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odd angle from which he carried on the conversation. "So low a degree, in fact, that it doesn't give serious consideration to the idea at all."
    "It doesn't reason in absolutes," St. Cyr corrected, "neither negative nor positive absolutes."
    Suddenly the young man sighed and slid back in the easy chair, as if someone had tapped his skull and released the energy in one puff. He said, "At least, give me a chance to show you a few things. Come with me tomorrow when I go up into the mountains."
    "What will we find there?" St. Cyr asked.
    "Gypsies," Dane said.
    "Native Darmanians?"
    "Yes. But there is one old woman, especially, who may be able to convince even your bio-computer. Her name is Norya, and she knows all there is to know about these mountains."
    "To convince both halves of me, of the symbiote, she'll have to have facts, not tales, evidence and not superstition."
    "She has all of that, facts
and
tales, evidence
and
superstition." He slid forward on the chair again, his charge of energy having apparently built up to full strength. "Will you come along with me?"
    St. Cyr was about to reply when the bio-computer insinuated a command, unvoiced, into the conversation:
Go easy on the liquor; you need to think clearly; you may have to react suddenly
. He looked at the glass in his hand and saw that he had finished all but half an ounce of Scotch in the last couple of minutes, though he had not realized that he was even sipping at it.
    "Will you?" Dane asked again.
    "What time?"
    "After lunch; meet me in the garage on the first level."
    "Fine," St. Cyr said.
    'You won't regret giving me your time."
    Dane got to his feet as if something had sneaked up behind him and gouged him in the ribs; he laced his fingers and stretched his arms, cracking his large knuckles.
    St. Cyr stood too, trying to think if there were something he should ask the boy, some new angle of questioning warranted by the circumstances, and his train of thought was derailed by a curious, abrupt bark that seemed to come from the direction of the patio. They both turned and looked, but saw nothing out of place.
    Then the noise came again, longer this time, long enough to identify. It was a woman's scream.
    "Betty!" Dane said.
    "Where's her room?"
    "Fourth level."
    "Let's go."
    The door opened at their approach, though not fast enough, forcing them to crouch and scuttle under it. They burst into the hallway and ran to the nearest elevator, found that it was in use, turned to a lift farther along the corridor and leaped inside of that. Dane punched a button on the control panel. The doors clapped shut, and the elevator dropped forty feet in one sickening lurch, grooved into horizontal rails and carried them sideways for a moment before opening its doors again on the main corridor of the fourth level. They stepped into the hall, listened, heard nothing.
    That struck St. Cyr as being the worst thing they could have heard—anything but silence.
    "This way," Dane said.
    He led St. Cyr to a side corridor where they came upon Hirschel, who was pounding at a concealed door and calling Betty's name.
    "What happened?" the cyberdetective asked.
    The hunter shook his head. "I was going into my room upstairs when I heard her scream; knew immediately who it was. I just got here a moment ago."
    "Is there any way to open the door?" St. Cyr asked.
    Dane said, "We have private voice-coded locks. But Teddy can get in if he has to."
    "Call him, then."
    "No need, sir," Teddy said close behind them. He had drifted down the corridor without making a sound. "If you'll stand back, I'll get you in." When they followed his instructions, he slid to a point just under the recessed slot that marked the entrance, and he emitted a high, keening tone that was almost beyond
the range of human hearing. The door slid open at this unsyllabled command.
    At the far end of the corridor Jubal Alderban appeared, dressed in pajamas and a robe, his head bent forward and his shoulders hunched nearly to his