Powell found Sally @kins in the cool, spacious living room of the house. The ceiling was open to the sky. It never rained on Venus. A plastic dome was enough to provide shade from the sky that blazed through the seven hundred hour-long Venus day. And when the seven hundred hour night began its deadly chill, the @kinses simply packed up and returned to their heated city-unit in Venusburg. Everyone on Venus lived in thirty-day cycles.

Sam came bouncing into the living room and engulfed a quart of ice-water. “Ten credits down the drain, black market,” he shot at Powell. “You know that? We’ve got a water black market on Venus. And what the devil are the police doing about it? Never mind, Linc. I know it’s out of your jurisdiction. What’s with D’Courtney?”

Powell presented the problem. Barbara D’Courtney’s hysterical recall of the death of her father was susceptible of two interpretations. Either Reich had killed D’Courtney, or merely been a witness to D’Courtney’s suicide. Old Man Mose would insist on that being cleared up.

“I see. The answer is yes. D’Courtney was suicidal.”

“Suicidal? How?”

“He was crumbling. His adaptation pattern was shattering. He was regressing under emotional exhaustion and on the verge of self-destruction. That’s why I rushed over to Terra to cut him off.”

“Hmmm. That’s a blow, Sam. Then he could have blown the back of his head out, eh?”

“What? Blown the back of his head out?”

“Yes. Here’s the picture. We don’t know what the weapon was, but—”

“Wait a minute. Now I can give you something definite. If D’Courtney died that way he certainly did not commit suicide.”

“Why not?”

“Because he had a poison fixation. He was set on killing himself with narcotics. You know suicides, Linc. Once they’ve fixed on a particular form of death, they never change it. D’Courtney must have been murdered.”

“Now we’re jetting places, Sam. Tell me, why was D’Courtney set on suicide by poison?”

“You supposed to be funny? If I knew, he wouldn’t have been. I’m not too happy about all this, Powell. Reich turned my case into a failure. I could have saved D’Courtney. I—”

“You made any guesses why D’Courtney’s pattern was crumbling?”

“Yes. He was trying to take drastic action to escape deep guilt sensations.”

“Guilt about what?”

“His child.”

“Barbara? How? Why?”

“I don’t know. He was fighting irrational symbols of abandonment… desertion… shame… loathing… cowardice. We were going to work on that. That’s all I know.”

“Could Reich have figured and counted on all this? That’s something Old Man Mose is going to fuss about. When we present him the case.”

“Reich might have guessed — No. Impossible. He’d need expert help to—”

“Hold it, Sam. You’ve got something hidden under that. I’d like to get it if I can…”

“Go ahead. I’m wide open.”

“Don’t try to help me. You’re just mixing everything. Easy, now… association with festivity… party… conversation at — my party. Last month. Gus Tate, an expert himself, but needing help on a similar patient of his own, he said. If Tate needed help, you reasoned, Reich certainly would need help.”