"That officer," Ceylang said.  "One of your people?"

"No."

The viewpoint shifted, looking down on the gate itself, McKie in profile.  The gatekeeper was a teenager with a scar down his right cheek and a broken nose.  McKie showed no signs of recognition, but the youth knew McKie.

"You go through on request."

"When did she call?"

"Ten."

"Let us through."

The gate was opened.  McKie and his guards went through, passed beyond the viewer's focus.

The youthful gatekeeper stood up, smashed the viewer.  The h-focus went blank.

Aritch looked down from his observation booth for a moment before speaking.

"Who called?"

"Jedrik?"  Ceylang spoke without thinking.

"What does that conversation tell you?  Quickly!"

"That Jedrik anticipated his movements, was observing him all the time."

"What else?"

"That McKie . . . knows this, knows she can anticipate him."

"She carries a better simulation of him in her head than we have . . . there."

Aritch pointed at the h-focus area.

"But they left so much unspoken!"  Ceylang said.

Aritch remained silent.

Ceylang closed her eyes.  It was like mind reading.  It confused her.

Aritch interrupted her musings.

"What about that officer and the gatekeeper?"

She shook her head.

"You're wise to use living observers there.  They all seem to know when they're being watched.  And how it's done."

"Even McKie."

"He didn't look at the viewers."

"Because he assumed from the first that we'd have him under almost constant observation.  He's not concerned about the mechanical intrusions.  He has built a simulation McKie of his own who acts on the surface of the real McKie."

"That's your assumption?"

"We arrived at this from observation of Jedrik in her dealings with McKie.  She peels away the simulation layers one at a time, coming closer and closer to the actuality at the core."

Another observation bothered Ceylang.

"Why'd the gatekeeper shut down that viewer just then?"

"Obviously because Jedrik told him to do that."

Ceylang shuddered.

"Sometimes I think those Dosadi play us like a fine instrument."

"But of course!  That's why we sent them our McKie."

It was a half-hour before Jedrik and McKie found themselves in the hallway leading to her quarters.  McKie, aware of the effort she was expending to conceal a deep weariness, watched her carefully.  She concentrated on presenting a show of vitality, her attention glued on the prospect ahead.  There was no way of telling what went on in her mind.  McKie did not attempt to break the silence.  He had his own worries.

Which was the real Jedrik?  How was she going to employ Pcharky?  Could he resist her?

He knew he was close to a solution of the Dosadi mystery, but the prospect of the twin gambles he was about to take filled him with doubts.

On coming from the projection room, they'd found themselves in a strange delaying situation, as though it were something planned for their frustration.  Everything had been prepared for their movement - guards warned, elevator waiting, doors opened.  But every time they thought the way clear, they met interference.  Except for the obvious importance of the matters which delayed them, it was easy to imagine a conspiracy.

A party of Gowachin at Gate Seventy wanted to surrender, but they demanded a parley first.  One of Jedrik's aides didn't like the situation.  Something about the assessment of the offer bothered her, and she wanted to discuss it with Jedrik.  She stopped them halfway down the first hall outside the projection room.

The aide was an older woman who reminded McKie vaguely of a Wreave lab worker at BuSab, one who'd always been suspicious of computers, even antagonistic toward them.  This Wreave had read every bit of history he could find about the evolution of such instruments and liked to remind his listeners of the misuses of the DemoPol.  Human history had provided him with abundant ammunition, what with its periodic revolts against "enslavement by machines."  Once, he'd cornered McKie.

"Look here!  See this sign:  'Gigo.'  That's a very old sign that was hung above one of your ancient computers.  It's an acronym:  'Garbage In, Garbage Out.'  You see!  They knew."

Yes.  Jedrik's female aide reminded him of that Wreave.

McKie listened to her worries.  She roamed all around a central disquiet, never settling on a particular thing.  Aware of Aritch's deadline and Jedrik's fatigue, McKie felt the pressures bearing down upon him.  The aide's data was accurate.  Others had checked it.  Finally, he could hold his impatience no longer.

"Who fed this data into your computer?"

The aide was startled at the interruption, but Jedrik turned to him, waiting.

"I think it was Holjance," the aide said. "Why?"

"Get him in here."

"Her."

"Her, then!  Make sure she's actually the one who fed in that data."

Holjance was a pinch-faced woman with deep wrinkles around very bright eyes.  Her hair was dark and wiry, skin almost the color of McKie's.  Yes, she was the one who'd fed the data into the computer because it had arrived on her shift, and she'd thought it too important to delegate.

"What is it you want?" she demanded.

He saw no rudeness in this.  It was Dosadi directness.  Important things were happening all around.  Don't waste time.

"You saw this assessment of the surrender offer?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Are you satisfied with it?"

"The data went in correctly."

"That's not my question."

"Of course I'm satisfied!"

She stood ready to defend herself against any charge that she'd slighted her job.

"Tell me, Holjance," he said, "if you wanted the Gowachin computers to produce inaccurate assessments, what would you do?"

She thought about this a moment, blinked, glanced almost furtively at Jedrik who appeared lost in thought. "Well, sir, we have a regular filtering procedure for preventing . . ."

"That's it," Jedrik said.  "If I were a Gowachin, I would not be doing that right now."

Jedrik turned, barked orders to the guards behind her.

"That's another trap!  Take care of it."

As they emerged from the elevator on Jedrik's floor, there was another delay, one of the escort who'd been with McKie at Gate Eighteen.  His name was Todu Pellas and McKie addressed him by name, noting the faint betrayal of pleasure this elicited.  Pellas, too, had doubts about carrying out a particular order.

"We're supposed to back up Tria's move by attacking across the upper parkway, but there are some trees and other growth knocked down up there that haven't been moved for two days."

"Who knocked down those trees?" McKie asked.

"We did."

McKie understood.  You feinted.  The Gowachin were supposed to believe this would provide cover for an attack, but there'd been no attack for two days.

"They must be under pretty heavy strain," Jedrik said.

McKie nodded.  That, too, made sense.  The alternative Gowachin assumption was that the Humans were trying to fake them into an attack at that point.  But the cover had not been removed by either side for two days.

Jedrik took a deep breath.

"We have superior firepower and when Tria . . . well.  You should be able to cut right through there to . . ."