“And rule over the dead,” Johnny said, and hit her with all his strength, on the side of her face, near the jaw. She spun backward, fell, and then at once was up and rushing at him. Before she could catch him he sprinted away, to one side, caught then a glimpse of her distorted, shredded features, ruined by the force of his blow—and then the door to the room opened, and St. Cyr and Phil Harvey, with two of the nurses, stood there. Kathy stopped. He stopped, too.

  “Come on, Barefoot,” St. Cyr said, jerking his head.

  Johnny crossed the room and joined them.

  Tying the sash of her robe, Kathy said matter-of-factly, “So it was planned; he was to kill me, Johnny was to. And the rest of you would all stand and watch and enjoy it.”

  “They have an immense transmitter out there,” Johnny said. “They placed it a long time ago, possibly years back. All this time they’ve been waiting for Louis to die; maybe they even killed him, finally. The idea’s to get Gam nominated and elected, while keeping everyone terrorized with that transmission. She’s sick, much sicker than we realized, even sicker than you realized. Most of all it was under the surface where it didn’t show.”

  St. Cyr shrugged. “Well, she’ll have to be certified.” He was calm but unusually slow-spoken. “The will named me as trustee; I can represent the estate against her, file the commitment papers and then come forth at the sanity hearing.”

  “I’ll demand a jury trial,” Kathy said. “I can convince a jury of my sanity; it’s actually quite easy and I’ve been through it before.”

  “Possibly,” St. Cyr said. “But anyhow the transmitter will be gone; by that time the authorities will be out there.”

  “It’ll take months to reach it,” Kathy said. “Even by the fastest ship. And by then the election will be over; Alfonse will be President.”

  St. Cyr glanced at Johnny Barefoot. “Maybe so,” he murmured.

  “That’s why we put it out so far,” Kathy said. “It was Alfonse’s money and my ability; I inherited Louis’ ability—you see. I can do anything. Nothing is impossible for me if I want it; all I have to do is want it enough”

  “You wanted me to jump,” Johnny said. “And I didn’t.”

  “You would have,” Kathy said, “in another minute. If they hadn’t come in.” She seemed quite poised, now. “You will, eventually; I’ll keep after you. And there’s no place you can hide; you know I’ll follow you and find you. All three of you.” Her gaze swept from one of them to the next, taking them all in.

  Harvey said, “I’ve got a little power and wealth, too. I think we can defeat Gam, even if he’s nominated.”

  “You have power,” Kathy said, “but not imagination. What you have isn’t enough. Not against me.” She spoke quietly, with complete confidence.

  “Let’s go,” Johnny said, and started down the hall, away from room 309 and Kathy Egmont Sharp.

  Up and down San Francisco’s hilly streets Johnny walked, hands in his pockets, ignoring the buildings and people, seeing nothing, merely walking on and on. Afternoon faded, became evening; the lights of the city came on and he ignored that, too. He walked block after block until his feet ached, burned, until he became aware that he was very hungry—that it was now ten o’clock at night and he had not eaten anything since morning. He stopped, then, and looked around him.

  Where were Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey? He could not remember having parted from them; he did not even remember leaving the hospital. But Kathy; he remembered that. He could not forget it even if he wanted to. And he did not want to. It was too important ever to be forgotten, by any of them who had witnessed it, understood it.

  At a newsstand he saw the massive, thick-black headlines.

  GAM WINS NOMINATION, PROMISES BATTLING

  CAMPAIGN FOR NOVEMBER ELECTION

  So she did get that, Johnny thought. They did, the two of them; they got what they’re after exactly. And now—all they have to do is defeat Kent Margrave. And that thing out there, a light-week away; it’s still yammering. And will be for months.

  They’ll win, he realized.

  At a drugstore he found a phonebooth; entering it he put money into the slot and dialed Sarah Belle, his own home phone number.

  The phone clicked in his ear. And then the familiar monotonous voice chanted, “Gam in November, Gam in November; win with Gam, President Alfonse Gam, our man—I am for Gam. 1 am for Cam. For GAM!” He rang off, then, and left the phone booth. It was hopeless.

