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You know my name."
    The robot froze for a few seconds, then spoke again. "There is a problem, Mr. Nighthawk. You have identical fingerprints and retinagrams to a Jefferson Nighthawk who was here earlier this month, yet you are not he. Your ages and passports are different."
    "Is my passport in order?" asked Nighthawk.
    "Yes."
    "Then the problem is yours, not mine. Let me pass through."
    "Are you here for business or pleasure?"
    "Pleasure."
    "May I inquire—"
    "You may not," said Nighthawk. "I have no legal obligation to tell you what I plan to do, as long as I'm not here on business."
    "You may pass," said the robot. "Welcome to Giancola II." It rattled off the temperature, time of day, gravity, atmosphere content, and acceptable currencies, but Nighthawk was out of earshot before it was halfway done.
    Kinoshita went through a different booth and fell into step behind Nighthawk as they made their way to the exit. An empty aircar glided up and Nighthawk got in, followed by Kinoshita.
    "Hospital," Nighthawk instructed the aircar.
    "It's the Admiral Miguel Riccardo Cordobes Memorial Hospital," said Kinoshita.
    "Is there more than one on a planet like this?"
    "No."
    "Then be quiet."
    They rode across the dreary landscape in silence. The aircar reached the city limits in five minutes, and pulled up to the small hospital in another five. Nighthawk walked up to the reception desk and learned the location of the clone's room. Then he and Kinoshita took an airlift to the fourth level, and walked down the hall until he came to the proper number.
    Jason Newman was asleep. There were tubes connected to his arms and legs, he was connected to an artificial spleen and liver, a dozen machines controlled his breathing, heart rate, blood pressure, and other vital functions. They hadn't fitted him out with a new prosthetic hand yet—in fact, Nighthawk noted, he'd need not just a hand but a wrist and most of a forearm—and the place where his ear had been was covered with opaque ointments to promote healing of the burned flesh before any attempt to restore his hearing could be initiated.
    "Jesus!" muttered Nighthawk. "How did you keep him alive long enough to get him here?"
    "Jefferson Nighthawks have remarkable vitality," said Kinoshita.
    "I've never been shot up this badly."
    "You managed to live with a disfiguring disease for more than a century."
    "I was frozen for all but a couple of years." Nighthawk studied the clone's face. "He doesn't look like me at all. The cosmetic surgeon who worked on him did a good job."
    "He could afford it," answered Kinoshita. "He sent me to Deluros VIII with five million credits to keep you frozen, and kept the rest."
    "He deserved it," said Nighthawk. "He overthrew a government with a force of, what, thirty?"
    "There were a few more than that."
    "And how many of the enemy were there?"
    "Counting the military? Four million, give or take."
    "That's a hell of an accomplishment," said Nighthawk. "I know that—and Jeff knew it. I told him about both the clones that came before him." He frowned in puzzlement. "So why the hell wouldn't he believe a man like this?"
    A golden-fleeced nurse from the distant world of Karimon entered just then, adjusted various levels of the medications that were being dripped into Newman's system, tinkered with his oxygen supply, and left without a word.
    Nighthawk continued staring at the sleeping clone. Finally he spoke again. "Is he all alone?"
    "It's a private room."
    "I mean, has he got anyone you should contact, anyone who should know he's here?"
    "There's a woman, Cassandra Hill. I don't know if they're married, but she'd be the one," said Kinoshita. "The problem is, I don't know his home world, so I don't know how to contact her. He was in no condition to talk when I left Giancola. Maybe I can find out."
    "I wouldn't count on it," said Nighthawk. "Look at him. He might go a week or a month without waking up." He went to a communicator and raised the desk. "This is Jefferson