ess was
closing in on the psychotherapist. The rumble of distant rockets
seemed louder, covering his fading voice. "It's your choice, Bryce. I
give it to you. You won't want this later--Bryce--but don't--hunger to
undo. It is payment enough for all--times like this--that you
change--and do not--want--them any--again--" Pierce pulled in a
strangling breath, swaying more visibly. "Gun," he whispered, reaching
out in Bryce's direction, his eyes going sightless.

Bryce handed him the magnomatic, and watched as Pierce fumbled his
hands over it, putting his prints on it blindly, his knees bending.

When he fell, Bryce picked up the phone and called Emergency. The
emergency squad would be cruising around in the halls somewhere
nearby, looking for the source of the three radio notes that had told
them that a gun was fired.

* * * * *

"That was the last I saw of him," the young man stopped talking and
looked pleased with himself.

Donahue drained his drink irritably and put it on the bar that had
been set up on the ceiling when the Gs went off. It clung
magnetically. "Make it the same, please." He turned to Roy Pierce,
floating beside him. "Stop needling me, man, finish the story. The way
you tell it, I don't know what you did, how you did it, or even
whether you died or not."

"Oh, I died," said Roy Pierce. "But they revived me," he added.

"Good! I'm glad to hear that!" said Donahue more cheerfully, wondering
suddenly just how extensively he was being kidded. "For a moment
there you had me worried. Now explain about this treatment."

"It's called soul eating," explained the dark-skinned, straight-haired
boy, "I don't think you could do it."

Donahue thought that information over carefully. "Maybe not. How's it
done?"

"In the tribes of my people the soul is supposed to be an invisible
double who walks at your side, protecting you and speaking silently to
your mind. Its face is the face that looks out of mirrors and up from
pools at you, and the shadow that walks on the ground beside you.
Evildoers, after they had spoken to a Manoba, would say that their
reflections were gone. Our family was called The Eaters of Souls, and
all the tribes were afraid of us for nine hundred miles around."

"So am I," said Donahue compactly. "As my Yiddish grandmother on my
mother's side would say, it sounds from werewolves."

"I can explain it."

"No magic?"

"Look," said the youth tersely, "Do I