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time he strangles his victim. The next time he slashes her.”
    “So?”
    “So—” Howard Goss’s voice paused superciliously. “So it’s possible that there are actually two Tarots—the original and a copycat. That happens all the time, you know. I mean, imitation is a very big factor in—”
    “Oh, come on, Howard.” Her voice flattened, elaborately sarcastic. “You’re stretching it.”
    “All right, lover. Wait and see. When they find him— if they find him—he might be ‘they.’ Believe it.” The water faucet suddenly spouted a stream sound. A cup banged down on the sink counter. “Come on. We’d better get back. Technically, I’m not even supposed to be here.”
    “Well, technically, I am supposed to be here. And I want to finish my cigarette.”
    “See you later then.” The door opened, then closed. Howard Goss was gone.
    His arms ached, still spread elbow-locked astride the carton. He was still staring down at the lamp base. He could see himself. But how old was this blue reflection? How old was this face, staring up from the paper tatters? Where were the shrieking children-voices?
    He might be “they.”
    How many believed it?
    Did she believe it? Florence Klein—with her shrew’s sharp voice and the moustache-down staining her upper lip. Did she believe it?
    He must turn—face her—find out. If she believed it, then their crime was robbery. Bleat-blustering at each other, sipping their coffee and smoking their cigarettes, they’d cut him in two, sliced him top-to-bottom, left him a “they.”
    He was turning toward her. He moved slowly, carefully. She stood with a cigarette smoldering between her blood-red lips, staring at him across the storeroom. One of her hands held a coffee cup. Another hand was reaching toward the gray-smoking shape of the white cigarette, still imbedded in bright red flesh. As the fingers snatched the cigarette free, the painted lips parted, forming words:
    “Hello, Leonard. How are you?”
    But her eyes touched him only once, then moved indifferently around the room, returning to the coffee cup gripped in her stumpy hands. Her fingernails, too, were blood-painted. Fingernails and lips. Had she gnawed at her lips, bitten her fingertips? If she had, then the paint bottle would be useless, spattering the floor.
    Useless…
    Spattering the floor.
    And the walls, too. Even the walls. Red-spattered liquid, alive in the moonlight. The liquid had moved across the floor, spreading. And sagging on the wall, down-dripping blood.
    How many believed it?
    Now her eyes were once more watching him. The dark, hairy brows were gathered, frowning. Muscles were slowly contracting around shrewd, unfriendly eyes. Puzzlement. Danger. Alarm. The room was shifting unsteadily as his body turned. He was once more staring down at the safe blue lamp. Just in time. He—
    “Leonard?”
    It was a different voice. Hers, but different. This new voice demanded a stock clerk’s answer to an assistant buyer’s question.
    He was turning. Facing her. Waiting. Inside himself, he could hear distant voices, screaming. But they heard nothing, neither one. Neither he nor Florence Klein.
    Neither—nor. Either—or. A school lesson, faithfully remembered. Ipso.
    “Did you take those bookends up for sketching? To Advertising?”
    “N—n—” He saw the frown once more pucker-gathering. But now he couldn’t turn away. He must wait for the words to come. His words. He and Florence Klein. They both must wait.
    “N—no. Not yet.”
    “Well—” The frown was clearing. The cigarette was glowing. The blood-red lips were sucking. Unclean. Unclean. “Well, don’t forget them. After lunch, be sure and do it. You know the ones, don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good.”
    Good. The single word was echoing. Reechoing. Its pitch was rising inside, screaming up toward his head, sound-flooding his brain. But she didn’t know. She couldn’t hear. Watching him, her eyes were dead.
    He was turned away