The Good Kill

THE GOOD KILL

by Barry B. Longyear

* * * *

Illustrated by John Allemand

Changing times can put an end to old traditions—unless they can find untraditional ways to adapt. Very untraditional, in this case....

The Rent-A-Mech, Walter, had just put my breakfast on the table when D. Supt. Matheson rang me. "Forgive me for ringing you so early, Jaggers, but London ABC wants us to look into that fox hunting matter at Dartmoor. Apparently there's an amdroid involved. It's an outdoor scene and if you don't move quickly the evidence may become contaminated.... “

Matheson hadn't begun with a knock-knock joke, which meant he was troubled. The Miles Bowman death was the biggest story to hit Devon in decades. The wealthy and charismatic Master of Houndtor Down Hunts had died, I had gathered from yesterday's news reports, when he had been thrown by his horse during a run. Apparently someone in the park police was exploring another theory.

Val momentarily looked up from the table where she had been lapping her single cream. Seeing nothing to distress her, she twitched her tail as if to launch an unwelcome insect and resumed emptying the saucer. A sepia and golden Tonkinese, her soft coat colored in a random watermarked silk pattern, she was much too elegant ever to be observed using the litter box, although I supposed she must be using it. It was, after all, being used. Perhaps she had friends in.

"Jaggers? Jaggers, there. Pay attention. Blast! When are you getting a modern screen phone? Bloody hell. Jaggers?"

With a parting glance at my rapidly cooling eggs and bacon, I responded into the handset, “Yes, Superintendent. You were saying?"

"Now, I've made a good number of allowances for you, Jaggers, because of your record. You were once an impressive detective. Do not take advantage. Am I understood?"

"Certainly, Superintendent."

"You're going to want to get to the scene before it rains."

I shifted my gaze to the glass door that looked into the garden as Matheson continued. The mid-March sky over the city was gloomy grey with curtains of mist coming up from the river. "The park constabulary think they have their murderer, Jaggers. London wants us to go through everything. After all, artificial beings are our bailiwick. Ready to receive?"

I toggled the receive on my hand desk. “Go ahead, Superintendent."

"Sending now."

As the case file form and location instructions loaded, I mulled the late Miles Bowman's place in the scheme of things. In certain upwardly crusted circles, Bowman's death was immense. Houndtor Down had brought riding to the hounds and the good kill back to Albion after an eight-decade hiatus, dotted with less than satisfying drag hunts and those absurd experiments with AI-equipped robotic foxes. Houndtor's answer was to introduce genuine bio fox amdroids for prey, but imprinted with human engrams. The fox, therefore, would be physically a fox, but no longer a fox according to the prohibition against fox hunting, in that the creature understood the consequences and could volunteer. In actuality, the vermin was a human in a fox's “meat suit,” entitled under law to engage in whatever absurd, but legal, occupation he or she chose. Nevertheless, where one got volunteers was a puzzle.

I'd never been at the Houndtor Down Lodge, although I had witnessed a bit of one of the operation's hunts on Cripdon Down the year before when I was on an easily resolved poodle abuse enquiry. The amdroid poodle had undeniably abused her owner, a Harley dealer from Torbay. However both poodle and woman confessed to being consensual S&M partners in the area for a hunt, hence no crime. Too bad really. The poodle matter promised to be the most interesting case I'd been on since being assigned to the Exeter office. Nevertheless, since I was on the moor then and a hunt was on, I watched. Except for the chase being followed above by a hoard of hovercraft, the hunt itself had been something caught in amber. Elegantly costumed riders mounted on magnificent steeds chasing a huge pack of handsome foxhounds, the peculiar warbling notes of the Master's tiny horn signaling the sighting of the prey. As long as you weren't particularly fond of foxes, it was rather uplifting.

The lodge was twenty-five kilometers southwest of the city, just beyond the village of Lustleigh on the east edge of the moor. The enormously lucrative concession had its own skydock, and the park detective in charge, one DCI Stokes, condescended to have a constable at Houndtor Down to bring us up to speed. “Superintendent, on the killing, did the park cops get a verbal?"

"No. This Stokes fellow is certain he has his killer, nevertheless: Lady Iva Bowman, Miles Bowman's wife."

Lady Iva Bowman. The image of that stunning beauty was fixed in the nation's memory. Her marriage to Bowman had been little short of a media coronation.

"Their theory is Bowman and Lady Iva, along with the hunt staff and some eighty followers and club members, were in the middle of one of their smaller commercial runs when Miles was found dead along the route. Lady Iva inherits and I gather from DCI Stokes she had just learned that her husband was bonking the company's lead second horseman, one Sabrina Depp."

"Motive and opportunity,” I commented.

"They're up the wrong branch, Jaggers."

"You disagree, sir?"

"I knew Lady Iva years ago. For all her beauty, she is old school, very refined. I can't see her getting down into the muck and beating a grown man to death with what appears to have been a horseshoe, regardless of the provocation. In fact, I rather suspect Miles Bowman's horse."

"An amdroid?"

"Yes. The horse isn't running on a human imprint, though. It appears a year ago a favorite jumper of Bowman's was near death from an injury and Bowman spent a not inconsiderable fortune to have the mount's engrams copied and imprinted on an equestrian meat suit drawn from the mount's own DNA."

"That which Miles rides shall never die,” I dogmatized.

"Quite. I suspect Bowman's nag determined one lifetime under Miles Bowman's arse was sufficient."

"In which case, Superintendent, it wouldn't be a murder."

"All of which I imagine Lady Iva would very much like to have established as quickly as is feasible—oh. Swing by Heavitree Tower before you leave for Dartmoor. You have a new partner: DS Guy Shad."

"You're having a laugh, right, Superintendent?

"Not really."

"Guy Shad? Sounds like someone copied the name off an old action vid poster."

"That is his name, Jaggers. Shad is an American."

"Of course he is. Now, we agreed—"

"This isn't a negotiation, DI Jaggers. Shad has been assigned to this enquiry because of his prior association with two of the principals, as well as his familiarity with the artificial being end of the law enforcement spectrum. He'll be waiting at the skydock." That warning edge crept back into the superintendent's voice: "Grasp the nettle, Jaggers. It's up to you to make this work."

"Yes, Superintendent."

A significant pause and then the superintendent decided to lighten the mood. "Jaggers: Knock, knock."

"Ringing off, Superintendent. There appears to be someone at the door."

I quickly hung up the handset as I muttered, “Brilliant,” to no one in particular. After the dreadful experience I had partnered up with the ever-effervescent Ralph Parker, I thought Matheson and I had agreed I always work solo.

Guy Shad. American. He'll want to eat at Wendy McDonald's Kentucky Burger Hut and call me Bud, I mused. I certainly hoped Parker's meat suit was one of a kind. I'd go into retirement before I was made to work with another Parker.

I looked at Val and she was eyeing my bacon and eggs. “You may as well,” I said to her as I petted her head and went toward the hallway to get my raincoat and hat. “I have to get to work. I'm on the Miles Bowman matter."

"Is something wrong?” she asked.

"The superintendent's assigned me a new partner. An American named Guy Shad."

She looked at me with those stunning aqua eyes and said, “Give him a fair chance, Harry. I don't want to worry. Is Walter coming in this evening?"

"Yes."

Val looked at me for a moment then averted her gaze. “I'm sorry I can't cook for you, Harry."

"You catch mice. That's quite as important."

"You're a dear, but you know Walter keeps this place so clean, there hasn't been a mouse to catch in months.” She turned back to my plate and continued lapping at the yolk.

"Have a good day, dear,” I said and closed the door.

As the division sky cruiser assigned to me headed south into the muck above the city, I ran up the mechs in case we'd have to copy into them. There probably wasn't going to be any need to get small; the animal android involved, after all, was a horse. Nevertheless, routine is its own reward, as the superintendent was wont to remark between knock-knock inanities. They were ugly little mechs, but useful for following assorted beings into places tight, high, or otherwise inaccessible to humans. While they went through their system scans, I checked InterNews on Miles Bowman's death. Indeed, Lady Iva had been taken into custody, Detective Chief Inspector Raymond Stokes of the Devon-Exmoor National Park Constabulary stated in his news conference, blah, blah, blah....

My mood was terrible, and it was time I faced up to it. I was having quite a bit of trouble letting go of having a new partner thrust upon me. I knew full well why ABC Division had human-imprinted animal androids as investigators. That's the criminal dimension that necessitated the creation of our component of Interpol. Still, almost every amdroid I ever worked with had such bizarre excuses for having wound up in a critter meat suit, I was convinced it couldn't help but have an effect on their work. It certainly had with Parker.

DC Parker had been the worst of a succession of amdroids assigned to work with me. It wasn't just the thick Estuary accent Parker affected, his odor, the incessant grunting, or that he had difficulty in controlling his bowels. It was Parker's effect on a subject during an interview. I don't think I'm being unfair when I say undergoing interrogation by a thirty-five-stone mountain gorilla puts some people off. Banana peels and fruit flies all over the cruiser, fleas. I mean, really.

As the cruiser descended out of the overcast above the new Consolidated Police Administration Tower on Heavitree Road, I could see that the only living being waiting for me on the skydock was a mallard duck complete with green head, white neck ring, chestnut breast, grayish-white feathers, yellow bill, and orange feet. “Showing at a crime scene with Daffy in tow; that'll put the yobs in a fright."

As the cruiser's computer control put the vehicle down in the center of the landing target, I declined a slot assignment, put the power on standby, and pressed the buttons to open both doors. I looked around briefly in waning hopes that this was some sort of practical joke, then resignedly got out of the driver's side and trudged over to where the duck was standing. “DS Shad?” I inquired.

"I'm Shad,” said the duck in a voice that sounded very much like—a duck.

"Detective Inspector Jaggers,” I introduced myself.

"I know just what you're thinking,” he said. “'My God, a duck! I sure feel safe now that poultry has my back. Where ever does he keep his handcuffs? What was that idiot Matheson thinking to saddle me with this fugitive from a Chinese restaurant! I ought to go down to the superintendent's office right this minute and put in for my walking papers! You've laid an egg this time, pigeon-brain. This is for the birds! Are you out of your bleeding mind? A duck!’”

"Sorry. Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers."

He held out a wing. “Bird jokes? It's going to be bird jokes?"

"Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to drive."

Shad lowered his wing, gave me a bit of a look, then flew into the open driver's side of the cruiser. “That went rather well,” I muttered to myself.

I got into the passenger side, buckled in, and faced the duck. The power revved up, the doors closed, and the cruiser lifted off the landing target and headed southwest into the morning commuter traffic, the duck standing motionless on the seat. The GPS showed that our destination and control had somehow been given to the autopilot. “Wireless interface,” smugly explained Shad.

"Something you should know about me, as well, Shad."

"What's that?"

"I am a detective inspector, your senior as well as your superior, and if you should ever shoot off your bill to me like that again, me lad, I'll stuff and roast your goose proper."

"Ah, yes, sir. I apologize, despite the additional gratuitous fowl references.” After an awkward moment of silence, he glanced at me. “Admit it, though: I am an improvement on Parker."

"You met him?” I asked.

"Back at the tower he mentioned something about having been your partner. Does Parker have a banana problem?"

"At least.” I glanced at Shad. “You do take up less space."

"And I don't crap in the cruiser."

"That is an asset.” We both laughed at that.

Later, visibility almost down to zero as we approached the Alphington vector roundabout, Shad said, “Matheson told me to fill you in on my connection to Houndtor Down."

"Please."

"Back in New York about ten years ago, I knew Miles Bowman's business partner, Archie Quartermain. I was a human, Archie was English, and we roomed together in a roach hotel in the Village. Back then we were both starving, taking acting lessons, and trying to get theater acting careers started. Archie waited tables and hustled vidgames, and I was a part-time police assistant at the local precinct, answering phones, filing, that sort of stuff. We were doing cattle calls and getting an occasional walk-on. Remember the Gladys Hudder case, when that DNA bio of Cary Grant sued his owner for emancipation?"

"The case that took the ‘slave’ out of ‘slavery’ for the human-imprinted and self-aware AI population."

"Yeah, what would you rather be: an eighty-year-old woman's boy toy or a filthy rich reincarnated Hollywood superstar covered with babes?"

"Decisions, decisions,” I added.

"Anyway, that case put Archie onto something,” Shad continued. “He wouldn't talk to me about it. Kept saying, ‘I'm not finished yet.’ Still, he had some kind of scheme cooking. Every now and then when he was out I'd sneak a peek at what he was doing, but it was all technical stuff on staging, theatrics, English history, artificial-being law, air transport, artificial intelligence, business, computers, and android-amdroid bios and mechs. Then, one day when I was particularly hungry, the New York PD called for recruits—"

"You saw how much police recruits were being paid,” I interjected.

