Back again in the underground offices of C.I.B., Agent Richard Pell plunged into his job. Up to his neck. It was the only way he could keep from brooding about Ciel. She was somewhere in the city at this very moment and if he really wanted to take the trouble he'd be able to find her easily enough—but he didn't want it to happen that way. She'd never really be his again unless she came to him....

And so once more he found himself in the office late at night. Alone. Poring over the lab reports that had come in that afternoon, turning them over in his mind and hoping, he supposed, for a nice intuitive flash, free of charge.

As a matter of fact the analysis of the vaccine he'd lifted from Wilcox's dispensary was not without significance. There was definitely an extraneous substance. The only question was just what this substance might be. Take a little longer to find that out, the report said.

It made Pell think of the corny sign World Government officials always had on their desks, the one about doing the difficult right away and taking a little longer for the impossible. Some day, when he was a big-shot, he would have a sign on his desk saying: Why make things difficult when with even less effort you can make them impossible? Of course, ideas like that were probably the very reason he'd never be a big-shot....

The Identifier humming. Someone coming again.

He looked up, and then had the curious feeling of being jerked back in time to several nights ago. Chief Larkin and Theodor Rysland entered.

"Hello, Dick," said Larkin, with a touch of studied democracy. He glanced at the government adviser as if to say: See? Knew we'd find him here.

Pell made a sour face. "Some day I'm going to stop giving all this free overtime. Some day I'm not going to show up at all."

Rysland smiled, dislodging some of the rock strata of his curiously pale face. He seemed a little weary this evening. He moved slowly and with even more than his usual dignity. He said, "I hope, Mr. Pell, that you'll wait at least until you finish this job for us. I understand you've made some progress."

Pell shrugged and gestured at the lab report. "Progress, maybe—but I don't know how far. Just a bunch of new puzzles to be perfectly frank."

Rysland sat down at the other desk and drummed on it with his fingertips. He looked at Pell gravely. "As a matter of fact, since we last talked to you the situation has become even more urgent. A Supremist congressman introduced a bill today before the world delegates which may prove very dangerous. Perhaps you know the one I refer to."

"I was too busy to follow the news today," said Pell, looking meaningfully at Larkin.

Larkin didn't seem to notice.

Rysland said, "I'll brief you then. The bill purports to prohibit material aid of any kind to a non-Terran government. That means both credit and goods. And since the only real non-Terran government we know is Venus, it's obviously directed specifically at the Venusians."

Pell thought it over. High level stuff again. He nodded to show he followed.

"On the surface," continued Rysland, "this would seem to be a sort of anti-espionage bill. Actually, it's a deliberately provocative act. I know the Venusians will take it that way. But right now certain quarters are secretly trying to negotiate a trade treaty with Venus which would be a major step toward peaceful relations. If this bill became law, such a treaty would be impossible."

"But World Congress isn't likely to pass such a bill, is it? Won't they see through it?"

Rysland frowned. "That's what we're not sure of. Messages are pouring in urging passage—all of them from Supremists, of course. The Supremists are relatively few, but they make a lot of noise. Sometimes noise like that is effective. It could swing a lot of delegates who don't see the real danger of this bill and are at the moment undecided. The Defender side, with its desire to isolate and fortify, is especially susceptible."

"That is bad," said Pell thoughtfully.

Rysland put his palm on the desk. "Now then, if we can somehow discredit the Supremists—get to the bottom of this thing quickly enough—I'm sure that bill will be killed. I came here tonight, I suppose, out of pure anxiety. In other words, Mr. Pell, just how far are you?"

Pell smiled and shook his head. "Not very, I'm afraid. This Supremist thing is the damndest I ever came across. No central headquarters, no officers, no propaganda mill—entirely word of mouth as far as I can see. No way of finding out how it started, or even how the new members are proselyted. Ask any member how he became a Supremist. He just looks kind of dreamy and mutters something about the truth suddenly dawning upon him one day."

"But don't you have any theories?"

"I've got a hunch," Pell said, picking up the lab report.

Chief Larkin snorted softly. The snort said clearly enough that an efficient investigator didn't depend on hunches these days: he went after something doggedly on the computer, or by other approved techniques.

Pell pretended not to hear the snort. "First of all we discovered that nearly all Supremists received some kind of an inoculation before they became Supremists. Then we found a whole village, one of those moon resort towns, that had gone over. There was the record of inoculation there, too. I got hold of some of the vaccine and had the lab analyze it. It's mostly vaccine all right, but there is a foreign substance in it. Listen." He read from the report: "Isolated point oh six four seven grams unclassified crystal compound, apparently form of nucleotide enzyme. Further analysis necessary."

