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  "What do you mean?"

  "I wonder if I'm honest?" Maybe it was foolish, he thought, to pour out his heart to a whore on the street, but he had no one else. "Am I a loyal husband and a loving father and a reliable workmate? Or am I some kind of gangster? I hate not knowing."

  "Honey, if that's what's bothering you, I know what kind of guy you are already. A gangster would be thinking, am I rich, do I slay the broads, are people scared of me?"

  That was a point. Luke nodded. But he was not satisfied. "It's one thing to want to be a good person--but maybe I don't live up to what I believe in."

  "Welcome to the human race, sweetheart," she said. "We all feel that way." She stopped at a doorway. "It's been a long night. This is where I get off the train."

  "So long."

  She hesitated. "Want some advice?"

  "Sure."

  "If you want people to stop treating you like a piece of shit, you better smarten yourself up. Have a shave, comb your hair, find yourself a coat that doesn't look like you stole it off a carthorse."

  Luke realized she was right. No one would take any notice of him, let alone help him discover his identity, while he looked like a crazy person. "I guess you're right," he said. "Thanks." He turned away.

  She called after him, "And get a hat!"

  He touched his head, then looked around. He was the only person on the street, male or female, without a hat. But how could a bum get a new suit of clothes? The handful of change in his pocket would not buy much.

  The solution came fully formed into his head. Either it was an easy question, or he had been in this situation before. He would go to a train station. A station was generally full of people carrying complete changes of clothing, together with shaving tackle and other toiletries, all neatly packed in suitcases.

  He went to the next corner and checked his location. He was on A Street and Seventh. On leaving Union Station early this morning, he had noticed that it was near the corner of F and Second.

  He headed that way.

  10 A.M.

  The first stage of the missile is attached to the second by explosive bolts wrapped around with coil springs. When the booster is burned out, the bolts will detonate and the springs push the redundant first stage away.

  The Georgetown Mind Hospital was a red-brick Victorian mansion with a flat-roofed modern extension at the back. Billie Josephson parked her red Ford Thunderbird in the parking lot and hurried into the building.

  She hated to arrive this late. It seemed disrespectful of her work and her colleagues. What they were doing was vitally important. Slowly, painstakingly, they were learning to understand the mechanisms of the human mind. It was like mapping a distant planet, the surface of which could be seen only through breaks in the cloud layer that were tantalizingly brief.

  She was late because of her mother. After Larry left for school, Billie had gone to get the heart pills and returned home to find Becky-Ma lying on her bed, fully dressed, gasping for breath. The doctor had come right away, but he had nothing new to say. Becky-Ma had a weak heart. If she felt breathless, she should lie down. She must remember to take her pills. Any stress was bad for her.

  Billie wanted to say, "What about me? Isn't stress bad for me too?" But instead she resolved anew to walk on eggshells around her mother.

  She stopped by the admissions office and glanced at the overnight register. A new patient had been brought in late yesterday, after she had left: Joseph Bellow, a schizophrenic. The name rang a bell, but she could not recall why. Surprisingly, the patient had been discharged during the night. That was odd.

  She passed through the day room on the way to her office. The TV was on, and a reporter standing on a dusty beach was saying, "Here at Cape Canaveral, the question on everyone's lips is: 'When will the Army attempt to launch its own rocket?' It must be within the next few days."

  The subjects of Billie's research sat around, some watching TV, some playing games or reading, a few gazing vacantly into space. She waved to Tom, a young man who did not know the meaning of words. "How are you, Tommy?" she called. He grinned and waved back. He could read body language well, and often responded as if he knew what people were saying, so it had taken Billie months to figure out that he did not understand a single word.

  In a corner, Marlene, an alcoholic, was flirting with a young male nurse. She was fifty years old, but she could not remember anything that had happened since she was nineteen. She thought she was still a young girl and refused to believe that the "old man" who loved and cared for her was her husband.

  Through the glass wall of an interview room she saw Ronald, a brilliant architect who had suffered head injuries in a car crash. He was doing tests on paper. His problem was that he had lost the ability to deal with numbers. He would count with excruciating slowness on his fingers in the attempt to add three and four.

  Many patients had forms of schizophrenia, an inability to relate to the real world.

  Some of the patients could be helped, by drugs or electric shock treatment or both, but Billie's job was to trace the exact contours of their disabilities. By studying minor mental handicaps, she was outlining the functions of the normal mind. Ronald, the architect, could look at a group of objects on a tray and say whether there were three or four of them, but if there were twelve and he had to count them, he would take a long time and might make a mistake. This suggested to Billie that the ability to see at a glance how many items are in a small group is a separate skill from the ability to count.

  In this way, she was slowly charting the depths of the mind, locating memory here, language there, mathematics somewhere else. And if the disability was related to minor brain damage, Billie could speculate that the normal ability was located in the part of the brain that had been destroyed. Eventually, her conceptual picture of the mind's functions would be mapped onto a physical diagram of the human brain.

  At her present rate of progress, it would take about two hundred years. However, she was working alone. With a team of psychologists, she could progress much faster. She might see the map completed in her lifetime. That was her ambition.

