reshadowing alone could throw
him into such an anxious state?

How could he be sure that the faceless people were hostile? If they were
like Janice Wynn, and if Janice were like himself, it might follow
naturally that--

The rustle of the envelope in his pocket was like an answer, proving
that his problem, if nothing else, was real.

"... for the rest of your _very_ short life," she had said.

* * * * *

The sudden sharpening of awareness that preceded a new seizure rasped
him again. He felt the tranquillity about him, and then the arctic
montage swallowed it all, and once again he stood bodiless on the
snow-packed streets of the metal village.

The faceless people moved purposefully now, and beyond them loomed the
towering bulk of scaffolding erected about the pit where the great
bronze cylinder of a ship lay....

Pit?

Scaffolding?

Ship?

He stopped so abruptly that a man behind him stumbled and regained
balance only by clutching Alcorn's shoulder.

"Sorry," the man murmured, and moved on.

The mirage vanished; the crowd behind pushed on, parting politely about
Alcorn. The mass farther back surged restlessly, hurrying, grumbling
like an impatient corporate organism. The Jaffers agent, caught in the
press, was borne helplessly nearer.

Alcorn realized his opportunity and stood fast, waiting while the tide
of bodies flowed past. The man in gray saw his intention and struggled
frantically to break free of the pinioning crowd.

He failed.

A sort of grim satisfaction fell upon Alcorn when the man's face lost
its urgency and settled into smiling unconcern. The gift _was_ a weapon
of sorts. The way to escape--at least from Jaffers' surveillance--was
open.

He fell in beside the spy, paying less attention now to the man himself
than to the matter of disposing of him. The garish facade of a nearby
joy-bar solved his problem.

"Come with me," Alcorn ordered.

* * * * *

The joy-bar was less than half full at this early hour, but noisy enough
for midnight. A concealed battery of robotics ground out a brassy blare
of music, integrating random pitches--selected by electronic
servo-computers--into the jarring minor cacophony that had become the
latest rage.

The early patrons were intently watching the long telescreen above the
bar when Alcorn came in. A quarterstaff bout--a frantic, bloody sport
revived from God only knew how many centurie