The little man was really on guard. You could feel his mental shell hardening.

“Ben Reich? What brought him up?”

“You did, Gus. It’s been moiling in your mind all evening. I couldn’t help reading it.”

“Not me, Powell. You must be tuning another TP.”

Image of a horse laughing.

“Powell, I swear I’m not—”

“Are you mixed up with Reich, Gus?”

“No.” But you could feel the blocks bang down into place.

“Take a hint from an old hand, Gus. Reich can get you into trouble. Be careful. Remember Jerry Church? Reich ruined him. Don’t let it happen to you.”

Tate drifted back to the living room; Powell remained in the kitchen, calm and slow-moving, sweeping up broken glass. Church lay frozen against the back door, suppressing the seething hatred in his heart. The Chervil boy was showing off for the lawyer’s girl, singing a love ballad and paralleling it with a visual parody. College stuff. The wives were arguing violently in sine curves, @kins and West were interlacing cross-conversation in a fascinatingly intricate pattern of sensory images that made Church’s starvation keener.

“Would you like a drink, Jerry?”

The garden door opened. Powell stood silhouetted in the light, a bubbling glass in his hand. The stars lit his face softly. The deep hooded eyes were compassionate and understanding. Dazed, Church climbed to his feet and timidly took the proffered drink.

“Don’t report this to the Guild, Jerry. I’ll catch hell for breaking the taboo. I’m always breaking rules. Poor Jerry… We’ve got to do something for you. Ten years is too long.”

Suddenly Church hurled the drink in Powell’s face, then turned and fled.

3

AT NINE MONDAY MORNING, Tate’s mannequin face appeared on the screen of Reich’s v-phone.

“Is this line secure?” he asked sharply.

In answer Reich simply pointed to the Warranty Seal.

“All right,” Tate said. “I think I’ve done the job for you, I peeped @kins last night. But before I report, I must warn you. There’s a chance of error when you deep peep a 1^st. @kins blocked pretty carefully.”

“I understand.”

“Craye D’Courtney arrives from Mars on the ‘Astra’ next Wednesday morning. He will go at once to Maria Beaumont’s town house where he will be a secret and hidden guest for exactly one night… No more.”

“One night,” Reich muttered. “And then? His plans?”

“I don’t know. Apparently D’Courtney is planning some form of drastic action—”

“Against me!” Reich growled.

“Perhaps. According to @kins, D’Courtney is under some kind of violent strain and his adaptation pattern is shattering. The Life Instinct and Death Instinct have defused. He is regressing under the emotional bankruptcy very rapidly…”

“God damn it! My life depends on this,” Reich raged. “Talk straight.”

“It’s quite simple. Every man is a balance of two opposed drives… The Life Instinct and the Death Instinct. Both drives have the identical purpose… to win Nirvana. The Life Instinct fights for Nirvana by smashing all opposition. The Death Instinct attempts to win Nirvana by destroying itself. Usually both instincts fuse in the adapted individual. Under strain they defuse. That’s what’s happening to D’Courtney.”