"Yeah, well, my stomach and I had a talk, and I entered the police academy. Training took up all my time, the work was interesting, and they kept me running as a probie. I lost track of what Archie was doing. My police probationary period eventually ended, I was assigned to a precinct patrol unit, and then I met a girl."

My eyebrows went up.

"No. Her name wasn't Daisy,” Shad responded with a modicum of heat. “Her name was Shondelle.” The duck glanced out the side window at a break in the clouds which revealed still more clouds.

"Archie was my best man when I married her. When I moved out, Archie moved in with another starving actor, Miles Bowman. I got to know Miles a little, but a year later both of them moved back to England. By the time I made detective, Archie and I had lost touch altogether. A couple years later, right before I was killed, Houndtor Down Hunts hit the media, fox hunting was back, and Miles Bowman was big news, filthy rich, and married to the daughter of an earl. But no mention of Archie Quartermain."

I glanced at Shad. “You suspected something?"

"Sure. I sent a message to Archie and he eventually sent back his thanks but no thanks for the attempted rescue. According to him, everything was going according to plan. I did a little checking on my own and found out why Archie wasn't getting any billing. He's a really silent partner in Houndtor Down Hunts. Archie Quartermain is the fox."

"You're joking."

"No. See, he copies his engrams before each hunt. If he wins he wins, but if he gets killed, he's copied into a new bio cloned from his previous meat suit. It's really not as grim as you might think."

"Perhaps I'm making too much of being torn apart by a slavering pack of hounds."

"He never remembers getting killed, see? When he does get killed, the set of engrams copied before the hunt are imprinted into the new fox suit and the new fox inherits but doesn't remember."

"But he knows he's going to get killed."

"Archie told me it's like getting a knee operated on, except when he wakes up from his procedure it doesn't hurt."

"It still strikes me as rather a punishing way to make a living."

"You've never been an actor, have you?"

"No."

"Take my word for it, boss; there are roles to kill for and roles to die for.” He gave a duck shrug. “Besides, win or lose, Archie's take per hunt is close to three million."

"Per hunt?"

The duck nodded. “Each of the followers pays thirty thou or so to ride to the hounds, and there are eighty to a hundred or more per hunt, but that's not where the real money is. The big cash cows in the fox hunting racket are the tally-hovers: air hover pods that follow along the route of the hunt, giving their passengers all the thrill and excitement of the hunt without the need of learning how to ride or risking any jumps. Tally-hover seats run three thousand per, which includes the virtual of the hunt complete with the purchaser's face and body CGI substituted for the scarlet or black coat of his or her choice, and the entire ride experienced from the point of view of one of several riders."

"How many of those tally-hover seats do they fill on an average hunt?"

"Thousands."

"Astonishing. I find it difficult to believe that anyone would pay that much for a bit of a thrill ride that can be excelled by any number of virtual computer games."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong. See, inspector, it's not just the thrill of a dangerous horse ride and the challenge of ganging up with hundreds of hounds, nags, and snobs to chase down and kill a small dog. What you also get for your money is to be seen at the opening tea ceremony and other refreshment stops along the route, dabbing lips and raising pinkies with such luminaries as Lady Iva Bowman and Lord Peter Talmadge. Talmadge is the hunt's paid snob draw. There's also an old rock star and an old movie star as draws for the upwardly mobile Lumpenproletariat who crave an association with fame. Archie Quartermain has fifty percent of the company. I'm betting he's the richest fox in the world."

"And the dottiest.” I frowned as I thought of something. “Does Lady Iva inherit Miles Bowman's interest?"

"Unless she's found guilty of murdering Miles."

"If she doesn't inherit, who does?"

"They don't have any children, so Archie gets it all. Interesting, no?"

"To say the least.” I turned toward Shad. “None of which explains how a New York City cop wound up being a duck in Interpol's Artificial Beings Crimes Division."

"This is where I bare my soul, right?"

I held up a hand and dropped it to my lap. “Not a requirement. A desire to understand."

"In that case, I'll tell you. I think I said I was wounded in the line of duty."

"Actually, you said you were killed."

We began descending from the Bovey Tracy Roundabout. “I was backing up some guys taking down a perp. The next thing I knew all the bullets in the world were headed in my direction and I was fricassee. When I came to, my engrams were in memory, Shondelle was pounding on my keyboard demanding to know where the car keys were, and I get a call on my modem from my agent wanting to know if I'd be willing to have my engrams imprinted on a mechanical shark for a remake of Jaws that was going into production."

"You agreed?"

He faced me with an expression of astonishment. “It was Hollywood. Jaws. With a role like that in my credits, who knows what other roles I might've been offered? That was when my agent changed my name. He figured a shark named Donald Lipper would be hard to take seriously."

"Your given name is Donald?"

The duck leveled a rather menacing gaze at me. “Don't go there, man."

"What about your wife?” I asked, judiciously changing the subject.

"Shondelle,” muttered the duck. “Even though I explained what a huge break this would be for us, she took a walk. With the bread I could've made from a production like Jaws, I could've had my engrams imprinted on a six-figure bio of anything or anyone she wanted. No dice, though. The first person she called after she left my terminal was a divorce shark."

"My sympathies. What happened regarding the remake?"

"What else? Jaws bit it. I was about ready for a karma transplant. A week later, though, my agent came through with a pretty good commercial gig. It was a role that before had been limited by computer-generated imaging and trained animals. They were finally ready to move up to a real actor."

"What was it?” I inquired.

"Spokesentity for an insurance company."

Shad saw my expression.

"Yeah. That's the one. Really. That's me."

I frowned at him. “That duck was white."

"Make-up,” Shad explained. He looked forward as our descent crossed the edge of Dartmoor, vast expanses of hilly bracken and grassland interrupted by rocky tors all beneath a gloomy sky. “Good years of really great physical comedy. I was on all the talk and game shows. I was the duck who turned the world on to disability insurance. But then the company was taken over by another insurance outfit. The new bunch wanted to use their own mascot: a creepy little computer-generated lizard, the same old animation they'd used for fifty years."

"Unfortunate. I really enjoyed your commercials, Shad. Very amusing."

Shad shook his head and angrily padded on the seat from one webbed foot to the other. “Treat me like some CGI that'd gone out of style. Me! I put life in that duck. I brought new dimensions to that role. I was the one who made that company a household name in every palace and hoodoo hutch on this planet. That's what dedication, hard work, and loyalty get you: No severance, no residuals, out with the old letterheads.” He took a breath and let it out. “Anyway, alone, out of work, and no prospects, I went to the International Police Benevolent Association and invoked the ‘still living and able’ employment clause. They either had to put me on pension or find me a job in law enforcement."

"So they sent you to ABCD."

"First I was with Northern New England Wildlife Protection investigating duck hunting violations. Lucky I had this connection with Archie Quartermain."

"Oh?"

"Whether it's illegal to shoot a wildlife officer who's a duck during duck hunting season really hasn't been settled yet."

"I see what you mean."

"Besides, I had a supervisor who was an eared grebe. That's a bird."

"I assumed it was either that or an illegal wrestling hold."

Shad gave my joke a truncated pity laugh and continued, “Dudley Baumgartner. A small bird, he had a big black crest and these flaky little golden ear tufts he was really proud of. He could've been an American bald eagle, but BioDyne couldn't legally recode the bald eagle DNA to give him black head feathers."

"Why on earth would he want that?"

"Baumgartner was very sensitive about hair loss."

"Eagles don't have hair."

"Tell it to Baumgartner. Red eyes, his voicebox implant programmed to talk like a frog—I'm telling you, boss, this case is saving more than my life."

"Speaking of programmed voiceboxes, Shad, why do you use this duck voice? I mean, it's still rather comical."

"This was the voice that made me a star."

The cruiser came in over the village of Leighon and up a gentle rise to a wood of oaks, maples, and conifers at the eastern foot of Hound Tor. In the center of the wood was a clearing, and in the center of the clearing, at the intersection of a maze of bricked paths and boxwoods, was the grand lodge of Houndtor Down Hunts, a city within a palace made familiar by countless posters, post cards, vid story settings, skyvault projections, and telly commercials.

A circular drive only slightly smaller than the M-5 ran from the front steps to an improved road that lead north toward Manaton. Most of Houndtor's clientele came in by air. The huge skydock was south of the lodge. The dock appeared to have parking slips for only a few hundred vehicles, but as we came in over it, I could see the access lanes to additional parking slip floors below ground level. As we descended onto one of the multiple landing targets, I noticed with some alarm that Shad was shaking his tail feathers back and forth. “I say, Shad, do you need to go to the loo?"

"What?” He glanced back at his own shaking tail. “Oh.” He dismissed my concern with another wave of his wing. “Updating my anti-virus definitions."

Despite the promised rain, the gardening staff was out in force, clipping, pruning, weeding, and such. No one else, staff or guests, seemed to be about. Of course, the promised park constabulary vehicle and driver were absent, which was a dual problem for us since the ABCD charter requires us to turn our case over to the local authorities in the event an arrest is to be made. The missing fellow, in addition, was supposed to bring us to the scene and copy us the park constabulary's case file. “Typical,” I muttered as we exited the cruiser. “A thing you'll notice during your time with ABCD, Shad, is that, as you Americans say, we can't get no respect."

"Let me see if I can scare up our ride,” said Shad, pointing his right wingtip up at the sky.

"You can fly?"

"But of course.” He took a running step, furiously flapped his wings, and took off low across the ground, gradually increasing his altitude in an ever-widening arc to the right. Quite beautiful, really. Almost completing a circuit of the clearing, south of the skydock he dropped from the sky like a hawk, disappearing into the trees below. This was shortly followed by rather loud duck calls, and the whine of an electric energizing. In moments a green and white park constabulary electric emerged from the trees, my partner perched triumphantly upon its light array.

Park Police Constable Lounds was a lethargic lad about fifteen stone, dark-complexioned, and keeping both head and face hairless. Clad against the anticipated precip in a constable's yellow anorak, he appeared to be torn between his affected contempt for the “Interpollys,” as local police are wont to address ABCD investigators behind their backs, and his actual esteem-crushing shame for being so terribly low in DCI Stokes's estimation as to be the one detailed to meet with us. His eyes were puffy and there was a bit of dried drool on the left side of his chin. Lounds had been napping. He pulled his desktop from his belt array and transferred the current Miles Bowman murder casebook to my portable. We boarded the vehicle, Lounds in the driver's seat, I in the passenger seat, and Shad up on the light array. Lounds drove us to the scene following a route marked by numerous hoof impressions. I noticed carefully hidden motion cameras and sound pickups in several places along the way. It appeared as though the vid director and those manning the cameras and audio for the tally-ho virtuals knew exactly which course the wily old fox would take during the hunt. Probably all the details had been worked out with Archie Quartermain prior to the meet where the followers joined the hounds, tipped their hats to the Master—now deceased—and sucked down the first of several libations offered along the way. Call me old-fashioned, but the fox being in on the planning of the hunt seemed to take at least a bit of the sport out of the thing.

The route Constable Lounds took led around the ends of several hedges and fences, none of which enclosed anything. They were placed there, obviously, to provide the mounts and riders barriers over which to jump.

Eventually we crossed sheep-grazed grassland up a moderate grade to the left of Hound Tor, a magnificent citadel of weathered granite towers, a motorway-wide notch through the center of which became visible once we crossed the crumbling remains of an old asphalt road and reached midway between the lodge and a grove of conifers near the crest of the down. “Scene's up there,” said Lounds.

I faced him and saw he was nodding toward the pines. I noticed my partner flying on ahead of us, soon disappearing behind some trees. I took a moment to look at the case file, but could find nothing in it referring to an interview with Archie Quartermain. “Are you familiar with this case file, Constable?” I asked Lounds.

"Read it twice waiting for you and your feathered friend there, guv. Fact is, I was first responder here.” He shrugged resignedly and stifled a yawn. “Been here since."

"All night?"

"I was supposed to get relieved, but some bloody cock-up left me carrying the can."

"I don't see any interview with the deceased's business partner, Archie Quartermain."

"The fox, y'mean, guv? He's in a hole somewheres."

"No one's seen him?"

Constable Lounds tapped his own portable desk in its holster. “Only address Quartermain's got's here at the lodge. He don't have a room, though. No room and hundreds of millions in the bank."

He parked the vehicle, we got out, and crossed the tape. There was a lane through the grove made by the trees being thinned to where no two of them in the path were any closer than six meters from each other. The trees themselves were Quik-gro pines, the vegetable kingdom's twenty-meter-tall answer to Quik-gro human and amdroid meat suit bios. The tree branches throughout the entire wood had been trimmed to four meters plus from the ground. Within the confines of the path, then, there was an intermittently clear view from above, allowing the tally-hover spectators to follow the riders with their eyes and cameras, with no one actually riding to the hounds being more than a second or two out of view from someone above. Off the lane, however, the view from above was completely blocked due to the closeness of the trees. The yellow tape placed by the scenes of crime officers enclosed part of the lane but extended deeply into the off-lane trees.

