Barbara. "There's no one. No one. I'm alone." And she was alone, racing down a
corridor to thrust a door open and burst into an orchid room to see---"What,
Barbara?" "A man. Two men." Who? "Go away. Please go away. I don't like voices.
There's a voice screaming. Screaming in my ears..." And she was screaming while
instincts of terror made her dodge from a dim figure that clutched at her to
keep her from her father. She turned and circled... What is your father doing,
Barbara? "He---No. You don't belong here. There's only the three of us. Father
and me and---" And the dim figure caught her. A flash of his face. No more. Look
again, Barbara. Sleek head. Wide eyes. Small chiselled nose. Small sensitive
mouth. Like a scar. Is that the man? Look at the picture. Is that the man? "Yes.
Yes. Yes." And then all was gone.
And she was kneeling again, placid, doll-like, dead.
Powell wiped perspiration from his face and took the girl back to the dais. He
was badly shaken... worse than Barbara D'Courtney. Hysteria cushioned the
emotional impact for her. He had nothing. He was reliving her terror, her
horror, her torture, naked and unprotected.
"It was Ben Reich, Mary. Did you get the picture, too?"
"Couldn't stay in long enough, Linc. Had to run for cover."
"It was Reich; all right. Only question is, how in hell did he kill her father?
What did he use? Why didn't old D'Courtney put up a fight to defend himself?
Have to try again. I hate to do this to her..."
"I hate you to do this to yourself."
"Have to." He took a deep breath and said: "Help, Barbara."
Again she whipped upright on the dais in a listening attitude. He slipped in
quickly. Gently, dear. Not so fast. There's plenty of time. "You again?"
Remember, me, Barbara? "No, No, I don't know you. Get out." But I'm part of you,
Barbara. We're running down the corridor together. See? We're opening the door
together. It's so much easier, together. We help each other. "We?" Yes, Barbara,
you and I. "But why don't you help me now?" How can I, Barbara? "Look at father!
Help me stop him. Stop him. Stop him. Help me scream. Help me! For pity's sake,
help me!"
She knelt again, placid, doll-like, dead.
Powell felt a hand under his arm and realized he was not supposed to be kneeling
too. The body before him slowly disappeared; the orchid room disappeared, and
Mary Noyes was straining to raise him.
"You first this time," she said grimly.
He shook his head and tried to help Barbara D'Courtney. He fell to the floor.
"All right, Sir Galahad. Cool a while."
Mary raised the girl and led her to the dais. Then she returned to Powell.
"Ready for help now, or don't you think it's manly?"
"The word is virile. Don't waste your time trying to help me up. I need brain
power. We're in trouble."
"What'd you peep?"
"D'Courtney wanted to be murdered."
"No!"
"Yep. He wanted to die. For all I know he may have committed suicide in front of
Reich. Barbara's recall is confused. That point's got to be cleared up. I'll
have to see D'Courtney's physician."
"That's Sam @kins. He and Sally went back to Venus last week."
"Then I'll have to make the trip. Do I have time to catch the ten o'clock
rocket? Call Idlewild."
Sam @kins, E.M.D. 1, received Cr. 1,000 per hour of analysis. The public knew
that Sam earned two million credits per year, but it did not know that Sam was
efficiently killing himself with charity work. @kins was one of the burning
lights of the Guild long-range education plan, and leader of the Environment
Clique which believed that telepathic ability was not a congenital
characteristic, but rather a latent quality of every living organism which could
be developed by suitable training.
As a result, Sam's desert house in the brilliant arid Mesa outside Venusburg was
overrun by charity cases. He invited everyone in the low income brackets to trek
their problems out to him, and while he was solving them, he was carefully
attempting to foster telepathy in his patients. Sam's reasoning was quite
simple. If, say, peeping were a question of developing unused muscles, it might
well be that the majority of people had been too lazy or lacked opportunity to
do so. But when a man is caught up in the press of a crisis, he can not afford
to be lazy; and Sam was there to offer opportunity and training. So far, his
results had been the discovery of 2% Latent Espers, which was under the average
of the Guild Institute interviews. Sam remained undiscouraged.
