The screen showed an enlarged full-face photograph of Alcorn.
He was responsible for Hagen's death. But who had wanted the knowledge of Alcorn's gift—or the suppression of that knowledge—badly enough to kill the psychiatrist for it?
Jaffers, or the faceless people behind Janice Wynn?
It had to be Jaffers, he decided, eliminating a possible source of opposition and at the same stroke placing himself still further on the defensive.
Slowly, he became aware that the joy-bar had fallen quiet, that everyone in the place was watching him with a sort of intent sympathy. The bartender left his place and came toward him, his heavy face a study in concern.
"We know you couldn't have done it," the man said. The sway of Alcorn's presence held him hypnotized. "Can we help?"
Alcorn's only thought was of flight. "Have you a turbo-copter?"
"On the roof," the bartender said. "It's yours."
Alcorn took him along to unlock the controls. On the roof landing, a cool evening wind was blowing. There was a dim thin sickle of moon and a pale haze of stars, a wraithlike scattering of small white clouds that drifted in the reflected spectrum of the city's multicolored glow.