"You think this enzyme, or whatever it is, has something to do with it?"

"I don't know. All I have is a pretty wild theory. To begin, when our lab can't analyze something right away, it's pretty rare—possibly even unknown to chemistry in general. Now it's just possible that this substance does something to the brain that makes a man into a Supremist, and that somebody's behind the whole thing, deliberately planting the stuff so that people here and there become injected with it."

"Pell." Larkin made a pained face. "Really."

Pell shrugged. "Well, as I say, it's a hunch, that's all."

"It's a pipe dream," said Larkin. "I never heard of anything so fantastic."

"That's what folks said a couple of centuries ago when the Venusians were first trying to make contact and their ships were sighted all over the place. 'I never heard of anything so fantastic,' they all said."

Theodor Rysland still looked interested. "Granted there is some connection between the Supremist mental state and this, er, enzyme. What then, Mr. Pell?"

"Well," said Pell, stretching his legs out, "I had an idea maybe your friend Dr. Nebel could give us some help on that."

"Nebel?"

"He's interested in this thing, isn't he?"

"Definitely. Nebel's a very public spirited man."

"Well, I understand he's one of the top psychobiologists in the country today. Seems to me this new enzyme, whatever it is, would be right up his alley. Of course the lab should get to it eventually, but he might do it a lot quicker."

Larkin had been examining some statistical crime charts on the wall. He turned from them. "Pell, does Kronski know about all these wild hunches of yours?"

"I haven't talked with him about them yet. He left today before the lab report came in. Why?"

"I was just wondering," said Larkin evenly, "whether I had two maniacs in my organization or only one."

Rysland, frowning, turned to the chief. "I wouldn't be hasty, Larkin," he said. "Crazy as it sounds Pell may have something here."

Larkin snorted again, and this time along with it he shook his head sadly.

"What's your next move then?" Rysland asked Pell.

"Tomorrow morning, first thing," Pell said, "I'll take a sample of this stuff to Dr. Nebel and see what he can do with it. Of course the lab can keep on working on it in the meantime."

"Don't you think you might do better to get busy on those computers?" Larkin asked.

Pell shook his head. "This hunch is too strong, Chief."

Rysland smiled, and got up. "I'm inclined to put a little stock into this man's hunches. He's done pretty well with them so far. I'd even say he's pretty close to a solution of this thing—possibly."

Larkin shrugged and started to look at the crime charts again.

Rysland held out his hand. "Good night, Mr. Pell. You've encouraged me. Larkin and I are going topside for a little night cap before we turn in. Like to join us?"

"No, thanks," said Pell. "I'm sleepy. I want to get home and hit that sack."

"Very well. Good night again." The two men went toward the door.

Pell watched them quietly. He had lied. He wasn't sleepy at all. He just wanted to get home and sit by that viewer and hope, hope against hope, that it would ring and that Ciel's lovely image would swirl into view....

On the way home he was just the least bit tempted to go topside, however. He thought he might like to walk the broad, quiet boulevards under the stars. His brain functioned better there. The tunnels were so clean and bright and sterile, so wonderfully functional and sensible, that they oppressed him somehow. Maybe, he sometimes thought, he wasn't fit for this age. Maybe he should have been born a couple of hundred years ago. But common sense told him that people in that age must have often thought exactly the same thing to themselves.

He looked at his chrono and decided he had better go home.

The apartment, when he came to it, was cold and empty without Ciel. He bathed and tried to keep up his spirits by singing in his tuneless way, but it didn't help.

He went back into the living room, selected a film from the library and slipped it into a lap projector. He sat down and tried to concentrate on the film, a historical adventure about the days of the first moon rockets. He couldn't follow it.

The viewer rang.

He bounded from the chair as though he had triggered a high speed ejection seat in a burning jet. He went to the viewer and flicked it on. The plate shimmered, and then Ciel's image came into focus.

"Baby!" He was certain his shout overmodulated every amp tube in the entire World City viewer system. But he felt better, wonderfully better, already.

She was smiling. "Hello, Dick."

"Hello."

And then they looked at each other in affectionate embarrassment for a moment.

"One of us," said Pell, "ought to have his script writer along."

"Dick, I don't know exactly how to say what I want to say...."

"Don't. Don't say anything. Just pretend nothing ever happened. Just come on home fast as you can."

"No, Dick. Not yet. I still want to talk about—well, everything. Dick, we've got to reach some sort of compromise. There must be a way."

"Come on home. We'll find a way."

"Not home. Too many memories there. Besides," she smiled a little, "I don't trust us alone together. You know what would happen. We wouldn't get any talking done. Not any sensible talking anyway. You'd better meet me someplace."