"We got the vids, guv, both the lodge's and from the folks up in the hovers."

"Did anyone catch the actual killing on camera?"

"Not a one. Bowman got his in the thick of it.” Lounds pointed a finger toward our left. “Trail vids got Miles, his missus Lady Iva, Huntsman Diana Weatherly, Lead Second Horseman Sabrina Depp, the head whipper-in Thomas Flock, his nibs Lord Peter Talmadge, and that old West End actress Dotty T. off the main track here."

"Dotty—Dorothea Tay, do you mean?"

The constable grinned. “Grand old lady. She got ‘er a meat suit'd break your heart, guv.” I couldn't help but smile. Dorothea Tay, my childhood fantasy love from afar. I had seen all her early plays and I still had the vids of all her movies. PC Lounds's face grew troubled. “DCI Stokes told me you're Interpollys and you're not to make arrests. That's my job."

"We are aware of the regulations.” I nodded toward the deep woods. “What do you think, Lounds?"

His bunchy little eyebrows arched. “Me?"

"You've read the file, you're a trained police officer, I'd like your take on it."

"Well, guv,” he began, slightly surprised at being asked, “only ones I know bring horseshoes to a fox hunt is horses."

"Constable Lounds, you will be pleased to hear that my superintendent agrees with your assessment. Do you know why your DCI Stokes discarded that theory?"

Lounds looked very uncomfortable. He glanced up at the still darkening sky, then shifted his gaze to me. “Off record, inspector?"

"Of course."

He pursed his lips and nodded once. “'Titled Lady Croaks Multimillionaire Hubby In Grisly Slaying’ makes a juicer headline than ‘Horse Kicks Rider.’”

As we walked deep beneath the cover of the trees off the lane, I could see a laser marker perhaps ten meters ahead. DS Shad came flying the other way, his landing pattern weaving between a succession of tree trunks, the touchdown right before us—a competently executed maneuver. Shad waddled over and said, “Not much left. What hasn't been taken away or trampled into the pine needles has been picked over by the wildlife."

"Can you make out where Bowman's body was found?"

"They have a Vader prang in place, but I didn't run it up.” He nodded toward the cleared lane. “Notice once you get away from that open run, there aren't any cameras or audio pickups?"

I nodded and followed as Shad lead the way, Constable Lounds bringing up the rear. Once we were next to the tree where the marker was attached, I asked Lounds to activate it. He took out a remote and did so, and a high-definition image of the deceased Miles Bowman appeared in its place on the forest floor two meters west from the base of the tree. He was on his left side, his head pointing southwest, body curled in a loose fetal position. The image was depicted wearing scarlet coat over cream-colored cravat, waistcoat, and trousers tucked into gleaming black riding boots, all of which had been marked with bloody hoof marks, the source of the blood being the deceased's scalp, face, and hands. “Full scan, Lounds,” I requested.

Lounds touched the remote and the image expanded to include everything within the prang's line of sight up to ten meters from the unit, which included several pairs of disembodied feet at the periphery: The scenes-of-crime officers awaiting clearance to approach the body. “I don't see Bowman's black velvet riding helmet,” I said to Lounds.

"Lady Iva had it in ‘er hand, guv."

"Be a good fellow and cycle the SOCS."

The scenes of crime sequence images cycled: Footwear impressions included all of the suspects, including Bowman's horse, as well as all of the other horses ridden by the suspects. A bloody horseshoe had been recovered from the ground near the body, and the shoe had come from Champion's right front hoof. A note: Champion's hooves had all been tested for blood and had come back negative, which would have been remarkable except when Champion had finally been recaptured, the nag was standing with all fours in a spring-fed brook.

I looked up at Lounds. “They didn't test the rest of the horse for blood spatter?"

The constable shrugged helplessly. “DCI Stokes's got ‘is bird—” He glanced at Shad. “Beg pardon, Sergeant."

"Forget about it,” answered the duck. Shad looked at me.

"Yes. It does appear to be left to us.” The beginning of raindrops hitting the needles above us announced itself. I pulled up my collar, took a holoanalyzer out of my breast pocket, and nodded at Lounds.

As he turned off the laser marker, we were momentarily plunged into relative darkness. I turned on the pen-sized analyzer, placed it in the receptacle on the laser marker to steady it, and controlled it with my portable. By default the analyzer first projected the aggregate images: All substances on the tree trunks not actually made of that type of wood. The tree trunks appeared mostly in shades of white and gray speckled with brown, red orange, lavender, and so on.

"A lot o’ stuff on them trees,” observed Lounds.

"Moss, lichen, animal waste, insects, and insect waste,” I said, filtering out the hundreds of thousands of colored speckles. I filtered out the bird droppings, rodent droppings, canine, and feline hair, urine, and excrement, as well.

"I hope that I shall never see a toilet filthy as a tree,” quipped Shad.

There was some equine as well as human blood on the tree nearest where the body had been. The tree was a twenty-centimeter-thick pine standing in front of a deadfall that was well into rotting its way back into the floor of the grove. The human blood was Bowman's. The analyzer DNA-matched the horse blood through the world amdroid database to Champion, Mile's Bowman's horse. There was equine hair, also Champion's. On three other tree trunks was human blood spatter in medium-velocity patterns. That blood, too, was Bowman's.

I ran the spatter forms and sequence, derived the impact angles, and determined the points and order of origin. It then projected a reconstruction of the blunt force impacts, and it was looking more and more as though a horse was our suspect. The blows that were struck, at least six of them, occurred in pairs, in that two blows were struck at a time, and with horseshoes. D. Supt. Matheson couldn't imagine Lady Iva getting into the muck to beat a man to death with a horseshoe. I was having difficulty, frankly, in imagining any human beating another to death, a horseshoe in each hand held such that the flat of the shoe struck the victim each time, rather than an edge, and that three times both hands were employed delivering blows at the same time.

"Guv,” said Lounds as he stifled a yawn, “need me?"

"I suppose you could stand a nap. Are all the vids in here?” I tapped my portable.

"They are."

"We have all you can help us with, then, Constable Lounds. Drive us to the lodge, and then you can take the car and go home with our thanks for all your assistance."

After an hour and a half in the lodge's walnut-and-leather-festooned club lounge watching the professional and amateur vids of the interrupted hunt, Shad and I were swamped with useless information. Time and time again we saw the six riders following the hounds as they led away from the thinned lane beneath the solid canopy, then twenty seconds later, all but one returning to the lane and pausing as the foxhounds milled around searching for the scent. The prey, Archie Quartermain, appeared several times during the run. We saw him on stationary cameras coming into the lane through the grove, running along it, and exiting as he raced toward the rise beyond the grove, no one following.

No one caught Miles Bowman's demise on camera. Lady Iva Bowman, indeed, had been the first to return to the spot off the lane, ostensibly looking for her husband, returning moments later with the Master's black velvet cap in her hand to cry out to Lord Talmadge, who was the closest to her. He called to the others, all of whom followed Talmadge and Lady Iva back to where Bowman's corpse was cooling.

Only three of the riders in the party had been carrying point-of-view vid cameras: Bowman, Talmadge, and Dorothea Tay. Miles's POV camera went dark as soon as his horse ran beneath the thick cover. No audio.

Talmadge's camera showed he was ahead of the Master when his own horse turned off the lane to follow the hounds, his camera going dark until he came out from beneath the thick cover and came up behind the staff riders back in the lane, where it appeared the hounds had lost the scent. Talmadge pulled his mount up behind Tay. Weatherly, Depp, and Flock then turned, supposedly in reaction to Lady Iva's call for help. He and the others followed Lady Iva back beneath the solid cover, where the images from his camera were so dark they were almost useless. Talmadge dismounted, then we could just make out the image of Lady Iva standing next to her husband's corpse.

After that, we watched Dorothea Tay's POV vid from the beginning, starting with the opening ceremonies, the fields of riders moving off, the casting of the hounds, and then, as Shad put it, “Yoicks away."

It was rather exciting watching the unedited recording. Miss Tay was quite a rider, as were the five persons with whom she was riding, the hounds almost always in view. Glimpses of Miles, Lady Iva, Lord Talmadge, even an occasional glimpse of Archie Quartermain, his white-tipped tail vanishing and reappearing as he led the chase. Midway through the lane of thinned trees, the hounds veered left and ran beneath the solid cover. Miss Tay led the other riders, her camera going dark beneath the dense cover, the images clearing as she returned to the lane.

"If we're to believe these vids,” said Shad, “the only ones who could've done in Miles were his spouse and his horse."

"It's easy enough these days to doctor vids, Shad, inserting or removing anything one wants. It still takes time, though, and all those tally-hover amateur tapes seem to back up everything shown by the stationary and POV cameras.” I glanced at Shad. “As subtly as you can, see if the park cop SOCOs examined any of the vids for editing."

"Check."

As I returned to Dorothea Tay's POV vid, Shad did his wireless thing. From my end, the call was silent. Shad noted me watching him, and I pointed at my ear. Shad pointed at my portable. “Six-sixty-one,” he quacked.

As soon as I opened that particular channel, I was treated to an authoritative and distinguished investigator questioning DCI Stokes of the park cops on the case evidence, and about any testing that might have been done regarding any editing. The voice Shad was using was very commanding, very British, and seemed very familiar. Every syllable simply oozed gobs of absolute authority and withering contempt. No testing had been done, as it turned out, and Shad's voice intimated that having the vids examined for editing would reflect kindly upon DCI Stokes's future, whereas continuing to fail to examine them would likely earn him a posting as toilet attendant to the northernmost of the Shetland Islands.

"Very effective, Shad,” I said. “The voice you were using—I know it from somewhere."

The duck nodded. “Laurence Olivier as Marcus Licinius Crassus in the old motion picture Spartacus. I find it works very well on most Britaucrats."

While I digested this particular facet of my new partner's sound equipment, I studied a frame of one of the stationary vids I had up on my screen. It showed a red fox: short legs, a long bushy tail, and a narrow muzzle. The creature's ears and feet were black, its tail had a white tip, and the coat was glossy and rust red. I turned and glanced through one of the many tall windows in the club lounge facing Hound Tor. The promise of rain had been fulfilled. “Shad, run the cruiser around to the front of the lodge beneath the portico. I think it's time someone interviewed the fox."

An hour later the rain was falling steadily on the cruiser's canopy a half kilometer south of the lodge grove, giving us a distorted view of the protected site of a nameless medieval village and the large rock formation just beyond it. In the distance, occasionally obscured by patches of ground fog, rose the imposing heights of Haytor Rocks. Had the village been located in the American southwest, it would have been called a ghost town. It was little more than lanes, foundations, and the occasional restored wall, with a small imitation stone, prefab National Park Information Center sporting a pseudo thatched roof and pseudo brick chimney at the site's northwest corner, with a rather real-looking sparrow perched on its top. Shad had posted a wireless text message for Quartermain and when the fox answered, this was where he said we were to wait. Putting the waiting time to use, Shad checked with the District AB Registry for the particulars on both Archie Quartermain and Miles Bowman's horse.

"Both amdroids were gestated, grown, and activated through Fantronics, Ltd. out of London,” said Shad. “The bio amdroid assignment supervisor there, Dr. Shirley Wurple, dodged my call. Her chief assistant to the assistant chief, one Martin Corbola, says he would be happy to answer all of our questions—once we present at the Fantronics legal offices, during normal business hours, a duly sworn and signed warrant for the information on Quartermain.” He faced me. “The information on the horse, however, he gave up willingly."

"Horse engrams can't quite grasp the concept of litigation, I suppose. Have London ABCD apply for a warrant for Quartermain's records and post us with the names of any Fantronics employees connected with Quartermain's transformation into a Vulpes vulpes."

After sending in the warrant request, Shad said, “Where were you before you wound up in ABCD?"

"Metro. London Metropolitan Police."

"You mean, Scotland Yard?"

"Just ‘the Yard.’”

The duck studied me. “So, you were a big-time murder cop in the Yard and you wound up out here in West Mudflap doing grunt work for Artificial Beings Crimes ... how?"

"What about you? How come you're still a duck? The International PBA pays for human meat suits for fallen officers."

"Have you ever seen those generic bios they use in the States? One size fits all. They don't come with wireless modems either."

"Also they don't fly,” I added.

"There is that.” He nodded. “The flying is one reason I'm a duck."

"I hear for many ams it's the sex."

Shad faced me as his eyes widened. “Are you kidding?"

"Not at all. Many species of animals have better sex than humans, I understand."

"What—did Parker tell you that?” The duck laughed with a repeated wak, wak, wak sound. “Better sex? Ignoring the really severe seasonal limitations for most waterfowl, have you ever seen ducks copulate?"

"I can't say that I have."

