Starblood

Margle and his men. But, to Ti's horror and surprise, Leonard Taguster's face popped onto the comscreen, smiling. "Yes?" he asked.
    Modigliani turned and gave Timothy an I-told-you-so look of infuriating cheerfulness.
    "It's the simulacrum," Timothy hissed.
    Modigliani turned to the fake Taguster, explained the details of the situation. The mechanical Taguster laughed heartily at the notion he might be dead and agreed to allow the detective to inspect his house through the Mindlink receivers there, fully confident nothing would be found.
    Five minutes later, Modigliani had been there through Mindlink and had examined the place in detail. "Nothing," he told Timothy as he removed the normal helmet which Ti kept for the convenience of guests who couldn't very well use the one specially formed for his misshapen skull.
    "The kitchen receiver—"
    "Was in fine working order. I don't know what you wish to prove—"
    "They had the services of a technician, an electronics expert In an hour and a half, it could just have been done."
    "And Taguster?"
    "That was not Taguster! It was his simulacrum, damn it!"
    "Sims will do nothing to harm their masters; Leonard Taguster's sim would never protect his owner's murderers. Besides, the Idllers would have to be among those whose voices the robot was programmed to obey. You've told me that only Taguster, his manager, and you have that ability."
    "They could have reprogrammed the machine," Timothy said.
    "That takes a real expert," Modigliani said, feigning obviously phony surprise at such a suggestion.
    "You know as well as I that they could afford it. And they could have had just enough time to fix that bent nose, too."
    Modigliani's seeming stupidity was beginning to annoy Timothy until he wasn't able
to
suppress his rage any longer. His twisted face flushed and his servos danced nervously. Then Modigliani gave him the name of the game. "Sir, I must caution you to refrain from slander. Mr. Klaus Margle is nothing more sinister than the owner of several garages and restaurants. A hotel too, I think. He is a respectable businessman who should not have to suffer abuse that—"
    Ti interrupted. "You know damn well that Klaus Margle is—"
    "This
is
being recorded and you must be informed of that if you intend making actionable statements." He parted the halves of his coat to reveal the mini-recorder strapped to his chest.
    It was obvious now why Modigliani was being hard-headed. He'd been bought. When he had learned that the accused was Klaus Margle, he had seen where his duty had lain—and it wasn't with truth or the police department. Ti realized his own rage would be interpreted as the inane prattling of a misfit when the
time
came for Modigliani
to
prove him an unreliable witness. Any jury, hearing the tape, seeing the twisted form it had issued from, would declare Margle innocent.
    He had never felt more isolated and alone.
    "I'll have the film and be going," Modigliani said, returning to the library.
    Timothy floated quickly after him, but he was too late. When he came through the library doors, the detective had removed the film from the projector and was returning, the cartridge tucked firmly under his arm. "You can't have that!" Ti snapped.
    "You violated a man's privacy. We'll have to show this to Mr. Taguster and see if he wishes to place charges against you. We will be in contact with you in the near future."
    And he was gone.
    Timothy stood at the window, watching the detective leave. He knew full well that the film would be destroyed between here and police headquarters. The tape record would be edited as Modigliani saw fit before it was placed in police files. And the detective would receive a bonus from the Brethren this month, a bonus for a job well done—if not exactly in the interests of the public he had sworn to serve.
    He returned to Taguster's house, ignored the simulacrum, which was reading a book and greeted him cheerily. He went from room to room, looking for even the smallest sign of murder or of the later presence of the Brethren gunmen. He found nothing. He returned home.
    In despair and frustration, he pounded the leather of the Mindlink cup-chair with his servo-hands. Then, when his rage subsided, he saw he had clawed and ripped it until the stuffing showed through in many places. Now he was no longer able to weep for the loss of the musician; now there was only a cool, deep hatred for those people—and a determination to get them, to kill them.