  At the counter of the drugstore he ordered a sandwich and coffee; he sat eating mechanically, filling the requirements of his body without pleasure or desire, eating by reflex until the food was gone and it was time to pay the bill. What can 1 do? he asked himself. What can anyone do? All the means of communication are gone; the media have been taken over. They have the radio, TV, newspapers, phone, wire services . …everything that depends on microwave transmission or open-gap electric circuitry. They’ve captured it all, left nothing for us, the opposition, by which to fight back.

  Defeat, he thought. That’s the dreary reality that lies ahead for us. And then, when they enter office, it’ll be our—death.

  “That’ll be a dollar ten,” the counter girl said.

  He paid for his meal and left the drugstore.

  When a ’copter marked taxi came spiraling by, he hailed it.

  “Take me home,” he said.

  “Okay,” the driver said amiably. “Where is home, buddy?”

  He gave him the address in Chicago and then settled back for the long ride. He was giving up; he was quitting, going back to Sarah Belle, to his wife and children. The fight—for him—apparently was over.

  When she saw him standing in the doorway, Sarah Belle said, “Good god, Johnny—you look terrible.” She kissed him, led him inside, into the warm, familiar living room. “I thought you’d be out celebrating.”

  “Celebrating?” he said hoarsely.

  “Your man won the nomination.” She went to put the coffee pot on for him.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding. “That’s right. I was his P.R. man; I forgot.”

  “Better lie down,” Sarah Belle said. “Johnny, I’ve never seen you look so beaten; I can’t understand it. What happened to you?”

  He sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, with anxiety. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Is that Louis Sarapis on all the TV and phones? It sounds like him. I was talking to the Nelsons and they said it’s Louis’ exact voice.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not Louis. Louis is dead.”

  “But his period of half-life—”

  “No,” he said. “He’s dead. Forget about it.”

  “You know who the Nelsons are, don’t you? They’re the new people who moved into the apartment that—”

  “I don’t want to talk,” he said. “Or be talked at.”

  Sarah Belle was silent, for a minute. And then she said, “One thing they said—you won’t like to hear it, I guess. The Nelsons are plain, quite commonplace people…they said even if Alfonse Gam got the nomination they wouldn’t vote for him. They just don’t like him.”

  He grunted.

  “Does that make you feel bad?” Sarah Belle asked. “I think they’re reacting to the pressure, Louis’ pressure on the TV and phones; they just don’t care for it. I think you’ve been excessive in your campaign, Johnny.” She glanced at him hesitantly. “That’s the truth; I have to say it.”

  Rising to his feet, he said, “I’m going to visit Phil Harvey. I’ll be back later on.”

  She watched him go out the door, her eyes darkened with concern.

  When he was admitted to Phil Harvey’s house he found Phil and Gertrude Harvey and Claude St. Cyr sitting together in the living room, each with a glass in hand, but no one speaking. Harvey glanced up briefly, saw him, and then looked away.

  “Are we going to give up?” he asked Harvey.

  Harvey said, “I’m in touch with Kent Margrave. We’re going to try to knock out the transmitter. But it’s a million to one shot, at that distance. And with even the fastest missile it’ll take a month.”

  “But that’s at least something,” Johnny said. It would at least be before the election; it would give them several weeks in which to campaign. “Does Margrave understand the situation?”

  “Yes,” Claude St Cyr said. “We told him virtually everything.”

  “But that’s not enough,” Phil Harvey said. “There’s one more thing we must do. You want to be in on it? Draw for the shortest match?” He pointed to the coffee table; on it Johnny saw three matches, one of them broken in half. Now Phil Harvey added a fourth match, a whole one.

  St. Cyr said, “Her first. Her right away, as soon as possible. And then later on if necessary, Alfonse Gam.”

  Weary, cold fright filled Johnny Barefoot.

  “Take a match,” Harvey said, picking up the four matches, arranging and rearranging them in his hand and then holding out the four even tops to the people in the room. “Go ahead, Johnny. You got here last so I’ll have you go first.”