  It was a long way from her father's suicidal depression. There were no quick cures in mental illness. But the mind was still largely a mystery to scientists. It would be much better understood if Billie could speed up her work. And then, perhaps, people like her father could be helped.

  She went up the stairs to the next floor, thinking about the mystery patient. Joseph Bellow sounded like Joe Blow, the kind of name someone might make up. And why had he been discharged in the middle of the night?

  She reached her office and looked out of the window on to a building site. A new wing was being added to the hospital--and a new post was to be created to go with it: Director of Research. Billie had applied for the job. But so had one of her colleagues, Dr. Leonard Ross. Len was older than Billie, but she had wider experience and had published more: several articles and a textbook, An Introduction to the Psychology of Memory. She felt sure she could beat out Len, but she did not know who else might be in the running. And she wanted the job badly. As Director, she would have other scientists working under her.

  On the building site she noticed, among the workmen, a small group of men in business clothes--wool topcoats and homburgs instead of overalls and hard hats. They looked as if they might be getting a tour. Looking more closely, she saw that Len Ross was with them.

  She spoke to her secretary. "Who are those guys being shown around the site by Len Ross?"

  "They're from the Sowerby Foundation."

  Billie frowned. The Foundation was financing the new post. They would have a big say in who got the job. And there was Len making nice to them. "Did we know they were coming today?"

  "Len said he had sent you a note. He came by this morning to pick you up, but you weren't here."

  There had never been a note, Billie felt sure. Len had deliberately failed to warn her. And she had been late.

  "Damn," Billie said with feel
ing. She rushed out to join the party on the building site.

  She did not think about Joseph Bellow again for several hours.

  11 A.M.

  Because the missile was put together in a rush, the upper stages use a rocket motor that has been in production for some years, rather than a new design. The scientists have chosen a small version of the tried-and-tested Sergeant rocket. The upper stages of the missile are powered by clustered assemblies of these small rockets, known as Baby Sergeants.

  As Luke negotiated the grid of streets leading to Union Station, he found himself checking, every minute or two, to see whether he was being followed.

  He had lost his shadows more than an hour ago, but they might now be searching for him. The thought made him fearful and bewildered. Who were they and what were they doing? His instincts told him they were malevolent. Otherwise, why watch him secretly?

  He shook his head to clear it. This baseless speculation was frustrating. There was no point in guessing. He had to find out.

  First he had to clean himself up. His plan was to steal a suitcase from a train passenger. He felt sure he had done this before, at some time in his life. When he tried to remember, French words came into his head: "La valise d'un type qui descend du train."

  It would not be easy. His dirty, ragged clothing would stand out in a crowd of respectable travelers. He would have to move fast to get away. But he had no alternative. Dee-Dee the whore had been right. No one would listen to a bum.

  If he were arrested, the police would never believe he was anything but a deadbeat. He would end up in jail. The thought made him shiver with fear. It was not prison itself that scared him so much as the prospect of weeks or months of ignorance and confusion, not knowing who he was and helpless to make any progress in finding out.

  Ahead of him on Massachusetts Avenue he saw the white granite arcade of Union Station, like a Romanesque cathedral transplanted from Normandy. Thinking ahead, he figured that after the theft he would have to disappear fast. He needed a car. The knowledge of how to steal one came into his mind immediately.

  Close to the station, the street was lined with parked cars. Most would belong to people who had taken trains. He slowed his pace as a car pulled into a slot ahead of him. It was a two-tone Ford Fiesta, blue and white, new but not ostentatious. It would do fine. The starter would be operated with a key, not a handle, but it would be easy to pull out a couple of wires behind the dash and bypass the ignition.

  He wondered how he knew that.

  A man in a dark topcoat got out of the Ford, took a briefcase from the trunk, locked the car, and headed for the station.

  How long would he be gone? It was possible he had some business at the station and would be back in a few minutes. Then he would report his car stolen. Driving around in it, Luke would be in danger of arrest at any minute. That was no good. He had to find out where the man was going.

  He followed him into the station.

  The grand interior, which this morning had seemed like a disused temple, was now bustling. He felt conspicuous. Everyone else seemed so clean and well dressed. Most people averted their eyes, but some looked at him with expressions of disgust or contempt. It occurred to him that he might run into the officious man who had thrown him out earlier. Then there would be a fuss. The guy was sure to remember.

  The owner of the Ford joined a line at a ticket window. Luke got in line too. He looked at the ground, not meeting anyone's eye, hoping no one would notice him.

  The line shuffled forward and his mark reached the window. "Philadelphia, one-day return," he said.

  That was enough for Luke. Philadelphia was hours away. The man would be out of town all day. His car would not be reported stolen before he returned. Luke would be safe in it until tonight.

  He left the line and hurried away.

  It was a relief to be outside. Even bums had the right to walk the streets. He returned to Massachusetts Avenue and found the parked Ford. To save time later, he would unlock it now. He looked up and down the street. Cars and pedestrians were passing constantly. The trouble was that he looked like a criminal. But if he waited until there was no one about, he could be here all day. He would just have to be quick.

