"O-kay," he said good-naturedly. "Let's figure it out. Where were you when it started?" "In the bar." "Who else was there? Try to remember exact-ly." I thought. "Art Greymbergen. Fred Balester. Gamble was there--" "Okay, that eliminates him--and you, incidentally--because it started in here. Right, so far?" "Right!" "Hmmm. Something happened _to_ Akimisov." "And Plass--that booboo he made?" Ray dismissed Plass with a gesture. He was looking a little restive; another debate was under way down below, with Punchy and Leigh MacKean vociferously presenting the case for psychokinesis, and being expertly heckled by owlish little M. C. (Hotfoot) Burncloth's echo-chamber voice. "It's too much," I said quickly. "There's too many of them left. We'll never--" "It's perfectly simple!" Ray said incisively. He counted on his fingers again. "Burgeon--Kley--Duchamp--Bierce--Burncloth--MacKean--Jibless. Eight people." "One of the visitors?" I objected. He shook his head. "I know who all these people are, generally," he said. "It's got to be one of those eight. I'll take Kley, Bierce, Jibless and MacKean--you watch the other four. Sooner or later they'll give themselves away." I had _been_ watching. I did it some more. * * * * * A wave of neck-clutching passed over the crowd. Cold breezes, I expect. Or hot ones, in some cases. Tom Jones leaped up with a cry and sat down again abruptly. "Did you see anything?" Ray asked. I shook my head. Where, I wondered, was the good old science fiction cameraderie? If I'd been the lucky one, I would have let the crowd in--well, a few of them, anyway--given them jobs and palaces and things. Not that they would have been grateful, probably, the treacherous, undependable, neurotic bums.... They were looking nervous now. There had been that little burst of activity after a long pause (even the chandelier seemed to be swinging slowly to rest), and now the--call it the stillness--was more than they could stand. I felt it, too: that building up of tension. Whoever it was, was getting tired of little things. A horrible jangling welled out of Burgeon's guitar case; it sounded like a bull banjo with the heaves. Ned jumped, dropped his cigarette holder, got the case open and I guess put his hand on the strings; the noise stopped. That eliminated him ... or did it? Take it another way. What would the guy have to be like who would waste a marvel like this on schoolboy pranks at a Medusa Christmas party? Not Jibless, I thought--he abominates practical jokers. Bierce didn't seem to be the type, either, although you could never tell; the damnedest wry stories get hatched occasionally in that lean ecclesiastic skull. Duchamp was too staid (but was I sure?); MacKean was an enigma. Gamble? Just maybe. Burgeon? Jones? It could be either, I thought, but I wasn't satisfied.