will save Pete's life; isn't that worth being scanned for? Or perhaps you're not telling the truth, and they'd find out."
"I'm telling the truth," Pat said angrily, her eyes blazing. "But—I can't allow the police telepaths to scan me and that's that." She turned to Pete. "I'm sorry. Maybe someday you'll know why. It has nothing to do with you, or with my husband finding out. There really isn't anything to find out anyhow; we met, walked, had lunch, then you left."
Sharp said astutely, "Joe, this girl's obviously mixed up in something extra-legal. If the police scan her she's lost."
Pat said nothing. But the expression on her face showed that it was so; the attorney was right.
What could she be involved with? Pete wondered. Strange ... he would never have imagined it about her; Pat McClain seemed too withdrawn, too encapsulated.
"Maybe it's a pose," she said, picking up his thought.
Sharp said, "So we can't get you to testify for Pete, even though it's direct evidence that he did not know of Luck-man's death." He eyed her intently.
"I heard on TV," she said, "that Luckman is believed to have been killed sometime late today, near dinner time: So," she gestured, "my testimony wouldn't help anyhow."
"Did you hear that?" Sharp said. "Odd. I listened, too, on the way here from New Mexico. And according to Nats Katz, the time of Luckman's death had still to be established."
There was silence.
"It's too bad," Sharp said acidly, "that we can't read your mind, Mrs. McClain, as you can read ours. It might prove somewhat interesting."
''That clown Nats Katz," Pat said. "He's not a newscaster anyhow; he's a pop singer and disc jockey. He sometimes is six hours behind in his so-called news briefs." With steady fingers she got out a cigarette and lit up. "Go out and track down a news vendor; get a late edition of the Chronicle. It's probably in that."
Sharp said, "It doesn't matter. Because in any case you won't testify for my client"
To Pete, she said, "Forgive me."
"Hell," Pete said, "if you won't testify you won't" And
anyhow he tended to believe her about the time of death having been established as late in the day.
"What sort of extra-legal activity would a pretty woman like you be mixed up in?" Sharp asked her.
Pat said nothing.
"It could be noised about," Sharp pointed out to her. "And then the authorities would want to scan you whether you testify in this or not."
"Let it drop," Pete said to him.
Sharp glanced his way, shrugged. "Whatever you say."
"Thank you, Pete," Pat said. She sat smoking silently.
"I have a request," Sharp said, after a time, "to make of you, Mrs. McClain. As you have probably already gleaned from Mr. Garden's mind, five other members of Pretty Blue Fox have shown up with amnesia regarding the day's activities."
"Yes," Pat nodded.
"Undoubtedly they will all be attempting to determine what they did and did not do today in the manner that Pete employed, checking with various Rushmore units and so on. Would you be willing to assist us by scanning these five people in the next day or so to determine what they've learned?"
"Why?" Joe said. -
"I don't know why," Sharp answered. "And I won't know until she gives us the information. But," he hesitated, chewing his lower lip and scowling, "I'd like to find out if the paths of these six people intersected at any moment during the day. During the now-forgotten interval."
"Give us your operational theory," Joe said.
Sharp said, "It's possible that all six acted in concert, as part of a complicated, far-reaching plan. They may have elaborated it some time in the past and had that removed by electroshock also."
With a grimace Joe Schilling said, "But they, didn't know until just the other day that Lucky Luckman was coming out here."
"The death of Luckman may be nothing more than a symptom of a greater strategy," Sharp said. "His presence
here may have spoiled the effective operation of this larger plan." He eyed Pete. "What do you say to this?"
"I say you've got a theory much more ornate than the situation itself," Pete said.
"Possibly," Sharp said. "But evidently it was necessary to mentally blind six people today, when one would expect two or three to be sufficient. Two in addition to the murderer himself would have made prosecution difficult enough, I think. But I could be wrong; whoever is behind this may simply be playing it as cautious as he can."
"The Master Game-player," Pete said.
"Pardon?" Sharp said. "Oh yes. Bluff, the game Mrs. McClain can never play because she's too talented. The Game that cost Joe Schilling his status and Luckman his life. Doesn't this homicide make you a trifle less bitter, Mrs. McClain? Maybe you're not so badly off, after all."
"How did you know that?" Pat asked him. "About what you term my 'bitterness.' I've never seen you before tonight, have I? Or is my 'bitterness' that well-known?"
"It's all in the briefcase," Sharp said, patting the leather side of it. "The police got it from Pete's mind." He smiled at her. "Now let me ask you something, Mrs. McClain. As a Psi-person, do you have contact with very many other Psi-individuals?"
"Sometimes," Pat said.
"Do you know first hand the range of Psionic ability? For instance, we all know about the telepath, the pre-cog, the psycho-kinetic, but what about the rarer talents. For example, is there a subvariety of Psi which deals with the alteration of the contents of other people's psyches? A sort of mental psycho-kinesis?"
Pat said, "Not—to my knowledge, no."
"You understand my question."
"Yes." She nodded. "But to my knowledge, which is limited, no Psi talents exist which could explain the amnesia of the six members of Pretty Blue Fox nor the alteration in Bill Calumine's mind regarding what Pete did or did not say to him."
"You say your knowledge is limited." Sharp scrutinized
her as she spoke. "Then it's not impossible that such a talent —and such a Psi-person—could exist."
"Why would a Psionic individual want to kill Luckman?" Pat asked. I
"Why would anyone want to?" Sharp said. "Obviously, someone did."
"But someone in Pretty Blue Fox. They had reasons to."
Sharp said quietly, "There is nothing in the make-up of the members of Pretty Blue Fox which would account for the capacity to cripple the memories of six people and alter the memory of a seventh."
"Does such a capacity exist anywhere that you know of?" Pat asked him.
"Yes," Sharp said. "During the war both sides used techniques of that sort. It goes all the way back to mid-twentieth century Soviet brainwashing procedures."
"Horrible," Pat said with a shudder. "One of the worst periods in our history."
At the door of the restaurant an automated news vending machine appeared, with a late edition of the Chronicle. Its Rushmore Effect bleated out, "Special coverage of the Luck-man murder case." The restaurant, except for their party, was empty; the news vending machine, being homotropic, headed toward them, still bleating. "The Chronicle's own circuit investigates and discloses startling new details not found in the Examiner or the News Call-Bulletin." It waved the newspaper in their faces.
Getting out a coin, Sharp inserted it in the slot of the machine; it at once presented him with a copy of the paper and rolled back out of the restaurant, to hunt for more people.
"What does it say?" Pat asked, as Sharp read the lead article.
"You're correct," Sharp said, nodding. "Time of death believed to be late in the afternoon. Not too long before Mrs. Garden found the body in her car. So I owe you an apology."