"I want you to try and tell me. Then I'll do it. But first you have to tell. Understand?"

Ralston nodded.

"Can you talk at all?"

A headshake: no.

"Then-tell me-was it Cargill?"

No.

"My wife-Anna?"

No.

"But it was someone I know?"

Yes.

"A Superior?"

No.

"Was it-?" He tried to think of another name. While he knelt there, Ralston suddenly shut his eyes. Alec shied back. Dimly, he could sense it coming. He clenched his hands and moaned with expectation. The barrier was falling. Now Ralston moaned too, a wail which grew louder and louder. Alec screamed as the anguish ripped through his mind. His hands flew up, the jagged rock clenched in between. He brought the rock down. Crash. Up-down. He couldn't stop. His own brain was on fire. Up-down. Again and again. He couldn't stop until-all at once-the pain vanished.

That meant Ralston was dead.

Alec fell across the body of his friend and lay there, panting, gasping, spent.

At last, he staggered back to his feet, breathing hard. He realized he was still holding the rock. He didn't want it.

He dropped it. Thud. The dead sound sickened him. He turned, trying to run, fell to his knees, then clawed his way back to the trail. Then he was able to stand upright again. He ran. Branches reached out and tore at his clothes. He veered off the trail a dozen times, falling, banging into trees or bushes, scraping his knees and hands, cutting his face. At last the path seemed to widen. He had reached the main trail. The lights shining down from the trees blinded him momentarily. He stumbled but caught himself before he fell. He laughed. He couldn't let himself stop now. No, sir. If he did that, he would never get started again. The house must be right ahead. He could almost see it. Full of sudden hope, he ran like a demon.

Eventually, he crashed into the front door. His fingers trembling from the effort, he let himself in. The house seemed peculiarly dark and silent. Tentatively, he called: "Eathen? Anna?"

He tiptoed down the corridor. A light was shining under Anna's door. He pressed his ear against the wood. From inside, he clearly heard voices. One was Anna and-yes- the other voice was Anna too. Her words were not clear.

He drew back. Did he want to see Anna? What could he say to her? That it had happened again-that it had been worse this time than before?

He moved down the corridor and went silently into his study. He dropped into a chair and sat there a long time, staring at the palms of his hands, studying all the blood he saw there. Whose was it? His? Or Ralston's?

After a time, he became aware that the phone was ringing. He got up slowly and padded toward the living room. The light under Anna's door was gone. He did not stop to make sure she was sleeping.

By the time he reached the phone, Eathen had appeared from someplace and answered it. Alec glanced past the android and saw Sylvia Mencken's face reflected on the viewscreen.

"Is it for me?" he asked.

Eathen nodded. He was staring at Alec.

"Then let me have it." Alec came forward. His gaze met Eathen's directly-and locked. Suddenly, Alec realized that Eathen was radiating. He struggled to discover the meaning of this emotion. Then he had it: pity.

He shoved Eathen aside and grabbed the phone.

"Hello," he said.

Thirteen.

Karlton Ford sat in a wicker chair in the center of a flat, green, clover infested meadow. His eyes were focused upon the clean blue sky. A white cloud drifted into his line of sight. In shape, the cloud perfectly resembled the figure of a mounted, charging horseman, sword raised in preparation for combat. As the cloud moved, the feet of the horse also moved, matching the motions of a galloping stallion. Ford observed the passing cloud sculpture with a fixed, analytic expression. When the cloud reached a point directly overhead, he frowned and looked down at the trampled grass beneath him.

"I don't like it, McCoy," he said.

"Yes, sir," said a tiny voice, which seemed to emanate from underground.

"I mean now," said Ford, glancing up. The horse and rider continued to drift across the surface of the sky.

"Yes, sir!"

When he glanced up again, all sign of the cloud was gone. He smiled and said: "That's better."

"Anything else, sir?" asked the voice.

"Oh, I don't know. Is the news ready?"

"Yes, sir."

Ford leaned back in the chair and scratched his chin. He sighed loudly. "All right-give me the news."

"But, sir, I thought-"

He sat up rigidly. "What was that, McCoy?"

"Your daughter, sir. I think she-"

"Don't," Ford said. He was breathing heavily. "I don't want you ever to do that. Don't think, McCoy."

"But she's awake, sir."

"Feed her."

"And after that?"

"Tell her-oh, tell her I'll be there in a minute. I want to watch the news first."

"I'll roll it, sir."

"Do that."

Ford sighed. Dull, dull, dull. That was the only handicap of being so rich that anything you wanted they ran and got it before you could ask: you got bored. Nothing was ever exciting; anticipation was a lost emotion.