At Ardarcar Station, Hautley Quicksilver boarded the IVS luxury liner, Arthur C. Clarke. While standing in line, he thought grimly to himself that this trip had better be everything he wished it to be. It was his friend and sometime colleague, Barsine Torsche, who had recommended the Clarke to him; he had made his reservations for the vacation with some trepidation: previous vacation trips on the IVS liners Olaf Stapledon and Robert A. Heinlein had proved less than salubrious experiences, to one of his fastidious taste.

The reception clerk at the desk was, he noted with mild surprise, a human being, rather than a robotic servitor. This was only to be the first of the many surprises—some pleasant and some less than pleasant—which awaited him on the voyage to come.

Quicksilver proffered his Citizen's Card, a thin wafer of indestructible, and also uncounterfeitable, plastex, which the clerk inserted into the console slot. Instants later the viewpanel informed the clerk that Ser Hautley Quicksilver's credit rating was thus-and-such, his visa status thus-and-so, and that his identity was confirmed.

Hautley rode the gravity well up to Starflite Deck, where the most luxurious accommodations were reserved for those whose social rank, or at least wealth, were commensurate. He entered his suite, an airy, sunny sequence of rooms, to find a servitor acting as valet, unpacking his luggage and storing his things neatly away in wall-cubicles. The servitor turned upon him a bland, pleasant face of flesh-tinted synthetic and inquired in a mellow voder if there was anything he desired. Hautley shook his head and left the suite, and sought the bar in the lounge.

Another surprise: the bartender was also human, no servitor: a silver-haired man of exquisite manners and indeterminate age, who assembled the cocktail which Hautley ordered with the care and precision of a sculptor preparing a masterpiece. Hautley sipped the beverage and relaxed.

From where he sat at the head of the bar, transparent panels gave a broad view of the lounge itself; thus, Hautley gained his first look at those who would be his companions on the Journey. Would he make new friends, arrange new erotic liaisons, find enemies? There was no predicting these eventualities, but their very unpredictability was one of the elements which caused Hautley to savor life to the fullest.

There went past in stately robes a Chonga Taivena Matriarch with her usual entourage of pubescent girls. These were attired in severe gowns which covered their bodies from throat to wrist and heel, while their hair was decently kerchiefed in sober colors. For the most part they paced along behind the Matriarch with modestly downcast eyes, all but one bright-eyed little minx who glanced up, caught Hautley's eye, looked him up and down with brazen appraisal, smiled a slow smile with parted, moist, watermelon-pink lips, and passed on.

Hautley elevated one brow, and shook his head, musing: the Matriarch will have her hands full watching over that one.

A plump Magnate from one of the Technarch worlds came waddling by, importantly dictating in a hush-phone strapped to his fat throat, followed by three innocuous clerks. He was followed next by an imperial courier whose brassard-of-office gave him precedence over anyone of lower rank than a reigning monarch. This particular individual was lean as a whippet, face like space-tanned leather, with ivory hair.

Then came a brash personage, red-faced and hearty, whose expensive but rather gaudy costume fairly advertised him to be some sort of a theatrical entrepreneur. He was conversing loudly with two other men, possibly employees, or clients.

Hautley sipped his cocktail meditatively, watching the passing show. Several Cornpanions were now circulating in the lounge of the starship, some male, some female. The men were either pale, slender and epicene, or brawny and bronzed; the girls were all very young and of extraordinary beauty. For the most part these last wore frocks of fashionable transplex, that fabric which has the disconcerting property of becoming completely trаnspаrent, here and there, at spaced intervals. One of the girls had her back to Quicksilver and was conversing with two men at a table, although she was standing: as he idly watched, a portion of her gown became transparent, revealing an enticingly globular brown buttock.

Turning away, the girl caught Hautley's eyes, smiled, and came towards where he sat. She had an intriguingly lopsided smile, and amethyst eyes, probably ion-dyed. Her hair, worn long and sleek, was of an unusual shade of very dark red. As she strolled towards him, between the tables, another panel of her gown went transparent, revealing her left breast, which was perfectly shaped, with a pouting pink nipple: it was obvious the young woman wore no underclothing at all.

