shower rack, thetoothpaste tubes squeezed from the top. He'd put her perfumes in adrawer, but the smell was so pervasively haunting that it was likehaving her stand invisibly behind him.
As soon as the sun came up, he hurried out and took a cab. He'd have towait until visiting hours, but he couldn't stand the slowness of thetrain. Just being in the same building with her would--almost--beenough.
When he finally was allowed into Zelda's room, he spent all his timewatching her silently, taking in every intently mumbled word andmovement. Her movements, in spite of their gratingly basic monotony,were particularly something to watch, for Zelda had blue-black hair downto her shapely shoulders, wide-apart blue eyes, sulky mouth, and anastonishing body. She used all her physical equipment with unconsciousprovocativeness, except her eyes, which were blankly distant.
Clocker stood it as long as he could and then burst out, "Damn it,Zelda, how long can they take to learn a time-step?"
She didn't answer. She didn't see him, hear him, or feel him. Even whenhe kissed her on the back of the neck, her special place, she did nottwist her shoulder up with the sudden thrill.
He took out the portable phonograph he'd had permission to bring in, andhopefully played three of her old numbers--a ballet tap, a soft shoe,and, most potent of all, her favorite slinky strip tune. Ordinarily, thebeat would have thrown her off, but not any more.
"Dead to this world," muttered Clocker dejectedly.
He shook Zelda. Even when she was off-balance, her feet tapped out theelementary routine.
"Look, kid," he said, his voice tense and angry, "I don't know who thesesquares are that you're working for, but tell them if they got you, theygot to take me, too."
Whatever he expected--ghostly figures to materialize or a chill windfrom nowhere--nothing happened. She went on tapping.
He sat down on her bed. _They_ picked people the way he picked horses,except he picked to win and they picked to show. To show? Of course.Zelda was showing them how to dance and also, probably, teaching themabout the entertainment business. The others had obviously been selectedfor what they knew, which they went about doing as singlemindedly as shedid.
* * * * *
He had a scheme that he hadn't told Doc because he knew it was crazy. Atany rate, he hoped it was. The weeks without her had been a hell ofloneliness--for him, not for her; she wasn't even aware of the awfulloss. He'd settle for that, but even better would be freeing hersomehow. The only way he could do it would be to find out who controlledher and what they were after. Even with that information, he couldn't besure of succeeding, and there was a good chance that he might also becaught, but that didn't matter.
The idea was to interest _them_ in what he knew so _they_ would want tohave him explain all he knew about racing. After that--well, he'd makehis plans when he knew the setup.
Clocker came close to the automatic time-step machine that had been hiswife. He began talking to her, very loudly, about the detailed knowledgeneeded to select winners, based on stud records, past performances ofmounts and jockeys, condition of track and the influence of theweather--always, however, leaving out the data that would make sense ofthe whole complicated industry. It was like roping a patsy and holdingback the buzzer until the dough was down. He knew he risked beingcold-decked, but it was worth the gamble. His only worry was thathoarseness would stop him before he hooked _their_ interest.
An orderly, passing in the corridor, heard his voice, opened the doorand asked with ponderous humor, "What you doing, Clocker--trying to takeout 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 likedto show, kissed Zelda without getting any response whatever, and leftfor the day.
But he kept coming back every morning. He was about to give up when thefirst feelings of unreality dazed and dazzled him. He carefullysuppressed his excitement and talked more loudly about racing. The worldseemed to be slipping away from him. He could have hung onto it if hehad 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 thatvisiting hours were over. Clocker was explaining the fundamentals ofhorse racing ... meticulously, with immense patience, over and over andover ... and didn't hear him.
* * * * *
It had been so easy that Clocker was disappointed. The first voices hadargued gently and reasonably over him, each claiming priority for onereason or another, until one either was assigned or pulled rank. Thatwas the voice that Clocker eventually kept hearing--a quiet, calm voicethat constantly faded and grew stronger, as if it came from a greatdistance and had trouble with static. Clocker remembered the crystal sethis father had bought when radio was still a toy. It was like that.
Then the unreality vanished and was replaced by a dramatic new reality.He was somewhere far away. He knew it wasn't on Earth, for this was likenothing except, perhaps, a World's Fair. The buildings were low andattractively designed, impressive in spite of their softly blendedspectrum of pastel colors. He was in a huge square that wasgrass-covered and tree-shaded and decorated with classical sculpture.Hundreds of people stood with him, and they all looked shaken andscared. Clocker felt nothing but elation; he'd arrived. It made nodifference that he didn't know where he was or anything about the setup.He was where Zelda was.
"How did I get here?" asked a little man with bifocals and a vest thathad pins and threaded needles stuck in it. "I can't take time forpleasure trips. Mrs. Jacobs is coming in for her fitting tomorrow andshe'll positively murder me if her dress ain't ready."
"She can't," Clocker said. "Not any more."
"You mean we're dead?" someone else asked, awed. It was a softly pudgywoman with excessively blonde hair, a greasily red-lipped smile and aflowered housecoat. She looked around with great approval. "Hey, thisain't bad! Like I always said, either I'm no worse than anybody else orthey're no better'n me. How about that, dearie?"
"Don't ask me," Clocker evaded. "I think somebody's going to get anearful, but you ain't dead. That much I can tell you."
The woman looked disappointed.
Some people in the crowd were complaining that they had families to takecare of while others were worried about leaving their businesses. Theyall grew silent, however, when a man climbed up on a sort of marblerostrum in front of them. He was very tall and dignified and wore formalclothes and had a white beard parted in the center.
"Please feel at ease," he said in a big, deep, soothing voice, like aradio announcer for a symphony broadcast. "You are not in any danger. Noharm will come to you."
"You _sure_ we ain't dead, sweetie?" the woman in the flowered housecoatasked Clocker. "Isn't that--"
"No," said Clocker. "He'd have a halo, wouldn't he?"
"Yeah, I guess so," she agreed doubtfully.
The white-bearded man went on, "If you will listen carefully to thisorientation lecture, you will know where you are and why. May Iintroduce Gerald W. Harding? Dr. Harding is in charge of this receptioncenter. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Harding."
* * * * *
A number of people applauded out of habit ... probably lecture fans orsemi-pro TV studio audiences. The rest, including Clocker, waited as anaging man in a white lab smock, heavy-rimmed eyeglasses and smooth pinkcheeks, looking like a benevolent doctor in a mouthwash ad, stood up andfaced the crowd. He put his hands behind his back, rocked on his toes afew times, and smiled benevolently.
"Thank you, Mr. Calhoun," he said to the bearded man who was seatinghimself on a marble bench. "Friends--and I trust you will soon regard us_as_ your friends--I know you are puzzled at all this." He waved a whitehand at the buildings around them. "Let me explain. You have beenchosen--yes, carefully screened and selected--to help us in undoubtedlythe greatest cause of all history. I can see that you
are askingyourselves _why_ you were selected and what this cause is. I shalldescribe it briefly. You'll learn more about it as we work together inthis vast and noble experiment."
The woman in the flowered housecoat looked enormously flattered. Thelittle tailor was nodding to show he understood the points covered thusfar. Glancing at the rest of the crowd, Crocker realized that he was theonly one who had this speech pegged. It was a pitch. These men were outfor something.
He wished Doc Hawkins and Oil Pocket were there. Doc doubtless wouldhave searched his unconscious for symbols of childhood traumas toexplain the whole thing; he would never have accepted it as _some_ kindof reality. Oil Pocket, on the