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heavy-handed, club-footed wonder. He could hear himself breathing, and he swore he was as loud as an air-conditioning intake fan. He waited for her to say something, for he was unable to initiate anything more on his own. Then, finally aware that she felt she had already said too much and that she wanted to be alone, he said, "Keep the pistol near you at all times."
    "I will."
    He said goodnight and left her there.
    The elevator ride to the fifth level seemed to take forever.
    In his room, he poured himself a healthy glassful of Scotch over a single ice cube—one cube so that there was more room in the tumbler for the liquor.
    Liquor will dull your perceptions.
    Go to hell.
    He knew that he was finished for the day, that he could not go anywhere or do anything without a few hours sleep. He sat down in a chair near the patio doors and quickly worked toward the bottom of his golden drink.
    In the last six hours the input of data had greatly increased. So many bits and pieces had been stored, now, that he knew the symbiote that was half him would soon begin to connect one datum with another. If the pace kept on like this, he would be able to slowly formulate a few theories in another day, maybe two days, then logically eliminate a number of the present suspects.
    Then, perhaps, before too much longer, the case would be finished.
    He realized as he swallowed the last of the Scotch that he did not want it to be finished.
    That is an unhealthy attitude.
    He wanted to apprehend the killer, of course, and before anyone else died. He wanted to pinpoint the man, get him running, corner him and break him down, thoroughly break him down. That was what he was all about, after all; that was what Baker St. Cyr did well. But once the killer was out of the way, he did not want to have to leave this house.
    Get right down to it, then: He did not want to have to leave Tina Alderban.
    Avoid emotional complications of this nature.
    He got up and poured another glass of Scotch.
    He sat down in the same chair and took a large swallow of the drink, stirred the ice with his finger.
    Tina Alderban…
    When he closed his eyes, he could see her on the insides of his lids, standing naked, wearing a cape of black hair, holding out her arms to him, with two shiny globes of light before her, one resting lightly on each of her flat palms…
    He remembered the nightmare again: the cracked macadam roadway, the tumble-down buildings… Somehow, Tina Alderban seemed to be a part of it.
    It is very late. Even if you sleep until noon, you will not get your proper rest.
    To counter the stodgy half of his symbiote, he raised his glass and sipped more Scotch. Apparently, however, the bio-computer had gotten to him on a deep, motivational level, for he put the glass down when it was still half full, undressed and went to bed.

SIX: Nightmare and Paranoia
    St. Cyr stepped quickly behind a huge slab of concrete pavement which some tremor of the earth had cracked, lifted, and jammed toward the dark sky. He pressed his back against it, making himself as small as he could, shivered as the dampness of the chilled stone seeped through his shirt.
    He listened intently, but he could no longer hear the soft footsteps that had dogged him until this moment.
    Stepping from behind the slab, he stared down the length of the avenue, saw that he was alone—unless, of course, someone was hiding behind one of the other tilted blocks of paving.
    He did not have time to search them. He could only press forward. But when he did, the footsteps were behind him once more, close.
    He ran.
    As he increased his pace, the sky seemed to lower, the blackness sink until it lay just above his head, like a roof. The buildings on either side began to close in as well, until the street was barely wide enough to run through. He remembered that, when he had begun this journey, the street had appeared to dwindle toward the horizon until the buildings seemed to come together at a point no larger than the