“Claude was with her?”

“They started down the slope together. They were in the air together over the ravine. Then — suddenly — she was no longer with him. It was a terrible experience.”

“It must have been,” said Risa. “I can see that you’re moved by it, and you weren’t even there.”

“My persona was there, though,” St. John pointed out. Risa nodded. It seemed odd to her that the memories of Tandy’s death should lie so near the surface of St. John’s mind. He did not give the appearance of reaching into a persona’s crowded memory bank for the details, but rather of reading them right off his own backlog of experience.

She said, “What happened after the accident?”

“Claude saw that she had fallen. He turned upslope to find her. But she was gone from sight. It took a great deal of work to uncover her body. Claude was demoralized. He went off to Australia to forget what had happened. And there, as you perhaps know, he met discorporation last December.”

“Can you tell me anything about Tandy’s last few weeks with Claude?” St. John shrugged. His eyes never wavered from Risa’s, making her feel acutely uncomfortable. “They met in Zurich at the end of July After ii week there, they went on to St. Moritz, for the summer skiing. They were both in high spirits. Occasionally they quarreled a bit, nothing serious, lovers’ tiffs.”

“They were in love?”

“Oh, yes. The second week in August Claude asked her to marry him.”

—That’s a lie, came Tandy’s furious denial. Claude would never have married anyone!

“Did she accept him?” Risa asked. “She hesitated. She told him she would have to wait until later in the year to make up her mind. But of course there never was any later in the year for her.”

“I wonder if they would have been happy together.”

“I’m sure of it,” said St. John. His nostrils widened with some inner tension. “Investigate her earlier memories of him. You’ll see how powerfully she was drawn to him.”

That was true in its way, Risa knew. Certainly Tandy’s feelings toward Claude had been far more powerful than what she felt for the detached, cool Stig Hollenbeck. But she had feared Claude as well as loving him.

“What about you?” Risa said. “Did you know Claude at all when he was alive?”

“We never met. It simply seemed to me his persona would be of interest to me. I needed someone more vigorous than myself, someone with athletic interests. It is always best to choose one’s complement, of course.”

“He seems to have had quite an effect on you.”

“What do you mean?” Risa hesitated. “Well — that is, when I began to trace you, I received a photo of you. With — I don’t mean offense — a very different appearance. You looked softer, more plump.”

“Do you have this photo? May I see it?” She produced it. He studied it intently, his forehead furrowing, his lips curling in a feral scowl. At length he said, “It was taken about a year ago. I’ve lost a good deal of weight. I’ve been taking more exercise. Claude’s helped me shed all that jelly.” St. John glanced up and smiled for the first time. “I feel I’m the better man for having him aboard. Another rum punch?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Must you be going?”

“I have-family to visit,” Risa said lamely. “They can wait. Let me show you London. We’ll do the town tonight. After all, as you said, we have a great deal in common. Even though we’re strangers, a bond of love unites us vicariously. We owe it to Claude and Tandy to come together.”

Wavering, Risa felt herself captured. For all his ominous coldness and enigmatic intensity, this man had an undeniable appeal. She was always willing to have an adventure. And with Tandy’s lover lurking behind those pale blue eyes—

St. John excused himself to pay the bill. — Now’s your chance. Get out of here, said Tandy. “Why?” — He’s dangerous. You don’t want to fool with a dybbuk. Find a quaestor and have him mindpicked!

“We’ve got no proof.” — Don’t you think I know Claude? His way of speaking, his movements, his facial expressions? He can fool the whole world, but he can’t fool me. He’s done a countererasure on his host and taken over. First he murdered me, then he murdered Martin St. John. And if you give him a chance tonight, you’ll be taking a new carnate trip too. Get out of here!

St. John was returning from the billing plate now. Abruptly, Risa scrambled to her feet.

She rushed from the coffee shop. St. John came after her, calling her name. But he did not pursue her beyond the front of the building. A thin, acrid smell was in her nostrils: fear. Risa rushed to the corner, shouldering past pedestrians uncaringly. Time seemed to accelerate oddly for her, so that she was unaware of individual moments. In a blur of panic she came to a message box on the corner and opened the speaker hood.

“Quaestor!” she blurted. “I want to report a dybbuk!” It took only an instant for the robots of the quaestorate to get a fix on the street. Two personnel hopters appeared, and gleaming figures dropped from them. Risa pointed tack toward the coffee shop. “Martin St. John,” she said. “There he goes!”

The robots surrounded him. Risa saw the man struggling in vain.

—They’ve got him, Tandy cried. Come on! We’ll have to testify. “I’d better call my father first. I’m in this too deep.” — All right. Get him to ship a lawyer over. We’ll post the challenge and demand a mindpick with me as the — injured party. And I want an autopsy report on my body, too. I’m beginning to figure this business out, Risa.

“What if we’re wrong? What if it’s all a mistake?” — Then he’ll sue you for false arrest and it’ll cost your father some money. It’s worth the risk. Do you want dybbuks walking around free?

“Of course not,” Risa said softly. She began to walk like a figure in a dream toward the middle of the block. “Of course not. I’ll call my father. He’ll know what to do.”

Chapter 11

“Send in Donahy,” Mark Kaufmann said. The door of his inner office flickered open, and the Scheffingprocess technician stumbled in. He looked awed to the point of collapse. His huge bushy eyebrows were thrust up to the top of his wide pale forehead, and his hands plucked tensely at the fringes of his tunic. Within the confines of the Scheffing Institute building, men like Donahy taped the personae of the rich and mighty with little deference, blandly relying on their array of intricate equipment to give them the upper hand. But here, on the home ground of so potent a person as Mark Kaufmann, Donahy was devoid of confidence, a cipher, a twitching pleb smitten with terror, wholly unable to imagine why he had been singled out and summoned here.

Kaufmann said, “We’re all alone in here, Donahy. There’s no one with us, no one watching us, no mini-viewers, no monitor of any kind. Whatever’s said in here remains absolutely private, between the two of us. Sit down.”

Donahy remained standing. He shifted his weight from leg to leg.

“You don’t trust me?” Kaufmann asked. He opened a panel on his desk and unclipped a microspool monad. “Do you see this? It’s a spy detector. It’s programed to set off an alarm if any outside entity taps into this room. So long as it quietly glows green like this, we can say what we please, we can plot to blow up the universe, and no one will know. So relax. Sit down and have a drink. I don’t bite.”

“I can’t understand why you’ve asked me to come here.”

“Because I want you to do something for me, obviously,” Kaufmann said. He extended the tray of drinks as Donahy nervously lowered himself into the chair at last. Silently they went through the ritual of the drink. By every motion Donahy showed his fear and uncertainty. He’ll be tugging at his forelock next, Kaufmann thought.

On Kaufmann’s desk sat a small portrait of Uncle Paul, one of the many in his possession. He thrust it forward and let Donahy contemplate the patrician features, the sly, veiled eyes, the magnificent chin.