"No matter how you slice it, man, it's criminal sexual assault."

"You mean rape?"

"I'm not exaggerating.” He shivered all over. “In Duckville, man, if you don't do it like that, you don't do it at all. I can't do it that way. It is one big stone cold turn-off."

"Then why don't you opt for a human meat suit?” I insisted.

"Look, when I was working for that insurance company, part of the deal my agent put together was quite a sophisticated package for their spokescritter. This duck is loaded: ENN-band wireless interface, portable engram reader, all-weather thermal imaging, state-of-the-art sound, a memory bigger than the Library of Congress, disease-proof, and mildew-resistant. As long as I don't get shot by a hunter, sucked into a jet intake, or caught by a chef, I'm practically indestructible. But it's not just that I'd have to give up all those features to put on one of those Mediocre Myron meat suits to become a mere mortal human back in New York's finest. What would happen to me—I mean, what would happen to the duck?"

"The meat suit would be put in the queue for whoever wanted to become a duck."

"That line doesn't exactly wrap around the block. I'll tell you what would happen: This little duck would be allowed to die, its mind emptier than my pension plan. This duck made me a star, put my name in Variety, and got me my own booth at Billy Bob's Buffalo Burger. I owe it more than letting it wind up in a recipe or a landfill somewhere."

"The lovemaking, though, Shad. Do you miss it?” I almost regretted asking. Each question is, in its own way, a confession.

Shad stared at me for a second. “Sure, I miss it. About a year ago there was this hooded merganser I met on a landfill in Skowhegan, Maine. Cutest little tail you ever saw."

"How is a mallard attracted to a hooded merganser? Doesn't that violate some sort of law of nature?"

Shad waved a wing, dismissing the question. “Every year in New England some moose comes out of the bogs and falls in love with a dairy cow, and I'm talking real moose and real cows. You do realize I'm not a real duck, don't you?"

"Pardon me if I seem a bit dense, Shad, but it seems even more perverse for a human to be sexually attracted to a hooded merganser."

"You need to walk a mile in my webbed feet. Besides, you never saw her fluffy pink and white pinfeathers. Your theory works the other way, though. She wouldn't give a mallard a second look.” He faced me. “I still haven't forgotten my question."

I stared at the rivulets of rainwater streaming down the canopy. “About three years ago my wife died. It was in some sort of building explosion. Killed seven others as well, including the bomber."

"Religious nut?"

"Insurance scam gone awry, as it turned out. The fire brigade's paramedics managed to harvest my wife's engrams before she went neutral.” I smiled sadly, recalling her reaction when she regained consciousness in the generic female bio the National Health and the IPBA had provided. I glanced at Shad. “She called her bio Averill Average."

Shad only nodded, his gaze fixed on some inward quandary of his own.

"My wife had many health problems: chronic headaches, arthritis, difficulties with her heart—"

"None of which Averill Average had,” completed Shad.

"Quite.” I let out an involuntary sigh. “She was so healthy I imagined it would be for her like being born again. To be honest with you, Shad, generic that female bio may have been, but I found her rather attractive."

"Built, huh?"

I felt myself blush. “Well ... in a word.” I glanced at him. “That notwithstanding, my wife couldn't stand her new body. She saw a therapist and all the rest, but I'm afraid she had some rather severe issues that were brought to full flower by inhabiting what she considered someone else's body, although hers was the suit's first imprint. We explored the possibility of doing a Quik-gro bio from her own DNA, but the NH and the PBA wouldn't cooperate because of her DNA's built-in health problems."

"Policy,” remarked Shad.

"Indeed. The short of it was that she wanted out."

"Suicide?” asked Shad.

"No. She wanted out of Averill Average. She wanted a new meat suit."

"How? The union wouldn't spring for a second body—particularly not a designer suit. Those can cost millions."

"As it turned out, she didn't want a human bio no matter who it looked like. Valerie traded her human meat suit on eSwap for an automatic dishwasher, ten years housekeeping service from Rent-A-Mech, and an amdroid meat suit. She had her engrams imprinted on a female cat bio."

"You're married to a cat?"

"A Tonkinese. We're still together, of course. I love her very much."

The duck let out a snort of frustration. “Great. Neither of us are getting any."

I burst out with a laugh at that. “Quite.” I looked over at him. “Regarding your question, I'm on my second bio myself. Between that and my experience with Val, I qualified for ABCD.” And now came the difficult part. “Perhaps my work at the Yard was slipping. Set in my ways. I'd been a detective for almost sixty years. Perhaps Metro just needed to clear the upper ranks in order to bring up deserving youth. Whatever. Since I refused to retire, I was forced to take a position with ABCD."

"Yeah,” said Shad as he nodded. “Now I know who you remind me of. You sort of look like Basil Rathbone."

"I noticed the same resemblance in this bio. I rather like it. How does one so young remember Rathbone?"

Shad placed the back of one wingtip against his forehead. “Surely you jest. Basil Rathbone, big star in the nineteen forties and fifties, his Sherlock Holmes films still on the B&W vids all the time."

"Ah, yes,” I said as I recalled. “'Guard this with your life, Watson.’ He was an early Sheriff of Nottingham, as well."

"The Sheriff of Nottingham was a brother officer who got a bum rap from a biased media,” Shad observed, then held out his wing. “So, what happened? Did you get killed?"

"The first time. The second time there was a genetic glitch in the bio that resulted in rather debilitating health problems. The IPBA insurance covered bio replacements both times, and Valerie insisted I take this one."

"What happened to the old you?"

"The first was ransacked for body parts with the remainder cremated and scattered in Val's garden—back when she used to garden. The second one, believe it or not, is still alive and in the nick up in North Yorkshire awaiting trial for multiple murders."

"G'wan. North Yorkshire? The old you is the Harrogate Slasher? Chucky Bulvine? The guy who used a portable engram assignment unit to steal an identity to disguise himself for his nighttime murder sprees?"

"That's the one. Some terminal pensioner from Otley took on my old body thinking he might get an additional four or five severely limited years out of it for next to nothing. Then one night Chucky Bulvine caught him, wiped him, did a swap, killed his first victim, then reassigned back to his old body. He kept that up, using my old body, then reverting to his usual self between killings. He might never have been caught except Bulvine's ex-wife found his body in stasis when he was out in mine and put a plastic bag over his head. By the time he returned, his old self was covered with flies."

"So Bulvine's stuck in the old you."

I couldn't help but smile. “The old me simply wasn't up to running from the police."

"Too much cop in your DNA."

"Mostly a weak heart and a pair of bad knees.” I grinned as I added, “Quite a dilemma for Bulvine, though."

"How so?"

"Bulvine's best legal strategy is to drag things out until the crown's aged chief witness either dies or can be frightened off. The doctors, however, don't think the old me can possibly live another six months. Quite a predicament."

"That's the future,” Shad remarked laconically. “What a fascinating modern age we live in."

I grinned as I pointed at the duck. “Lucky Jack Aubrey in the vid remake of Master and Commander. Right?"

"You know your flicks. In the Master and Commander remake, do you remember the flightless cormorant the doctor saw when the Surprise made the Galapagos Islands?"

"Of course."

The duck crossed his right wing across his breast, held out his left wing and did a courtly bow.

"No,” I said. “I don't believe it—"

A tapping sound came from Shad's side of the cruiser. He straightened from his bow and looked down through his side of the canopy. “We better copy into the mechs, boss. It's Archie Quartermain, and right now he's going into a muddy hole in the ground."

"No. Impossible. I cannot believe Ida killed Miles,” said the fox.

Archie Quartermain paced back and forth, looking about warily in what passed for his office. The site of the medieval village below ground level was a warren of tunnels and chambers, many of the chambers being old hidey-holes formed from the village's remaining root cellars, wells, and cisterns. The stone slab chamber in which our meeting took place was a little over three meters by two and contained an occupant other than Shad, Quartermain, and myself: a human skeleton.

While our meat suits reclined in the cruiser, hovering prudently out of reach of local malefactors, Shad and I were in the mechs. Mine resembled a tread-mounted aluminum grapefruit topped with miniaturized vid, lighting, audio, and analysis equipment. Shad was in the fist-sized hover mech, which resembled an art deco Saturn with a badly straightened set of rings. The only illumination in the chamber was provided by our mech lights. While Quartermain paced, I did a quick carbon on the skeleton to see if it was something I needed to ring in. It wasn't. The bones dated back to the thirteenth century. Judging from the earthenware jug next to the bones, the likely cause of death was slow suicide. From his own mech, Shad tuned into my test data and responded with a signal inaudible to the fox, "Talk about your cold cases."

"I don't understand any of this,” Quartermain said. “Miles and Ida Bowman are—were the love story of the century. Besides, Miles was a bear of a man. Strong, muscular, good in a scrap. Ida was half his size. Beat him to death with a horseshoe? Rubbish.” He stopped suddenly and looked at Shad. “The run was all wrong. Have you looked into that?"

"What about the run?” asked Shad.

The fox glanced warily at the hover egg. “It didn't follow the planned route, did it, Don? The hounds and horses were supposed to follow the glade lane through Quik Grove. Have you seen where Miles was found?"

"Yes,” responded Shad, “but the horses follow the hounds, and the hounds follow you, right?"

"Not that time. I zigzagged down that lane and never got off it. Suddenly all the hounds were gone.” He looked at Shad. “You have GPS and wireless in that mech?"

"Yes."

"You'll see. The run was all planned out in advance, down to the last turn.” The fox sat, his tail around his legs, hunched his head forward, and bared his teeth. “I'm sending you the plan, as well as the performance record. I hit every mark exactly, in sequence, and on time.” The fox glanced at me. “We use the records to debrief the staff after each hunt."

"Why?"

"Constant improvement at Houndtor Down, inspector. Identifying weak areas and mistakes, sharpening up the challenge, polishing the act."

My partner nodded. “Got it, Archie."

"My run was cut short at the first turn, after leaving the grove. That's when I noticed none of those hounds were dripping hot slobber in my dust.” The fox froze for an instant, then fixed me with a beady-eyed stare. “I have a built-in image reader in my package. Once I realized something had gone wrong with the hunt, I tuned in and peeked through Champion's eyes. He was the only amdroid in the leaders. Miles's horse was already out of the grove, running down toward Becka Brook. Champion's emotional feed spilled into his vid. I was sure something terrible had happened. I didn't find out what until I was back in my den and tuned in the message Sabrina Depp posted for me."

"About Miles's death?” I asked.

"That, Lady Iva's arrest, and that the police wanted to talk to me. It's simply all so preposterous. Iva couldn't have killed Miles. You've got to get to Champion and download his recall bank."

"When you tuned in Bowman's horse, what did you see?” asked Shad.

"A scramble of terrible images.” He thought a second. “A horse hit by a lorry hauling toilets, horses horribly wounded and killed in a desert, horses falling and being blown apart by cannons—all of it at once, filled with deafening pain and panic.” The fox looked at me. “It was like looking at a horse's nightmare."

There was a scuffling sound, movement beyond the old bones. Quartermain jumped over the skeleton and vanished from view. Shad and I aimed sensors at each other. He dipped his front ring and whispered, “Recognize it? The horse hit by a truck hauling toilets?"

"Yes,” I answered. “Lonely Are The Brave, Kirk Douglas and Walter Matthau, nineteen sixties."

"Nineteen sixty-two. The desert thing might be from an old vid called Hidalgo,” he suggested.

"Horses dropping and being blown up could be from any of the old movies centered on the Crimea or the Napoleonic Wars."

"Charge of the Light Brigade, Errol Flynn,” said Shad. “I'll see if I can tune in Champion."

I tracked over next to the old bones and saw that beyond them was an opening between two of the foundation rocks that led to a burrow. I swiveled my sensor array in Shad's direction. “Any luck with the horse?"

"I can't get through."

"Put it off for now. I want to know the layout of all these burrows, Shad, and I want the mapping to be unobserved. Go on up to the cruiser and transfer over to a micro."

"Man,” he muttered. “The last time I went out in a micro I was swallowed by a grouper. You have any idea of the disgusting things fish eat?"

"Soon."

"Yes sir,” he answered with a sigh as he turned and flew out of the chamber the way we had entered.

I looked back at the skeleton. Archie Quartermain was skulking behind the ribcage. “My mate,” he said furtively. “Brought me mouse.” He licked his chops, panted for a brief moment, then said, “Still warm."

"Steady,” I cautioned.

"She's pregnant."

I was left speechless for a moment. At least foxes were getting it on. “Well, congratulations, you sly old ... Congratulations.” Time to return to the investigation. “Tell me, Mr. Quartermain. Where do you keep your body in stasis?"

"Body?” The fox paused long enough to glance at the floor and shake his head. “This is my body now. Don't keep anything in stasis."

"Well, what about your human body? Where is that?"

