The first person Brian S’pense encountered while crossing the Princeton commons was erudite little Wanda Ases. She too was a member of the Society and she seemed quite distraught. She seemed not even to recognize him, until he put out a foot and tripped her.
“You rat!” she shouted from the lawn in the gathering vesperal gloom. “What does it mean, Wanda?” he demanded of her. She looked at him coolly. “What does what mean, S’pense?” (no one called him Brian), she responded. “What’s gotten into you? You were always so cold and self-absorbed. It isn’t like you to trip people.”
“It’s not like me to take out Reggie Prong, either,” he retorted. “Well, you’d make an interesting couple, but I think he’s too short for you,” she said, breaking into a smile, “Here, help me up.” S’pense made no move to help her. he looked at her coolly and said:
“Shlemmer’s ordering me to ‘take out’ Reggie. What does he mean, Wanda?” “How should I know?” she crossed up her eyes vexedly.
“You two were always together,” he accused, “He must have told you something of the nature of his plan.”
“It’s a game, S’pense,” she insisted, “It’s just a game to see whoever’ll win.”
“You believe that?”
Wanda looked at him. Looked at him maybe for the first time, really. “Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. Not for several weeks.” As her homework papers flew away with the April wind, Wanda Ases suddenly realized that there might be something interesting beneath the drab crust of Brian S’pense after all. “You can’t be serious, S’pense, I think it’s time for a reality check here.”
His skin was ashen and there was a genuinely blank expression on his face. “I believe Shlemmer wants me to actually—kill Reggie Prong.” She finally remembered to pull herself off the ground and stood. “Come with me, man, you need a drink,” she said.
She took a bottle of gin from the cupboard of her dorm room. She examined the bottle and muttered something dark about her roommate. She poured two thirds of what was left into a dirty Daffy Duck glass and the rest into a stained coffee cup. Then she found she had no tonic. Or Pepsi. She used white wine, instead.
Brian S’pense was really beginning to lose balance. He hadn’t eaten a thing all day. He’d zoned out on permutations and nearly puked in the gym. He took a sip of the cup, grimaced and set it down. “Shlemmer never intended this thing to stay a game, did he?” He said cagily. “We’ve all been doing real things, haven’t we?”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” she repeated over the rim of her gin’in’duck. “And why come to me with questions about Carl?”
“I know he confided in you,” he said, “I know he told you things. I’m sure you know the scope of his little game.”
“How could I?” she shot back, angrily. “I haven’t even seen him in over two months; nobody has. His papers all come in on time. Six of his teachers have final grades registered for him…”
“You may not ever see him, but you have a phone number. I know you do.”
“How do you know that?” she demanded. He looked through her at the peeling wallpaper.
“It came in an envelope about the time I began to get suspicious.”
“Who told you such lies?” she interrupted furiously.
“The signature was the same as all the others: C.S. Carlo Shlemmer.”
He took a gulp from the cup again and levelled his eyes on hers. “You better tell me whether Carl wants me to commit an act of murder?” She met his gaze and stood up. “Well, you better hope not, S’pense,” she said in a suddenly coy voice. “‘Cause the name I got in the mail today was yours.”
Her face slipped sideways as Brian S’pense’s head crashed to the floor.