This time he moved. Where was Eathen? He stepped into the corridor with deliberate lack of haste. Anna's room was close-by. She was still screaming, her shrill terror penetrated his defenses, causing him to walk faster than he wished.

When he reached the bedroom door, it stood open. He remained in the corridor and peered inside. The room was very dark. He could sense her radiated fear but it was softer now, more subdued. He thought he could hear a voice.

Suddenly, Eathen filled the doorway.

Alec made a move to enter the room but Eathen reached out with a wide arm and blocked his way.

"She is sleeping," he said.

"She wasn't a minute ago." Alec glared at the arm in front of him. "Get out of my way."

"She said she didn't want you."

"She said that?"

"Yes, sir," Eathen replied, coldly. "She dreamed about you and didn't want to see you."

"But she's sleeping now." Alec fought to maintain his dignity in front of the android. But he couldn't help hating them-Anna and Eathen-his wife and son. "Are you sure? She won't wake up again?"

"She is resting peaceably now."

Alec confirmed this observation. He sensed Anna. She was radiating a strong contentment now, a sense of peace.

"All right," he said, turning away from the dark room. "Go back in and stay with her."

"I intend to, sir." But Eathen did not move.

"Then do it," Alec said.

"Yes, sir."

But still Eathen did not vacate his position at the doorway until Alec's dim footsteps had disappeared down the soft, carpeted hallway.

Four.

His preconceptions shattered, Alec Richmond sat, turning his thumbs with mild impatience. He would have preferred getting out of here-was bored by the waiting-and yet it was, he had to admit, completely different from what he had expected.

Before coming here, if asked, he would have imagined the offices occupied by the Homicide Division of the San Francisco Police Department as an ugly, dreary place-a dirty, stained floor-battered, torn furniture-inhabited by dim, lumbering men engaged in squalid combat with an even drearier bunch of alleged murderers. Not that there were many of these. Crimes of passion tended to flourish during times of societal stress and change. An atmosphere of uncertainty-almost one of ambiguity-a lack of firm bearings had to exist before the average man could be plunged into that most passionate of crimes: murder. But, for the last few decades, American society had been a paragon of stability. Only the handful of remaining outcasts, a few thieves, pimps, prostitutes, or con-men, had a chance to experience those base emotions necessary as a prelude to murder. Alec had seen all the available statistics; more importantly, he had his talent-he knew what people were feeling when he passed them on the street. The average man-or woman-simply did not care enough about anything to kill.

Where his preconceptions had most been violated, however, was not in the polished floors or the bright walls or the plush furniture but in the people. Here he sat-like a child in a government home-surrounded by women.

The real detectives-Cargill and his helpers-were still hidden from him; this room was only the reception room. Still, it was all he had to go on. The most obvious of his companions was the receptionist herself-a sharp-eyed redhead, perhaps thirty, who manned her desk like an army defending a choice hunk of battlefield. Her strongest feelings-those he could hardly avoid-were concerned with a certain young man. He could not read her thoughts. That was an impossibility. Thoughts-except at the most conscious level-were not contained in words. They could not be seen and read line-by-line like the pages of a book. Thoughts erupted at random, bursting forth like the rays of the sun, without conscious dictation or direction; wholly separate conceptions frequently existed simultaneously. It was not a tidy process. The best a Superior could expect to know was the general aura-the atmosphere-of any given mind. To probe any deeper, interpretation was required.

Alec deciphered the maelstrom of the woman's feelings to mean that she had once loved a man. For reasons he could not expect to discover, they had recently separated. Because no one else had appeared to assume this man's place in her life, he remained a dominant presence in her mind. Alec-it was his greatest weakness-could not help feeling sorry for her. After all, in spite of the fact that she was merely human, her situation was not greatly different from his with Anna. Perhaps they should get together and compare sad notes. He briefly considered a direct approach, stepping forward and asking her to lunch. Ah, but what would the Inner Circle think? They would know, as they seemed to know everything. Fraternization with the enemy. In times past, when Superiors were relatively few and disorganized, even intermarriage between the two species had occurred. But such relations-even the most tenuous-were strictly forbidden today. Too dangerous- and demeaning. After all, would any normal man be interested in taking a female gorilla to lunch?

Besides which, the woman was really too simple for him. He was considerably more intrigued by the second woman in the room. She was somewhat younger than the other-probably about Anna's age-and much better looking, even beautiful, blonde, almost unearthly pale. Her thoughts and feelings radiated with such strength and power that it was difficult to avoid being swept under. Worse yet, her feelings were so strong that he could not decipher or interpret them. There was a deep, tremendous sadness there. Over what, or because of what, he couldn't begin to guess: the emotion itself was so vital that she failed to concentrate upon the subject itself. But he felt no pity for her. In spite of the bleakness of her emotions, an underpinning of undiluted strength of will remained firmly intact. This was a woman capable of taking on the whole world and its problems without faltering a step.

He tried to make a guess as to the cause of her grief. A boyfriend or husband? Considering where they were, perhaps he had been arrested. But this explanation seemed far too banal to explain the woman. Perhaps he was failing to meet the matter directly. There was no reason to implicate a man-the woman herself might be the criminal. He himself was suspected of a minor murder-why not she as well? She had killed the boyfriend or husband. She was a little bit sorry now, and yet he had got what he had coming too. So she was both glad and sorry and maybe somewhat concerned with her own safety-the police might catch her and they might not.

Hey now, he wanted to say. Don't let that worry you. I won't let them get you. When they ask, you tell them you spent the time of the murder in my company. A perfect alibi. We shared lunch in a mysterious little North Beach restaurant. We walked along the beach, watching the soiled waves. We-

"Alec Richmond."

"Oh." He looked up, glimpsing-half-hidden behind the receptionist and her desk-a small, round man dressed in black billowing burlap. "I'm Richmond."

"Splendid." The man crooked a finger. "Inspector Cargill-remember me?"

Alec stood up, irritated that this conversation was taking place in front of the woman. He glanced over at her, and she was watching, wide-eyed and interested. Her radiated feelings told him nothing. "We only spoke on the phone."

"Of course." The finger went past his shoulder. "This way, please."

Alec nodded and quickly followed the round man through a door behind the receptionist. Back here, the dirty floors and dim detectives remained hidden. They followed a long, narrow corridor, quite empty of life, to its end. Cargill opened a door and ushered Alec into a tiny, cluttered room. A massive steel desk occupied nearly the whole of the cubicle, piled high with scattered papers. Alec searched for a chair and finally discovered one in front of the desk. Cargill scurried around behind and sat down, his head nearly hidden from view.

"Go ahead and sit," he told Alec. "Just dump that stuff on the floor."

Alec removed a three-foot stack of papers from the chair and then sat down.

"What do you want here?" Cargill asked.

"I believe you asked to see me."

"I did?" Cargill asked, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement.

"Why, yes-yes, you told me-"

"Ah." Cargill raised a finger toward the ceiling. "Of course-the body."

"What?" Alec wasn't receiving a thing from Cargill. The man seemed totally in control of his thoughts and feelings-he let nothing out beyond the most casual, surface thoughts. It was a mind that ran in strict, straight channels. This fact only added to Alec's disconcertment. It couldn't be deliberate. Could it?

"Identification. I want you to take a look at the body."

"Oh," Alec said, "you mean Ted's."

"You know?"

"Know what?"

"Whose body I'm going to show you."

"I naturally assumed-"

"And if you'd been wrong?"

"I..." Alec stopped, growing angry. "Look here, if you're trying-"

"Who killed him?"

"What?"