At that moment, Powell’s restless radar picked up death out on the street He whirled and slammed the door. “Get off the floor. Quick.” He took three steps back toward the globe of light and vaulted onto the counter. “Up here with me. Jerry, Gus. Quick, you fools!”

A queasy shuddering seized the pawnshop and shook it into horrible vibration. Powell kicked the light globe and extinguished it.

“Jump for the ceiling light bracket and hold on. It’s a Harmonic gun. Jump!” Church gasped and leaped up into the darkness. Powell gripped Tate’s shaking arm. “Too short, Gus? Hold out your hands. I’ll toss you.” He flung Tate upward and followed himself, clawing for the steel spider arms of the bracket. The three hung in space, cushioned against the murderous vibrations enveloping the store… vibrations that created shattering harmonics in every substance in contact with the floor. Glass, steel, stone, plastic… all screeched and burst apart. They could hear the floor cracking, and the ceiling thundered. Tate groaned.

“Hang on, Gus. It’s one of Quizzard’s killers. Careless bunch. They’ve missed me before.”

Tate blacked out. Powell could sense every conscious synapse losing hold. He probed for Tate’s lower levels: “Hang on. Hang on. Hang on. HOLD. HOLD. HOLD!”

Destruction loomed up in the little peeper’s subconscious and in that instant Powell realized that no Guild conditioning could ever have prevented Tate from destroying himself. The death compulsion struck. Tate’s hands relaxed and he dropped to the floor. The vibrations ceased an instant later, but in that second Powell heard the thick, gravid choke of bursting flesh. Church heard it too and started to scream.

“Quiet, Jerry! Not yet. Hang on.”

“D-did you hear him? DID YOU HEAR HIM?”

“I heard. We’re not safe yet. Hang on!”

The pawnshop door opened a slit. A razor edge of light shot in and searched the floor. It found a broad red and gray organic puddle of flesh, blood, and bones, hovered for three seconds, then blinked out. The door closed.

“All right, Jerry. They think I’m dead again. You can have your hysterics now.”

“I can’t get down, Powell. I can’t step on…”

“I don’t blame you.” Powell held himself with one hand, took Church’s arm and swung him toward the counter. Church dropped and shuddered. Powell followed him and fought hard against nausea.

“Did you say that was one of Quizzard’s killers.”

“Sure. He owns a squad of psychgoons. Every time we round ’em up and send ’em to Kingston, Quizzard gets another batch. They follow the dope trail to his place.”

“But what have they got against you? I—”

“Clever-up, Jerry. They’re Ben’s deputies. Ben’s getting panicky.”

“Ben? Ben Reich? But it was in my shop. I might have been here.”

“You were here. What the hell difference did that make?”

“Reich wouldn’t want me killed. He—”

“Wouldn’t he?” Image of a cat smiling.

Church took a deep breath. Suddenly he exploded: “The son of a bitch! The goddam son of a bitch!”