She entered the bar and came up to him; Hautley gestured to the next seat.

"I am not really looking for a Companion, citizeness, but let me buy you a drink. Bartender?"

She ordered a Cinnabar Moonrise, and they toasted each other. Her amethyst eyes were flirtatious, but also demure: an interesting combination, thought Hautley.

"Are you on business or vacation?" the girl inquired in a warm, husky voice.

"Vacation, I'm glad to say. I'm bound for Paragon; I have a yearning for white beaches, emerald palms, warm lagoons, dusky maidens," he said half-humorously. She laughed, and, without being at all as brazen about it as had the precocious Novice in the entourage of the Chonga Taivena Matriarch, appraised him. Tall, lean, mahogany-tanned, his pewtergray locks meticulously arranged across his brow in a frieze that suggested a bust from imperial Rome. His shaped suit was of expensive cut, but decorous; his personal jewelry discreet but valuable.

They chatted lightly: there would be a dance that night after dinner in the Grand Hall; tomorrow night, there would be a masquerade, with prizes. A costume shop on the Mall would be open early, so that entrants might procure their garments and masks. Finishing her cocktail, and declining in a friendly manner his proffer of a second, she shook hands with him—a surprisingly masculine gesture which he found titillating.

"I must go; but here is my Code. If you wish a Companion, please ring for me. You have an interesting face. My name is Taurean Hakefield." She smiled again, that whimsical, lopsided smile, and sauntered away. Hautley gazed after her, speculatively.

On his way out of the bar after her, Hautley almost collided with a tall, gaunt man with a long jaw and sad eyes. He wore the gray tunic and white-winged collar of a Psychist deacon. They exchanged polite apologies.

Now why would a member of that harsh, dour cult be riding on an expensive luxury liner? Hautley asked of himself, striding on.

The answer was not at all apparent .

At some interval while Hautley had talked to the girl, Taurean Hakefield, in the bar, the Arthur C. Clarke had slipped her moorings and had entered flight mode. The transition from parking orbit to free flight had been accomplished so adroitly that even Quicksilver, with his keen, alert senses, had not discerned it.

He changed for dinner: formal dinnerwear this year was black-and-silver, and Hautley donned a shaped suit zebra-striped in those hues. Upon sudden impulse, he dialled the Code which Taurean Hakefield had given him and invited her to join him for dinner. She replied that she would be delighted to do so.

He descended to the dining room in pleasant anticipation of an excellent meal and interesting companionship. It did not occur to Hautley that he was embarking upon an adventure.

The table assigned was set for seven, and Quicksilver discovered with mixed feelings that his companions for dinner were to be among those whom he had earlier glimpsed in the Starflite Lounge. These were the Matriarch, Great-Mother Parcella and one of her girls, the saucy-eyed little minx who had so boldly looked Hautley up and down: she was the Novice Alla. The other girls in the entourage dined in their suite; perhaps Great-Mother Parcella felt it needful to keep a close watch on this particular Novice, Hautley mused to himself with a private smile.

The entrepreneur was a brash, overdressed man named Jarles Rapsallion. He wore loud checked dinner clothes with large squares of black-and-silver, with a huge silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Theoretically, this was an accessory limited by custom to the Nobility, but the sumptuary laws were not restrictive on the detail. Hautley found him boisterous, talkative, and boorish.

The fussy, self-important Magnate was called Turgo Barnavelt, an exporter of para-electronic components from Syrlon III. His shaped suit did all that a shaped suit could do to restrain or conceal his round little belly; he was red-faced and perspiring, and dictated memos into his hush-phone between bouts of conversation.

The gaunt Psychist deacon was also at their table: his name was Carrison Fane, en route to inspect the Deaconate on Arlion II. Both he and the Matriarch and her Novice declined the rather excellent wine in favor of tea; Rapsallion and Barnavelt, however, imbibed of cocktails rather freely, much to the detriment of the table conversation.