  He stepped into the road, walked around the car, and stood at the driver's door. Pressing his hands flat against the glass of the window, he pushed down. Nothing happened. His mouth felt dry. He looked quickly to either side: no one was paying him any attention yet. He stood on tiptoe, to add the weight of his body to the pressure on the window mechanism. At last the pane of glass slid slowly down.

  When the window was fully open, he reached in and unlocked the door. He opened it, wound up the window, and closed the door again. Now he was ready for a fast getaway.

  He considered starting the car now and leaving the engine running, but that might draw the attention of a passing patrolman or even just an inquisitive passer-by.

  He returned to Union Station. He worried constantly that a railroad employee would notice him. It did not have to be the man he had clashed with earlier--any conscientious official might take it into his head to throw him out, the way such a man might pick up a candy wrapper. He did everything he could to make himself inconspicuous. He walked neither slow nor fast, tried to keep close to walls when he could, took care not to cross anyone's path, and never looked anyone in the eye.

  The best time to steal a suitcase would be immediately after the arrival of a large, crowded train, when the concourse was thronged with hurrying people. He studied the information board. An express from New York was due in twelve minutes. That would be perfect.

  As he looked at the board, checking which track the train would come in on, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  He looked around. He must have seen something out of the corner of his eye, something that had triggered an instinctive warning. What? His heart beat faster. What was he afraid of?

  Trying to be inconspicuous, he strolled away from the board and stood at the newsstand, examining a rack of daily papers. He took in the headlines:

  ARMY ROCKET BLAST SOON

  SSLAYER OF 10 IS NABBED

  DULLES ASSURES BAGHDAD GROUP

  LAST CHANCE AT CAPE CANAVERAL

  After a moment he looked back over his shoulder. A couple of dozen people crisscrossed the concourse, hurrying to or from suburban trains. A larger number sat on the mahogany benches or stood around patiently, relatives and chauffeurs waiting to meet passengers off the New York train. A maitre d' stood outside the door of the restaurant, hoping for early lunch customers. There were five porters in a group, smoking. . . .

  And two agents.

  He was quite certain what they were. Both were young men, neatly dressed in topcoats and hats, their wingtip shoes well shined. But it was not their appearance so much as their attitude that gave them away. They were alert, raking the station concourse with their eyes, studying the faces of the people they passed, looking everywhere . . . except at the information board. The one thing they were not interested in was travel.

  He was tempted to speak to them. Thinking about it, he was overwhelmed by a need for simple human contact with people who knew him. He longed for someone to say, "Hi, Luke, how are you? Good to see you again!"

  These two would probably say, "We are FBI agents and you are under arrest." Luke felt that would almost be a relief. But his instincts warned him off. Every time he thought of trusting them, he asked himself why they would follow him around surreptitiously, if they meant him no harm.

  He turned his back to them and walked away, trying to keep the newsstand between him and them. In the shadow of a grand archway he risked a backward look. The two men were crossing the open concourse, walking from east to west across his field of vision.

  Who the hell were they?

  He left the station, walked a few yards along the grand arcade of its front, and re-entered the main hall. He was in time to see the backs of the two agents as they headed for the west exit.


  He checked the clock. Ten minutes had passed. The New York express was due in two minutes. He hurried to the gate and waited, trying to fade into the background.

  As the first passengers emerged, a frigid calm descended on him. He watched the arrivals intently. It was a Wednesday, the middle of the week, so there were many businessmen and military types in uniform, but few tourists, and only a sprinkling of women and children. He looked for a man his own size and build.

  As passengers poured through the gate, the people waiting surged forward, and a traffic jam formed. The crowd around the gate thickened, then spread, with people pushing through irritably. Luke saw a young man of his size, but he was wearing a duffel coat and a wool watch cap: he might not have a spare suit in his haversack. Likewise, Luke dismissed an elderly traveler who was the right height but too thin. He saw a man who looked just right but carried only a briefcase.

  By this time at least a hundred passengers had emerged, but there seemed to be many more to come. The concourse filled up with impatient people. Then he saw the right man. He was Luke's height, build, and age. His gray topcoat was unbuttoned to show a tweed sport coat and flannel pants--which meant he probably had a business suit in the tan leather bag he carried in his right hand. His face wore an anxious look, and he walked quickly, as if he were late for an appointment.

  Luke slipped into the crowd and shoved his way through until he was directly behind the man.

  The throng was dense and slow moving, and Luke's target moved in fretful stops and starts. Then the crowd thinned a little, and the man stepped quickly into a gap.

  That was when Luke tripped him. He hooked his foot firmly around the ankle in front of him. As the man moved forward, Luke kicked upward, bending the target's leg at the knee.

  The man cried out and fell forward. He let go of both briefcase and suitcase, and threw his hands out in front. He crashed into the back of a woman in a fur coat and she, too, stumbled, giving a little scream, and fell. The man hit the marble floor with an audible thump, his hat rolling away. A split second later the woman went down on both knees, dropping a handbag and a chic white leather suitcase.