Powell found him charging through the rock garden of his desert home vigorously
destroying desert flowers under the impression that he was cultivating, and
conducting simultaneous conversations with a score of depressed people who
followed him about like puppies. The perpetual clouds of Venus radiated dazzling
light. Sam's bald head was burned pink. He was snorting and shouting at plants
and patients alike.
"Damn it! Don't you tell me that's a Glow-wart. It's a weed. Don't I know a weed
when I see it? Hand me the rake, Bernard."
A small man in black handed him the rake and said: "My name is Walter, Dr.
@kins."
"And that's your whole trouble," @kins grunted, tearing out a clump of rubbery
red. It changed colors in prismatic hysteria and emitted a plaintive wail which
proved it was neither weed nor Glow-wart but the disconcerting Pussy-Willow of
Venus.
@kins eyed it with disfavor, watching the collapsing air-bladders cry. Then he
glared at the small man. "Semantic escape, Bernard. You live in terms of the
label, not the object. It's your escape from reality. What are you running away
from, Bernard?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me, Dr. @kins," Walter replied.
Powell stood quietly, enjoying the spectacle. It was like an illustration from a
primitive Bible. Sam, an ill-tempered Messiah, glowering at his humble
disciples. Around them the glittering silica stones of the rock-garden, crawling
with the dry motley-colored Venus plants. Overhead, the blinding nacre glow; and
in the background, as far as the eye could reach, the red, purple, and violet
Bad-Lands of the planet.
@kins snorted at Walter/Bernard: "You remind me of the redhead. Where is that
make-believe courtesan anyway?"
A pretty red-headed girl jostled through the crowd and smirked: "Here I am, Dr.
@kins."
"Well, don't preen yourself, because I labelled you." @kins frowned at her and
continued on the TP level: "You're delighted with yourself because you're a
woman, aren't you? It's your substitute for living. It's your phantasy. ` I'm a
woman,' you tell yourself. `Therefore, men desire me. It's enough to know that
thousands of men could have me if I'd let them. That makes me real.' Nonsense!
You can't escape that way. Sex isn't make-believe. Life isn't make-believe.
Virginity isn't an apotheosis."
@kins waited impatiently for a response, but the girl merely smirked and
postured before him. Finally he burst out: "Didn't any of you hear what I told
her?"
"I did, teacher."
"Lincoln Powell! No! What are you doing here? Where'd you sneak up from?"
"From Terra, Sam. Came for a consultation and can't stay long. Got to jet back
on the next rocket."
"Couldn't you phone Interplanetary?"
"It's complicated, Sam. Has to be done peeper-wise. It's the D'Courtney case."
"Oh. Ah. Hm. Right. Be with you in a minute. Go get something to drink," @kins
let out a warning blast. "SALLY. COMPANY."
One of @kins' flock unaccountably flinched and Sam turned on the man excitedly.
"You heard that, didn't you?"
"No sir. I didn't hear anything."
"Yes you did. You picked up a TP broadcast."
"No, Dr. @kins."
"Then why did you jump?"
"A bug bit me."
"It did not," @kins roared. "There are no bugs in my garden. You heard me yell
to my wife." And then he began a frightful racket. "YOU CAN ALL HEAR ME. DON'T
SAY YOU CAN'T. DON'T YOU WANT TO BE HELPED? ANSWER ME. GO AHEAD. ANSWER ME!"
Powell found Sally @kins in the cool, spacious living room of the house. The
ceiling was open to the sky. It never rained on Venus. A plastic dome was enough
to provide shade from the sky that blazed through the seven hundred hour-long
Venus day. And when the seven hundred hour night began its deadly chill, the
@kinses simply packed up and returned to their heated city-unit in Venusburg.
Everyone on Venus lived in thirty-day cycles.
Sam came bouncing into the living room and engulfed a quart of ice-water. "Ten
credits down the drain, black market," he shot at Powell. "You know that? We've
got a water black market on Venus. And what the devil are the police doing about
it? Never mind, Linc. I know it's out of your jurisdiction. What's with
D'Courtney?"
