"I don't understand."

"Beloved, this is why criminologists place more faith in circumstantial evidence than they do in the testimony of eyewitnesses. You are the ideal eyewitness, intelligent, sincere, cooperative, and honest. You have reported a mixture of what you did see, what you thought you saw, what you failed to notice although it was in front of you, and what your logical mind fills in as necessities linking what you saw and what you thought you saw. This mixture is now all solidly in your mind as a true memory, a firsthand, eyewitness memory. But it didn't happen."

"But, Richard, I did see-"

"You saw that poor clown killed. You did not see him threatening me; you did not see me shoot him. Some third person shot him with an explosive dart. Since he was facing you and it hit him in the chest, that dart must have come right past you. Did you notice anyone standing?"

"No. Oh, there were waiters moving around, and busmen, and the maitre d' and people getting up and sitting down. I mean I didn't notice anyone in particular-certainly not anyone shooting a gun. What sort of a gun?"

"Gwen, it might not look like a gun. A concealed assassin's weapon capable of shooting a dart short range- It could look like anything as long as it had one dimension about fifteen centimeters long. A lady's purse. A camera. Opera glasses. An endless list of innocent-appearing objects. This gets us nowhere as I had my back to the action and you saw nothing out of the way. The dart probably came from behind your back. So forget it. Let's see who the victim was. Or whom he claimed to be."

I took out everything from all the pockets of that wallet, including a poorly-concealed "secret" pocket. This last held gold certificates issued by a Zurich bank, equivalent to about seventeen thousand crowns-his get-away money, it seemed likely.

There was an ID of the sort the Golden Rule issues to each person arriving at the habitat's hub. All it proves is that the "identified" person has a face, claims a name, has made statements as to nationality, age, place of birth, etc., and has deposited with the Company a return ticket or the equivalent in cash, as well as paying the breathing fee ninety days in advance-these latter two being all the Company cares about.

I do not know as certainty that the Company would space a man who, through some slip, has neither a ticket away nor air money. They might let him sell his indentures. But I would not count on it. Eating vacuum is not something I care to risk.

This Company ID stated that the holder was Enrico Schultz, age 32, citizen of Belize, born Ciudad Castro, occupation accountant. The picture with it was that of the poor slob who got himself killed through bracing me in too public a place... and for the steenth time I wondered why he hadn't phoned me, then called on me in private. As "Dr. Ames" I am in the directory... and invoking "Walker Evans" would have got him a hearing, a private hearing.

I showed it to Gwen. "Is that our boy?"

"I think so. I'm not sure."

"I am sure. As I talked to him face to face for several minutes."

The oddest part about Schultz's wallet was what it did not contain. In addition to the Swiss gold certificates it held eight hundred and thirty-one crowns and that Golden Rule ID.

But that was all.

No credit cards, no motor vehicle pilot's license, no insurance cards, no union or guild card, no other identification cards, no membership cards, nit. Men's wallets are like women's purses; they accumulate junk-photos, clippings, shopping lists, et cetera without end; they need periodic housecleaning. But, in cleaning one out, one always leaves in place the dozen-odd items a modem man needs in order to get by. My friend Schultz had nothing.

Conclusion: He was not anxious to advertise his true identity. Corollary: Somewhere in Golden Rule habitat there was a stash of his personal papers... another ID in a different name, a passport almost certainly not issued by Belize, other items that might give me a lead to his background, his motives, and (possibly) how he had invoked "Walker Evans."

Could these be found?

A side issue niggled at me: that seventeen thousand in gold certificates. Instead of its being get-away money could he have expected to use so fiddlin' a sum to hire me to kill Tolliver? If so, I was offended. I preferred to think that he hoped to persuade me to make the kill as a public service.

Gwen said, "Do you want to divorce me?"

"Eh?"

"I hustled you into it. My intentions were good, truly they were! But it turns out I was stupid."

"Oh. Gwen, I never get both married and divorced on the same day. Never. If you really want to shuck me off, take it up with me tomorrow. Although I think that, to be fair, you ought to try me out for thirty days. Or two weeks, at least. And permit me to do the same. So far, your performance, both horizontally and vertically, has been satisfactory. If either becomes unsatisfactory, I'll let you know. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough. Although I may beat you to death with your own sophistries."

"Beating her husband to death is every married woman's privilege... as long as she does it in private. Please pipe down, dear; I've got troubles. Can you think of any good reason why Tolliver should be killed?"

"Ron Tolliver? No. Although I can't think of any good reason why he should be allowed to live, either. He's a boor."

"He's that, all right. If he were not one of the Company partners, he would have been told to pick up his return ticket and leave, long ago. But I didn't say 'Ron Tolliver,' I just said Tolliver.'"

"Is there more than one? I hope not."

"We'll see." I went to the terminal, punched for directory, cycled to "T."

"'Ronson H. Tolliver, Ronson Q.'-that's his son-and here's his wife, 'Stella M. Tolliver.' Hey! It says here: 'See also Taliaferro.'"

"That's the original spelling," said Gwen. "But it's pronounced 'Tolliver' just the same."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. At least south of the Mason and Dixon Line back dirtside. Spelling it 'Tolliver' suggests poh white trash who can't spell. Spelling it the long way and then sounding all the letters sounds like a Johnny-come-lately damyankee whose former name might have been 'Lipschitz' or such. The authentic plantation-owning, nigger-whupping, wench-humping aristocrat spelled it the long way and pronounced it the short way."

"I'm sorry you told me that."

"Why, dear?"

"Because there are three men and one woman listed here who spell it the long way, Taliaferro. I don't know any of them. So I don't know which one to kill."

"Do you have to kill one of them?"

"I don't know. Mmm, time I brought you up to date. If you are planning to stay married to me at least fourteen days. Are you?"

"Of course I am! Fourteen days plus the rest of my life! And you are a male chauvinist pig!"

"Paid-up lifetime membership."

"And a tease."

"I think you're cute, too. Want to go back to bed?"

"Not until you decide whom you intend to kill."

"That may take a while." I did my best to give Gwen a detailed, factual, uncolored account of my short acquaintance with the man who had used the name "Schultz." "And that's all I know. He was dead too quickly for me to leam more. Leaving behind him endless questions."

I turned back to the terminal, keyed it to shift to wordpro-cessing mode, then created a new file, as if I were setting up a potboiler:

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSPELLED NAME Questions To Be Answered:

1. Tolliver or Taliaferro?

2. Why does T. have to die?

3. Why would "we all be dead" if T. is not dead by noon Sunday?

4. Who is this corpse who called himself "Schultz"?

5. Why am I the logical hatchet man for T.?

6. Is this killing necessary?

7. Which one of the Walker Evans Memorial Society sicked this thumb-fingered bubblehead on me? And why?