Part 1 (2/2)

And only the police should have one.

But why should the police want Taguster dead... and why should they choose such an easily traced means of obtaining his destruction?

The Hound disappeared through the doorway, suddenly reminding Ti that Taguster was back there in the living-room, half dead. The Hound was returning to check on its work. Ti s.h.i.+fted his consciousness into the main receiver again.

Taguster was in the same position, still gurgling. When the mechanical killer entered the room, the dying man saw it.

Ti found a curio, a small bra.s.s peasant leading a bra.s.s mule, a handcrafted trinket Taguster had brought back from a trip to Mexico. Lifting with his psionic power, he threw it at the Hound with all the force he could muster. The toy bounced off the dully gleaming hide and fell harmlessly to the floor.

The Hound drifted toward Taguster, firing tube open.

Timothy found an ashtray, tried to lift it but could not manage. He cursed the limitations of his power. Then he remembered the gun on the desktop, lying opposite the pencils, heavy and ugly. He touched the pistol psionically, but could not budge it. He pressed harder, eventually moved it slightly until the barrel pointed directly at the Hound. Pulling the light wire of the trigger was easy enough. The gun spat a narcodart that bounced off the beast with no effect other than to elicit a scanning by its sight receptors.

Then the Hound shot Taguster. Four times in the chest.

Timothy felt as if all his energy had been sucked out of him by an electronic vampire. He wanted only to fold up, shrivel in upon himself, and slide home into his temporal sh.e.l.l where, at least, he could gain succor from his books, his films, his house. But he could not let the Hound escape. He sent the cameras swiveling in search of articles small enough for his talent to handle. He found a number of trinkets and figurines and rained these uselessly upon the machine.

The Hound surveyed the chamber, perplexed, firing darts in the direction of the hurled souvenirs, unable to discover its a.s.sailant Then it turned a spatter of darts on the receiver head and floated out of the room, out of the house and away...

CHAPTER 2.

For a time, Ti remained in the living-room staring at Taguster's corpse. He felt too emotionally weakened to move elsewhere. Memories flipped past his mind like a parade of lizards, tail flicking after tail, cold claws sunk into his brain. With each came more realization that there would be no more experiences with Taguster, no more conversations to be stored for later retrieval and reflection. What he remembered now was all that he would ever have. When a friend dies, it is much like a candle flame being snuffed-the warmth and brightness gone, leaving a vague recollection of what it had once been like.

He broke from Taguster's receiver and allowed his mind to flow into the Mindlink beam, through the penumbra landscape, back into his own body. He sat for a moment, regaining lost energies, and slowly became aware of the tears welling out of his eye and running down his pallid, clammy skin. He was not crying so much for Taguster as for himself-for the one thing he feared more than all else was loneliness. Those days and nights when he had been hopelessly immobile in the government hospital preyed on him now. The forgotten terror of being unable to communicate was renewed and metamorphosed into anguish. There were few men with minds as alert and as deeply structured as his own, few who could possibly be close friends. Indeed, Taguster was the only one he had ever called friend... and now he had no one at all.

The flow of his own tears finally forced him to lift the helmet from his head and shut off the machine, forced him to come to grips with the situation. If his greatest weakness was his almost irrational fear of loneliness, then his greatest strength was his ability to stand alone. His weakness and his strength were two sides of one coin. He sat there, letting the tears dry on his face, and thought through the events of the last half hour.

Ordinarily, he would have wasted no time in summoning the police. But it had been a Hound that had murdered Taguster, and that was a distinct complication. If some-or any-legal authorities had conspired to take the musician's life then it was madness to let them know there was a witness to their murder. He had to know more of the story behind the killing, though he had nothing but a name: Margle.

He rose from the cup-chair and crossed the room, moved through a painting-lined corridor and into the library he prized so much. He threw a toggle along the wall, next to the comscreen; a panel slid back, revealing a computer keyboard, a direct line to the Enterstat Enterstat computer. He punched out the letters of the name and depressed the bar marked FULL DATA REPORT. computer. He punched out the letters of the name and depressed the bar marked FULL DATA REPORT.

