"That's not legal," Marks said. "And you know it. I still say what I said; one or more of these six people killed Luck-man and I don't see why we should protect them. It means the obliteration of our group. It's to our best interest to have the slayer discovered. Then we can resume playing."
Walt Remington said, "Whoever killed Luckman didn't do it for himself; he did it for all of us. It may have been the act of an individual, an individual decision, but we all benefited; that person saved our hides, and as far as I'm concerned it's ethically loathsome for a member of the group to assist the police in apprehending him." Shaking with anger, he faced Stuart Marks.
"We didn't like Luckman," Jean Blau said, "and we were terribly afraid of him but that didn't create a mandate for someone to go out and kill him, supposedly in the name of the group. I agree with Stuart. We should cooperate with the police in determining who did it."
"A vote," Silvanus Angst said.
"Yes," Carol agreed. "We should decide on policy. Are we to hang together or are we, as individuals, to betray one another? I'll tell you my vote right now; it's thoroughly wrong for any of us to—"
The policeman Wade Hawthorne interrupted her. "You have no choice, Mrs. Garden; you must cooperate with us. It's the law. You can be compelled to,"
"I doubt that," Bill Calumine said.
Joe Schilling said, "I'm going to contact my own attorney, in New Mexico." He crossed the room to the vidphone, clicked it on and began to dial.
"Is there any way," Freya was saying to Hawthorne, "that the lapsed memories can be restored?"
"Not if the brain cells in question have been destroyed," Hawthorne answered. "And I assume that's the case. It's hardly likely that these six members of Pretty Blue Fox have simultaneously suffered hysterical loss of memory." He smiled briefly.
Pete said to him, "My day was fairly well reconstructed by the Rushmore Effect of my car, and it didn't put me at any time near a psychiatric hospital where I could have obtained electroshock."
"You stopped at San Francisco State College," Hawthorne said. "And their psych department possesses ETS equipment; you could have gotten it there."
"What about the other five?" Pete said.
"Their days have not been reconstructed by Rushmore circuitry as has yours," Hawthorne said. "And there are major omissions in yours; a good deal of your activity today is far from clear."
Joe Schilling said, "I have Sharp on the vid. You want to talk to him, Pete? I've sketched the situation briefly."
The vug E. B. Black said suddenly, "Just a moment, Mr. Garden." It conferred telepathically for a time with its colleague, and then it said to Pete, "Mr. Hawthorne and I have decided not to book any of you; there's no direct evidence involving any one of you in the crime. But if we let you go, you must agree to carry tattletales with you at all times. Inquire of your attorney Mr. Sharp if that will be acceptable."
"What the hell is a 'tattletale'?" Joe Schilling asked.
"A tracing device," Hawthorne said. "It will inform us where each of you are at all times."
"Does it have a telepathic content?" Pete asked.
"No," Hawthorne said. "Although I wish it had."
On the vidscreen, Laird Sharp, youthful and active-look-
ing, said, "I heard the proposal and without going into it any further, I'd be inclined to label it as a clear violation of these people's rights."
"Suit yourself," Hawthorne said. "Then we'll have to book them."
"I'll have them out at once," Sharp said. To Pete he said, "Don't allow them to hook any sort of monitoring devices to you, and if you discover they have, rip them off. I'll fly right out there. It's obvious to me that your rights are being resoundingly violated."
Joe Schilling said to Pete, "Do you want him?"
"Yes," Pete said.
Bill Calumine said, "I—have to agree. He seems to have more on the ball than Barth." Turning to the group Calumine said, "I offer the motion that we retain this man Sharp collectively."
Hands went up. The motion carried.
"I'll see you shortly, then," Sharp said, and broke the connection.
"A good man," Schilling said, and reseated himself.
Pete felt a little better now; it was a good feeling, he thought, to have someone battling hard on your side.
The group as a whole seemed less stunned, now. They were coming out of their stupor.
"I'm going to make a motion," Freya said to the group. "I move that we order Bill Calumine to step down and that we elect someone else, someone more vigorous, as group spinner."
Astonished, Bill Calumine said, "W-why?"
"Because you sicked that do-nothing attorney on us," Freya said. "That Bert Barth who just let the police walk all over us."
Jean Blau said, "True, but it's still better to let him remain as spinner than to stir up trouble."
"But trouble," Pete said, "is something we can't avoid. We're in it already." After an interval he said, "I second Freya's motion."
Taken by surprise, the group began to murmur.
"Vote," Silvanus Angst said. Snickering, he added, "I agree with Pete; I vote for Calumine's removal."
Bill Calumine stared at Pete and said hoarsely, "How could you second a motion like that? Do you want someone more vigorous? I would think you wouldn't."