"Sold it. Seed money for the operation. Brought a good price. Ask Don. Archie was a young handsome fellow in good health. Brought almost two million."

"Mr. Quartermain, I have to ask about your own possible interest in your partner's death."

"Mine?"

"If Lady Ida is found guilty of Miles Bowman's murder, you stand to inherit quite a respectable sum, not to mention a very lucrative operation."

"Money. That's what you're talking about, isn't it? Money?"

"Of course."

The fox began pacing again, his nose sniffing at the chamber floor. “Mice,” he said as though to himself alone. “Mice are important. Mating, grubs, grass, eggs, gates, cubs, fast-fast legs, and chickens are important. Money: that's paper.” He abruptly turned and fled through that opening at the rear of the chamber. “The game,” he growled huskily as his voice faded. “The game is all!"

Archie's soliloquy on priorities concluded, I tracked out of the muddy burrow and called down the cruiser. Shad was in it just completing his transfer to the micro, a flat-black colored hover vehicle resembling a stealth lipstick, one end encrusted with instruments. After hosing out the mech, I went back to my meat suit and Shad darted off to map the burrow system. While Shad was occupied doing that, I went to the lodge.

As evening approached, making everything dismally dark as well as wet, Shad and I were back in the cruiser, the vehicle parked at the skydock, our engrams back in our current selves. Shad was labeling the GPS tunnel map he had made. That done, he leaned back from the screen and said, “So, while I was grubbing in the dirt, you did a tour of the palace?"

"Yes."

"So? What was it like?"

I thought for a moment. “Good taste and great vision meet big money and unlimited energy."

The duck faced me and said seriously, “That sounds like approval."

"I confess, Shad, I was prepared to view the whole place as outmoded values wallowing in unlimited wealth, but it is quite well done. All the halls, rooms, great rooms, and the shopping center are stunningly beautiful, and the service is prompt, polite, and practically invisible. Did you know there are hunt clients and their families that live there all year?"

"Service?"

"Why, yes. I had a cream tea at one of the shops in the mall."

"Cream tea,” he stated flatly, that hint of menace sharpening his tone just a trifle. “I don't suppose the place was set up to entertain ducks."

"Actually, the shop had a fountain, and there were ducks entertaining themselves in the fountain's pond. They appeared to be enjoying themselves, but who can say? Ducks are so inscrutable.” I glanced at him to see if he was properly steamed, but he was onto me.

His bill was open as he emitted a low laugh. “You're one of those people who believe that life is a test, aren't you?"

"How did you find your old roommate, Archie? Different?"

His demeanor grew serious. “You notice how Archie kept referring to me as Don even after I told him my name was Guy? He's in some kind of weird zone."

"I'm afraid your old roommate's gone a bit native, Shad. He said his mate has cubs on the way, and you should've heard his paean to a plump warm mouse. He said something strange to me—"

"You mean other than liking Mickey sushi?"

"He was telling me what was important to him. He ended by saying, ‘The game is all.’ Does that mean anything to you?"

"The game is what we used to call live theater.” Shad thought for a moment. “That's what he's doing now, isn't it? Live theater?"

"He's not after money. In fact, Bowman's death jeopardizes everything Archie Quartermain currently holds dear, doesn't it?"

"The same could be said for Lady Iva, boss. Miles might have been getting a little on the side from Sabrina Depp, but take my word for it, Sabrina had to have been only the latest in a long string of honeys. That's the way Miles always was. Anyway, if you are Lady Iva and want to protect hearth and home against a homewrecker, who do you kill?"

"The other woman,” I answered. “And, if you want to get revenge on a rich, philandering husband,” I continued, “who do you see? A hit man or a lawyer?"

"Ninety-seven point three percent of prospective vengeance wreakers go for the court shark,” responded Shad. He looked at me. “It's time to see a horse about a man—a dead man."

"I agree."

After leaving the cruiser in an unused loading dock, Shad and I were standing in the antechamber to the complex, a space reminiscent of the hanger deck of an aircraft carrier. Very big, very white, with technical, mechanical, and horsy looking personages hurrying this way and that at the direction of automated panels festooned with blinking lights and glowing indicator bars. The air in the space carried trace scents of paint, prepared foods, hot electrical boards, polished leather, hay, and horse manure. Directional signs pointed to various wings in the structure. In one, tally-hovers were being repaired, cleaned, polished, stocked with refreshments, and stored for the next hunt. In another wing were the vid studios sectioned into units that operated and repaired vid and sound systems, viewed, edited, and “supplemented” vids with complete sound stages and computer animation facilities. There was a third wing in which mechs of animals and other appliances were programmed and maintained—it seemed a significant portion of the birds singing in the treetops, as well as bunnies munching leaves along the paths, were mechs. There was a complete hospital wing capable of handling most human and animal illnesses, both natural and bio. The last wing was where the operation kept horses, with stalls for two hundred of Houndtor Down's horses and another three hundred guest-leased stalls. There were two barn-sized rooms attached to the wing for feed and other supplies, and a third barn-sized area that contained offices, tack rooms, employee lockers, and changing rooms, and a full-sized indoor riding paddock. The hounds, we were informed, had their own separate kennel complex. All of this because at some point back in prehistory, some farmer got fed up with foxes eating his chickens.

Diana Weatherly, Huntsman to Houndtor Down Hunts, joined us in her office, which was richly appointed with a walnut desk, brown leather overstuffed chairs, and liquid crystal walls that currently showed striking views from the top of Hound Tor, but on a sunny day. Weatherly was in her middle forties, good-looking in a sturdy sort of way, and gave the impression of being quite fit. As she sat in one of the overstuffed chairs facing us, she was wearing a buff suede jacket over a black blouse and black skintight lowers, the cuffs tucked into highly polished brown riding boots. From the records we knew that Weatherly had been Master of Horsham Hunts out of Manaton, a much smaller and much less successful operation than Houndtor. When they were starting up Houndtor Down, Miles Bowman and his fox of a partner sold Archie Quartermain's old self and used the proceeds to make a down payment to buy out Horsham Hunts. Once they closed, Bowman, Quartermain, and Weatherly moved the entire operation to Houndtor Down, Diana Weatherly becoming the operation's Huntsman, responsible during the hunt for controlling the hounds through three whippers-in, the lead whipper-in being Thomas Flock.

"Didn't Bowman run you out of business?” the duck pressed.

She actually held her hand to her mouth as she giggled. “You're a queer duck."

He stared at her for two seconds. “Nevertheless."

"If you insist, ducks.” She then laughed out loud with sufficient zeal and abandon to raise her exhibition to the level of wanton guffawing. Calling a duck “ducks” somehow struck her as the absolute zenith of wordplay wit. Once she regained control of herself, she said, “When I was the Master of Horsham Hunts, ducky, I was up to my ears in debt, only a step ahead of my creditors, and literally didn't know from where my next meal was coming. Thanks to Miles and Archie, I ride to the hounds at least three times a week, drive a Steel Gazelle, vacation wherever I want, live in my family's ancestral home—all taxes and debts paid—and I'm earning per year sixteen times the amount I earned the best year I ever had at Horsham. I haven't even mentioned the stock sharing plan, which brings in as much as my earnings. I wouldn't have to be ungrateful to resent Miles. I'd have to be insane.” She glanced at me, a bored expression on her face. “Anything else?"

"Could we see Champion?” I asked.

"I'd say it was about time,” she said coolly as she stood.

We followed Diana Weatherly out of her office and the duck said to me out of the corner of his bill, “'Horse Throws Rider.’”

"For money, ducks?” I asked with a smile.

Shad glanced in my direction, studied me for a moment, then shook his head. “You're being sneaky. What do you know that I don't?"

"Five dimensions to a case, Shad."

"Left-right, up-down, in-out, time, and ... what?” he asked. “What's DI Jaggers's fifth dimension?"

"The fifth dimension, dear fellow, is this: chances are the murderer—if indeed a murderer there is—has looked at and considered the other four dimensions much longer than the investigators, and with a lot more at risk."

"Staged?” whispered Shad as we entered the cavernous hall of the operation-owned horse stables. “You think there's a killer, and the killer staged this to make it look like the horse did it?"

I pointed toward Diana Weatherly's rapidly receding back. “Let's see the horse and find out."

Miss Weatherly left us inside Champion's spacious stall with instructions to call one of the grooms or attendants in the area if we needed anything. The horse was a largish, glossy, black Arabian. He had a handsome face with a pure white patch in the center of his forehead. The source of the hair and blood from Champion found on the tree at the scene was a deep scrape high on Champion's left shoulder. “I'll check him over, Shad. While I'm doing that, give Champion a scan and see if you can access his memory."

I passed the analyzer over the horse's body and legs, checking principally for blood. I found a good bit of medium-velocity spatter on his chest and the front of his neck. The analyzer matched it to Miles Bowman.

"I don't get it,” said Shad.

"What's that?” I asked as I logged and filed the data.

"I've been wringing this nag's sponge with my neural image reader, and Champion isn't just subhuman, boss; he's subhorse."

I faced Shad and returned the analyzer to my pocket. “How so?"

"Watch out!” screamed Shad looking behind me at something way up there.

I turned and Champion had reared back on his hind legs, his front hooves pawing at the air, his wild-eyed gaze fixed directly on me. “Bloody hell!” I cried as the hooves came down hard. Thanks to Shad's timely warning, I avoided the brunt of the onslaught, only catching a glancing blow above my left temple. Nevertheless it was sufficient to knock me off my feet. I collapsed in the straw in one of the corners, my ears deafened by the most horrible screaming. When I could focus my eyes again, I was momentarily powerless to do anything but watch as Shad distracted the murderous brute from killing me by flapping his wings and running figure eights between and around the horse's legs, all the time screaming “Aa-flak, aa-flak, aa-flak, aa-flak!"

Torn between trying to get away from the duck and trying to kill it, Champion lost track of me long enough for me to pull myself up, stumble to the stall's gate, and get on the other side. As I slammed shut the gate, automatically latching it, Shad came flying over the top, landing in the center of my chest with sufficient force to knock me on my backside.

As I sat up I saw Shad flat on his back, wings straight out against the floor, his webbed feet sticking straight up in the air. It looked to me as though he had lost a considerable quantity of feathers from his left wing and tail. “Well,” he said, looking between his legs at his missing tail feathers, “I'll be plucked."

"Close to what I was just thinking, as well, Shad."

"I bet.” Using his wings, he rolled himself over on his left side, at last flopping on his breast. Another couple of flaps and he was wobbling on his feet, which is more than I could say for myself. I noticed several drops of my own blood decorating the left lapel of my suit. “Oh, dear."

"Not that bad,” said Shad, looking at my head. “Cut. Bruising. You might need a butterfly or two. Not as bad as it looks."

"You'll have to come home with me for dinner, Shad."

He cocked his head at me in modest wonderment. “Great. When?"

"Tonight."

The duck stared at me for a moment. “Kind of short notice."

"Can't be helped.” I debated with myself for a moment, then confessed. “My last year in Metro I was wounded during an arrest. Shot. In and out my left bicep. I had it treated, went home, and told Val it was nothing."

"Then she found out the truth."

"Quite. Ever since, if I have any kind of injury, I need to provide a witness if Val is to believe that it's nothing serious. There's a man who comes in to cook—the mech I mentioned, actually. His name is Walter. I'm sure he can make something you can eat."

"I eat everything but waterfowl and spinach,” Shad answered. He seemed to frown for a moment. “I can tell Val your injury isn't serious, but how you got that injury is real serious. It's what I was trying to say when we were so rudely interrupted. About the neural scan I was doing on Champion?"

"Yes?"

"That nag has been fried, partner. I'm surprised he has enough of a nervous system left to feed himself."

"He seemed bloody spry to me."

Shad cocked his head to one side, glanced at the door to Champion's stall, and looked back at me. “While we were in there, someone hit Champ with an image implant. I was reading it when the horse freaked: Truck full of toilets runs over horse? Desert equine destruction—"

"Charge of the Light Brigade,” I completed. “How could someone do an image implant in a horse stall unobserved? For all that matters, how could they do it in a forest? As I recall, that equipment is heavy, awkward, and that doesn't even include the power requirements."

"However impossible, that horse was panicked into trying to kill to defend itself."

"Someone is going to a lot of trouble to pin Miles Bowman's death on a horse."

"And whoever it is doesn't seem too particular about who gets killed to do it."

We both thought upon that for a moment, then I faced him. “Shad, when we were in there and you were busily and quite bravely saving my current life, there was something you kept screaming."

"Oh, that.” He squatted and sat like a duck, his gaze wearily on the beautifully tan and rust tiled floor. “From my old commercials. ‘Aa-flak!’”

"Yes."

"Spelled different than it sounds. Pressure is what does it. Handy during cattle calls when you're really stressed. I never forgot a line. See, when the weight's on, all I can think to say are old lines from scripts I've memorized.” He faced me and said, “'Here's looking at you, kid,'” with the voice of classic actor Humphrey Bogart.

