Dayworld

What was she then? An overly suspicious, perhaps a paranoiac woman. Not at all the woman who should be Bob Tingle's wife. But she had not shown her true nature when he was courting her, and he had been careless in not checking out her personality index before marrying her. Passionate love had blinded him, but that was Bob Tingle's nature. Tingle was likely to be carried away by emotions that Jeff Caird would never have allowed to flourish in him. Yet Caird was responsible for Tingle's nature. Caird had deliberately chosen that nature for his Wednesday role because he wanted to feel strongly-as Tingle-what Caird could feel only weakly.

However, Caird must have had some liking for Tingle characteristics, some feeling that he was missing much by being so self-controlled. So Caird, when building, perhaps growing was the better word, when growing the personality of Tingle, had indulged himself, the Caird self. He was paying now for that luxury because his passion for Nokomis had put him in danger. Though she was not a government secret agent, she did watch him closely. If she discovered something suspicious that was not concerned with their personal relationships, she might probe deeper. If she found something that she suspected was criminal, would she turn him in?

He did not think so, but she would be angry because he had not confided in her.

The truth was that he just did not know what would happen if she pried too much. What he did know was that Tingle should not have married her. Tingle should leave her, the sooner the better. But Tingle was still in love with her, though the high passion blazing in him in the begi

Tingle had tried many times to get her to throw them out. They were a pain and vexation because she insisted on getting some of them out almost every night and placing them on a shelf. Then she had to put them back in the closet before stoning time. They also made it hard for him to get to his own few possessions or even to the clothes rack.

One day, Tingle knew, his not-easily-aroused temper would take him over, and he would dump her stuff down the trash chute. And that would mean their farewell. Which, logically, from his viewpoint, should come about before her possessiveness and suspiciousness got him into trouble.

He sighed, got up from the chair, and went to the bathroom. He removed his still-damp Tuesday clothes from the hamper and hung them up to dry. Later, he would roll them up and stuff them into the shoulderbag. It would be easier and more intelligent to drop them into the chute, but he had only one outfit for partywear. To get another, he would have to turn in the old outfit on Tuesday or have a good excuse for losing it. The latter required filling out a report for the Department of Clothing Outlets.

When he got into bed, he expected that sleep would be slippery, but he got hold of it at once and slid into a throng of dreams.

Awakening when the wall-strip alarm belled, he remembered only one of the dreams that had besieged him. Father Tom's face, his own, of course, recognizable even under the wig and the fake beard, had appeared on a wall strip. The strip showed Father Tom standing on the near side of a broad, dark, and sluggishly moving river. Just beyond Father Tom was a massive stone bridge. Father Tom held in his right hand a heavy iron candelabrum with seven candles. It looked like those used in synagogues, but Tingle could not remember its name. A long bright flame was spurting from the long finger of Father Tom's right hand. Father Tom was frowning as if he could not decide which candle to light.

"This is the moment," Father Tom said sternly.

Tingle had woken up muttering, "Moment of what?"

He had slept for six hours, though he usually required eight. He put on shorts and went down to the basement, where he exercised in solitude on a machine. Returning to the apartment, he showered again, dressed, and drank a cup of coffee. By then the sun was strong, the city astir, and the temperature was begi

Which meant that he was not entirely Tingle. Jeff Caird still lived in him. He was reminding Tingle that he was supposed to contact his immer agent in Wednesday. That would have to be done from the data bank, however.

At the moment there was only one person in front of the house at the corner of Bleecker and the Kropotkin Canal. A man on a bicycle pedaling west, his back to Tingle. A big green coolie hat shaded his neck, and he wore a brown shirt and billowy green slacks. Tingle watched the man stop at the corner and turn his head to look behind him.

Tingle said, "God!" He clenched his hands and stepped out farther onto the balcony. The face under the hat had Castor's long narrow features and rather large nose. And why was he looking so intently at the house?

Tingle shook his head and spoke loudly to himself.

"It's just your imagination! He wouldn't be dumb enough to do that!"

Whatever that meant. Danger for Ozma?

The man turned his head, allowing Tingle a glance at his profile. It was like the vulturine face of Castor, but ... No, it could not be Castor.

The bicycler disappeared behind the house as he went north on the canal road, appeared again, then vanished behind the next house. A man stepped out of the back door of the corner house and went to the garage. Presently, he came out with a bicycle. Tingle recognized him as John Chandra. Tingle knew well his face and that of his wife, Aditi Rotwa, having seen them through the stoner windows in the basement. He stepped back so that Chandra would not look up and see him.

Even if his neighbor noticed the likeness of his face and that of Jeff Caird's in the basement stoner, he would think only of what a remarkable coincidence it was. Tingle waited until Chandra had disappeared behind the house before he stepped out again to look for the bicycler. By then, he was gone.

"Just my nerves," Tingle muttered.

Three minutes later, he was headed east, a part of a flow of cyclists and an occasional electric car. He had just begun to sweat when he saw out of the corner of his eye a banana peel on the sidewalk.