SARDINE

One player is selected to be It. All the lights are extinguished and the It hides anywhere in the house. After a few minutes, the players go to find the It, hunting separately. The first one who finds him does not reveal the fact but hides with him wherever he may be. Successively each player finding the Sardines joins them until all are hidden in one place and the last player, who is the loser, is left to wander alone in the dark.

“I’ll take it,” Reich said. “It’s exactly what I need.”

That evening he spent three hours carefully defacing the remains of the volume. With heat, acid, stain, and scissors, he mutilated the game instructions; and every burn, every cut, every slash was a blow at D’Courtney’s writhing body. When his proxy murders were finished, he had reduced every game to incomplete fragments. Only “Sardine” was left intact.

Reich wrapped the book, addressed it to Graham, the appraiser, and dropped it into the airslot. It went off with a puff and a bang and returned an hour later with Graham’s official sealed appraisal. Reich’s mutilations had not been detected.

He had the book gift-wrapped with the appraisal enclosed (as was the custom) and slotted it to Maria Beaumont’s house. Twenty minutes later came the reply: “Darling! Darling! Darling! I thot you’d forgotten (evidently Maria had written the note herself) little ol sexy me. How 2 divine. Come to Beaumont House tonite. We’re having a party. We’ll play games from your sweet gift.” There was a portrait of Maria centered in the star of a synthetic ruby enclosed in the message capsule. A nude portrait, naturally.

Reich answered: “Devastated. Not tonight. One of my millions is missing.”

She answered: “Wednesday, you clever boy. I’ll give you one of mine.”

He replied: “Delighted to accept. Will bring guest. I kiss all of yours.” And went to bed.

And screamed at The Man With No Face.

Wednesday morning, Reich visited Monarch’s Science-city (“Paternalism, you know.”) and spent a stimulating hour with its bright young men. He discussed their work and their glowing futures if they would only have faith in Monarch. He told the ancient dirty joke about the celibate pioneer who made the emergency landing on the hearse in deep space (and the corpse said: “I’m just one of the tourists!”) and the bright young men laughed subserviently, feeling slightly contemptuous of the boss.

This informality enabled Reich to drift into the Restricted Room and pick up one of the visual knockout capsules. They were cubes of copper, half the size of fulminating caps, but twice as deadly. When they were broken open, they erupted a dazzling blue flare that ionized the Rhodopsin — the visual purple in the retina of the eye — blinding the victim and abolishing his perception of time and space.

Wednesday afternoon, Reich went over to Melody Lane in the heart of the theatrical district and called on Psych-Songs, Inc. It was run by a clever young woman who had written some brilliant jingles for his sales division and some devastating strike-breaking songs for Propaganda back when Monarch needed everything to smash last year’s labor fracas. Her name was Duffy Wyg&. To Reich she was the epitome of the modern career girl — the virgin seductress.