As for Taurean Hakefield, the red-headed girl was modishly attired in a discreet gown which fell in many alternately black-and-silver pleats to her knees, from a low yoke collar. Hautley found her quite entrancing. He lit a stimulette, offering one to her, which she politely declined. They sipped their cocktails.

Rapsallion seized control of the conversation early on. He was voyaging to the ocean world of Paragon, Quicksilver's own destination. There he hoped to raise sufficient capital to organize an aquatic extravaganza with divers, synchronized swimmers, trained eels, and such. He boasted loudly of his former theatrical triumphs and only the dour Psychlst, to whom he deferred, was able to interrupt his voluble monologue. The entrepreneur was, it turned out—and rather surprisingly—a devote convert to Psychist Science. He praised the abilities of Carrison Fane in this regard most fulsomely.

"We are a science, you know, Ser Hautley, not a group of woollybrained mystics! Meaning no offense, Great-Mother. Ours is an exact discipline, is it not, Deacon Fane? And capable of scientific validation."

"I know little of the subject," Quicksilver admitted, hoping to thus terminate the monologue. But, with the obstreperous fanaticism of a recent convert, the remark had the opposite effect. As their meals were served, Rapsallion urged Carrison Fane to give the scientific rationale behind Psychist Science. Deacon Fane looked slightly annoyed, but did so briefly, while munching on his salad.

"Psychist theory holds that, upon the death of an Individual, the vital energy or life force does not disperse, but conglomerates into what we call a 'prime node,' composed of twinned particles—vitons, which are the particles of life energy, and psychons, which are the particles of thought. The prime node, then, retains vitality as well as sentience, memory, self-awareness."

The Matriarch sniffed disparagingly, lips thinned in disapproval. Hautley murmured a polite phrase of interest.

"It is the purpose of our study groups—for we do not, of course, have churches per se, not being in any sense a religious cult—to become receptors, in communication with discarnate prime nodes. This is accomplished by a strict regimen of training, combining certain austerities, meditation, and, ah, the use of certain drugs which retard sensory immediacy—our awareness of our surroundings—and make a receptor such as myself the, um, channel of Psychist communion . . . the, ah—"

"Medium, perchance?" smiled Hautley. He reflected, over his entree, small roast fowl on sharp skewers, that under one name or another, this so-called "science" had been around for centuries—without, insofar as he was aware, yet attaining scientific credibility.

"How fascinating!" breathed Taurean Hakefield, sipping her wine. "Then you can actually communicate with the dead?"

Deacon Fane winced, as if the term were distasteful to him, even somewhat obscene.

"Our science teaches that there is no such thing as 'death,' Citizeness," he said reprovingly. "There is only the state of discarnation ...

At this point the Magnate Turgo Barnavelt interjected on a scoffing note. Coming from the Technarchate as he did, he could hardly be less than skeptical of this mystical philosophy dressed in the sober garb of a science. An exchange, while brief, became a trifle heated, with the Magnate demanding proof of such claims.

"Nothing would be simpler, Cn. Barnavelt," retorted Jarles Rapsallion. "Deacon Fane's cabin is not far; after dinner, perhaps all of you would care to join In what we call a Linkage, while the Deacon serves as receptor for Psychist communion. Visible, and even tangible, evidence will thus be displayed—unless, of course, you are inclined to doubt the evidence of your own senses! Surely, Deacon Fane, you will oblige these skeptics?"

The Psychist agreed with obvious reluctance.

Hautley elevated an inquiring brow, finishing his coffee and apertif. "And we are to be under the influence of the drugs you mention, Cn. Rapsallion? How can we know they do not contain hallucinogens or hypnotics?"

Carrison Fane took severe exception to this suggestion. "Naturally, Ser Hautley, we will eschew the use of the narcotics for the session which Rapsallion proposes," he snapped.

The Matriarch glared reprovingly about the table. "It would be highly unsuitable to one of my Order to attend such a superstitious debauch," she said harshly. "Neither would I care to subject my Novice to such a spiritual orgy!"

