“Yes,” Pat nodded.
“Undoubtedly they will all be attempting to determine what they did and did not do today in the manner that Pete employed, checking with various Rushmore units and so on. Would you be willing to assist us by scanning these five people in the next day or so to determine what they’ve learned?”
“Why?” Joe said. –
“I don’t know why,” Sharp answered. “And I won’t know until she gives us the information. But,” he hesitated, chewing his lower lip and scowling, “I’d like to find out if the paths of these six people intersected at any moment during the day. During the now-forgotten interval.”
“Give us your operational theory,” Joe said.
Sharp said, “It’s possible that all six acted in concert, as part of a complicated, far-reaching plan. They may have elaborated it some time in the past and had that removed by electroshock also.”
With a grimace Joe Schilling said, “But they, didn’t know until just the other day that Lucky Luckman was coming out here.”
“The death of Luckman may be nothing more than a symptom of a greater strategy,” Sharp said. “His presence
here may have spoiled the effective operation of this larger plan.” He eyed Pete. “What do you say to this?”
“I say you’ve got a theory much more ornate than the situation itself,” Pete said.
“Possibly,” Sharp said. “But evidently it was necessary to mentally blind six people today, when one would expect two or three to be sufficient. Two in addition to the murderer himself would have made prosecution difficult enough, I think. But I could be wrong; whoever is behind this may simply be playing it as cautious as he can.”
“The Master Game-player,” Pete said.
“Pardon?” Sharp said. “Oh yes. Bluff, the game Mrs. McClain can never play because she’s too talented. The Game that cost Joe Schilling his status and Luckman his life. Doesn’t this homicide make you a trifle less bitter, Mrs. McClain? Maybe you’re not so badly off, after all.”
“How did you know that?” Pat asked him. “About what you term my ‘bitterness.’ I’ve never seen you before tonight, have I? Or is my ‘bitterness’ that well-known?”
“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.