Starblood

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 pass 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 hoarse.
    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.
    "Yes."
    "And that I am one who is permitted to give you instructions?"
    "Yes."
    "Sim, there is a young woman at the window in the bedroom. Dead. Get her and bring her into the utility room off the kitchen. Don't spill her blood on the carpet. Go."
    The robotic device walked briskly off toward the bedroom with the same slight lopsided gait that had been his master's. A moment later it returned, the woman's body cradled in its arms. The blood had ceased to flow and was drying in her nightdress. She had been a truly beautiful woman—but there was no time to contemplate that now. The simulacrum stalked across the room and out of sight.
    Timothy shifted into the kitchen receiver and watched the machine carry her into the utility room. He could see only a portion of that area through the open door, for there was no receiver in there. "Empty the freezer," he directed the simulacrum. It complied, piling the hams and roasts and vegetables on the floor.
    "Now put her body inside."
    It did this too. Ti tried not to envision the bloodied girl-corpse lying in the rime-frosted icebox…
    He directed the robot to retrieve Taguster's corpse and to do the same with it as with the woman. If it should require -any length of time for his plan to work through, he wanted to be certain the bodies were well preserved for a future autopsy. It was gruesome, but it was the only thing he could do. He had seen worse things in his lifetime, of course…
    When both bodies were in the freezer and the food they replaced was dumped into the incinerator chute, he sent the simulacrum about the house cleaning up all traces of the murders, scrubbing blood from floorboards and carpet, washing the wall down where the musician had scribbled on it. When the machine-man had finished, the place looked completely normal, quiet and serene.
    "Sit down and wait for me," he directed it.
    It complied.
    Timothy returned home on the Mindlink beam. In his library, he hovered before his typewriter and used his nimble servos to compose a new headline story for the four-thirty edition. Polly London would surely read the paper to see if she were mentioned, and it was quite conceivable that she would pass along this story to Margle if Margle didn't subscribe to
Enterstat
himself.
    When he finished the piece, he rang Creel on the com-screen. The face ballooned out of the center of the tube, and the shiny black eyes gazed out. "Was the data complete enough?" he asked.
    "Fine, George. Look, I have another story that goes in the four-thirty edition. Tear out the lead already in the master statter, no matter what it is, and put this in with two-inch caps."
    "Stat it," Creel said.
    He did. Seconds later, he saw it drop into Creel's desk tray. The editor picked it up and read it over. "What's the headline?" he asked, picking up a grease pencil.
    Ti considered a moment. "Ah—CONCERT GUITARIST VICTIM OF WOULD-BE KILLER."
    "He's not got that sort of reputation with the average middle-age gossip seeker. And the murder wasn't even a success. So you've got reasons beyond putting out a good edition."
    "Yes," Ti said.
    Creel waited a moment. When he saw he was not going to get any further details, he nodded his head and broke the connection.
    Ti returned