St. Cyr laughed. “You’re babbling, Phil. Cut it out.”

Nodding, Harvey said, “Whatever you say, Claude. If you think it’s someone here—”

“I don’t know,” St. Cyr said candidly. “But I’d guess it’s someone right on this planet, someone who knew Louis well enough to have introjected his characteristics sufficiently thoroughly to imitate them.” He was silent, then. That was as far as he could carry his logical processes… beyond that he saw nothing. It was a blank, and a frightening one at that.

There is, he thought, an element of the deranged in it. What we took to be decay—it’s more a form of madness than degeneration. Or is madness itself degeneration? He did not know; he wasn’t trained in the field of psychiatry, except regarding its legal aspects. And the legal aspects had no application, here.

“Has anyone nominated Gam yet?” he asked Harvey.

“Not yet. It’s expected to come sometime today, though. There’s a delegate from Montana who’ll do it, the rumor is.”

“Johnny Barefoot is here?”

“Yes.” Harvey nodded. “Busy as can be, lining up delegates. In and out of the different delegations, very much in evidence. No sign of Gam, of course. He won’t come in until the end of the nominating speech and then of course all hell will break loose. Cheering and parading and waving banners… the Gam supporters are all prepared.”

“Any indication of—” St. Cyr hesitated. “What we’ve assumed to be Louis? His presence?” Or its presence, he thought. Whatever it is.

“None as yet,” Harvey said.

“I think we’ll hear from it,” St. Cyr said. “Before the day is over.”

Harvey nodded; he thought so, too.

“Are you afraid of it?” St. Cyr asked.

“Sure,” Harvey said. “A thousand times more so than ever, now that we don’t even know who or what it is.”

“You’re right to take that attitude,” St. Cyr said. He felt the same way.

“Perhaps we should tell Johnny,” Harvey said.

St. Cyr said, “Let him find out on his own.”

“All right, Claude,” Harvey said. “Anything you say. After all, it was you who finally found Louis’s body; I have complete faith in you.”

In a way, St. Cyr thought, I wish I hadn’t found it. I wish I didn ‘t know what I know now; we were better off believing it was old Louis talking to us from every phone, newspaper and TV set.

That was bad—but this is far worse. Although, he thought, it seems to me that the answer is there, somewhere, just waiting.

I must try, he told himself. Try to get it. TRY!

Off by himself in a side room, Johnny Barefoot tensely watched the events of the Convention on closed-circuit TV. The distortion, the invading presence from one light-week away, had cleared for a time, and he could see and hear the delegate from Montana delivering the nominating speech for Alfonse Gam.

He felt tired. The whole process of the Convention, its speeches and parades, its tautness, grated on his nerves, ran contrary to his disposition. So damn much show, he thought. Display for what? If Gam wanted to gain the nomination he could get it, and all the rest of this was purposeless. His own thoughts were on Kathy Egmont Sharp.

He had not seen her since her departure for U.C. Hospital in San Francisco. At this point he had no idea of her condition, whether she had responded to therapy or not.

The deep intuition could not be evaded that she had not. How sick really was Kathy? Probably very sick, with or without drugs; he felt that strongly. Perhaps she would never be discharged from U.C. Hospital; he could imagine that.

On the other hand—if she wanted out, he decided, she would find a way to get out. That he intuited, too, even more strongly.

So it was up to her. She had committed herself, gone into the hospital voluntarily. And she would come out—if she ever did—the same way. No one could compel Kathy… she was simply not that sort of person. And that, he realized, could well be a symptom of the illness-process.

The door to the room opened. He glanced up from the TV screen. And saw Claude St. Cyr standing in the entrance. St. Cyr held a heat gun in his hand, pointed at Johnny. He said, “Where’s Kathy?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny said. He got slowly, warily, to his feet.

“You do. I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me.”

“Why?” he said, wondering what had brought St. Cyr to this point, this extreme behavior.

St. Cyr said, “Is it on Earth?” Still holding the gun pointed at Johnny he came toward him.

“Yes,” Johnny said, with reluctance.

“Give me the name of the city.”

“What are you going to do?” Johnny said. “This isn’t like you, Claude; you used to always work within the law.”

St. Cyr said, “I think the voice is Kathy. I know it’s not Louis, now; we have that to go on but beyond that it’s just a guess. Kathy is the only one I know deranged enough, deteriorated enough. Give me the name of the hospital.”

“The only way you could know it isn’t Louis,” Johnny said, “would be to destroy the body.”

“That’s right,” St. Cyr said, nodding.

Then you have, Johnny realized. You found the correct mortuary; you got to Herb Schoenheit van Vogehang. So that was that.

The door to the room burst open again; a group of cheering delegates, Gam supporters, marched in, blowing horns and hurling streamers, carrying huge hand-painted placards. St. Cyr turned toward them, waving his gun at them—and Johnny Barefoot sprinted past the delegates, to the door and out into the corridor.

He ran down the corridor and a moment later emerged at the great central hall in which Gam’s demonstration was in full swing. From the loudspeakers mounted at the ceiling a voice boomed over and over.

“Vote for Gam, the man what am. Gam, Gam, vote for Gam, vote for Gam, the one fine man; vote for Gam who really am. Gam, Gam, Gam, he really am—”

Kathy, he thought. It can’t be you; it just can’t. He ran on, out of the hall, squeezing past the dancing, delirious delegates, past the glazed-eyed men and women in their funny hats, their banners wiggling… he reached the street, the parked ‘copters and cars, throngs of people clustered about, trying to push inside.

If it is you, he thought, then you’re too sick ever to come back. Even if you want to, will yourself to. Had you been waiting for Louis to die, is that it? Do you hate us? Or are you afraid of us? What explains what it is you’re doing… what’s the reasonfor it?

He hailed a ‘copter marked TAXI. “To San Francisco,” he instructed the driver.

Maybe you’re not conscious that you’re doing it, he thought. Maybe it’s an autonomous process, rising out of your unconscious mind. Your mind split into two portions, one on the surface which we see, the other one—

The one we hear.

Should we feel sorry for you? he wondered. Or should we hate you, fear you? HOW MUCH HARM CAN YOU DO? I guess that’s the real issue. I love you, he thought. In some fashion, at least. I care about you, and that’s a form of love, not such as I feel toward my wife or my children, but it is a concern. Damn it, he thought, this is dreadful. Maybe St. Cyr is wrong; maybe it isn’t you.

The ‘copter swept upward into the sky, cleared the buildings and turned west, its blade spinning at peak velocity.

On the ground, standing in front of the convention hall, St. Cyr and Phil Harvey watched the ‘copter go.

“Well, so it worked,” St. Cyr said. “I got him started moving. I’d guess he’s on his way either to Los Angeles or to San Francisco.”

A second ‘copter slid up before them, hailed by Phil Harvey; the two men entered it and Harvey said, “You see the taxi that just took off? Stay behind it, just within sight. But don’t let it catch a glimpse of you if you can help it.”