"No," Pete said. "Having to do with Luckman and death. It's not quite the same thing."
The lawyer eyed him keenly. "Very true, Garden." He returned to the document.
"Counselor," Schilling said, "they have no real case against Pete. Outside of that phony memory that Calumine has—"
"They've got nothing." Sharp nodded. "Except the amnesia, and you share that with five other group-members. But the problem is that they'll be digging around trying to get more dope on you, beginning from the assumption that you are guilty. And by starting with that as a premise, god knows what they may be able to find. You say your auto-auto said, you dropped by Berkeley sometime today... where Luckman was staying. You don't know why or even if you managed to reach him. God, you may have done it all right, Garden. But we'll presume you didn't, for the purposes of our case. Is there anyone that you personally suspect, and if so, why?"
"No one," Pete said.
"Incidentally," Sharp said, "I happen to know something about Mr. Calumine's attorney, Bert Barth. He's an excellent man. If you deposed Calumine on Barth's account you were in error; Barth is inclined to be cautious, but once he gets started you can't pull him loose."
Pete and Joe Schilling glanced at each other.
"Anyhow," Sharp said, "the die is cast. I think your best bet, Mr. Garden, is to look up your Psionic woman friend Pat McClain and find out what you and she did today and what she read in your mind while you were with her."
"Okay," Pete said. He agreed.
"Shall we go there now?" Sharp said, putting his document away in his briefcase and rising to his feet. "It's only ten o'clock; we may be able to catch her before she goes to bed."
Also standing up, Pete said, "There's a problem. She has a husband. Whom I've never met. If you understand me."
Sharp nodded. "I see." He meditated. "Maybe she'd be willing to fly here to San Francisco; I'll give her a call. If not, is there any other place you can think of?"
"Not your apartment," Joe Schilling said. "Carol's there." He regarded Pete somberly. "I have a place now. You don't remember, but you found it for me, in your present bind, San Anselmo. It's about two miles from your own apartment. If you want, I'll call Pat McClain; she no doubt remembers me. Both she and Al, her husband, have bought Jussi Bjoerling records from me. I'll tell her to meet us at my apartment."
"Fine," Pete said.
Joe Schilling went to the vidphone in the back of the restaurant to call.
"He's a nice guy," Sharp said to Pete as they waited.
"Yes," Pete agreed.
"Do you think he killed Luckman?"
Startled, Pete jerked his head, stared at his lawyer.
"Don't become unglued," Sharp said smoothly. "I was just curious. You are my client, Garden; as far as I'm professionally concerned, everyone else is a suspect over and above you, even Joe Schilling whom I've known for eighty-five years."
"You're a jerry?" Pete said, surprised. With such energy, Pete had assumed Sharp to be no more than forty or fifty.
"Yes," Sharp said, I'm a geriatric, like yourself. One hundred and fifteen years old." He sat broodingly twisting a match folder up into a ball. "Schilling could have done it; he's hated Luckman for years. You know the story of how Luckman reduced him to penury."
"Then why did he wait until now?"
Glancing at him, Sharp said, "Schilling came out here to play Luckman again. Right? He was positive he could beat Luckman if they ever tangled again; he's been telling him-
self that all this time, ever since Lucky beat him. Maybe Joe got out here, all prepared to play for your group against Luckman, then lost his nerve... discovered at the last moment that when it came right down to it, he couldn't beat Luckman after all—or at least feared he couldn't."
"I see," Pete said.
"So he was in an untenable position, committed to playing and beating Luckman, not merely for himself but for his friends... and he knew he simply could not do it. What other way out than to—" Sharp broke off; Joe Schilling was crossing the near-empty restaurant, returning to the table. "It's a compelling theory, anyhow," Sharp said, and turned to greet Joe Schilling.
"What's an interesting theory?" Joe said, seating himself.
Sharp said, "The theory that a single enormously powerful agency is at work manipulating the minds of the members of Pretty Blue Fox, turning them into a corporate instrument of its will."
"You put it a little grandiosely," Joe said, "but in the main I feel that must be the case. As I said to Pete."
"What did Pat McClain say?" Pete asked.
"She'll meet us here," Joe said. "So let's have a second cup of coffee; it'll take her another fifteen minutes. She had gone to bed."
A half hour later Pat McClain, wearing a light trench coat, low-heeled slippers and slacks, entered the restaurant and walked toward their table. "Hello, Pete," she said to him; she looked pale, and her eyes were unnaturally dilated. "Mr. Schilling." She nodded to Joe. "And—" She studied Laird Sharp as she seated herself. "I'm a telepath, you know, Mr. Sharp. Yes, I read that you know; you're Pete's lawyer."
Pete thought, I wonder how—if at all—Pat's telepathic talent could assist me, at this point. I had no doubts about Sharp, and I don't in any way, shape, or form accept his theory about Joe Schilling.
Glancing at him, Pat said, "I'll do all I can to help you, Pete." Her voice was low but steady; she had herself under control; the panic of a few hours ago was gone. "You don't
remember anything that happened between us, this afternoon."
"No," he admitted.
"Well," Pat said, "you and I got on astonishingly well, for two people who are married to someone else entirely."
Sharp asked her, "Was there anything in Pete's mind, when he met you this afternoon, about Lucky Luckman?"
"Yes," she said. "A tremendous desire for Luckman's death."
"Then he didn't know Luckman was dead," Joe said.
"Is that correct?" Sharp asked her.
Pat nodded. "He was terribly afraid. He felt that—" She hesitated. "He felt that Luckman would beat Joe again, as he did years ago; Pete was going into a psychological fugue, a retreat from the whole situation regarding Luckman."
"No plans to kill Luckman, I assume," Sharp said.
"No," Pat said.
"If it can be established that Luckman was dead by one-thirty," Joe Schilling said, "wouldn't that clear Pete?"
"Probably," Sharp said. To Pat he said, "You'd testify to this in court?"
"Yes." She nodded.
"Despite your husband."
After a pause she again nodded.
Sharp said, "And would you let the telepaths of the police scan you?"
"Oh Christ," she said, drawing back..
"Why not?" Sharp said. "You're telling the truth, aren't you?"
"Y-yes," Pat said. "But—" She gestured. "There's so much more, so many personal matters."
Schilling said wryly, "Ironic. As a telepath she's been scanning people's private ruminations all her life. Now, when it's a question of a telepath scanning her—"
"But you don't understand!" Pat said.
"I understand," Schilling said. "You and Pete had an assignation today; you're having an affair. Correct? And your husband isn't to know and Pete's wife isn't to know. But that's the stuff life is made of; you know that perfectly well. If you allow the telepathic police to scan you, possibly you