“And,” she asked flatly, “what have you got to gain?” “Stop stalling. Call Schocken.” “Not without one more try, Mitch. One word hurt specially- ‘fanatic.’ There were two reasons why I begged Runstead to shanghai you. I wanted you out of the way of Taunton’s killers. And I wanted you to get a taste of the consumer’s life. I thought-I don’t know. I thought you’d see how fouled-up things have become. It’s hard to see when you’re star class. From the bottom it’s easier to see. I thought I’d be able to talk sense to you after we brought you back to life, and we’d be able to work together on the only job worth doing. So it didn’t work. That damned brain of yours-so good and so warped. All you want is to be star class again and eat and drink and sleep a little better than anybody else. It’s too bad you’re not a fanatic too. Same old Mitch. Well, I tried. “Go ahead and do whatever you think you have to do. Don’t fret about it hurting me. It’s not going to hurt worse than the nights we used to spend screaming at each other. Or the times I was out on Consie business and couldn’t tell you and had to watch you being jealous. Or shipping you to Chlorella to try and make you a whole sane man in spite of what copysmithing’s done to you. Or never being able to love you all the way, never being able to give myself to you entirely, mind or body, because there was this secret. I’ve been hurt. Pistol-whipping’s a joke compared to the way I’ve been hurt.” There was a pause that seemed to go on forever. “Call Schocken,” I said unsteadily. “Tell him to come here. Then get out and take the stargazer with you. I-I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. But I’m going to give you and your friends a couple of days’ grace. Time to change headquarters and hailing signs and the rest of your insane rigmarole. Call Schocken and get out of here. I don’t ever want to see you again.” I couldn’t read the look on her face as she picked up the phone and punched a number. “Mr. Schocken’s sec8, please,” she said. “This is Dr. Nevin- widow of Mr. Courtenay. You’ll find me on the through list, I believe . . . thank you. Mr. Schocken’s sec2, please. This is Dr. Nevin, Mr. Courtenay’s widow. May I speak to Mr. Schocken’s secretary? I’m listed . . . thank you . . . Hello, Miss Grice; this is Dr. Nevin. May I speak to Mr. Schocken? . . . Certainly . . . thank you . . .” She turned to me and said: “I’ll have to wait a few moments.” They passed in silence, and then she said: “Hello, Mr. Schocken . . .
Well, thank you. I wonder if you could come and see me about a matter of importance . . . business and personal . . . the sooner the better, I’m afraid . . . Shopping One, off Receiving-Dr. As-tron’s . . . no, nothing like that. It’s just a convenient meeting place. Thank you very much, Mr. Schocken.” I wrenched the phone from her and heard Fowler Schocken’s voice say: “Quite all right, my dear. The mystery is intriguing. Good-by.” Click. She was quite clever enough to have faked a onesided conversation, but had not. The voice was unmistakable. The memories it brought back of Board mornings with their brilliance of dialectic interplay, hard and satisfying hours of work climaxed with a “Well done!” and shrewd guidance through the intricacies of the calling overwhelmed me with nostalgia. I was almost home. Silently and efficiently Kathy was shouldering the stargazer’s limp body. Without a word she walked from the observatory. A door opened and closed. The hell with her. . . . It was minutes before there was a jovial halloo in the voice of Fowler Schocken: “Kathy! Anybody home?” “In here,” I called. Two of our Brink’s men and Fowler Schocken came in. His face went mottled purple. “Where’s-” he began. And then: “You look like-you are! Mitch!” He grabbed me and waltzed me hilariously around the circular room while the guards dropped their jaws. “What kind of a trick was that to play on an old man? What’s the story, boy? Where’s Kathy?” He stopped, puffing even under moon-weight. “I’ve been doing some undercover work,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ve got myself into some trouble. Would you call for more guards? We may have to stand off Luna City Inc.’s Burns men.” Our Brink’s men, who took an artisan’s pride in their work, grinned happily at the thought. “Sure, Mitch. Get it done,” he said sidewise to the sergeant, who went happily to the phone. “Now what’s all this about?” “For the present,” I said, “let’s say it’s been a field trip that went sour. Let’s say I downgraded myself temporarily and voluntarily to assess Venus Section sentiment among the consumers-and I got stuck. Fowler, please let me beg off any more details. I’m in a bad way. Hungry, tired, scared, dirty.” “All right, Mitch. You know my policy. Find a good horse, give