"No, it's an out of the way place. The tube doesn't go there. I think she flew."

"What flight? What line?"

"Now look," Alec said. He stood, towering over Cargill. "What's any of this to you? There is a thing called privacy. Anna happens to be my wife-not yours."

"I never insinuated otherwise, though of course I would be honored by the privilege. Still, I wonder about people. You understand-my profession."

"Well, wonder about someone else." Alec stepped back, lingered half in the air, finally sat down. Cargill's stately composure perplexed him. The radiations he gave off were as steady and impenetrable as ever. "To tell the truth," he said, "I don't know exactly where she is. I think it's Wyoming but she wouldn't let me have an address. I think she wants to lead her own life-without me."

"And the android?" Cargill asked.

"The android?" Alec laughed, unable to resist the opportunity. "You mean Eathen? Don't you know? He left at the same time Anna did. He's enlisted in the Ah Tran movement. I wonder if I could demand to have him sent back. Like the fugitive slaves before the Civil War. He's property-not a person. In fact, I think he's actually a disciple of Ah Tran."

"Yes," Cargill said, "he is. But-what I want to know about-" he leaned forward, quivering with suppressed anticipation "-is what about you?"

"Me?"

"Are you intending to enlist too?"

"Hardly. My work is science-not crazy mysticism."

"The two are not incompatible." Cargill leaned back, apparently satisfied at having made some private point, and crossed his hands over the waist of his great coat. "Both are devices by which man attempts to comprehend and measure the vast unknown. With science, the technique is firm knowledge gathered through experiment and observation. With mysticism, sheer inspiration is used. The one follows the other. Einstein, for example, merely confirmed what many mystics had been saying for centuries. When the two are combined-"

"They can't be," Alec said, leaping to his feet. He was strangely and greatly irritated by this nonsense. "If you don't mind, Inspector, I'm very busy. I've enjoyed this talk, but some other time, please."

"Oh, of course. Certainly." Cargill nodded sharply once, smiled, stood, brushing at the front of his coat. But he made no effort to leave. "How about you, Alec?" he said, suddenly. "Aren't you curious about your wife's whereabouts?" He shoved his hands in the deep pockets of his coat, burying them both, and began rocking on the balls of his feet. "I could tell you exactly where she is."

Alec stood up too, sensing the approach of a sudden crisis. "How do you know? Are you following her? Isn't that against the law? Isn't that harassment?" All his months of suppressed fury at Cargill began to pour out at once. "Where she is-where anyone is-happens to be none of your business. Anna is a free citizen. She hasn't committed any crime. She didn't kill Ted Mencken."

"Oh, I know that," said Cargill.

"And neither did I."

"I'm sure of that too."

"Then, if you know so much, maybe you can also say who did kill him."

"Yes," said Cargill, "I can say that. I can say who killed Timothy Ralston also."

"You know-no! You can't know that! You-!"

There was a soft tapping at the door. Alec called, "Come in!" then turned back to Cargill. How could he know? If he knew that much, then didn't it mean he must also know everything, and that was impossible. He had to be bluffing. Some trick designed to force a confession.

"I thought you might like more coffee," Sylvia said, holding the flask out toward Cargill.

"Oh, yes." Cargill smiled. "Thank you." He brought his right hand out of his coat pocket. He reached out toward the coffee. In a flash, Alec realized that the hand was clutching a gun. He saw it for only a split second. He didn't think Sylvia saw it at all. Her expression never wavered. Cargill fired. An inch-wide, gaping, black hole opened in the center of Sylvia's forehead. She didn't utter a sound. The coffee flask slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor, splattering hot liquid in every direction. Scalded, Alec cried out.

Then Sylvia fell over.

Cargill replaced the gun in his pocket. "Well, how about that?" he said, with amazement. "I did it." He let out a loud, solid, satisfied sigh. He shook his fingers proudly at Alec. "A matter of reflexes, I suppose. And quick, quick thinking." He grinned.

Alec wasn't listening. He was staring at Sylvia's still form, unable to raise his eyes from the sight. She was dead-that was it-dead.

From what seemed a great distance, Cargill's words penetrated his brain: "I suppose I do owe you some sort of explanation."

Eighteen

Alec found that he could not concentrate upon Cargill's explanation as long as Sylvia Mencken's body was lying on the floor only a few yards away. Cargill suggested they either move the body or themselves.

Alec didn't want to touch her. "Let's go out front," he said.

They settled in the first room. Cargill carefully checked to ensure the door was locked, then sat behind the receptionist's desk. Alec dropped on the couch.

Not for the first time, Alec regretted he no longer had a gun. How could he have been so foolish as to let Astor's men take it and not give it back? He should have known he'd need it again.

"Why?" Alec said, at last.

"To save you," Cargill said. The tone of his voice was cold, unemotive, almost official. "And to save your people."

"Save?" he asked, hollowly. "How? By killing the one thing that mattered to me?''

Cargill shook his head slowly. "She meant nothing to you. Ask yourself. Did you love her?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because she was important to me."

"She was going to kill you. The same as she killed Mencken and Ralston and maybe many, many others."

Alec did laugh now. "Are you trying to tell me Sylvia was one of the others? That she killed her own father?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Well-well, you're wrong. For all I know-and it makes sense too-you might be one of them. How do you know about my people? The only ones who know are us-and them."

"Oh, that's common knowledge," Cargill said, blandly.

"Everyone knows?" Alec asked, without particular disbelief. In his present state, he was willing to accept anything he was told-except about Sylvia.

"The men at the highest levels of government do. And me. It really wasn't much of a secret. If there had only been a few of you-no more than a dozen-and if you had chosen to protect your secret zealously, avoiding personal contact except when it was absolutely essential, you might have been able to remain hidden-though, frankly, I doubt it. In our present society, privacy and secrecy are quite extinct. I assume you are aware of the National Computer Data Bank. Each of us-no matter how outwardly insignificant-occupies a personal niche within that network. Our every known move is recorded and filed. If any one person within the system begins to function in ways differing noticeably from the established norm, then his name pops out. When several names have popped out under similar circumstances, an investigation automatically follows-an attempt is made to determine if any relationship exists among these various names.

"In the case of your people, such a relationship was easily uncovered. You see and visit each other much too often. You intermarry. You talk on the public phone lines and exchange information. All of this, of course, ends up on file. And then there is the one common denominator that most obviously binds you all: lack of known parentage. You are all orphans. Plainly, as soon as this information became known, a full-scale investigation was launched. To your credit, it failed to penetrate your deepest secrets. Other common factors were discovered. Your achievements indicated common ability and intelligence- and also a strong tendency toward erratic conduct and eccentric behavior. The suicide rate among you was ten times the national average.

"The investigators-I have scanned their reports-interviewed employers, employees, fellow workers, acquaintances, and-when they could be found-personal friends. As I said, nothing was revealed. In the final report, you are described as "Quantity X": a tight, secret conspiracy of intelligent orphans. But the purpose of this conspiracy-if any-remained unknown. Obviously, the highest officials were not satisfied. I was asked to look into the matter. I agreed and promptly uncovered the true facts."

"That we were supermen?" Alec shrugged. He barely heard every other word of Cargill's supposed recollection. He was seeing Sylvia's body. The gaping hole in her skull.