“Oh, we found him, all right,” Kresh said. “But now we’ve gone and lost him again. “ Kresh turned and started back toward his aircar.

“By the way,” Cinta said at him as he walked away, “I did check it out, every way I could, and you were right about Grieg and house guests. ”

Kresh frowned and walked back toward Cinta. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“Turns out he was a typical Spacer after all. I checked all the old news reports and talked to friends, that sort of thing. No one can remember him ever having a house guest. Ever.”

Alvar Kresh stared, unseeing, out the window as Donald flew him back to the Residence. He was thinking. Thinking hard. Strange bedfellows, police work and politics. It would be a real challenge to satisfy the demands of both, but he was starting to realize that the two were so intertwined that he had no choice. Clues, false leads, ideas, theories, snatches of conversation, and random bits of information seemed to be swirling around in his head. Grieg with a blaster hole in his chest. Grieg’s simulated image assuring Kresh he was all right. Telmhock’s muddled attempt to tell Kresh he was the Governor. Kresh nearly tripping over a dead SPR to get to Grieg’s office. The ghostly image of Bissal captured by the integrator as he headed toward the lower-level storage room.

Half of it was no doubt vital information, while the other half was unimportant. But which half was which? He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. No, don’t concentrate. Relax. Relax. Let it come on its own terms. Don’t expect the answer to come on schedule. It will arrive on its own terms, invited or not. There was, he told himself, no sense trying to force the solution to arrive-

And that was the exact moment the light came on. Yes. That had to be it. He needed proof, he needed to pull it all together-but yes. He knew. He knew.

Donald 111, convinced that his master had fallen asleep, tried to land the aircar as gently as he could. But, not for the first time, Alvar Kresh surprised his personal robot. He was out of the car before Donald was out of his seat, looking quite awake-in fact quite energetic and determined. Donald made a mental note to remember that there were times when humans actually did get some thinking done with their eyes shut, even if most thinking was no more than an excuse for a nap.

“I want Caliban and Prospero in my office,” Kresh said, walking toward the entrance, his eyes straight ahead. “ And I want them there now.”

“Yes, sir,” Donald said, hurrying to catch up with him. “I will bring them up directly. ” Once I have you safely inside the secured interior of the Residence, Donald thought. There was still danger everywhere.

“Good,” Kresh said as he walked through the main entrance. “I have one thing to do first. Something that might take a bit of time. Wait for me in the Governor’s office.”

“Yes, sir,” Donald said, more than a bit surprised. He knew all of Alvar Kresh’s moods, and he knew this one especially well. It was Alvar Kresh on the hunt, Alvar Kresh closing in for the kill. But how? And who? Donald hurried down to the improvised cell where Caliban and Prospero were being held. He had been ahead of Kresh in solving a case now and then, and well behind him on many occasions. But he had never been this far back. Did Kresh have the perpetrator in his sights, even before Donald had so much as a guess at the list of suspects?

Donald gestured for the guard robot to unlock the cell door, and stepped inside even before the door was fully open. Prospero and Caliban were both sitting on the floor of the cell. “Get up,” Donald said, not even trying to keep the excitement and satisfaction out of his voice. “The Governor wants you upstairs. ” The two of them got to their feet, a bit uncertainly. Donald was glad to see their discomfiture. It gave him real pleasure to order these two around. Did this summons mean that Kresh had decided the two pseudo-robots were indeed the guilty parties? That would be pleasure and triumph unbounded.

Kresh was not in the room when Donald and his two prisoners arrived, a minute or two later. Donald gestured for the two of them to stand in the center of the floor, while he retired to a wall niche. Waiting was not generally much of a hardship to a robot. Robots spent a great deal of their existence waiting for humans to arrive, or for humans to leave, or for humans to make up their minds about an order. Nonetheless, Donald found the wait for Kresh to be almost unbearable. Something was going on. He knew it. He knew it.

The three robots waited in silence for sixteen minutes and twenty-three seconds, according to Donald’s internal chronometer. And then the doors slid open, and Kresh strode into the room. He was carrying an opaque evidence storage box. He set the box down on the desk, and then turned to Caliban and Prospero. He spoke right to the point, without any sort of preamble. “I want to know,” said Kresh, “exactly what transpired between you and Tierlaw Verick. Exactly. I want your precise words, his and yours.”

“Do you mean on the night of Governor Grieg’s death?” Caliban asked.

“When else have you met with him?” Kresh demanded.

“Never,” Caliban said. “Never at any time before or since. ”

“Then tell me what happened the one time you did meet,” Kresh said.

“Well, it was a rather brief exchange,” Caliban said, clearly still rather mystified. “We were waiting by the door-”

“Just the two of you?” Kresh asked. “No one else?”

“No one else around at all,” Caliban said. “If you are hoping for some sort of witness besides Prospero to corroborate my statement, I’m afraid there was no one. Prospero and I were waiting by the door when Tierlaw came out. He seemed rather upset about something, and also rather surprised to see us there. He said, ‘I thought I was the end of the line tonight,’ and laughed. ”

“Laughed rather nervously, I thought,” Prospero said. Caliban nodded. “Yes, he was nervous. He spoke rather loudly, and seemed rather agitated. I spoke to him and said, ‘My friend and I were a last-minute addition. ’

“He replied by saying, ‘Well, you’ll learn about all sorts of changes in there. Everything is decided. No one will be in control, and you lot are going to kingdom come. We’ve all had it. Grieg just told me. It’s allover now. ’”

“And then what?” Kresh asked.

“Then nothing,” Prospero said. “He turned away and stomped down the hall. Caliban and I were somewhat taken aback by what he said, but we had no chance to discuss it. The door to Grieg’s office opened, and we went inside for our meeting. That was all that transpired between us. ”

“I see,” Kresh said. “Very well. That is all. The two of you may go.”

“Shall we return to our cell?” Prospero asked.

“Do precisely as you please,” Kresh snapped. “Isn’t that what your damned Fourth Law says to do? Just leave me, and remain inside the Residence. I will want you back later. I strongly advise that you do not attempt to leave.”

“Of course not,” Caliban said. “Neither of us wishes to commit suicide.”

“Really?” Kresh asked. “You have an odd way of showing it. Now get out.”

Donald watched the two pseudo-robots leave, greatly confused. Their account of their exchange with Tierlaw Verick was at variance with Verick’s account, but given Verick’s hostility to robots, it was only to be expected that he would be rude to them.

More seriously, Governor Kresh seemed to be taking the pseudo-robots’ accounts at face value-though both Prospero and Caliban were capable of lying. For a moment, Donald debated bringing that point to Kresh’s attention. But there was something in the fierce concentration of the man’s expression that made Donald believe that would be a serious mistake. No. Governor Alvar Kresh was a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

And one thing he was doing was paying no attention whatsoever to Donald. Humans often forgot there were robots about, seeing everything that happened. Donald always appreciated such moments, as they gave him an unparalleled chance to observe human behavior. He watched, motionless, from his wall niche as Kresh pulled a piece of paper out of Grieg’s archaic desk set, fumbled for a moment with one of Grieg’s strange old pens, and then set to writing. He seemed to be making up a list of some sort.