"Oh, but please, Great-Mother," urged the child Alia, with mischief in her sparkling eyes. "It would be so instructive!"

"And it sounds very entertaining," added Taurean Hakefield eagerly. "Please join us, Great-Mother! One of your sobriety and character will readily discern charlatanism, if any should be employed."

"I beg you, Great-Mother, to join us!" urged Jarles Rapsallion. "We are customarily seven at Linkage, just as we are seven at table here ... and if you decline to attend, we shall have to scare up two more, or cancel the demonstration."

"Very well, then," sniffed the Matriarch. "But I utterly disapprove of such meddlings in the Beyond!"

And so it was mutually agreed. Since all had by now finished their dessert, they repaired at once to the cabin occupied by Deacon Fane, which was only a few steps away.

Taurean Hakefield clung to Hautley's arm all the way, her amethyst eyes glistening with excitement and anticipation.

Compared to the spacious, luxurious suite which Hautley Quicksilver occupied, that assigned to Carrison Fane was spartan, to say the least. it was essentially a square room, with an adjoining 'fresher cubicle for sanitary purposes. At Hautley's suggestion, the guests joined hands and traversed the space, encountering no confederate who might have been concealed from view behind a light-baffle.

Then seven pneumos unfolded from storage-spaces in the walls. They seated themselves in a circle thusly:

One by one, the persons present at the scene of the crime were admitted to the Captain's stateroom, beginning with Jarles Rapsallion. The boisterous entrepreneur was shaken, subdued; also, faintly surprised to see Hautley present in an advisory capacity.

"Indeed?" he murmured. "I had not realized that Ser Hautley was a private investigator ... well, ask me what you will!"

"According to Computer Central, both yourself and the, um, deceased were resident upon Illadion IV. You are also both members of study groups devoted to Psychic Science. Were you acquainted?" inquired the Captain. Rapsallion shook his head.

"There are upwards of one hundred thirty million carnate nodes on Illadion IV," he said. "It would be impossible to know everyone on the planet personally... I knew of Deacon Fane by reputation, of course, and heard him lecture on Psychist Science on at least two occasions that I can recall, but to the best of my recollection we never met, never exchanged words."

Hautley leaned forward, unfolding the white kerchief. The steel blade glittered in the brilliantly lit cabin.

"Have you ever seen this instrument before?" he asked.

The entrepreneur stared at the thing with surprise and a certain revulsion. It was not a knife, but a handled skewer; the entire item had been dusted for fingerprints, but none were found; it did not even bear a smudge. It was as if the hand that had held it had been immaterial.

"It ... It looks very like one of the implements we used at table," he murmured faintly. "The entree was small roasted sea-fowl ... we each used such a skewer to hold the fowl while slicing off tidbits."

"It is, in fact, just such an implement," said Hautley gravely.

Rapsallion wet his lips, staring at the deadly thing. "Were any of the skewers absent from our table?" he asked.

"That is Impossible to tell. After we left the table, a servitor piled the dishes and tableware on a gravitic tray; they were taken to the galley and deposited in sterilizers. They were not counted. The servitor was not programmed to notice if anything was missing from the table service," said Hautley.

That evening the six witnesses were summoned by Captain Larlavon to the cabin which had been occupied by the late Carrison Fane. They found the cabin untouched; it was exactly as they had left it the night before, except that naturally the corpse had been removed.

"We are going to reenact the events of last night," Hautley informed them, "with the Captain taking the place of Deacon Fane.

Please take the same seats as before, then join hands."

They did so, however gingerly. Quicksilver smiled.

"I assure you all that the murder will not be repeated," he said gravely. A servitor was summoned to switch off the illuminants and leave the cabin, locking the door from outside.

Silence ensued, disturbed only by rapid breathing from one or another of those present. Taurean Hakefield's little hand was cool and firm in Hadley's grasp; the Captain's hand, however, was sweating.