We heard a siren and in moments we saw a Houndtor Down ambulance approaching us through the corridor. “I wonder,” Shad asked with just a touch of perpetually rejuvenated comedian Robin Williams in his voice, “is that for us or the horse?"

After informing D. Supt. Matheson of our progress, leaving him even more convinced that Lady Iva was innocent, I brought Shad home for show and tell. Even after his harrowingly honest account of our brief misadventure with the deceased's horse, Val seemed less concerned about my condition or who might have caused it than she was about how famously I was getting on with my new partner.

Walter had prepared an appetizing eggplant Parmesan and judging from the quantity Shad put down, it was duck-compatible. Despite being a mech and frequently in a state of melancholy, that evening Walter couldn't resist laughing at his own duck jokes (There was a veterinarian he knew who was a duck, but the guy was a quack). Despite Shad's exception to fowl references upon our first acquaintance, he gave Walter as good as he got with a repertory of his own mech jokes that even had Val laughing (How many screws in does it take to light a robot's bulb?).

Once dinner was finished, Walter cleared the table and began cleaning the dishes. Val, Shad, and I moved to the lounge. Shad stood on an end table and slurped at his mint tea, Val curled up on the folded duvet on the settee, and I sat next to her and sipped at my Assam. The telly was on to BBC 228, which was airing the original Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart, the lovely Ingrid Bergman, and the forgivably corrupt police official, Claude Rains. I had imagined it would be a treat for both Shad and myself, but I wasn't able to concentrate. It had been a while since anyone had tried to kill me, and all those old feelings were back again: fear, paranoia, anger, and a sense of relief I couldn't trust. Shad wasn't paying attention either.

"Jaggers?” he said. “All right if I call you Jaggers? The boss-inspector thing seems a little bulky."

"No objection. How is your south end?"

"Sore. How's your head?"

"It feels like a horse kicked it. Something you wanted to ask?"

"Yeah. After I did that scan on Champion, remember I said the nag was fried?"

"Something about being surprised he could still feed himself."

"Yeah.” The duck jumped down to the floor and began pacing. “On the Benton-Lutz AB Scale, average horse intelligence is twenty-seven point something. Back there in his stall Champion came in at a four, which is only a little better than a banana slug."

"That's not fried, Shad. That's cremated."

Shad froze, then slowly turned and looked at me. “Insects. Fly on a wall,” he said at last. “The expression, you know? I wish I was a fly on that wall, meaning I wish I could've seen and heard what was going on in a particular place unobserved."

"Yes?"

"Remember years ago the surveillance industry offered a prize to whoever could figure out how to successfully human imprint a mech or bio vehicle under one and a half millimeters in size?"

"Yes. They couldn't compress a complete human imprint below something much larger—well, the micro you used to map the burrows today. That's as small as it can be done without a severe loss of information. Didn't the industry began experimenting using remote auxiliary processors to hold the mass of the imprint and through it direct the bio?"

"Yeah. Bio Week and AI Times both had pieces. It was a big deal for about ten minutes.” Shad's pacing became a bit more frenzied. “To a man in a bug POV suit, it was supposed to seem as though he's crawling or buzzing around with everything on board, but the imprint really wouldn't be in the bug."

I leaned forward, my headache temporarily forgotten. “But they never got it working."

"No. Something to do with neural equivalency failure and remote transmission fidelity. Too much of the first and too little of the second.” He stopped pacing and faced me. “After it was dropped, Fantronics used the research they'd done to come up with a prototype master/slave unit that was put into trials to see if it would be effective and safe for implanting images for use in mental health treatment."

"I don't remember that."

"You wouldn't unless you'd been in one of the trials.” He held up a wing to preempt my next question. “They had gotten a portable imprinter down to the size of a Kaiser roll and were lining up amdroids under psychiatric care for clinical trials. After my wife dumped me, I was seeing someone because of a little depression I was going through. Anyway, before the trials even got started, the wheels came off the program and it was dropped. Then Fantronics unleashed an army of media molders to assure everyone in the world that there never had been any program, and if there had been a program, Fantronics didn't have anything to do with it, and if they did have something to do with it, no serious lasting effects had been suffered."

"Big law suits?"

Shad whistled and held his wingtips far apart. “Law firms were beating the law schools for recruits. See, what the Fantronics lab came up with was a brand new compact way to take perfectly sane individuals and turn them stark barking bonkers.” He lowered his wings. “If they could do that with a human, why not with a horse?"

"Rather sophisticated, but that might be our murder weapon.” I drummed my fingertips on the arm of my chair. “For what possible reason? The success of Houndtor Down Hunts has been an enormous free advert for the corporation's fantasy amdroid lines. Killing Miles Bowman with a Fantronics amdroid horse—"

"—could destroy the corporation,” Shad completed. “Disgruntled employee? Someone connected with the cancelled project?"

"Fund my project or I'll take everyone in Fantronics down with me."

"It could get us a trip to London, Jaggs. I love the parks there."

"It's a little early for vacationing.” I pointed at my partner. “Get on the net and see how Fantronics's stock is doing."

After a few moments of tail twitching, Shad looked at me. “No real changes: between three-ninety and four hundred a share, the same as it's been since the general market increase this past January. No layoffs at Fantronics. They're hiring.” He paused for a moment. “Want to supervise a recreational program for used bios that've been engram-scrubbed? Some housebreaking training involved, no experience necessary, bring your own mop."

"I have another commitment."

Shad whistled. “Want to know the starting salary?"

"It would only discourage me.” I took a sip of tea and put my cup down on the coffee table. On the telly Claude Rains was shocked, shocked to find out there's gambling going on in Casablanca. I picked up the remote and paused the flick. “We're not getting anywhere with motive. Let's focus on means."

"Okay.” With a flap and a hop, Shad was back on the end table. He took a slurp of his tea, sat down, and said, “We know the ability exists to remotely implant images that can trigger off a homicidal nightmare, and it's pretty clear something like that was done to Champion when the horse killed Bowman and when he tried to kill us.” Shad looked at me. “And?"

"If we can find out where the image implant device was located when it triggered Champion in his stall, we might find a trail that we could follow to our killer. I haven't looked at your burrow map. Any of those burrows come near the stables?"

"No burrows. Just a conduit carrying vid feeds to the studio wing. No access into the pipe. The actual fox burrows are pretty much limited to Old Bones Village, extending south and southwest from the ruins coming up at various places on Houndtor Down, Holwell Lawn, and Hedge Down on the other side of the road to Manaton. They have remote camera hookups throughout the whole area so they can continually vary the route of the chase. Only the burrows in the village are dirt and rock. The long ones that come up in the chase areas are forty-centimeter-diameter plastic pipe. Archie's hair is in the Old Bones Village burrows and throughout the pipes that come up in the chase areas.

"If Houndtor Down Hunts put in all that pipe, the plans should be on file with the Dartmoor National Park Authority. There has to be a way to get at Champion's stall. When you have a minute, Shad, access the plans on file with the authority and see how they compare with your map."

"Will do. Something to think about though, Jaggs.” Shad glanced at Val, noted she was sleeping, and said in a lower volume, “That horse is still a dangerous weapon. How's your head? Personally, I'm not eager to donate any more feathers."

"Point taken.” I looked at Val. Often when she looked asleep she was only relaxing. Then a thought came to mind that chased away all caution. “What about us, Shad?"

"Us?"

"We both have bio receivers. If our killer has the means to make horse amdroids crazy, what about us?"

He looked down and slowly shook his head. “The prototype made humans crazy. That's why the program was dumped. I think we have to assume whoever made Champion crazy can do the same for us, and will do it if we get in their way."

"Even killers have to sleep sometime,” interrupted Val as she yawned and stretched her front legs.

"I apologize for keeping you up, dear,” I said. “We'll be done in a minute."

The duck jumped from the end table to the floor and waddled over to Val's end of the settee. “I believe Val was suggesting that right now might be an opportune time to sneak into the stable wing to take a peek."

"Smart bird,” she responded as she rose, arched her back in a global stretch, turned around twice, and settled back into the same exact position.

She was probably right, too. Unless the killer had accomplices, there was no way to stand guard on everything all of the time. I stood, petted Val's head and ran my hand down her back. “Thank you, dear. Don't wait up."

"I never do,” she said with her eyes closed. “Harry?"

"Yes, dear?"

She looked at me. “It's good to see you after a killer again.” She glanced at Shad then back at me. “Both of you, take care."

On the way from Exeter, Shad accessed the plans filed with the park authority, and the underground piping Quartermain used for long-distance burrows matched exactly the map Shad had generated, including a strange little cave near Old Bones Village Shad had mentioned. The burrow Quartermain had used to exit from Bones’ chamber led to the cave, but, although there were cracks in the upper part of the chamber, allowing a little light and more than a few bats to enter, Shad hadn't found any exit large enough for a fox. Judging by the number of bat wings he had found without bats between them, Shad concluded the cave was one of the places where the Quartermains dined.

There was drainage piping from the stables, but it was a completely separate enclosed system with all wastes purified and recycled. No connection to the fox runs. While he was at it, Shad ran a search on anyone who ever had any connection with Fantronics's experimental insect imprint or mental health programs. The scientist who had been in charge of both programs, Beatrice Widdows, PhD, had moved to Florida three years before to join the faculty of the state university there as professor of applied biotronics. It was reputedly the only college course in the world taught by a manatee. Among the names of Dr. Widdows's assistants that Shad had listed, the name of one caught my attention. “Why does the name Shirley Wurple seem familiar?"

"Dr. Wurple is the current bio amdroid assignment supervisor at Fantronics. Remember, she ducked my call?"

"Is there any connection between her and Houndtor Down Hunts you can find?"

"Working,” Shad announced as his tail twitched. As the cruiser came down from the Bovey Tracy Roundabout, the rain had stopped, but it was still overcast, making the night deadly dark, which was perfect for our purposes. Just as we came over the village of Leighon, Shad announced, “Back at the beginning of Houndtor Down Hunts, when Archie Quartermain imprinted onto his first fox bio, Dr. Wurple assisted Dr. Widdows with the imprint and supervised the transfer of Archie's human meat suit to its new owner. As far as my software knows, that's the only connection. Where do you want me to put down?"

"Put us into a hover just east of the lodge grove below treetop level and run up both micros. If we find another way from Champion's stall out of the stables, we're going to follow it wherever it goes."

Copied into our micros, we entered the stables through an air vent leaving open the hole we had made through the screen and air filter. Keeping above the cameras and motion detectors, we came to the horse stable wing and once there, aligned ourselves behind a vertical electrical conduit and descended until we could enter an open transom. Keeping beams, boxes, or bales of hay between us and the security sensors, we made our way to Champion's stall and slipped in undetected. The horse was lying down in the straw on its right side.

"I thought horses slept standing up,” said Shad on our secure net.

I hovered my micro just above the horse's head and extended my holo. “They may very well sleep standing up, Shad, but this one is as dead as Dillinger.” I did a quick neural activity scan and came up empty. “This bio has been dead long enough to zero out all recoverable neurological activity and data.” I initiated a full scan and Shad opened a channel to it and watched. We both noted the results at the same time: Champion's red blood cells were almost devoid of oxygen.

"Chemical asphyxia?” said Shad.

"Let's see.” I looked up horse anatomy, located a big artery, and shot an independent microanalyzer into the dead animal's blood stream. The rice-grain-sized laboratory reported its results within seconds: “Blood cyanide level: two-point-three milligrams per liter. Get a liver temp."

Shad moved his micro around to the horse's flank and fired a sensor into the dead animal's liver. “Champ's been dead about two hours."

"Perhaps our killer was neating up.” I looked back at the dead horse. “The poison still had to be administered. Do your wireless magic and see if you can access the stable security vids. Any and everything of Champion, his stall, and anyone going to or coming from the stall the past three or four hours. I'll check the horse's food and water and see if the poison was administered that way."

"I'm on it, Jaggs."

While Shad was busy accessing the security vids, I tested Champion's water and feed station for cyanide. Neither had even trace amounts. The feed was automatically mixed, apportioned, and transported to the stalls on overhead belts, and down through vertical chutes into the feeding stations.

"Shad, while you're checking the surveillance vids, be a good fellow and run the schematics for the automated feeding and watering systems. See if there's any way for something or someone to get through them into the stalls."

"Got it."

On the other sides of the walls—both sides, the back, and back corners—were other stalls, all occupied. I checked the adjoining stalls and examined the walls. They were covered with white imitation wood planking made from a durable combination of poly and gypsum cement. Very well done. Until I actually put the holo to them, I thought them to be of genuine oak. The stall walls were solid down to the imitation concrete plastic foundation. The foundation was solid and one uninterrupted piece with the textured floor. I poked through the straw on the stall floor, as well as beneath lumps of horse poo, finding no opening large enough to allow even a micro to enter, much less something as large as a Kaiser roll.

