"I doubt that it was Castor," Tingle said. He smiled weakly. "Can God be killed?"
Paz stared hard at him, then said, "You're a nice guy and a good man, Bob. But you are annoyingly facetious."
"Fecetious, right? Sorry."
"There's her husband, coming home," Paz said. He pointed at a strip. "At least, I think it's him."
Tingle recognized the man but could not tell Paz that he was right. Or should he? Wasn't it about time to reveal to Paz that he lived on Tuesday in that house? If he didn't, he could not tell Paz that he was in a painful mental squeeze because Ozma might have been killed by Castor. On the other hand, perhaps Paz should know about it. He could alert his superiors that Castor was on Tingle's trail and so was a danger to all immers.
He scanned the screens. None of the faces in the crowd was Castor's. That madman might have been tempted to hang about the scene of the crime so that he could see the body being brought out and thrill with excitement. But Castor was too canny for that. He would be long gone.
There was a writhing, a moving thing that hurt in Tingle's chest. He knew that the little animal of pain gnawing in his breast was the grief that Caird felt. As Caird's agent, however, he could feel or would only allow himself to feel the lessened grief that he, Tingle, would experience at the murder of the wife of a client.
That was what Tingle told himself. Actually, the pain was sharper than that, so much so that he was afraid that it might break through. Should that happen, he would revert, partly at least, to Caird. He could not let that occur.
He told himself, Really, I don't know that Ozma is dead. Nevertheless, he knew.
"Well?" Paz said.
"I'm sorry," Tingle said. "I was thinking."
"Does thinking hurt that much?"
Tingle forced a smile.
"Only when I laugh. Forgive me, chief. I was thinking that we have to find Castor, get there fust with the mostest as the great Bedford Forrester once said."
"Forester? What's a ranger ...
"It's a historical allusion begat by hysteria, I'm afraid. Forget it, chief. I've got all the data I could get on Snick, and I still don't know if she's really after Gril or her story's a coverup and she's after me. I ... we ... will have to handle her with improvisations. I'm sure the council has taken action to deal with her. So we won't be without help.
"What's important just now is Castor. I'll go to work on him, but I don't think the bank is going to help me. Action is what we want, not data. You let me think about this for a while. If I come up with something good, I'll leave work. You can arrange an excuse, but you'd better tell me what it is before I leave."
"That's no sweat," Paz said, perspiration sliding down his face. He walked out, saying over his shoulder, "Check in with me before you go, if you go."
"Of course."
He leaned back in the chair, eyes closed. Two minutes later, he got a call from Nokomis.
"Have you got anything for me?"
"Nothing yet, my dear. I'm swamped with urgent work. I really don't know when I can get to the you-know-what."
She frowned and said, "I need the you-know-what as soon as possible. Otherwise, my God!"
She rolled her large brown eyes and grimaced.
"If it can be done, it will," he said.
She told him that their seven o'clock dinner date would have to be changed to eight. The producer and the choreographer had gotten into a shouting contest, which had become a slapping match until they were pulled apart. Roger Shenachi, the star ballerino, had overdosed himself with a laxative and now, when he landed from a grand jetй, he became a pathetic, if laughable, spectacle as he ran off the stage.
At another time, Tingle would have been amused by all this. He told Nokomis that he had to go, and he said good-bye. Tragedy and danger were stalking him, yet he was supposed to cluck-cluck over her trivia. He knew her well enough, however, to know that if he did not get her what she wanted he would have to endure not-so-mild reproaches.
A half-hour later, after pacing back and forth in the office, he gave up on all the plans he could think of for finding Castor. What he needed was something to take his mind off the problem for a little while. Then he could attack it with a fresh attitude.
He left the office, went to the urinal, and then went into Paz's office. Paz had a huge lunch, including a large steak, spread out on the desk before him. He looked at Tingle as if daring him to comment. Tingle looked away from the food and said, "I'm going out now. No, I don't have anything good for you. I need to exercise my body, not my mind. I'm going to the fencing gymnasium for a half-hour or so."
"You wouldn't be doing it if you didn't need it," Paz said. "Very well. Only I hope you come up with something soon."
"I like to overtake events, not have events overtake me," Tingle said. "But I'm afraid that just might happen. Then .
I'll have to improvise like hell."
"One has to be a good improviser," Paz said through a mouthful of steak. "But it's better not to have to. Call me every half-hour."
Paz did not look worried; he looked guilty. Tingle bowed to him and left, thinking that his chief was too sensitive about his meat-eating. He, Tingle, did not care what Paz ate, though he wished he would not eat so much. Any day now, Paz's superior would have to ignore whatever influence Paz had used to pressure him, and she would force him to go on a diet. If that failed, he would be examined for, metabolic dysfunctions and either treated electrochemically or sent to a "fat farm."
Tingle went on the elevator to the twentieth floor, walked down a corridor, and entered the anteroom of the fencing gymnasium. After warming up for ten minutes, he engaged in two matches with a woman and a man, neither of whom were immers or data bankers. He won both, which pleased him. But, during his shower, he began thinking again about Castor. Conclusion: Since the madman knew where he, as Caird, lived, he might also know where he, as Tingle, lived. The probability was strengthened because Tingle lived next door to Caird. Castor might have seen him coming out of the apartment building.
Since there was nothing else to do, Tingle decided to be a decoy. Though he might be wasting his time, whatever he did could be a time-waster. Castor, however, was a fanatic. Hence, he was not one to burn time as if it were incense. He would be doing whatever he could to get Tingle unless he had some crazed plan that involved mentally torturing his chief prey. Who knew what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow was not the only one; God also knew. Actually, God was The Real Shadow.
"But," Tingle muttered, "Castor is not really God."
He went down to the Fifth Avenue exit, stepped out into the heat and hailed a cab. After getting in and telling the driver where to go, he inserted the tip of his ID star into the machine mounted on the back of the front seat. The driver scarcely glanced at the ID verification and credit rating displayed on the front panel. She had never been ripped off and did not expect to be.
Tingle watched a news strip on the back of the front seat. The murder at Bleecker Street was not mentioned. It was evident that the government's hand was over the mouth of the media. There would be nothing more on the news about the event unless the government decided on a coverup story. So .
Ozma had been killed, and today's authorities had decided that the public would not know about her. It might panic at the idea that another day's citizen could be destoned and killed.
He shivered with cold at the vision of what might have been done, surely was done, to her by Castor. That was Tingle's reaction, however. If he were wholly Caird, he would have vomited.