"Some of them border on the mystical."

"I thought they were historicals."

"They are. But they still have qualities of mysticism in them. It's not at all odd that he should get hung up on this particular local legend, especially since he has been working on a novel that deals with the history of the Darmanian race."

"He never told me about that."

She made a bold stroke of blue, then edged it with more care. "He's secretive about his work."

"Did he ever mention a man named Salardi?"

"The archaeologist? Oh, he's spent a hundred hours interviewing him, gathering background for the novel." She was perched upon a high stool. She crossed her slim, brown legs, suddenly seemed to realize that she only made herself more attractive that way, uncrossed them and hunched closer to the canvas.

"We saw Salardi the other day, when we were up at the gypsy camp. Dane never mentioned that he had spent that much time with the man."

"Did you ask him?"

"No, but-"

She put down her brush and interrupted him. "Do you think Dane's the killer?"

"I suspect everyone."

"I guess that's the logical logical way to handle the situation." She was clearly scornful of him, and especially of the other half of his symbiote. way to handle the situation." She was clearly scornful of him, and especially of the other half of his symbiote.

He got out of the shape-changing chair and walked to her stool, stood beside her. "Logic hasn't failed me yet."

"What logic is there in Dane's being the killer?"

"He could be psychopathic." He stepped behind her and, without her permission, put his hands on her shoulders. They both stared forward at the painting in progress, as if it were a mirror in which they could see each other. "But let's not talk about Dane anymore."

"What shall we talk about?"

"You."

"I'm not interesting."

"To me you are."

She turned around on the stool and faced him, raised a hand and pushed the long black hair away from her face. She said, "Take off that G.o.dd.a.m.ned sh.e.l.l and go to bed with me." Her face was slightly lined about the mouth, though that was the only indication that she felt under any sort of strain. She was absolutely beautiful.

"Now? "he asked.

He did not know why he felt threatened by her proposal, especially since it was one that he had wanted to make to her for some days now, but he found it almost impossible to respond beyond the single adverb.

"Now," she said.

He hesitated, looked at the windows.

He said, "It's dark."

She said nothing.

He was sure that she was naked beneath the smock; and he was also certain that she had expected him tonight.

He said, "I've been here so long-to have accomplished so little. I've got to keep the symbiosis active; I have to come up with something soon."

She said, "Of course."

"No, look, Tina, I-"

The house computer interrupted him. "Mr. St. Cyr, you are wanted in the entrance foyer on the second floor. Urgent. Mr. St. Cyr, you are wanted-"

"What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know."

He bent and kissed her, felt her lips open beneath his as she responded emotionally despite her apparent resolve to shut him out unless he came around to her way of thinking. Then he turned and walked swiftly from the room.

When St. Cyr entered the short, paneled hallway that led to the circular foyer-not at all regretful that the house computer had interrupted the scene with Tina- he saw that Jubal, Dane and Teddy had gotten there ahead of him. He felt, suddenly, that the answer to the whole affair was again close to him, almost within his grasp... Also, he had a nagging feeling that he should have driven into the port to pick up the data on Walter Dannery, even if the man were the least suspect of suspects. Nothing should be overlooked. He thought of Tina, alone in her studio, and now he did did regret leaving her there. More than he had wanted anything in years, he wanted to remove her smock and take her to bed, possess her and let her possess him. What had stopped him? regret leaving her there. More than he had wanted anything in years, he wanted to remove her smock and take her to bed, possess her and let her possess him. What had stopped him?

"What happened?" he asked Dane, who was nearest the entrance to the foyer.

When he stepped past the boy, he saw exactly what was the matter: Salardi lay dead in the center of the foyer floor.

ELEVEN: A Clever Enemy

St. Cyr bent over the corpse and examined it, then looked up at the others and said, "His neck's been broken. Unless I'm less observant than I think, it was done with a single blow. There's only one bruise, anyway." He looked back at the corpse and said, "How long has he been lying here?"

Jubal said, "I don't know."

Teddy said, "He must have entered with someone who had a key to the door, because the house computer does not have any record of his calling."

"Perhaps he had a key of his own," St. Cyr said. The corpse was lying face-down, and he turned it over so that he could feel inside of Salardi's pants pockets. "No key," he said.

"What would he be doing here?" Jubal asked.

"Perhaps he came to tell us something," Dane said. "Something that the killer didn't want us to know." He looked at St, Cyr, blinked, said, "Or does that sound too melodramatic?"

"Life is one big melodrama," St. Cyr said. "He might very well have had something I could use." He stood up and wiped his hands on his slacks as if he were dusting off the taint of death, although he knew it was not that easy to be rid of. "I understand he was a friend of yours, Dane."

Surprisingly, the boy did not attempt to deny it, "I spent days with him, recording interviews that would give me background on the Darmanian culture prior to man's settlement here."

St. Cyr said, "He could have come here with you."

