On the back of the motorcycle, an invisible Oversoul Seven groaned as he monitored Will’s thoughts and tried to discover exactly how dangerous Will’s course was. He kept transmitting Will’s favorite memories into Will’s stream of thought, but Will kept blocking them out. Instead, stubbornly, he concentrated on the distant bridge. Quickly, Seven got a mental glimpse of it—there it was, about ten miles away, just as slippery as Will hoped, and it arched over a precipice, of course, with a river far below. A curve at the far end. And two houses close to the road. Seven grimaced: The trouble was that he had to allow Will his free will. And a free Will could be a dead Will.

The cycle was approaching 90. It was a light B.S.A. that Will called, euphemistically, a gentleman’s machine, and it—“Look out,” Seven shouted to Will, who had just missed hitting a car that came speeding around a blind spot in the road. But neither Will nor the other driver wanted to kill anyone else, Seven saw; each wanted to go out in a private blaze of glory. Seven threw a sigh of sympathy and understanding to the other driver’s oversoul as Will shakily eyed the bridge which now came into view.

Really desperate, Seven scanned the neighborhood and contemplated his new clue: Will didn’t want to take anybody with him if he died. Then (did Cyprus send him the inspiration just in time?) Seven remembered Will’s love of kittens. How long did it take a motorcycle to stop? What was the safety factor? In a flash, Seven hallucinated a kitten, choosing a tabby which seemed to be Will’s favorite. The kitten, with a sore paw, sat mewing in the center of the bridge.

Then it was up to Will, who saw the kitten and cursed. He’d take the damned thing out of its misery with him. To hell with it. The universe didn’t give a shit about a kitten. He squinted; the cat had something wrong with it, or it would be running away. All Will could see now was the kitten, getting bigger and bigger as he approached it. Maybe it was committing suicide. It could crawl away, couldn’t it? What was the matter with the dumb, stupid thing? Even if he swerved, he might hit it. It’d probably stay on the side of the bridge for days because nobody cared. Who’d bury a dead kitten?

Miserably the kitten tried to scramble to its feet. Sensing triumph, Seven made it the most pathetic kitten imaginable, as it mewed, stood, tottered over.