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homeopape. It said you were very good and also you take people without too much money.’ He added, ‘We don’t have any money at all right now, but maybe we can pay you later.’
    Brusquely, Myra Sands said, ‘Don’t worry about that now.’ She surveyed the boy and girl. ‘Let’s see. Your names are Art and Rachael Chaffy. Sit down, both of you, and let’s talk, all right?’ She smiled at them, her professional smile of greeting and warmth; it was reserved for her clients, given to no one else, not even to her husband—or, as she thought of Lurton now, her former husband.
    In a soft voice the girl, Rachael, said ‘We tried to get them to let us become bibs but they said we should consult an advisor first.’ She explained, ‘I’m—well, you see, somehow I got to be preg. I’m sorry.’ She ducked her head fearfully, with shame, her cheeks flushing deep scarlet. ‘It’s too bad they don’t just let you kill yourself, like they did a few years ago,’ she murmured. ‘Because that would solve it.’
    ‘That law,’ Myra said firmly, ‘was a bad idea. However imperfect deep-sleep is, it’s certainly preferable to the old form of self-destruction undertaken on an individual basis. How far advanced is your pregnancy, dear?’
    ‘About a month and a half,’ Rachael Chaffy said, lifting her head a trifle. She managed to meet Myra’s gaze; for a moment, at least.
    ‘Then abort-processing presents no difficulty,’ Myra said. ‘It’s routine. We can arrange for it by noon today and have it done by six tonight. At any one of several free government abort clinics here in the area. Just a moment.’ Her secretary had opened the door to the office and was trying to catch her attention. ‘What is it, Tina?’
    ‘An urgent phone call for you, Mrs Sands.’
    Myra clicked on her desk vid-phone. On the screen Tito Cravelli’s features formed in replica, puffy with agitation.
    ‘Mrs Sands,’ Tito said, ‘sorry to bother you at your office so early this morning. But a number of tracking devices we’ve been employing here have wound up their term of service and have come home. I thought you’d want to know. Cally Vale is nowhere on Earth. That’s absolutely been determined; that’s definite.’ He was silent, then, waiting for her to say something.
    ‘Then she emigrated,’ Myra said, trying to picture the dainty and rather nauseatingly fragile Miss Vale in the rugged environment of Mars or Ganymede.
    ‘No,’ Tito Cravelli said emphatically, shaking his head. ‘We’ve checked on that, of course. Cally Vale did not emigrate. It doesn’t make sense, but there it is. No wonder we’re making no headway; we’re faced with an impossible situation.’ He did not appear very happy about it. His features sagged glumly.
    Myra said, ‘She’s not on Earth and she didn’t emigrate. Then she must . . .’ It was obvious to her; why hadn’t they thought of it right away, when Cally originally vanished from sight? ‘She’s entered a government warehouse. Cally’s a bib.’ It was the only possibility left.
    ‘We’re looking into that,’ Tito said, but without enthusiasm. ‘I admit it’s possible but frankly I just don’t buy it Personally, I think they’ve thought up something new, something original; I’d stake my job on it, everything I have.’ Tito’s tone was insistent, now. No longer hesitant. ‘But we’ll check all the Dept. of SPW warehouses, all ninety-four of them. That’ll take a couple of days at least. Meanwhile—’ He caught sight of the young couple, the Chaffys, waiting silently. ‘Perhaps I’d better discuss it with you later; there’s no urgency.’
    Maybe what the homeopapes are hinting at actually did take place, Myra thought to herself. Perhaps Lurton has actually killed her. So she can’t be subpoenaed by Frank Fenner at the trial.
    ‘Do you believe Cally Vale is dead?’ Myra said to Tito bluntly. She ignored the young couple seated opposite her; they did not at the