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that easy.
    Dane appeared in the doorway, still holding himself together, much to St. Cyr's surprise. "I called the police."
    "How long until they'll be here?"
    "Always been fast—other times. No more than twenty minutes by helicopter."
    "Tina?"
    "She's in the corridor, with everyone else."
    "Keep her company."
    Dane went away, and no one else tried to enter. Alicia Alderban was sobbing loudly, and Jubal seemed to be trying to console her. Both of them sounded distant, faint. If Betty had been killed indoors, rather than on the open patio, the noise would never have carried far enough to alert anyone. The sound-proofing truly was excellent.
    St. Cyr pulled a chair up next to the open glass doors and sat down to wait for the authorities. He did not join the family because he wanted time to think, to sort out these recent developments and decide what they meant
    One thing: Dane must be innocent, for he was with St. Cyr when Betty was killed. Forget him as a suspect, then.
    Do not completely forget him
, the bio-computer qualified.
    And why not? He could not possibly have torn the girl's throat out; he could not have been two places at once.
    He could be an accomplice. If two persons are involved, it could have been Dane's responsibility to see that you were occupied during the murder
—
and
to be certain that you quickly identified the screamer. Without him, you would not have reached her room as quickly, for you do not know the way without a map. He may have been assigned to lead you to the scene.
    To what purpose?
    The bio-computer shell, still tapped into his spine, its gossamer fingers still splayed throughout his flesh, offered no further postulation.
    St. Cyr thought, forming the segments of the thought rigidly as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else: Dane would not have any reason to lead me to Betty's room if he were mixed up in the murders.
    Perhaps. Perhaps not. This is merely a point that should be given careful consideration.
    The more he thought about it, the more St. Cyr found that he had to agree. It was something to consider, all right. From the beginning he had doubted the sincerity of Dane's belief in werewolves, for he knew that the Alderban boy—like the entire family—was well-educated. Too well-educated to hold such silly superstitions easily. It had occurred to him that Dane was feigning these beliefs, acting out some role that, somehow, would protect him against accusation. Perhaps he felt that, playing the superstitious fool, his true reaction to anything that happened or anything that was asked him would be misinterpreted, and that his genuine intentions would therefore be obscured. This notion, atop the possibilities the bio-computer had just suggested, made it impossible for him to remove Dane from the list of suspects.
    In the distance, the night was broken by the clatter of helicopter rotors turning at high speed.
    St. Cyr rose and stepped onto the patio. Far down the valley but drawing swiftly closer, large yellow headlights burned three hundred feet above the valley floor.
    St. Cyr turned and looked at the dead girl one last time.
    She had not moved, even though he would not have been surprised to find her position changed.
    Nonsense.
    He bent and pulled her lids closed, one at a time, holding them down until they remained in place. It was a small gesture. He had not known the girl well enough to feel sorry for her, but since she had lost her classic beauty to the wicked tines that had torn her open, he felt that the least she deserved was a bit of dignity when the strangers started pouring in.
     

FIVE: A
Policeman and a
Girl
     
    The federal police, with the aid of their limited-response robotic helpmates, spent more than four hours going over the suite, the corpse, the balcony, and the lawn immediately below the balcony. St. Cyr was convinced, after watching them sift and analyze even the dust in Betty's room, that they were not going to turn up anything worthwhile. In