  “Not me,” he said.

  “Then we’ll draw without you,” Gertrude Harvey said, and picked a match. Phil held the remaining ones out to St. Cyr and he drew one also. Two remained in Phil Harvey’s hand.

  “I was in love with her,” Johnny said. “I still am.”

  Nodding, Phil Harvey said, “Yes, I know.”

  His heart leaden, Johnny said, “Okay. I’ll draw.” Reaching, he selected one of the two matches.

  It was the broken one.

  “I got it,” he said. “It’s me.”

  “Can you do it?” Claude St. Cyr asked him.

  He was silent for a time. And then he shrugged and said, “Sure. I can do it. Why not?” Why not indeed? he asked himself. A woman that I was falling in love with; certainly I can murder her. Because it has to be done. There is no other way out for us.

  “It may not be as difficult as we think,” St. Cyr said. “We’ve consulted some of Phil’s technicians and we picked up some interesting advice. Most of their transmissions are coming from nearby, not a light-week away by any means. I’ll tell you how we know. Their transmissions have kept up with changing events. For example, your suicide-attempt at the Antler Hotel. There was no time-lapse there or anywhere eke.”

  “And they’re not supernatural, Johnny,” Gertrude Harvey said.

  “So the first thing to do,” St. Cyr continued, “is to find their base here on Earth or at least here in the solar system. It could be Gam’s guinea fowl ranch on Io. Try there, if you find she’s left the hospital.”

  “Okay,” Johnny said, nodding slightly.

  “How about a drink?” Phil Harvey said to him.

  Johnny nodded.

  The four of them, seated in a circle, drank, slowly and in silence.

  “Do you have a gun?” St. Cyr asked.

  “Yes.” Rising to his feet he set his glass down.

  “Good luck,” Gertrude said, after him.

  Johnny opened the front door and stepped outside alone, out into the dark, cold evening.

  PAY FOR THE PRINTER

  Ash, black and desolate, stretched out on both sides of the road. Uneven heaps extended as far as the eye could see—the dim ruins of buildings, cities, a civilization—a corroded planet of debris, wind-whipped black particles of bone and steel and concrete mixed together in an aimless mortar.

  Allen Fergesson yawned, lit a Lucky Strike, and settled back drowsily against the shiny leather seat of his ’57 Buick. “Depressing damn sight,” he commented. “The monotony —nothing but mutilated trash. It gets you down.”

  “Don’t look at it,” the girl beside him said indifferently.

  The sleek, powerful car glided silently over the rubble that made up the road. His hand barely touching the power-driven wheel, Fergesson relaxed comfortably to the soothing music of a Brahms Piano Quintet filtering from the radio, a transmission of the Detroit settlement. Ash blew up against the windows—a thick coat of black had already formed, though he had gone no more than a few miles. But it ; didn’t matter. In the basement of her apartment, Charlotte had a green-plastic garden hose, a zinc bucket and a DuPont sponge.

  “And you have a refrigerator full of good Scotch,” he added aloud. “As I recall—unless that fast crowd of yours has finished it off.”

  Charlotte stirred beside him. She had drifted into halfsleep, lulled by the purr of the motor and the heavy warmth of the air. “Scotch?” she murmured. “Well, I have a fifth of Lord Calvert.” She sat up and shook back her cloud of blonde hair. “But it’s a little puddinged.”

  In the back seat, their thin-faced passenger responded. They had picked him up along the way, a bony, gaunt man in coarse gray work-pants and shirt. “How puddinged?” he asked tautly.

  “About as much as everything else,” she said.

  Charlotte wasn’t listening. She was gazing vacantly through the ash-darkened window at the scene outside. To the right of the road, the jagged, yellowed remains of a town jutted up like broken teeth against the sooty midday sky. A bathtub here, a couple of upright telephone poles, bones and bleak fragments, lost amid miles of pocked debris. A forlorn, dismal sight. Somewhere in the moldy cave-like cellars a few mangy dogs huddled against the chill. The thick fog of ash kept real sunlight from reaching the surface.