"I've run through the vids of all three cameras that have views of this section of the horse stables, Jaggs. Nothing."

"The feed and watering systems?” I prompted.

"The water goes through a series of filters and screens. The feed is run through larger mesh screens, but goes through foreign matter detectors designed to find and remove all ferrous and nonferrous metals, plastics, rocks, insects, rodents, contaminants—anything that isn't the intended feed. Find anything with the foundation or floor?"

"What I found was that this building is tight and made of practically indestructible materials. The only place I haven't examined is beneath the horse."

"We could put our power supplies in parallel and give Champ a zap,” Shad offered. “Maybe we could frog-twitch him off that spot."

I aimed my lens at my partner. “Before resorting to measures that have equal chances of either crushing our micros or setting this straw on fire, Baron Frankenduck, let's do density and matrix continuity scans on the floor and foundation that we can reach."

"Think someone pulled a plastic plug and put it back, Igor?” he said, I believe, with the voice of Colin Clive.

"Let's see. And that's Detective Inspector Igor to you."

Density and matrix continuity scans, originally adopted by forensics for restoring purposefully obliterated serial numbers from weapons, autos, and stolen goods, were, because of that, deadly slow if the area to be scanned was larger than a few square centimeters. The stall was approximately three meters wide and four deep. Fortunately, we both began scanning at the back of the stall, I on the right and Shad on the left. We hadn't been at it longer than twenty minutes when Shad said, “Got it."

I glided over to his side of the stall, tuned in his scan, and saw in his corner of the stall an arc, the complete circle of which would be twenty-five centimeters in diameter and would include part of the floor and a bit of the back. I began scanning the back, and in minutes we had marked bits of arc the complete circle of which would, if the plug were removed, make a rather high-tech foxhole. “Are we back to Archie Quartermain?” asked Shad. “What motive?"

"Perhaps he's a better actor than you thought. He originally got into that fox suit for money."

"I don't buy it. Back when we were in New York, Archie liked money the same way I liked money. We both preferred eating to starving and sleeping with a roof over our heads to shivering beneath all the news that's fit to print out on a park bench. In the end, that's why I became a cop and Archie became a fox, but money wasn't what was driving us. Acting, getting a great role, hearing that laughter, that applause, getting a thousand men and women to play with you at the same time, leading them along into your game, and springing the surprise on them, collecting all those oohs and aahs. Applause. That's what drove us—that's what drove Archie. Judging by what he told you when I was out mapping the burrows, that's what's still driving him: the game, although I admit the appeal parameters seemed to have changed."

"So, what else can fit through a fox hole?"

"Fox terriers,” offered Shad. “Various mechs, squirrels, rats, all kinds of birds, weasels, badgers, monkeys—"

"You said your package included thermal imaging,” I interrupted. “How sensitive is your system?"

"I can track another bird through the air by the long heat trail it leaves and can determine which shotgun a duck hunter used five hours after it was fired by the heat differential between it and the hunter's unfired weapons, and that with a load of birdshot in my butt."

"Shad, we have to get back up to the cruiser. When we get there, move into your feathers and do a scan around the lodge and stables for the underground route that was used to get in here. Whatever was used, it had to generate some heat to get through this foundation. My instruments, crude as they are, can detect a temperature differential between the inside of the arc we've been scanning and the surrounding material."

"What are you going to do?"

"Perhaps I'll find a shovel to wield."

Shad's micro hovered for a moment, then he said, “You're going to make me copy into the big mech and do the digging, aren't you?"

"Unless your scan can find us another way in."

While I downloaded my data into the cruiser's computer, Shad did one quick flap around the lodge and stables. Long before I managed to copy back into my meat suit, he was back with a report. “I found the underground tunnel coming out from beneath the northwest corner of the lodge. That was the end cut last. From there it runs around three meters deep northwest, then arcs until it heads southwest, arcs again until it's headed southeast, and then the thermal signature is so faint my equipment can't pick it up. The largest part of what I could follow was cut through mostly solid granite."

My sync was complete and I sat up and pointed at the cruiser's data screen. “Show me."

It was as he said. In addition, the trace was very regular, not a perceptible difference in diameter between any two parts of the machine-cut tube. Every detectable portion of the tunnel was three to four meters deep, most of it running through granite. If we were going to break into it, we'd need equipment, explosives, daylight, a crew, and to throw away any kind of edge surprise might lend us. I glanced over to the driver's seat, and Shad's tail was twitching. “What are you doing?"

"Searching for small-diameter tunneling equipment. I've found three designed for putting in water and sewer lines, as well as running conduit through masonry, that can do the tunnel job we detected. The Euclid 750 Pipe Snake is what was used to put in all of the long-run tunnels Houndtor Down Hunts uses to run camera feeds along the different fox runs. I see it's pretty obsolete, too, as far as knowledgeable plumbing and sewerage dons are concerned."

The image came up. The Euclid model resembled a horrible huge snake, the mouth on its fearsome head tipped with ghastly-looking circular grinding teeth. Just behind the teeth were high-pressure water jets and intake holes to float the stone dust and remove the slurry. Just behind the takeaway scoops was a gasket, and behind that were holes designed to inject and coat the interior of the tunnel behind the head with a smooth layer of chemical and weather-resistant plastic. The rattle on the tail of this snake was a huge piece of nuke-powered equipment that would be incredibly obvious wherever it was used. Shad pointed out that the Pipe Snake could have easily made the hole into Champion's stall, but all it could do after that is coat the inside of the opening with plastic. It couldn't have refilled the hole.

"The other two models are the Pipe Dream, manufactured in Macao by Red Star Industrial, and the Magic Mole, manufactured in Burbank by an outfit called Whack-A-Hole. Both pieces of equipment use the same technology, matter transcompression—"

"They eat dirt and rocks and squirt out pipe."

"Yes. Self-contained, nuke powered. A feature of the Magic Mole, however, is its ability to fill the pipe it's made with anything the contractor wishes, whether it's an inline computer-controlled valve, a line switch—"

"Or what it removed,” I completed. “Does Whack-A-Hole have a twenty-four-hour office in London?"

"Yes."

"See if Marcus Licinius Crassus can get the manufacturer to give up a customer list. Meanwhile, take the cruiser over to where Bowman's body was found. If our killer used a Magic Mole to get a portable image implanter into Champion's stall, I'm pretty certain the same was done where Bowman was killed. Perhaps we can get in at that end. The forest floor there, at least, isn't made of plastic or granite."

It was well past three in the morning by the time we located the tunnel entrance. It was beneath the remaining branches of the dead tree next to the pine that had Champion's hair on it. No attempt had been made to fill the hole. It looked, in fact, as though a fox or some large burrowing animal had dug it. Shad had Whack-A-Hole's British customer list, and it was daunting. Every municipality, hamlet, and large institution in the country had one or more of the tools, as well as plumbers, drain layers, and building contractors of all types. For the mundane tasks of laying pipe or running conduit, it seemed, there was nothing like a Magic Mole. To take all the variously formatted employee databases of all of the institutions and companies and run each person's antecedents against our total name database was beyond our capacity. Shad logged into the Heavitree ABCD Center and gave the task to the mainframe. Meanwhile, we got small, copied into our micros, and entered Whack-A-Hole's underworld.

Once the excitement of being confronted by a belligerent salamander and several alarming spiders was past, monotonous would be too generous a description of how it felt to be in a flying lipstick traveling down an apparently endless but definitely featureless length of dark pipe. After a few minutes of travel there was a very gentle arc toward the northeast, and we traveled along that, gradually descending all the while. After more than an hour of this, another gentle arc had us heading due east, but still descending. “Here's something interesting,” said my partner at last.

"Let me have it, Shad. I'm stimulation-starved to the point where I could eagerly listen to knock-knock jokes."

"You know how fast a twenty-five centimeter diameter Magic Mole can travel through an unobstructed pipe of its own manufacture?"

"Can't say that I do."

"It can top sixty kilometers per hour under its own power. With compressed air behind it, the mole can top a hundred and seventy."

"Fascinating."

"I only bring it up, Jaggs, because I note we are both flying along at our top speed of four kilometers per hour. Sort of made me wonder what the plan is, should we find a Magic Mole coming at us from the other direction."

I thought on it. “In such case, we get annihilated. Now that you bring it up, it would probably behoove us to maintain a continuous data sync with the cruiser. That way, should we get swatted, we'll remember it. What's our signal like to the cruiser pickup?"

Shad ran a quick signal strength and fidelity test. “Weak. I'm bringing the cruiser over our present position.” After a minute or two, Shad ran the test again. “Perfect. As long as the cruiser follows along above us, it should be fine."

"Very well. Keep an eye on the autodrive monitor, though. Wrapping the cruiser around a tree or dashing it to pieces on a building or rock cliff would be all Supt. Matheson needs to sack both of us."

"Something from Exeter coming in,” he announced. “Fantronics's maintenance division currently keeps three Magic Mole systems in its inventory. Two of the systems were replaced three months ago. Apparently the replaced systems were destroyed along with a lot of other equipment when the division's warehouse in Reading was consumed in a chemical fire. Kind of a drastic way to cover up an equipment theft,” he observed.

"But effective."

That was all the excitement we had until we came to a point just west of Old Bones Village Ruin. Twenty meters north of the National Park Information Center was a junction. To our left a tunnel led due north. That was likely the other end of the tube that led to Champion's stall. Straight ahead, however, was the real question mark. Without discussion, Shad and I had both flown in that direction. Another few meters and the tube took a ninety-degree turn south.

"Oops!” said Shad.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"You said ‘Oops,’ Shad. Oops is never good."

"We—I almost ran the cruiser into that little information center in the ruins. I put it in hover park.” He aimed his sensors at me. “That's where the tunnel leads, Jaggs: the basement of that building."

"Find out who is employed there."

While Shad accessed the park authority records, we moved ahead until suddenly there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Several lights, actually. I zoomed in on them and they looked like instrument lights on some sort of control panel.

"Hold up, pard,” said Shad, causing both of us to come to a halt.

"Who did you find?"

"No one—I mean, there's no record of anyone ever being employed there. According to the Park Authority, there is no information center there. There's no record of anyone even thinking about it. It's a front."

"Shad, give me the cruiser controls.” In a moment, I was looking through the cruiser's forward camera. It was still dark. The infrared illumination revealed the back side of the little building. A late-model Honda electric was parked there on the uncut grass. I maneuvered the cruiser around until I could see the front of the building. As evidenced by the weeds and grass growing in it, the crushed gravel path to the front door had seen little traffic. There was a sign on the door saying that the center was closed for repairs and thank you for all your patience. I left the cruiser hovering there and turned to Shad. “Let's go."

We moved toward the end of the tunnel, and long before we reached the end we could tell the space beneath the small building was much larger than the structure above, the curiously scalloped walls apparently carved from the granite bedrock courtesy of a Magic Mole. There was the sound of a small internal combustion engine running. The panel lights we had seen from inside the tunnel were mounted in the face of a large orange-colored console. Mounted above the lights was an identification plate, which cleverly named the machine upon which it was mounted a genuine Whack-A-Hole Magic Mole Control. To the right of the console on the wet granite floor were what looked like pipes of different diameters. Shad moved over to them to see what they were. Beyond the pipes and extending as far as I could see in the carved-out space were what looked to be piles of purple glass hockey pucks—millions of them.

"These pipe thingies are different-sized Magic Mole bits in their containers,” said Shad.

"See if you can tell what those piles of purple things are."

"Puckets,” he answered immediately.

"Sorry?"

Shad aimed his lens at me. “I ran across it when I put in the search for boring equipment and came across Whack-A-Hole. Transcompression equipment manufacturers call them puckets. When the Mole goes through certain dense materials, like granite for instance, there's stuff left over after the matter transcompression forms the tube lining. The Mole compresses the excess material to about a sixth of its volume and excretes it in this form: puckets.” Shad aimed his lens to his right. “Hello?"

I turned in the direction my partner was facing. Behind the Mole control unit was a refrigerator, a table with a hotplate, and a shelf with a few tins and boxes on it: biscuits, crisps, jam and such. To the right of this rudimentary kitchen, standing next to a stairway, was a forty-year-old vertical EMU capsule, its casing scratched and dented, its bottom sitting in at least five centimeters of water. “Where's all this water coming from?"

I slipped a bit to my left and saw the companion capsule standing next to the first in a send-receive configuration and a massive old engram management unit console beyond it. I hadn't seen equipment that old since I copied into my first bio. The EMU console was located next to an equally vintage stasis bed. In repose upon the bed was a middle-aged woman dressed in Wranglers and a Harris tweed jacket over an olive turtleneck. Her hair was graying, unusually short, and she wore heavy black-framed eyeglasses. Her skin color was bright red. “Shad, run the air quality."