The black gloom was relieved only by the faintest glimmer of light from the ceiling illuminants in the 'fresher cubicle, whose door was ajar half an inch. In that feeble ghost of illumination, the silver insignia on the Captain's collar could faintly be glimpsed.

The suspense became all but unendurable: they sat motionlessly, waiting for something to happen. When it finally did, it took them by surprise—

A strangled gasp. The scraping of heels against the flooring.

"Lights—quickly!" cried Quicksilver. The linked handclasps were broken; figures lurched to their feet, bumping into one another in the dark. Then the lights came on.

Captain Larlavon was unharmed, pale but composed.

On the floor before him lay a gleaming skewer.

"Let us see if there are any fingerprints on the weapon," suggested Hautley. "Cn. Rapsallion, if you still have that kerchief about you, may I borrow it again?" Rapsallion produced the article; Quicksilver used it to pick up the skewer and examined the handle by means of a powerful lens.

"No fingerprints at all," he decided. "Not even a smudge."

"Ser Hautley, I presume you have some purpose behind this grisly mummery?" demanded the Matriarch impatiently.

"I have indeed, Great-Mother," replied Quicksilver. "We have exactly duplicated the events of yesterday evening with the sole exception that Captain Larson is unharmed. Now I will explain how the murder was committed. One of us at table purloined a skewer which was unobtrusively concealed on his or her person—probably slipped into the waistband of the murderer's garment. With our hands joined it was simply impossible for any of us to have wielded the sharp instrument, therefore the murder was not committed until after the cry for lights went up and our handclasps were broken."

"After?" murmured Taurean Hakefield, wrinkling her brow. "But we all heard—"

"A strangled gasp; the dragging of heels; yes," nodded Hautley Quicksilver. "But any one of us could have uttered that gasp and dragged his or her heels against the flooring. The moment our circle of linked hands was broken, it would be the act of an instant to whip out the skewer—holding it with a piece of cloth so as not to leave fingerprints—and plunge the instrument into Deacon Fane's throat. The target was hard to miss, even in the dark. The faintest glimmer of light from the 'fresher gleamed on the white winged collar Fane was wearing, Just as it picked out the silver rank insignia on the Captain's collar. The skewer was then deposited at Fane's feet, and the piece of cloth returned to pocket or waistband or wherever it had formerly reposed."

"Ingenious!" breathed Turgo Barnavelt. "But so completely simple!"

"Simplicity itself," agreed Hautley. "Merely a bit of misdirection, a stage magician's stock in trade. The whole idea was to make us assume the murder was committed before we broke our handclasp. And one does not have to be a ventriloquist to utter a strangled gasp. We were seated so close together that any one of us could have made the sound, without any of us guessing from whose mouth it came."

"This is all very clever," said Jarles Rapsallion. "Now we know how the murder was committed; a more significant question is, by whom?"

Hautley smiled. "An interesting question, Cn. Rapsallion: but as we both know, you, yourself, are the murderer."

A thunderclap could not have been more shocking. They stared at each other, and at Rapsallion; the entrepreneur himself seemed stunned.

"Surely, you jest!" he cried. "I? For what conceivable reason—from what possible motive—what evidence have you—?"

"I recently obtained from Computer Central a record of your financial transactions over the past year or so," said Hautley. "There were regular withdrawals of sizeable amounts; indeed, the size of the amount grew steadily—”

"My theatrical enterprises—"

"—are financed by private investors. No; you were being blackmailed by Deacon Fane," Hausey interposed. Rapsallion looked baffled.

"For what reason? How could anyone know anything about me to occasion blackmail? You are simply bluffing, Ser Hautley!"

"Nut at all. Hypnotic drugs are regularly imbibed at Psychist meetings. Under the influence of a stronger dose than usual you confided to Fane certain discrepancies in your finances; perhaps you pocketed some of the gate receipts, or padded your expenses in order to bilk your investors out of a considerable amount of cash. You were being blackmailed: the signs are unmistakable."

"Well ... even if I were, and I deny it, that is in itself no evidence of murder!" blustered Rapsallion.