He sighed. "Okay. Where can I meet you?"

"How about the Stardust Cafe?"

"Again? That place didn't help us much the last time."

"I know, but it's the handiest. I'm sure we can find a quiet place. Out on the terrace or something."

"Is there a terrace?"

"Yes, I think so. I'm sure there must be."

He looked at his chrono. "All right, baby. Half an hour?"

"Half an hour."

When she clicked off he felt his heart pounding. He felt dizzy. He felt as though he had just taken a quart of meth at one jolt—intravenously. He sang, more loudly and more off-key than ever. He went into the bedroom and started to get dressed again.

It wasn't until he was finishing the knot in his tie that the hunch hit him.

It was funny about that hunch. He would have said it came out of nowhere, and yet it must have broken from the bottom of his mind through some kind of restraining layer into the conscious levels. He didn't remember thinking anything that might have brought it on—his mind was strictly on Ciel. Maybe that was how it came through, with the attention of his conscious mind directed elsewhere.

With the hunch he heard Ciel's voice again, heard it very clearly, saying: "I'm sure we can find a quiet place. Out on the terrace or something." And with that other things started to fall into place.

As he thought, and as the possibilities of his hunch fanned out to embrace other possibilities he became suddenly cold and sick inside. He fought the feeling. "Got to go through with it," he muttered to himself. "Got to."

As soon as he was dressed he took the tunnel cars to Station D-90, changing twice. People were aboard at this hour, returning from the evening. Lots of men and women in uniform: the green of the landfighters, the white of the seamen, the blue of the flyers, the silver and black of the space force. Young people. Kids mostly: kids who had never seen war, smelled death, heard the wounded scream. He hoped they never would. But if his hunch was correct they might be dangerously near to it right now.

If only he had time to call Kronski. He'd feel a lot safer....

He shook himself. Have to stop thinking about it. Proceed cautiously now, and take each thing as it came. That was the only thing to do.

He went topside and stepped from the elevator kiosk into the night air. Ahead he saw the bright globular sign of the Stardust Cafe. But he didn't go toward it right away. He turned in the other direction, walked swiftly, and kept a sharp eye on the shadows. He turned off on a side street, circled a small park, and then crossed a sloping lawn toward the back of the night club. He headed for the light of the service entrance.

A half-credit bill got him inside through the back entrance. He found the door with the temporary sign saying: Marco the Mentalist. He knocked.

Marco the Mentalist opened the door. He didn't look quite as tall face-to-face as he did out on the floor, nor quite as impressive. His face was still dark and faintly saturnine, but the jowls seemed a little puffier now, there was a faint network of capillaries around his nostrils and his eyes looked just the least bit weary and tired. In a pleasant enough voice he said, "Yes?"

Pell showed his C.I.B. identification.

Marco raised his eyebrows a little and said, "Come inside, please." Inside he found a chair for Pell. He sat across from him at his dressing table, half-turned toward the room. "I must get ready for my show in a little while. You understand that, of course."

Pell nodded. "What's on my mind won't take long. First of all, I want to ask a few questions about hypnotism. They may seem silly to you, or maybe a little elementary, but I'd like you to answer 'em just the same."

Marco's eyebrows went a little bit higher and he said, "Proceed."

"Okay. Question number one: can anybody be hypnotized against his will?"

"Some can, some can't." Marco smiled. "The average person, under average circumstances—no. I appear in my act to hypnotize people against their wills. Actually, subconsciously, they wish to be hypnotized, which is why they volunteer to let me try in the first place."

"Okay, number two. Is there any drug that can hypnotize a person?"

Marco frowned. "Pentothal and several things appear to do that. You could argue it either way, whether the subject is actually hypnotized or not. I believe post-hypnotic commands have been given to subjects under sodium pentothol and carried out, even back in the dark ages of psychiatry several hundred years ago."

"I've got one more really important question," Pell said then. "I'd understood that somebody under hypnosis won't do anything against his moral or ethical sense. An honest man, for instance, can't be forced to steal. Is that true?"

Marco laughed and gestured with his graceful fingers. "I don't think it is true. It was once believed to be, because hypnotic technique was not strong enough. That is, the subject's hypnosis was not strong enough to overcome a strong moral sense, which is actually a surface veneer on a deeper, more brutal nature. But I think with deep enough hypnosis, and the right kind of command, you can get a person to do most anything in post-hypnotic behavior—and of course not know why he must do it, even knowing it's wrong. Do you follow me?"

"I hope I do." Then Pell leaned forward. "And now I have a very great favor to ask of you."

"Yes?"

"I want you to put on a little special private performance for me, right here and now."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You will, in about sixty seconds. Just listen carefully...."