I came over to mind the shop for a while."

"Well, I only came in to notify somebody that Fro quitting this job and transferring back home on the first available ship. Consider yourself notified."

"I guessed you'd be doing that sooner or later, but you ought to give the word to Ken Byrom."

"I've no more time for all the red tape. Why can't you pass the good news on on my behalf?"

"You know, Carry — proper channels. Besides, he wants to have a few words with you."

"What about?"

"Ken likes everything done according to directives. He's all knotted up over the weapon you lost in Cordele — not to mention taking a ship while you were officially on leave."

"Tell him to…" Dallen stuthed the other man's narrow face. "Did you drop yourself in it by tipping me off about Beaumont?"

"Me!" Mellor looked indignant. "I never tipped nobody off, not noways nohow."

"You're one of the people I'm going to miss around here," Dallen said, briefly gripping one of Mellor's stringy biceps. "Now, I'm going to collect a few things from my desk and…"

"Ken has done all that for you." Mellor opened a closet, took out a large bulging envelope and handed it to Dallen. "I think he wants a permanent assignment in Madison."

"He's welcome. Why isn't he here, anyway?"

"Went across to the inner field with a bunch of the others to see Gerald Mathieu."

"Mathieu?" The tone and content of what he had just heard flicked at Dallen's nerves.

"Yeah. You know about what happened to him?"

"I heard."

"Wildest thing! That's why this place is empty — they all had to have a look for themselves."

Dallen considered the first meaning that Mellor's words had for him — that a large group of normal people had flocked across town to view a plastic sack full of bloody tissue and bone splinters — and was forced to reject it. The alternative, the incredible alternative, was a chaotic new element in the agitation that already existed in his thoughts. Gerald Mathieu still alive! Still alive. Dallen abruptly felt sick and bruised, like a fighter on the ropes.

He pretended to check the contents of his envelope. "Lucky escape, was it?"

"Lucky!" Mellor flung up his arms in protest at the inadequacy of the word. "He went into a hill at one K! The ship was reduced to chaff, but Mathieu walked away from it with nothing worse than bruises. What a guy!"

"The cockpit must have been in one piece."

"Yeah, the cockpit must have been in one piece, but the rest of the ship… Hey, Carry, you don't have anything against Mathieu, do you?"

"Of course not. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing. It was just the way you…"

"I'll see you around, Jim." Dallen left the office and stood for a moment in the cottony silence of the corridor, trying to reorganise his thoughts. Everything had changed once again. It was a perfect illustration of the intense relationship that binds a hunter to his quarry, forcing him to follow every swing and swerve with greater and greater concentration and fidelity until the pursuit reaches its climax. His life would not be his own again until Mathieu was dead, and that — much though he disliked the idea — meant delaying the return of the Dallen family to Orbitsville.