It was a three-block walk from the bus to the nursery school where she had left Estela this morning on her way to work. Juanita hurried, knowing she was late.

The little girl ran toward her as she entered the small school playroom in the basement of a private house. Though the house, like others in the area, was old and di­lapidated, the school rooms were clean and cheerful - the reason Juanita had chosen the school in preference to oth­ers, though the cost was higher and a strain for her to pay.

Estela was excited, as full of joy as always.

"Mommy! Mommy! See my painting. It's a train." She pointed with a paint-covered finger. "There's a bagoose. That's a man inside."

She was a small child, even for three, dark like Juanita, with large liquid eyes reflecting her wonder at each new interest, at the fresh discoveries she made every day.

Juanita hugged her and corrected her gently. "Caboose, amorcito."

It was obvious from the stillness that the other children were all gone.

Miss Ferroe, who owned and ran the school, came in primly, frowning. She looked pointedly at her watch.

"Mrs. Nunez, as a special favor I agreed that Estela could stay after the others, but this is far too late ..."

"I really am sorry, Miss Ferroe. Something happened at the bank."

"I have private responsibilities also. And other parents observe the school's closing time."

"It won't happen again. I promise."

"Very well. But since you are here, Mrs. Nunez, may I remind you that last month's bill for Estela has not been paid."

"It will be on Friday. I'll have my paycheck then."

"I'm sorry to have to mention it, you understand. Estela is a sweet little girl and we're glad to have her. But I have bills to pay . . ."

"I do understand. It will be Friday for sure. I promise."

"That's two promises, Mrs. Nunez."

"Yes, I know."

"Good night then. Good night, Estela dear."

Despite her starchiness, the Ferroe woman ran an excel­lent nursery school and Estela was happy there. The money owing to the school, Juanita decided, would have to come out of her pay this week, as she had said, and somehow she must manage until the payday after that. She wasn't sure how. Her wage as a teller was $98 weekly; after taxes and Social Security deductions, her take-home pay was $83. Out of that there was food to buy for the two of them, Estela's school fees, plus rent of the tiny walk-up flat they lived in at Forum East; also the finance company would demand a payment since she had missed the last.

Before Carlos left her, simply walking out and disap­pearing a year ago, Juanita had been naive enough to sign finance papers jointly with her husband. He had bought suits, a used car, a color TV, all of which he took with him. Juanita, however, was still paying, the installments seeming to stretch on into a limitless future.

She would have to visit the finance company office, she thought, and offer them less. They would undoubtedly be nasty, as they were before, but it would have to be endured.

On the way home, Estela skipped happily along, one small hand in Juanita's. In her other hand Juanita carried Estela's painting, carefully rolled up. In a little while, in the apartment, they would have their evening meal and af­terward they usually played and laughed together. But Jua­nita would find it difficult to laugh tonight.

Her earlier terror deepened as she considered for the first time what might happen if she lost her job. The probability, she realized, was strong.

She knew, too, that it would be hard to find work else­where. No other bank would hire her and other employers would want to know where she had worked before, then would find out about the missing money and reject her.

Without a job, what would she do? How could she sup­port Estela?

Abruptly, stopping on the street, Juanita reached down and clasped her daughter to her.

She prayed that tomorrow someone would believe her, would recognize the truth.

Someone, someone.

But who?

Chapter 9.

Alex Vandervoort, also, was abroad in the city.

Earlier in the afternoon, returning from the session with Nolan Wainwright, Alex had paced his office suite, seeking to place recent events in true perspective. Yesterday's an­nouncement by Ben Rosselli was a major cause for reflec­tion. So was the resultant situation in the bank. So, too, were developments, within recent months, in Alex's per­sonal life.

Pacing back and forth - twelve strides one way, twelve the other - was an old established habit. Once or twice he had stopped, re-examining the counterfeit Keycharge credit cards which the security chief had allowed Alex to bring away. Credit and credit cards were additionally a part of his preoccupation - not only fraudulent cards, but genuine ones, too.

The genuine variety was represented by a series of ad­vertising proofs, also on the desk, and now spread out. They had been prepared by the Austin Advertising Agency and the purpose was to encourage Keycharge holders to use their credit and their cards increasingly.

One announcement urged:

WHY WORRY ABOUT MONEY? USE YOUR KEYCHARGE CARD AND LET US WORRY FOR YOU !

Another claimed:

BILLS ARE PAINLESS WHEN YOU SAY “PUT IT ON MY KEYCHARGE !”

A third advised:

WHY WAIT? YOU CAN AFFORD TOMORROW`S DREAM TODAY !

USE YOUR KEYCHARGE - NOW !

A half dozen others were on similar themes.

Alex Vandervoort was uneasy about them all.

His unease did not have to be translated into action. The advertising, already approved by the bank's Keycharge di­vision, had merely been sent to Alex for general informa­tion. Also, the overall approach had been agreed on several weeks ago by the bank's board of directors as a means to increase the profitability of Keycharge which - like all credit-card programs - sustained losses in its initial, launch­ing years.