Dane shook his head violently. "That's silly." He gestured to the body and said, "I liked Salardi, admired him. I never would have killed the man."

St, Cyr said, "The corpse is still very warm. Can you prove where you've been during the last hour?"

"In my room," Dane said. "Then I came down to the kitchen for a snack. I was there when the house computer asked for you. I thought that something unusual must be happening, and I was close enough to get here before you did."

Still a possibility.

Obviously.

"And you?" St. Cyr asked Jubal.

"I was in the kitchen too. Before that, I was working in the library, researching ancient Grecian patterns for a-"

"Can you prove it?"

"I was alone," Jubal said. He took a step toward St. Cyr, accidentally kicked the corpse in the shoulder, stepped back in horror. He said, "Look here, you don't still think it's one of the family responsible for all of this, do you?"

"If I do, do you want me to drop the case? I could pack up and get out tonight."

"No," Jubal said. "You've got to stay, especially after this."

"Then, yes, I still believe it has to be the family, one of you. Salardi was the only man outside of the family that was a possibility. He's dead and no longer in the running."

Jubal was clearly displeased, but he did not say anything more.

St. Cyr turned to Teddy and said, "Did you find him?"

"Yes, sir. I immediately notified the house computer through that robotic-link terminal in the wall, made a special request that you be summoned."

"You didn't touch anything?"

"I am aware of the dangers of obliterating evidence," the master unit said, as if St, Cyr had insulted it.

The cyberdetective looked at the two men and said, "Did either of you disturb anything in the foyer-after you came across Salardi?"

"We got here together," Jubal explained. "We checked the body to be certain he was beyond medical aid, but otherwise we were very circ.u.mspect."

'Teddy, I'd like you to go telephone the authorities; ask for Inspector Rainy, and tell him to get his a.s.s out here on the double, along with two men to take up permanent residence if that is required."

"Yes, sir."

The master unit turned and floated quickly down the hall toward the nearest telephone. They stood silently in the foyer, waiting for it to return, not looking at each other, trying not to think about what had happened and what was going to happen when the police arrived. A few minutes later, Teddy returned. He said, "I'm sorry, Mr. St. Cyr, but the telephone does not seem to be working. I could not get a dial tone, and I had the house computer check out the mechanism, with negative results."

Without responding, St. Cyr, followed by the others, walked to the junction of the corridors, where a telephone rested on an ornate gold and white stand; he picked it up and listened to the silence for a long time, then hung up. He said, "Are all the phones in the house on this one line?"

"Yes," Teddy said.

"Isn't that odd?"

"No, sir. The house computer has a functional node that operates as a switchboard for all the extensions."

"You mean the phone is out of order?" Jubal asked. He looked as though he was ready to take on the president of the communications company. "That's unheard of!"

St. Cyr looked at the telephone and, as patiently as he could, explained: "Not out of order, Mr. Alderban. Someone has cut the lines."

No one had to be told what that meant.

St. Cyr turned to Teddy and said, "Is there a vehicle of any sort in the garage that could transport the entire family out of here?"

"We have a small bus, for excursions," Teddy said. "It is is more than adequate." He was calm, rational, even-voiced. St. Cyr wished that he had to deal solely with machines; he could already see how the family was going to react to the news that they would cut and run. more than adequate." He was calm, rational, even-voiced. St. Cyr wished that he had to deal solely with machines; he could already see how the family was going to react to the news that they would cut and run.

"We'll leave in the bus," the cyberdetective said.

"Leave?" Jubal asked. But he was not disagreeing particularly; he was beyond that, but he was perplexed.

"We can only a.s.sume that the killer has cut off our ties with the outside world in order to make his final moves without fear of police intervention."

"Tonight?" Dane asked.

"It looks that way."

"But if we run-" Jubal began.

"At least we'll be alive tomorrow," St. Cyr finished. "Let's go get Tina and Alicia."

"And Hirschel," Jubal said.

"Yes, and Hirschel."

"Wait a minute," Dane said. His voice was high-pitched, excited, as it had been when they were with Norya. "If we split up, we could get everyone together much faster. I'll go tell Tina what's happening. Father, you go see that mother knows-"

"Forget that," St. Cyr said.

"What?"

"We stay together from now on. It'll take us longer to get ready, but we'll all be safer in the end."

Dane said, "Are you afraid that one of us might be attacked?" His voice contained no sarcasm, just an edge of fear.

"Or that one of you might attack someone else," St. Cyr said. The fear he thought he heard in Dane Alderban's voice could as easily have been faked. "I don't trust anyone in this household. The sooner each of you gets that through his head-and the sooner all of you become as cynical as I am-the less chance there is that the killer can get away with a fifth murder."

He turned and walked down the main corridor toward the elevator, conscious that they were behind him. He fought an urge to whirl about and see what they were doing, what expressions marked their faces. As long as two or more were at his back, he was safe. He just had to remember never to turn his back on a man alone-or a woman alone, for that matter.