"No, merely a link in the chain. I have no doubt that before you attained your present entrepreneurial prominence, you performed in less prestigious theatrical roIes. Perhaps as a stage magician, even a ventriloquist; if not, then you probably had the opportunity to observe such at close hand and to learn their skills."

"More flim-flam," stormed Rapsallion. "You yourself said not very many minutes past that the murderer did not need to know either the magician's trick of misdirection, or ventriloquism."

"Quite true; one more link in the chain, however. The scraping of heels is another such link: the sound was meant to suggest that Fane, upon being stabbed in the throat, thrust out his legs, which in fact he did, but that was moments later, and the sound he produced was masked behind the noise of several people jumping to their feet, the confusion of chairs being thrust back, as we tried to get the lights on. You scraped your own heels on the floor beneath your chair. See? The marks are still visible on the slick black flooring, as are those beneath my own chair, which I made a few moments ago, when simulating the crime."

All eyes traveled from the scrape marks beneath Hautley's chair to those beneath Rapsallion's.

"When I jumped to my feet—"

"You were naturally on your toes," said Wausaey smoothly. "Not on your heels. Try it and see ..."

Rapsallion sneered. "Any further links in the chain?" he demanded grumpily. Quicksilver nodded.

"You alone wore a silk kerchief prominently displayed and easy to hand, wherewith you whipped the purloined skewer either from the waistband of your slacks or from the breast pocket of your coat."

"Pfah! I have no doubt we all bear kerchiefs on our person."

"But none so readily to hand as yours ... moreover, if my auditors will try to recollect our conversation at table yestereve, they will recall that it was you—the glib, smooth-tongued theatrical promoter—who suggessed the seance and prodded Deacon Fane into agreeing to it."

"I—"

"Back on your home world, it would have been simplicity itself for you to have learned from Psychist circles of Fane's appointment as inspector General. You contrived to take passage on the same liner as Fane. You asked to be seated with him at dinner; the tables are set for seven, bus it made no difference to you whom else might be dining with yourself and your victim, so long as they could be coaxed to attend the seance. The more witnesses, the merrier."

"Conjecture; pure bluff and conjecture; not an atom of solid proof," wheezed Rapsallion red in the face and now perspiring.

At this point the Captain spoke up. "Sufficient, however, for me to order you detained under guard. Cn. Rapsallion, will you voluntarily agree to a mindprobe?"

"I will not," snapped the other.

The door opened, revealing a ship's officer and two brawny crewmen. All three were armed with stun guns.

"Bosun, place Cn. Rapsallion in close confinement. When we reach parking orbit tomorrow, a police gig from Paragon will match velocities; the officers will take the suspect into custody."

Rapsallion lurched clumsily to his feet, swaying.

"I'll have my day in court," he growled. Hautley smiled.

"Not necessarily ... I've no doubt the lawmen can obtain a court order for a mindprobe," he drawled. Rapsallion sagged like a punctured balloon.

"He was draining me dry, the swine," he breathed. "Ever more demands ... I would have gone bankrupt if I hadn't—hadn't—"

"Take the prisoner away, bosun," ordered the Captain.

As they left the cabin, Taurean Hakefield entwined her arm with Hautley's. "That was brilliant," she breathed. "Brilliant! Let me buy you a drink?"

"You may; I could certainly use one," confessed Quicksilver.

They repaired to the Starflite Lounge, where the silver-haired bartender gave Hautley his usual cocktail and served Cns. Hakefield a Cinnabar Moonrise. They clinked glasses and sipped their beverages. Hautley cleared his throat.

"I believe you are entitled to lay over at any given stop and wait for the next IVS liner," he said. "Why not spend two or three days on Paragon with me? I can offer you white beaches, emerald palms, warm lagoons . . .?"

"And what about the dusky maidens?" she inquired with a twinkle of mischief in her eye. He grinned.

"I will gladly pass them up for a slim girl with dark red hair, amethyst eyes and a lopsided smile," said Hautley gallantly.

She smiled and squeezed his hand.