thing he would do upon arrival at the scene would be to tell Melloy the victim’s full name and rank.”
“I don’t quite see why not, sir. It is a valuable piece of information.”
“Maybe so, but it’s just not in character. Devray wouldn’t tell you the sun was coming up tomorrow before he sat back and thought it through—and Melloy’s hardly the first person he’d confide in. The two of them are barely even on speaking terms.”
“It still would seem reasonable to me for him to tell Melloy the victim’s name.”
“I don’t think Melloy or Devray are exactly reasonable toward each other. Besides, Melloy rattled Huthwitz’s name off as if she were familiar with it, knew it well. I agree with you that there is no logical reason preventing Devray from knowing the name, but I tell you it doesn’t make sense as a piece of human behavior.” Kresh thought a moment or two longer. “Of course, I’m assuming Devray knew who it was in the first place, but he didn’t act as if he did.”
“What actions revealed he did not know Huthwitz?” Kresh shook his head. “Nothing distinct enough for me to point it out. But there was something detached about his actions. Not like he was dealing with a friend or an acquaintance. No. I’d bet whatever you like that Melloy knew Huthwitz and Devray did not. But how the hell would Melloy come to know a low-ranking officer in a rival police force?”
“It seems a minor point, but surely we could resolve the issue by calling either Devray or Melloy and asking.”
Kresh shook his head. “No. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to tip my hand.”
“Sir, I am confused. What is it you wish to conceal?”
“I don’t know yet, Donald. Maybe just the fact that I think something doesn’t smell right. I don’t want anyone rushing around with disinfectant until I find out where the odor’s coming from.”
“Sir, I’m afraid I still do not understand.”
“Me neither. I can almost see Devray being worried more about having one of his officers killed than the politics of the situation—but that doesn’t explain Melloy. It’s almost as if she already knew it was nothing to do with the Governor.” Or, he could not help thinking, as if she already knew that it was.
Wait a second. Wait a goddamned second.
Kresh turned back toward the comm panel and punched in the crash scramble again. The Governor reappeared on screen again. Still at his desk. Still working on the same papers. Still in his formal clothes. “Sheriff!” he said. “Is there some further news?”
“Governor, I was wondering. Could you remind me—what did you send me on my birthday last year?”
“What? What the devil are you talking about?”
“What present did you send me last year?”
“Kresh, how the devil should I know?”
“You should know quite well, sir. You sent nothing at all.”
“You called me at this hour to ask me that?”
“No, I didn’t.” Kresh cut the connection, his heart pounding. “Donald. Back to the Residence, full emergency speed.”
“Yes, sir.” The aircar made a hard turn and rushed back the way it had come, gathering speed. “Sir, I could not help overhearing, and I am greatly confused,” he said, his voice steady and level. “According to my recollection, the Governor sent a memo to all the top government officials as soon as he took office just over two years ago. He told them he was ceasing the tradition of gubernatorial birthday gifts to them effective immediately, as it tended to promote favoritism.”
“And just by chance, the memo arrived on my birthday,” Kresh said. “I didn’t feel much like a favorite that day. I remember, Donald, I remember. But why didn’t the Governor know?”
But Kresh already had the answer to that, even if it scared him to death. The aircar landed hard, and Kresh was out the hatch and running through the rain toward the front door before it had stopped moving. There should have been an SPR on duty at the front door, but instead the door was wide open. Kresh rushed inside. The SPR robots were there—but motionless, inert. And if the security robots were out—he ran upstairs to the Governor’s office, almost toppling over another security robot standing uselessly in front of the door—with a hole shot through its chest. He slapped his palm on the security panel. The damned thing was supposed to be keyed to his handprint, but was it? He had never tried it. The door slid open and he all but dove into the room, not daring to think what he would find. But the lights were off. He could not see a thing. Kresh pulled his blaster.
The lights switched themselves on as they sensed someone in the room. And the room was empty. No one was at the desk. There were no papers spread out to be worked on.
Kresh rushed back into the hall, heading for the Governor’s bedroom, dodging past two more dead security robots on the way. The bedroom door was wide open. He went inside. And stopped.
The Governor was there.
Sitting up in bed.
With a blaster hole the size of a man’s fist in his chest.
5
DONALD 111 ARRIVED in the Governor’s bedroom a few seconds after Alvar Kresh, and saw his master standing over the grisly tableaux. But Donald was barely aware of his master. His attention was riveted on Governor Chanto Grieg. The dead man.
It was far from the first corpse Donald had seen, and was the second one he had seen in as many hours— and yet the sight of the Governor’s dead body had a more profound effect on him than any of the others. Donald had known this man. Worse, not more that eight hours ago, Donald had told the Governor that he would be safe, that the precautions Alvar Kresh had suggested would be enough to protect him. He, Donald, had threatened to prevent this man from attending the party, but had allowed it in the end because fifty SPR security robots would be enough.
And now the man was dead. Dead. Dead. Donald’s vision began to dim. The world was growing darker.
“Donald! Stop it!” Alvar Kresh’s voice seemed to come from a long way away, far off and unimportant. “Come out of it. I order you to stop it! You had no part in Grieg’s death. You could have done nothing to stop it. You did nothing to cause it.”
Perhaps no other voice could have brought Donald back, but Kresh’s voice, his master’s voice, strong, brimming with authority, did so. His vision cleared and he came to himself with a start. “Th—tha—thank you, sir,” he said.
“This damn planet sets First Law potential too damn high,” Kresh growled. “Donald, listen to me. There were fifty security robots on duty in this house, and Grieg died anyway. One more robot could not have done any good.”
Donald took hold of that thought, focused on it. Yes, yes, it was true. What could he have done that they could not?
But why hadn’t the security robots prevented this disaster? Donald turned away, not wishing to look on the horrifying sight of the dead Governor anymore. And, in turning around, he got his answer. There, lined up against the wall, still in their wall niches, were three of the SPRs, the Security, Patrol, and Rescue Sapper security robots— each with a blaster shot through the chest. That is what would have happened to me, Donald thought. Had I remained, I would have been nothing more than another robot uselessly destroyed. He found a strange sort of comfort in the idea.
“Sir,” he said, “if I could call your attention to this side of the room.”
“Hmm?” Kresh turned around and saw the three destroyed robots. “Burning hells, Donald. How fast would someone have to be to get into this room, blast three specialized security robots before any of them could react, and then kill a man who would appear to have been sitting up in bed? Kill him before he could even set his book down?”
“It would be impossible,” Donald said, feeling quite sure of himself. He sensed, somehow, that he and Sheriff Kresh were, in a strange way, each doing the same thing—struggling to be professional, looking for the parts of this disaster they could deal with, putting up a wall against the parts that were unbearable. “Sir, your point is well
