ent about doing as singlemindedly as she
did.

* * * * *

He had a scheme that he hadn't told Doc because he knew it was crazy. At
any rate, he hoped it was. The weeks without her had been a hell of
loneliness--for him, not for her; she wasn't even aware of the awful
loss. He'd settle for that, but even better would be freeing her
somehow. The only way he could do it would be to find out who controlled
her and what they were after. Even with that information, he couldn't be
sure of succeeding, and there was a good chance that he might also be
caught, but that didn't matter.

The idea was to interest _them_ in what he knew so _they_ would want to
have him explain all he knew about racing. After that--well, he'd make
his plans when he knew the setup.

Clocker came close to the automatic time-step machine that had been his
wife. He began talking to her, very loudly, about the detailed knowledge
needed to select winners, based on stud records, past performances of
mounts and jockeys, condition of track and the influence of the
weather--always, however, leaving out the data that would make sense of
the whole complicated industry. It was like roping a patsy and holding
back the buzzer until the dough was down. He knew he risked being
cold-decked, but it was worth the gamble. His only worry was that
hoarseness would stop him before he hooked _their_ interest.

An orderly, passing in the corridor, heard his voice, opened the door
and asked with ponderous humor, "What you doing, Clocker--trying to take
out a membership card in this country club?"

Clocker leaped slightly. "Uh, working on a private theory," he said,
collected his things with a little more haste than he would have liked
to show, kissed Zelda without getting any response whatever, and left
for the day.

But he kept coming back every morning. He was about to give up when the
first feelings of unreality dazed and dazzled him. He carefully
suppressed his excitement and talked more loudly about racing. The world
seemed to be slipping away from him. He could have hung onto it if he
had wanted. He didn't. He let the voices come, vague and far away,
distorted, not quite meaningless, but not adding up to much, either.

And then, one day, he didn't notice the orderly come in to tell him that
visiting hours were over. Clocker was explaining the fundamentals of
horse racing ... meticulously, with immense patience, over and over and
ove