"Why not?" Pete said.
"Because," Calumine said, his face red with anger, his voice trembling, "you personally have so much to lose."
"What causes you to say that?" the detective Hawthorne asked him.
Calumine said, "Pete killed Jerome Luckman."
"How do you know that?" Hawthorne said, frowning.
"He called me and told me he was going to do it," Calumine said. "Early this morning. If you had scanned me more thoroughly you would have found that; it wasn't very far down in my mind."
For a moment Hawthorne was silent, evidently scanning Calumine. Then he turned to the group. Thoughtfully, he said, "What he says is true. The memory is there in his mind. But—it wasn't there earlier when I scanned him a little while ago." He glanced at his partner, E. B. Black.
"It was not there," the vug replied in agreement. "I scanned him, too. Yet it's clearly there now."
They both turned toward Pete.
IX
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."
"You put it a little grandiosely," Joe said, "but in the main I feel that must be the case. As I said to Pete."
"What did Pat McClain say?" Pete asked.
"She'll meet us here," Joe said. "So let's have a second cup of coffee; it'll take her another fifteen minutes. She had gone to bed."
A half hour later Pat McClain, wearing a light trench coat, low-heeled slippers and slacks, entered the restaurant and walked toward their table. "Hello, Pete," she said to him; she looked pale, and her eyes were unnaturally dilated. "Mr. Schilling." She nodded to Joe. "And—" She studied Laird Sharp as she seated herself. "I'm a telepath, you know, Mr. Sharp. Yes, I read that you know; you're Pete's lawyer."
Pete thought, I wonder how—if at all—Pat's telepathic talent could assist me, at this point. I had no doubts about Sharp, and I don't in any way, shape, or form accept his theory about Joe Schilling.
Glancing at him, Pat said, "I'll do all I can to help you, Pete." Her voice was low but steady; she had herself under control; the panic of a few hours ago was gone. "You don't
remember anything that happened between us, this afternoon."
"No," he admitted.
"Well," Pat said, "you and I got on astonishingly well, for two people who are married to someone else entirely."
Sharp asked her, "Was there anything in Pete's mind, when he met you this afternoon, about Lucky Luckman?"
"Yes," she said. "A tremendous desire for Luckman's death."
"Then he didn't know Luckman was dead," Joe said.
"Is that correct?" Sharp asked her.
Pat nodded. "He was terribly afraid. He felt that—" She hesitated. "He felt that Luckman would beat Joe again, as he did years ago; Pete was going into a psychological fugue, a retreat from the whole situation regarding Luckman."
"No plans to kill Luckman, I assume," Sharp said.
"No," Pat said.
"If it can be established that Luckman was dead by one-thirty," Joe Schilling said, "wouldn't that clear Pete?"
"Probably," Sharp said. To Pat he said, "You'd testify to this in court?"
"Yes." She nodded.
"Despite your husband."
&nb
sp; After a pause she again nodded.
Sharp said, "And would you let the telepaths of the police scan you?"
"Oh Christ," she said, drawing back..
"Why not?" Sharp said. "You're telling the truth, aren't you?"
"Y-yes," Pat said. "But—" She gestured. "There's so much more, so many personal matters."
Schilling said wryly, "Ironic. As a telepath she's been scanning people's private ruminations all her life. Now, when it's a question of a telepath scanning her—"
"But you don't understand!" Pat said.
"I understand," Schilling said. "You and Pete had an assignation today; you're having an affair. Correct? And your husband isn't to know and Pete's wife isn't to know. But that's the stuff life is made of; you know that perfectly well. If you allow the telepathic police to scan you, possibly you
will save Pete's life; isn't that worth being scanned for? Or perhaps you're not telling the truth, and they'd find out."
"I'm telling the truth," Pat said angrily, her eyes blazing. "But—I can't allow the police telepaths to scan me and that's that." She turned to Pete. "I'm sorry. Maybe someday you'll know why. It has nothing to do with you, or with my husband finding out. There really isn't anything to find out anyhow; we met, walked, had lunch, then you left."
Sharp said astutely, "Joe, this girl's obviously mixed up in something extra-legal. If the police scan her she's lost."
Pat said nothing. But the expression on her face showed that it was so; the attorney was right.
What could she be involved with? Pete wondered. Strange ... he would never have imagined it about her; Pat McClain seemed too withdrawn, too encapsulated.
"Maybe it's a pose," she said, picking up his thought.
Sharp said, "So we can't get you to testify for Pete, even though it's direct evidence that he did not know of Luck-man's death." He eyed her intently.
"I heard on TV," she said, "that Luckman is believed to have been killed sometime late today, near dinner time: So," she gestured, "my testimony wouldn't help anyhow."
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