"Pat's a telepath." Joe Schilling cleared a place at the table in the kitchen and set out two handle-less teacups. "Ooh long tea?" he asked.

"Ah so," Pete said, nodding.

"I've got your Don Pasquale record," Schilling said as he poured tea from a black ceramic pot. "The Schipa aria. Da-

dum da-da da. A beautiful piece." Humming, he produced lemon and sugar from the cupboard over the dish-filled sink. Then, in a low voice, he said, "Look, I've got a customer out front." He winked at Pete and pointed, peering past the dusty, stained curtain which separated the living quarters from the store. Pete saw a tall, skinny youth was examining a tattered, ancient record catalogue. "A nut," Schilling said softly. "Eats yogurt and practices Yoga. And lots of vitamin E—for potency. I get all kinds."

The youth called in a stammering voice, "Say, do you h-have any Claudia Muzio records, Mr. Sc-schilling?"

"Just the Letter Scene from Traviata," Schilling said, making no move to rise from the table.

Pete said, "I found Mrs. McClain physically attractive."

"Oh yes. Very vivacious. But not for you. She's what Jung described as an introverted feeling type; they run deep. They're inclined toward idealism and melancholy. You need a shallow, bright blonde type of woman, someone to cheer you up. Someone to get you out of your suicidal depressions that you're always either falling into or out of." Schilling sipped his tea, a few drops spattering his reddish, thick beard. "Well? Say something. Or are you in a depression right now?"

"No," Pete said.

In the front of the store the tall, skinny youth called, "M-mr. Schilling, can I listen to this Gigli record of Una Furtiva Lagrima?"

"Sure," Schilling said. He hummed that, absently, scratching his cheek. "Pete," he said, "you know, rumors get to me. I hear you've lost Berkeley."