But Alex wondered: Had the board envisaged a promo­tional campaign quite so blatantly aggressive?

He shuffled the advertising proofs together and returned them to the folder they had arrived in. At home tonight he would reconsider them and he would hear a second opinion, he realized - probably a strong one - from Margot.

Margot.

The thought of her melded with the memory of Ben Ros­selli's disclosure yesterday. What had been said then was a reminder to Alex of life's fragility, the brevity of time remaining, the inevitability of endings, a pointer to the un­expected always close at hand. He had been moved and saddened for Ben himself; but also, without intending to, the old man had revived once more an oft-recurring ques­tion: Should Alex make a fresh life for himself and Margot? Or should he wait? And wait for what?

For Celia? That question, too, he had asked himself a thousand times.

Alex looked out across the city toward where he knew Celia to be. He wondered what she was doing, how she was.

There was a simple way to find out. He returned to his desk and dialed a number which he knew by heart.

A woman's voice answered, "Remedial Center."

He identified himself and said, "I'd like to talk with Dr. McCartney."

After a moment or two a male voice, quietly firm, in­quired, "Where are you, Alex?"

"In my office. I was sitting here wondering about my wife."

"I asked because I intended to call you today and suggest you come in to visit Celia."

"The last time we talked you said you didn't want me to."

The psychiatrist corrected him gently. "I said I thought any more visits inadvisable for a while. The previous few, you'll remember, seemed to unsettle your wife rather than help."

"I remember." Alex hesitated, then asked, "There's been some change?"

"Yes, there is a change. I wish I could say it was for the better."

There had been so many changes, he had become dulled to them. "What kind of change?"

"Your wife is becoming even more withdrawn. Her es­cape from reality is almost total. It's why I think a visit from you might do some good." The psychiatrist corrected himself, "At least it should do no harm."

"All right. I'll come this evening."

"Any time, Alex; and drop in to see me when you do. As you know, we've not set visiting hours here and a min­imum of rules."

"Yes, I know."

The absence of formality, he reflected, as he replaced the telephone, was a reason he had chosen the Remedial Center when faced with his despairing decision about Celia nearly four years ago. The atmosphere was deliberately non­institutional. The nurses did not wear uniforms. As far as was practical, patients moved around freely and were en­couraged to make decisions of their own. With occasional exceptions, friends and families were welcome at any time. Even the name Remedial Center had been chosen inten­tionally in preference to the more forbidding "mental hospital." Another reason was that Dr. Timothy McCartney, young, brilliant, and innovative, headed a specialist team which achieved cures of mental illnesses where more con­ventional treatments failed.

The Center was small. Patients never exceeded a hundred and fifty though, by comparison, the staff was large. In a way, it was like a school with small classes where students received personal attention they could not have gained else­where.

A modem building and spacious gardens were as pleas­ing as money and imagination could make them.

The clinic was private. It was also horrendously expen­sive but Alex had been determined, and still was, that what­ever else happened, Celia would have the best of care. It was, he reasoned, the very least that he could do.

Through the remainder of the afternoon he occupied him­self with bank business. Soon after 6 P.M. he left FMA Headquarters, giving his driver the Remedial Center ad­dress, and read the evening paper while they crawled through traffic. A limousine and chauffeur, available at any time from the bank's pool of cars, were perquisites of the executive vice-president's job and Alex enjoyed them.

Typically, the Remedial Center had the facade of a large private home with nothing outside, other than a street num­ber, to identify it.

An attractive blonde, wearing a colorful print dress, let him in. He recognized her as a nurse from a small insignia pin near her left shoulder. It was the only permitted dress distinction between staff and patients.

"Doctor told us you'd be coming, Mr. Vandervoort. I'll take you to your wife."

He walked with her along a pleasant corridor. Yellows and greens predominated. Fresh flowers were in niches along the walls.

"I understand," he said, "that my wife has been no bet­ter."

"Not really, I'm afraid." The nurse shot him a sideways glance; he sensed pity in her eyes. But for whom? As al­ways, when he came here, he felt his natural ebullience desert him.

They were in a wing, one of three running outward from the central reception area. The nurse stopped at a door.

"Your wife is in her room, Mr. Vandervoort. She had a bad day today. Try to remember that, if she shouldn't. .:" She left the sentence unfinished, touched his arm lightly, then preceded him in.

The Remedial Center placed patients in shared or single rooms according to the effect which the company of others had on their condition. When Celia first came she was in a double room, but it hadn't worked; now she was in a pri­vate one. Though small, Celia's room was cozily comfort­able and individual. It contained a studio couch, a deep armchair and ottoman, a games table and bookshelves. Im­pressionist prints adorned the walls.

"Mrs. Vandervoort," the nurse said gently, "your hus­band is here to visit you."

There was no acknowledgment, neither movement nor spoken response, from the figure in the room.