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was quite possible that she would pass along the story to Klaus Margle. If Margle didn't subscribe to Enterstat himself . . . When he had finished the eight hundred words to the piece, he rang Creol. The man's melancholy eyes resolved first, then the rest of his face. "Chief. Wasn't the info complete enough?"
    "Fine, George, fine. Look, I have another story that goes in the four thirty edition. I want you to tear out the lead story, no matter what it is, and put this one in with two-inch caps."
    "Bu—"
    "I know you have the paper ready, but this is what I want."
    "Stat it, Chief."
    He did. Seconds later, he saw it drop into Creol's desk tray. The editor picked it up, read over it. "What's the headline?" he asked, picking up a pencil.
    "Ah - CONCERT GUITARIST VICTIM OF WOULD-BE KILLER."
    "But he wasn't killed?"
    "Right."
    "Then this doesn't make such a sensational headline, Chief. The one we have is—"
    "I know. But I want this as the lead anyhow."
    "It means resetting page one—"
    "Do it."
    "You're the boss."
    "Right you are."
    He rang off. His heart was beating unreasonably fast. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck. He moved back to the Mindlink set and shifted into Taguster's house again. The simulacrum waited, hands folded on its lap. He thought a moment, then gave it orders. "I want you to phone Harvard Detective Agency, Incorporated, and contract an investigator—one of their best. Tell him an attempt was made on your life and you want to find who it was. Tell him you want to see him tomorrow after you have compiled what information you can on your own. Tell him—four o'clock tomorrow."
    The android stood, found the number of the agency and dialed it on the com-screen system. He made the transaction, even bargaining over the going rate per diem for a Class I agent, hung up, and returned to his chair. "It's all fixed," he said in the very tones Leonard Taguster would have used. "Anything else?"
    "Not yet. You might as well go inactive." He sent his psi power under the sportscoat again, flipped off the android. It seemed to sag in its chair. Its eyes clouded again, then slipped shut as if it were sleeping.
    Ti settled in the Mindlink receiver to wait. At four thirty, Enterstat would report that an unsuccessful attempt had been made on Taguster's life. It would also report that he had hired Harvard Detective Agency to investigate the attempt for him. If Margle read or heard of the article, he would call Harvard—perhaps offering to pay for Taguster's use of the firm, saying he was a close and concerned friend. The firm would agree, for they really would believe they were representing the musician. And Margle would think his man was still alive. What he would do then was a toss up. It was unlikely, however, that he would send the Hound to try again at a job it had bungled. Margle was too thorough a man for that. And given his propensity for personal involvement, he might just show up himself. That's what Ti was counting on. But there was nothing to do but wait . . .
     
    He had everything ready. The movie camera was positioned back in his own house, right next to the Mindlink set, ready to be jacked in and record on film whatever transpired in the house of Leonard Taguster. If only Margle would show . . .
    At six ten, the com-screen burred.
    Quickly, he activated the android. Its eyes blinked, unclouded, and it stood erect, striding off to the corn-screen just as naturally as if it had been awakened from a sound nap. It punched to receive the call, and the screen lighted, although no image appeared on it. The android, though, was transmitting, and Klaus Margle—for who else would not want his face seen on the com-screen?—was getting a full-face view of the man he had ordered destroyed. "Who is this?" the android asked.
    There was no reply.
    "Who is this?"
    The com screen went dead. The other party had run off without saying a single word.
    The android returned to his chair and looked at the Mindlink