After thirty seconds, Shad said, “I'm glad we're in the mechs, Jaggs. The carbon monoxide level in here is lethal. If she's not dead, she's not an oxy breather."

"Get a DNA and liver temp."

While Shad was sticking a needle into the corpse, I flew past the stasis maintenance console following the sound of what I suspected was a generator. Indeed it was, and a petrol burner at that, the fuel bladder tucked into the northeast corner of the chamber. Air was piped into its carburetor from outside and the exhaust fed into a stack that went up through the floor above. The seal between the purple glass exhaust pipe and stack was leaking badly, the glass apparently cracked. Just behind the generator, the scalloped chamber wall was wet and dripping. It was rainwater seeping through the dirt between the edge of the building and the bedrock.

I reversed course and as I passed the stasis bed, Shad was running the DNA ID on the body. Past the EMU capsules I turned left and left again to go up the long staircase. The door to the upstairs was open slightly and I moved in, the overcast sky visible through one of the windows just beginning to grow light. There was enough furniture and decoration in the room to convince someone looking through a window that this was indeed an official information center. There was, however, only the one room, a closet with nothing in it, and the stairwell leading to the mysterious cavern below.

I did a quick analysis of the upstairs air and the carbon monoxide level above ground was even more concentrated than below. The exhaust stack from the generator came up through the floor at the back of the building, apparently with the assistance of a Magic Mole, which had made the glass stack pipe, as well. The piping ran across the open ceiling and up into the casing of the pseudo brick chimney. Prefab the building might have been, but it was fairly tight, without a crack or hole large enough for me to get to the outside. I was about to call an end to my meat suit's stasis and have myself land the cruiser and open the door with a pry bar, but I hate doing that. When the mech and the meat suit both are running at the same time and independently altering our engram content, there are always sync problems with useful items frequently deleted in the resolution. It was unnecessary, though. I opened the mail slot in the door and exited through it. Once outside I moved up to the roof and over to the chimney. One glance down the chimney showed what was blocking the generator exhaust port: dead birds.

As I came back through the mail slot and down the stairs, Shad was returning from the direction of the pucket dump. We both altered direction and stopped at the stasis bed. “Did you ID the body?” I asked Shad.

"DI Jaggers, I'd like you to meet the late Dr. Shirley Wurple. She's been dead a little over three hours. Find out where the water's coming in?"

"In the back. There's no foundation. The rain caused the building to settle slightly, which cracked the exhaust seal and probably toppled a couple of dead birds in the chimney over the exhaust port, blocking it."

"Something doesn't mesh, Jaggs. She's a wheel at Fantronics, right? She has to have access to better equipment than these old junkers."

"Probably left over from her research days with Dr. Widdows, Shad. She wanted her plans under the radar. Junkers are junked, you see, not registered."

"So, why? We're back to motive. Why'd she try to kill us and, presumably, Miles Bowman?"

I thought on it until, at last, a mouse brought me the answer. “When you were married, Shad, before your flying days, did your wife ever bring you a sweetie when you were feeling low, some sort of little treat to bring you out of your doldrums?"

"Sure—” He aimed his light at me. “The mouse! That doesn't happen with real critters and their mates."

"She tried to kill us, Shad, because she didn't want us to discover that she killed Bowman. She killed Bowman for the very noblest of reasons: to protect her family. She's Archie Quartermain's mate and is about to become a mother. I think if you check inside those EMU capsules you'll find fox hair that won't match up with Quartermain's. Have you seen that image implanter?"

"I haven't found it, and I looked."

"Unfortunate."

"Jaggs, don't you think Archie's in this with her?"

"No. I believe your old roommate thinks his mate is a genuine vixen. Why should he think anything else? He's not a proper fox himself. Where's his den?"

"When I was mapping the dirt tunnels, I found a couple of wide spots, but nothing like a place to sleep or make little foxes. No little animal bones—"

"Can you get us back to Old Bones, where Quartermain first talked to us?"

"Sure, but it'll take hours to go back the way we came."

"Let's take a shortcut. We can get out through the mail slot."

I led the way and we hurried. There was no telling what Shirley Wurple might do with that image implanter once she awakened and found out she was dead.

Once we left the mail slot, it was a mere thirty meters south to reach the entrance to the burrow. After reaching his rather lean receptionist, I led the way over Old Bones's ribcage to the back of the chamber and into the hole between the two rock slabs. According to Shad's map, the hole turned abruptly down, then zigzagged generally southwest until it entered an inclined shaft carved by groundwater. The shaft led to a small grotto illuminated by two very dim cracks of natural light from the surface. There was not even enough room for a man to stand upright, but the tiny cave averaged between one and two meters wide and well over forty meters in length where it began sloping down, the overflow pouring into a rubble-filled channel that presumably found its way to Becka Brook.

"When the vixen brought Quartermain his mouse, this is where she came from. This is to where Quartermain followed her after leaving me.” I turned and aimed my lens at Shad's micro. “Something I don't understand. With the research Quartermain did on foxes and the hunt, your old roommate had to know about that mouse—that it didn't fit. Is it possible that Archie Quartermain deluded himself into thinking Shirley Wurple is a real vixen?"

"You should've seen me stalking that hooded merganser all over Maine. It's a good thing she was a real bird or she would've taken out papers on me. When you're lonely and desperate, you can talk yourself into believing anything. Archie lives in a hole in the ground. By the time he could afford to buy himself a designer meat suit he was already a fox in his head. Trouble is, when we copy into one of these ams, we bring that human need for companionship along with us. After a lonely couple of years by himself, running before the hounds his only meaning in life, along comes this warm, cute, sexy little vixen who wants to rub, cuddle, bring him mice, and make little foxes. You bet he could delude himself—Hold it."

After Shad's warning, we both fell silent and streaked for cover. We were behind a small ledge, our lights off, our sensors on. A warm mass was entering the chamber from above. “I heard that,” said a voice. It was Quartermain. Shad and I moved our mechs out from behind the ledge. The fox was standing beside the pool of water. “What are you two doing here?” he demanded.

"Where's your mate, Arch?” asked Shad.

"My mate?"

"The vixen who's fixin’ to make you a pappy."

He walked a few steps in one direction, then turned and walked back, leveling his gaze on Shad's micro. “What do you want with her? She's a fox—a real fox."

"She's nothing of the sort,” I said. “She's a Fantronics bio imprinted with the engrams of a woman named Shirley Wurple."

Quartermain was so still he could have been a taxidermist's showpiece. “Doctor Shirley Wurple?” he said to my micro.

"Yes."

"The person who ... Bloody hell.” He sat next to the water and stared deep into the pool. “She killed Miles, didn't she?"

"Yes,” I answered as Shad crossed the pool to investigate something. “I don't know if this helps, Quartermain, but I think she believed she was doing it for her family: you and the coming cubs."

"How did she do it?"

"During the run, after you passed that spot in Quik Grove lane, she cut your scent trail with probably some sort of chemical, then laid a drag trail into the thick woods, probably with one of your former body parts from a previous hunt."

"She has an old tail of mine. A bit morbid, but I thought it was kind of touching."

"When Miles reached that particular spot in the grove, she hit the horse with an image implant that drove the animal insane. Champion saw Miles Bowman as a threat—"

"—and then Champion trampled to death the man who loved him more than anyone else in the world,” completed Quartermain. “This is insane. Back in the Fantronics lab, that woman—I thought she was joking. She made like she was flirting with me when she was getting me ready to print into my fox suit—making jokes about buying my human self and bringing it home with her for fun and games—She must've been sixty! You don't suppose she actually bought me."

"No,” Shad said from the other side of the pool. “The old you is in Hollywood right now under the name of Trent Scanlon playing the feature role of Saddam Hussein in the black comedy Uday and Qusay are Ed-day. Principal photography began last February."

"Hollywood,” the fox repeated. Again he was motionless, no doubt having one of those life-assessing moments. Lifting his head, at last, he faced me. “How can you be so certain she did it?"

"She tried to kill us, too.” I explained how the vixen had tunneled into Champion's stall and how we discovered her expired human meat suit below the phony National Park Information Center. He shook his head at last, got up on all fours, turned toward the back of the chamber, jumped up on a ledge, and seemingly vanished into the rock. We heard his voice say, “This way."

I moved up to where Quartermain seemed to have vanished and saw a shelf of stone. Just beneath it was an opening that was impossible to see unless one was right up on it. “This way, Shad."

"I found something,” he said.

I moved back down and crossed the water to where Shad's light was illuminating something the size of a dinner roll that looked sealed in waterproof plastic. “Is that the missing portable image imprinter?"

"She tried to hide it in the water. The vixen carried it down here holding the plastic bag in her mouth. Tiny, sharp, little teeth. Water got in the bag. We'll be able to match Wurple's bio to the bite mark impressions."

"We'll need the tracked mech to bring it out, Shad. Before we do that, call it in to Police Constable Lounds for the arrest. That ought to raise his esteem in the park constabulary."

"I'd love to see his boss's face when he finds out his case fell apart."

"Let's get to Quartermain's den. Your old roommate is about to give up his mate."

"Why did you kill Miles?” we heard Quartermain demand as Shad and I came out of the tunnel into a chamber where the only illumination was provided by our lights.

"I didn't mean to at first,” answered the vixen's tearful voice. She looked at us, her eyes wide. Looking at Quartermain she said, “Really I didn't. I'd hoped to frighten him out of the—Oh, I can't look at you and tell you this!"

"It doesn't matter. I'm sending you over,” said Quartermain. He seemed to laugh to himself—at himself—then he glanced at Shad's micro and hung his head. “Yeah. I'm sending you over,” he repeated as he slunk out of the chamber.

She turned from watching Quartermain's departing tail, and laughed nervously. “Oh—he frightened me for a moment. He was joking. That's it. After all, I'm carrying his babies. He was joking, wasn't he?"

"Don't be silly,” said Shad in that special Bogart voice of his. “You're taking the fall. You killed Miles and you're going over for it."

"How can you ... how can he do this to me?” She broke down and began a really irritating series of whines.

"Listen,” said Shad after awhile. “This won't do any good. You'll never understand me, but I'll try once and then give it up. When a fox's partner's killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what the fox thought of him, he was your partner and you're supposed to do something about it. And it happens they're in the fox hunting business. Well, when one of your fox hunters gets killed by a fox, it's bad business to let the fox get away with it. Bad all around. Bad for every fox hunting operation everywhere."

Shirley Wurple didn't know her next line from The Maltese Falcon, which left Shad with nothing left to say.

The vixen looked at me and said, “What if I run? You two little pocket pips couldn't stop me."

"No, we couldn't,” I answered. “In Houndtor Down Lodge this instant, though, equipped with the best riding stock and guided by the most competently trained hounds in the world, is an assembly of the most proficient and fanatical fox hunters in the world. You've never run before the hounds, doctor. You don't know how. I fear in a matter of minutes you and your unborn cubs would be cornered and most likely torn to pieces. Why not let a judge and jury decide your fate?"

"I can run faster than you can move. My human body can—"

"Your human body is dead, Dr. Wurple,” said Shad.

Her eyes grew wide as she faced me.

"Carbon monoxide poisoning from your generator,” I explained. “There was nothing we could do.” I could see the defeat in her face as I turned away, sad for her.

She cooperated in exiting the burrow once PC Lounds arrived to caution her and make the arrest. He put her in a dog cage and drove off with her in the electric. There wasn't anything we could say to console Archie Quartermain. All we could do was to give him the number of a facilitator for an amdroid grief group, see to it that DCI Stokes released Lady Ida Bowman with all due apologies, and head back to Exeter, the sun actually making it through the clouds for a minute before a new front came in and the rainfall resumed.

While we rode off into the truncated sunrise, I asked my new partner, “How would you like to be on that jury, Shad? He was the fantasy love of her life, and the price of her union with him was she'd have to remain helplessly by while he was killed over and over again. What to do?"

"We just catch ‘em, Jaggs. We don't cook ‘em."

"Indeed, Shad. Too bad we resolved things so quickly, though. I really wanted to meet Dorothea Tay. Back in the dim reaches of time, I fear she was my childhood heartthrob."

After a moment of silence, Shad said, “Speaking of old movies, The Maltese Falcon was a script Archie and I had memorized front to back. ‘I'm sending you over.'” He chuckled and said with Humphrey Bogart's voice, “'When a fox's partner's killed, he's supposed to do something about it.'” He glanced at me and said in his own voice, “Why did you let me go on like that?"

"My dear chap, I never would have dreamt of deprivin’ you of your moment of triumph."

He frowned, regarded me with one dark eye, and said, “The Scarlet Pimpernel, Anthony Andrews vid remake, nineteen eighty-two."

"Quite right,” I said as I beamed at my new partner. “Excellent."

Copyright © 2006 Barry B. Longyear