"Do you know?"

"If I did-"

"Was it you?" As he spoke, Cargill leaned farther and farther forward. Now he seemed almost prone upon the desktop, like a bird preparing for immediate flight.

"No," Alec said. "I certainly didn't-"

"Why not?" Cargill said, continuing to move.

"Because I had no reason. Ted was my boss, my friend. I wouldn't-"

"You're sure?" Cargill threw himself back, rebounding off his chair. Both hands waved wildly in the air. "Would you be willing to undergo truth tests?"

"Certainly," Alec said, smiling almost smugly. No test or device had yet been devised capable of detecting a Superior's lie. If Cargill meant to upset him, he was going about it the wrong way.

Cargill slumped down in his chair, plainly dejected, his mind no more revealing than ever. He shook his head sadly, slowly, to himself.

Alec leaned forward, awaiting the next assault.

It came with a sudden blast. Cargill sat up, pointed straight at Alec's heart, demanded: "How many children?"

Alec lunged back. "None," he said. "I mean, none yet."

"Your authorization?"

"Three. But what does this have-?"

"Your wife have any children? Previous marriages?"

"No. But I'd like to know why-"

"Hush," said Cargill. He made a note on a stray sheet of paper, then looked up. "Two nights ago I saw one of your wife's sculptures. I don't mind saying it was a dazzling piece."

"Which one was it?" Alec asked, welcoming the new subject although he rarely took much interest in Anna's work.

"Crime," said Cargill, triumphantly, "and Punishment."

"Very funny," Alec said, unamused.

"Ah, no-a tragedy." Cargill began to shuffle the papers nearest to him. The motion attracted Alec's gaze. Among the blank white sheets, he suddenly spotted a photograph. The face was very familiar: Ah Tran. Cargill raised the picture in his hands and studied it, looking from the smooth surface to Alec's face, then back again. "Do you know a man named Samuel Astor?" he asked.

"What?" Alec struggled to conceal his shock. How could Cargill know about Astor and the Inner Circle? He couldn't-it had to be impossible.

But Cargill repeated the name calmly and carefully: "Samuel Astor. Of New York."

Alec decided to risk a lie: "I don't believe I know him."

"Then that's funny," Cargill said, without explanation. He was shuffling papers again; the photograph of Ah Tran disappeared. He lifted a page and began to recite: "You and the deceased, Theodore Mencken, worked together in a small firm. Mr. Mencken handled the business end while you were in charge of research. Much of your actual work was contracted out." His eyes appeared over the page. "What was the work?"

"I can't tell you," Alec said. "It was a matter of exceptionally high security."

"Androids," Cargill said-it wasn't a question.

"But-"

Cargill flashed a red, high security badge. "General Hopkins has already spoken to me. Obviously, this case intrigued him. Spies, you know. I was able to assure him espionage was not involved."

"Do you know that?" Alec asked.

"Oh, yes." Cargill smiled, almost diffidently. "I am, you realize, a police inspector."

"I know."

"Yes." He stood up and clasped his hands in front of him, cracking the knuckles with an ugly sound. "Then shall we get on with it? The body?"

"That's all?" Alec said. He couldn't believe it.

"For now." Cargill smiled reassuringly and stepped around the desk. He laid a kind hand on Alec's shoulder. "Though there is another thing that puzzles me. Where did you go to school?"

"A government home," Alec said, squirming away from the hand. He managed to gain his feet, looming above the tiny detective.

"Your parents?"

"I never knew either of them."

"Dead?"

"My mother, yes. My father-" he shrugged "-I don't know."

"Interesting," Cargill said, noncommittally.

"Why do you ask?"

"Curious." Cargill pointed at the door. "Shall we go?"

"Yes," Alec said. "Yes-of course." He hurried toward the door. These questions-his parentage, children-frightened him. They struck too close to the real truth. He would have to tell Astor. But Cargill knew about him too. What could it mean?

He dropped the thought as Cargill fled down the corridor and he was forced to concentrate on keeping pace. They entered the reception room together, interrupting the receptionist, who had been painting her knuckles a ghastly shade of green. The other woman-the sad one-still sat on the couch. Cargill, barely pausing, waved at her:

"Come along, please."

She stood up and followed Cargill and Alec into the corridor. Halfway down its length, Cargill swerved aside and slapped the left wall with his open hand. A pair of doors suddenly opened, revealing a concealed elevator. The three of them hurried inside. As the elevator descended, Cargill pointed at the woman, then at Alec:

"Alec Richmond," he announced, "and Sylvia Mencken."

"You're his daughter," Alec said. So that was the reason for her grief. He nearly smiled.

"How do you do?" she said, in a cool voice totally at odds with her inner turmoil and pain.