"Rafe, it'll have nothing to do with what he wants—he won't be able to control it!"

"If he's a Prime, he will be able to control it. If he's one of us he'll be able to shake off two tablespoons of ethanol and stay on track. And if he can do that, maybe he should get tenure. But if he can't…"

"We could be ruining his life."

Rafe shook his head. "That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think? He knows the problem. He's controlled it before. Even if he's not a Prime, he can control it again. But if he does go on a bender, it will open Masterson's eyes—and the university administration's, as well—to the caliber of the man they've handpicked for tenure over you."

"It's not fair, Rafe."

Rafe's eyes grew cold, flinty.

"Fair? What's fair? You've been playing by the rules, devoting your spare time to this paper, thinking you really had a shot at the spot while all the while the choice has already been made. Can't you just hear Ev going to Masterson and whining, 'You're not really thinking of giving the position to her, are you?' And meanwhile you're going to Masterson for advice and he's thinking what a sucker you are! Don't talk to me about fair, Lisl!"

He opened the mouth of the cardboard container and pushed it toward her.

"Pour."

"Maybe I should drink it myself—about half a dozen of them would help me right now."

"No drugs, Lisl," Rafe said, leaning over her shoulder, speaking softly into her ear. "Nothing to muffle the inhibitions that people like Sanders and Masterson and your parents and all the rest have conditioned into you. You must face those inhibitions, Lisl, and you must subdue them, beat them into the mud until they are powerless to hold you back. You must be strong, you must toss away all excuses. Never blame your actions on outside influences. No excuses, no scapegoats—'It was the drugs.' 'It was the booze.' It must be you and you alone—nothing between you and what you do. And you must be proud, Lisl. No shame. Ever."

The diamond-shaped opening yawned before her. She tried to be cool, be rational about this, but the thought of Masterson encouraging her to write her paper even though he had already made his decision stoked the fiery anger that had begun to blaze within her. And Ev—Ev was in on it.

With a groan, she upended the tube over the opening.

"Yes!" Rafe said in a harsh whisper.

He took the container, closed the top, and shook up the contents. Then he replaced it in the refrigerator.

"Let's go," he said, turning to Lisl and taking the empty test tube from her fingers.

Lisl stood there unmoving, feeling numb, queasy.

What have I done?

Rafe took her arm and she allowed herself to be led from the apartment, down the stairs, and to his car. She felt as if she were moving in a dream.

"I want to go back," she said. "Let's pour that juice down the drain and forget about the whole thing."

"No, Lisl. Remember what I told you. No regrets, no looking back. We make our own rules. We answer only to ourselves."

"That's what frightens me the most."

"You'll see," Rafe said as he started the car and pulled into the traffic. "This will bring everything into focus for you. You've just passed your test of fire. You've thrown off one more set of chains. Now comes Everett Sanders's trial. Now he gets a chance to prove what he's made of." He reached over and squeezed Lisl's hand. "I'm so proud of you."

"Are you really?"

"Yes. Enormously."

Then why do I feel so ashamed?

TWENTY-THREE

Ev had been feeling strange all day. Slightly woozy, slightly off kilter. Jittery. On edge. Lethargic and yet hyped up. Oddly elated yet all the while suffused with an aura of impending doom.

Sitting at his office desk, staring at the late afternoon sun that poured through 'he window, he tried to sort out the odd conglomeration of symptoms that had plagued him since he'd left his apartment this morning. But it was difficult to sort out anything today. His powers of concentration, usually so sharp-focused, had all but deserted him.

So uncomfortable. Sweaty one moment, chilled the next. He felt as if his heart were racing yet he'd checked his pulse numerous times and found it chugging in the low nineties—high for him but certainly not extraordinary. He wondered if it could be the start of a virus—February was flu season, after all—but although he felt feverish, he'd stopped by the infirmary and his temperature had been normal.

Blood sugar. Could he be hypoglycemic? Unlikely. He'd had his usual breakfast of o-j, toast with Fleischmann's margarine, Grape-Nuts with skim milk, and coffee; his lunch had been the usual tuna-fish salad on whole wheat that he had every Thursday. So why would his blood sugar be down? Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe the accumulated caffeine from twenty cups a day for umpteen years was finally catching up to him. He couldn't think of anything else that would get to him like this.

Maybe his body was telling him it was time to cut down. Perhaps that would salve these jangled nerves.

"Ev? Are you all right?"

He swung about in his chair. It was Lisl, standing in the doorway, a worried look on her face.

All right? Why would she ask that? Was something wrong? Did he look sick?

"No. I'm fine," he said, hoping he sounded convincing. "Just fine. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know. I just wanted to know." She bit her upper lip. "I mean, you looked a little pale."

He looked pale? Lisl looked awful. Her face was drawn and haggard, with dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept a wink all night.

Ev rose and approached her.

"I'm fine, Lisl. But what about you? You look—"

She turned and hurried down the hall. Bewildered, Ev stood in his doorway and watched her go. First she was so solicitous about how he felt, then she turned and left him while he was talking to her. She seemed unnerved. The only time he could remember seeing her this upset was back in December when she had told him about that phone call—

The phone call! Had she received another one? Damm it, he'd forgotten to call that detective. What was wrong with him today? As a rule, he never forgot things like that. Well, he wouldn't waste another minute.

He pulled the telephone number from his wallet and dialed it immediately. This time the detective answered when his room was rung.

"Yeah?" said a New York-inflected voice.

"Is this Detective Augustino? This is Professor Sanders. We spoke last week about—"

"Right, right. On the steps. Did you place the guy in the photo?"

"Yes. I 'believe he's one of the groundskeepers here at the university."

"No shit! You're sure? You're really sure? What's his name?"

Ev could almost feel the excitement pouring through the wire from the other end.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" The voice became irate. "What do you mean, you don't know? What kind of a scam do you—?

"Listen, Detective. I've seen the man around here for years but

I simply do not know his name, just as I'm sure you don't know the name of the janitors who clean your barracks in Raleigh. He's changed his appearance quite a bit since that photo was taken but I'm convinced he's your man. Now if this is the sort of thanks I get—"

"You're right," the detective said through a sigh. "Sorry. Do you know where I can find him?"

"No. But I'm sure if you check with personnel tomorrow they'll be able to help you."

"Tomorrow? What's wrong with today?"

"The administrative offices are closing even as we speak. They reopen at eight in the morning." Ev found he had no further patience for this obnoxious state cop. "You're welcome," he said, and hung up.