Thirty seconds later, a printed stat sheet popped out of the information receival slot and into the plastic tray, glistening wetly. He waited a moment for it to dry, then reached with a servo and picked it up, shaking it to release any static that might make it curl. He held it up and read it, blinking now and then as a stray breath of the copying fluid drifted upward and stung his eye.

Klaus Margle. He was connected with the Brethren, the underworld organization that had encroached on the territory once held sacrosanct by the older Mafia-and had finally deposed and destroyed the elder organization because it controlled the supply of PBT. PBT had replaced nearly all other drugs and quasi-drugs in man's eternal quest to avoid the unpleasantries of modern life. Since gambling and prost.i.tution had been dignified by liberalized laws, drugs had become the chief commodities of the underworld. It was rumored that Margle was the chief Don of the intricate counterculture of illegality, though this information could not be checked for authenticity.

Physically, he was six feet tall and weighed two hundred and eighteen pounds. His hair was dark, but his eyes were a surprising baby blue. He had a three-inch scar along his right jawline: source unknown. He was missing a thumb on his right hand: reason for amputation unknown. He believed in taking part in the common dangerous ch.o.r.es of his organization; he would not send one of his men to do something he had not once done himself-or would flinch from doing now. He was a man of action, not a desk-chained executive. He currently dated Polly London, the rising young senso-starlet who had appeared in Enterstat's Enterstat's glamour section more often than any other woman. Klaus Margle. End of information. glamour section more often than any other woman. Klaus Margle. End of information.

This explained the Hound and brought a touch of sanity to the surreal atmosphere of the crime. The underworld could obtain anything it wanted; it was rumored that half the city's officials were on the gift sheet of the Brethren. Through one or more of those men, Margle's people had secured the Hound. Which made it quite possible that Timothy would be putting his nonexistent foot into a nasty patch of briars if he should contact the police.

Punching the number for the Enterstat Enterstat editor's private desk phone, he waited while the comscreen rang the number. The two-dimensional medium was almost entirely a business service now that the three-dimensional, full sensory Mindlink had taken over communications for more intimate purposes. It also served as a very private means of contact for people like Timothy. In a moment, the blank screen popped with color, and the face of George Creel, editor's private desk phone, he waited while the comscreen rang the number. The two-dimensional medium was almost entirely a business service now that the three-dimensional, full sensory Mindlink had taken over communications for more intimate purposes. It also served as a very private means of contact for people like Timothy. In a moment, the blank screen popped with color, and the face of George Creel, Enterstat's Enterstat's editor, swam into view like a fish speeding toward the side of his gla.s.s aquarium. It settled into proper proportions, held still. The big man's melancholy eyes stared out at Timothy. ”Morning,” he said. ”What's going on?” editor, swam into view like a fish speeding toward the side of his gla.s.s aquarium. It settled into proper proportions, held still. The big man's melancholy eyes stared out at Timothy. ”Morning,” he said. ”What's going on?”

There was no subservience in his tone of voice, though he had a great deal of respect for his boss. It was the sort of respect that did not need to be vocalized, for both of them knew it existed. Ti also regarded Creel highly. The man was efficient, intelligent, and had gone through enough years of hards.h.i.+p and terror to be tempered into a fine precision instrument. Creel was black, and had been eleven years old during the Black Wars. He lived in Chicago when that city attempted to break away from the rest of the nation. The boy survived the final battles when many children had not, and the years of distrust and hatred which followed molded this present man.

”I want some information on a story prospect, George.”

”Writing again?” Creel asked.

”Just something that interested me,” Timothy said, hoping he could hide his roiling emotions.

”Who is it?”

”Klaus Margle. He dates Polly London. Missing a thumb on his right hand. Scarred on his face. And he may be the Don of the most influential family in the Brethren.”