  “Look there,” Fergesson said to the man in the back.

  A mock-rabbit had bounded across the ribbon of road. He slowed the car to avoid it. Blind, deformed, the rabbit hurtled itself with sickening force against a broken concrete slab and bounced off, stunned. It crawled feebly a few paces, then one of the cellar dogs rose and crunched it.

  “Ugh!” said Charlotte, revolted. She shuddered and reached to turn up the car heater. Slim legs tucked under her, she was an attractive little figure in her pink wool sweater and embroidered skirt. “I’ll be glad when we get back to my settlement. It’s not nice out here…”

  Fergesson tapped the steel box on the seat between them. The firm metal felt good under his fingers. “They’ll be- glad to get hold of these,” he said, “if things are as bad as you say.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlotte agreed. “Things are terrible. I don’t know if this will help—he’s just about useless.” Her small smooth face wrinkled with concern. “I guess it’s worth trying. But I can’t see much hope.”

  “We’ll fix up your settlement,” Fergesson reassured her easily. The first item was to put the girl’s mind at rest. Panic of this kind could get out of hand—had got out of hand, more than once. “But it’ll take a while,” he added, glancing at her. “You should have told us sooner.”

  “We thought it was just laziness. But he’s really going, Allen.” Fear flicked in her blue eyes. “We can’t get anything good out of him anymore. He just sits there like a big lump, as if he’s sick or dead.”

  “He’s old,” Fergesson said gently. “As I recall, your Biltong dates back a hundred and fifty years.”

  “But they’re supposed to go on for centuries I”

  “It’s a terrible drain on them,” the man in the back seat pointed out. He licked his dry lips, leaned forward tensely, his dirt-cracked hands clenched. “You’re forgetting this isn’t natural to them. On Proxima they worked together. Now they’ve broken up into separate units—and gravity is greater here.”

  Charlotte nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. “Gosh!” she said plaintively. “It’s just terrible—look at this!” She fumbled in her sweater pocket and brought out a small bright object the size of a dime. “Everything he prints is like this, now—or worse.”

  Fergesson took the watch and examined it, one eye on the road. The strap broke like a dried leaf between his fingers into small brittle fragments of dark fiber without tensile strength. The face of the watch looked all right—but the hands weren’t moving.

  “It doesn’t run,” Charlotte explained. She grabbed it back and opened it. “See?” She held it up in front of his face, her crimson lips tight with displeasure. “I stood in line half an hour for this, and it’s just a blob!”

  The works of the tiny Swiss watch were a fused, unformed mass of shiny steel. No separate wheels or jewels or springs, just a glitter of pudding.

  “What did he have to go on?” the man in back asked. “An original?”

  “A print—but a good print. One he did thirty-five years ago—my mother’s, in fact. How do you think 1 felt when I saw it? I can’t use it.” Charlotte took the puddinged watch back and restored it to her sweater pocket. “I was so mad I—” She broke off and sat up straight. “Oh, we’re here. See the red neon sign? That’s the beginning of the settlement.”

  The sign read standard stations inc. Its colors were blue, red, and white—a spotlessly clean structure at the edge of the road. Spotless? Fergesson slowed the car as he came abreast of the station. All three of them peered out intently, stiffening for the shock they knew was coming.

  “You see?” said Charlotte in a thin, clipped voice.

  The gas station was crumbling away. The small white building was old—old and worn, a corroded, uncertain thing that sagged and buckled like an ancient relic. The bright red neon sign sputtered fitfully. The pumps were rusted and bent. The gas station was beginning to settle back into the ash, back into black, drifting particles, back to the dust from which it had come.

  As Fergesson gazed at the sinking station, the chill of death touched him. In his settlement, there was no decay— yet. As fast as prints wore out, they were replaced by the Pittsburgh Biltong. New prints were made from the original objects preserved from the War. But here, the prints that made up the settlement were not being replaced.

  It was useless to blame anyone. The Biltong were limited, like any race. They had done the best they could—and they were working in an alien environment.