Powell presented the problem. Barbara D'Courtney's hysterical recall of the
death of her father was susceptible of two interpretations. Either Reich had
killed D'Courtney, or merely been a witness to D'Courtney's suicide. Old Man
Mose would insist on that being cleared up.
"I see. The answer is yes. D'Courtney was suicidal."
"Suicidal? How?"
"He was crumbling. His adaptation pattern was shattering. He was regressing
under emotional exhaustion and on the verge of self-destruction. That's why I
rushed over to Terra to cut him off."
"Hmmm. That's a blow, Sam. Then he could have blown the back of his head out,
eh?"
"What? Blown the back of his head out?"
"Yes. Here's the picture. We don't know what the weapon was, but---"
"Wait a minute. Now I can give you something definite. If D'Courtney died that
way he certainly did not commit suicide."
"Why not?"
"Because he had a poison fixation. He was set on killing himself with narcotics.
You know suicides, Linc. Once they've fixed on a particular form of death, they
never change it. D'Courtney must have been murdered."
"Now we're jetting places, Sam. Tell me, why was D'Courtney set on suicide by
poison?"
"You supposed to be funny? If I knew, he wouldn't have been. I'm not too happy
about all this, Powell. Reich turned my case into a failure. I could have saved
D'Courtney. I---"
"You made any guesses why D'Courtney's pattern was crumbling?"
"Yes. He was trying to take drastic action to escape deep guilt sensations."
"Guilt about what?"
"His child."
"Barbara? How? Why?"
"I don't know. He was fighting irrational symbols of abandonment... desertion...
shame... loathing... cowardice. We were going to work on that. That's all I
know."
"Could Reich have figured and counted on all this? That's something Old Man Mose
is going to fuss about. When we present him the case."
"Reich might have guessed---No. Impossible. He'd need expert help to---"
"Hold it, Sam. You've got something hidden under that. I'd like to get it if I
can..."
"Go ahead. I'm wide open."
"Don't try to help me. You're just mixing everything. Easy, now... association
with festivity... • party... conversation at---my party. Last month. Gus Tate,
an expert himself, but needing help on a similar patient of his own, he said. If
Tate needed help, you reasoned, Reich certainly would need help." Powell was so
upset he spoke aloud. "Well how about that peeper!"
"How about what?"
"Gus Tate was at the Beaumont party the night D'Courtney was killed. He came
with Reich, but I kept hoping---"
"Linc, I don't believe it!"
"Neither did I, but there it is. Little Gus Tate was Reich's expert. Little Gus
laid it out for him. He pumped you and turned his information over to a killer.
Good old Gus. What price the Esper Pledge now?"
"What price Demolition!" @kins answered fiercely.
From somewhere inside the house came an announcement from Sally @kins: "Linc.
Phone."
"Hell! Mary's the only one who knows I'm here. Hope nothing's happened to the
D'Courtney girl."
Powell loped down a hall toward the v-phone alcove. In the distance he saw
Beck's face on the screen. His lieutenant saw him at the same moment and waved
excitedly. He began talking before Powell was within earshot.
"... gave me your number. Lucky I caught you, boss. We've got twenty-six hours."
"Wait a minute. Take it from the top, Jax."
"Your Rhodopsin man, Dr. Wilson Jordan, is back from Callisto. Now a man of
property by courtesy of Ben Reich. I came back with him. He's on earth for
twenty-six hours to settle his affairs, and then he rockets back to Callisto to
live on his brand new estate forever. If you want anything from him, you'd
better come quick."
"Will Jordan talk?"
"Would I call you Interplanetary if he would? No, boss. He's got money-measles.
Also he's grateful to Reich who (I am now quoting) generously stepped out of the
legal picture in favor of Dr. Jordan and justice. If you want anything, you'd
better come back to Terra and get it yourself."
"And this," Powell said, "is our Guild Laboratory, Dr. Jordan."
Jordan was impressed. The entire top floor of the Guild building was devoted to
laboratory research. It was a circular floor, almost a thousand feet in