”Ill put some researchers on it. Tomorrow okay?”

”I want it inside an hour.”

”It'll take four or five good men.”

”'Deadlines too tight?”

”No,” Creel said. ”I can spare them. Call you in an hour.” He signed off on his own authority, his face dwindling until it had disappeared altogether.

Timothy mixed himself a strong whiskey sour and waited. The quiet of the house seemed unnatural. But even after he slipped a cartridge into the stereo tape deck, the place seemed hollow, like a pavilion after a political congregation: cold. He was glad for the strident buzz of the comscreen an hour later.

”He's some fellow, isn't he,” Creel said.

”Stat it,” Timothy said, anxious to see what the staff had found.

Creel placed the doc.u.ments under his recorder scope, one sheet at a time, then punched the transmit b.u.t.ton. Moments later, wet copies dropped into the tray in Ti's wall. He restrained himself from rus.h.i.+ng forward to look at them. Creel, he could tell, was already too interested. Timothy did not want to blow any of this until he knew exactly what was going on. It was not that he did not trust Creel. It was only that he trusted himself more. Creel would have acted the same way.

When all the papers had been received, he thanked the observant black man and rang off. Nestled in a comfortable cup-chair, power off in his grav-plates, servos holding the data sheets, he thought he could see Leonard Taguster's face in the print, formed by the letters. He quickly blinked the illusion away and studied the reports.

When he had finished reading everything the researchers had found on Klaus Margle, he knew beyond doubt that the man was the chief of the Brethren. The list of other underworld figures a.s.sumed liquidated under his auspices became awesome. By studying the list, Timothy could see the story of an industrious and ruthless criminal genius a.s.sa.s.sinating his way up the ranks and into the top roost.

The information also showed that it had been a wise move not to contact the police. Klaus Margle had been arrested nine different times-and had been released each time for ”lack of evidence.” If the police investigated this, without strong supportive evidence, Margle would go free. Then he would come hunting a societal reject named Timothy...

He was thankful, now, for his self-sufficiency. This business could not be turned over to police until he had possession of conclusive evidence that Margle could not buy his way out of. He was going to have to handle it himself, using all the connections in his power and every point of his high IQ.

Activating his grav-plates, he went to the Mindlink set, slid in, and coupled up. He was not going to enjoy returning to that house where the musician and the girl lay in their own blood. It was bad enough losing a friend, but to have to handle that friend's corpse in the manner he planned made him distinctly ill.

A moment later he was settling into the brain blank in Leonard Taguster's living-room receiver. The body was still there, twisted grotesquely in death agonies. He looked quickly away, but found his eyes drawn back like metal filings to a magnet. He focused the cameras on the closet door he wanted. He hoped Taguster still kept the thing where he used to. Ti palmed open the closet door with his psionic power. Warning lights flashed amber and red, and a loud clanging alarm sounded. He shut those off and looked inside-at a perfect likeness of the musician, except that, unlike its model, it was not full of pins and slicked with blood.

Taguster had commissioned the production of the simulacrum to help him avoid the adulation of his fans. It always forced its way through crowds, bullied past young girls waiting at his hotel-while he walked quietly in the back door or followed an hour later when the people had gone. Its complex brain was cored with Taguster's memory tapes and his psychological reaction patterns, making it possible for the fake to pa.s.s as the real even in the company of casual friends-although someone as close to him as Timothy could not be fooled for more than a moment.

Ti reached psionically under the flowered sports coat the machine wore and brought it to active status; its eyes opened, unclouded, and attained the same penetrating gaze that Taguster was famous for. ”You,” Ti said. ”Come here.” But despite the fact that he was trying to be businesslike, his voice was hoa.r.s.e.

It walked out of the closet and stopped before the receiver. For a moment, Timothy could not bear to order it to do anything; it seemed as if such an act would demean the memory of the real Taguster. But such orders were necessary to the success of the plan. ”You recognize my voice?” he asked it.

<script>