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search of the grounds, one of the henchmen with him noticed the soft light of the bulb on the Mindlink set, indicating the occupation of the brain blank. He pointed it out to Margle and approached the set with his gun butt drawn back to smash the glass in.
    "No!" Margle snapped, pushing the man aside, hunkering directly before the cameras so that Timothy had a full-face view of the scarred, angry features. Timothy saw that Klaus Margle had that same cool efficiency, the same self-confidence that he and Creel possessed. But it went further than that. In the terror and pain of getting to the top, Klaus Margle had rejected the smaller goal of learning to cope and command in favor of the larger goal of being able to dominate and demand. It was the same chilly madness that infected dictators.
    "We'll trace you," Margle said. And,Timothy knew that was true. The Brethren could easily afford the services of a Mind-link technician who would not be against picking up a tidy sum for some swift extracurricular—and extralegal—work. "We'll trace you, and then we'll come for you." He grinned. It was an almost effeminate grin, his lips too full and sensuous for that scarred and battered countenance. Then he raised his pistol butt and smashed in the glass…
    Half an hour later, just as Timothy finished running the film through automatic developing equipment, Detective Modigliani arrived from the city police in response to the call Ti had placed immediately after returning home from Taguster's house. At first, there had been some hesitance about sending a detective to the house, since Timothy refused even to state what his problem was. But when they had discovered who he was, all the red tape seemed to shred through like crepe paper.
    Modigliani was a thin, intense man with a pencil mustache and a quick way of moving that made him seem somehow birdlike. He introduced himself in tight, sharp words, his voice thin and almost irritating. Ti ushered him into the living room with all the courtesy he possessed, correctly deciding that Modigliani was not the type to respond to more forceful techniques.
    When they were both seated, the thin man said, "This
is
most unusual."
    "It's an unusual case."
    "Tell me." He made it seem as if Timothy was the criminal and not the good citizen reporting a violation of the law. When Ti finished the story without eliciting even a raised eyebrow from the detective, Modigliani said, "Quite extraordinary. And you say you have the film?"
    "Yes."
    Modigliani scowled. His
eyes were
hooded cobra eyes. "You've invaded someone's privacy, you know."
    "What?"
    Modigliani did not move any part of his body even a fraction of an inch. It seemed he was carved of stone. "It's an invasion of privacy to use the communications media to photograph others in their own homes."
    "But I was getting evidence!" Timothy protested, already aware that protest was useless.
    "That's the work of the police," Modigliani countered.
    "I know," Ti said desperately, trying to hold his rising anger in check as he rose from his cup-chair, "that Klaus Margle has been arrested nine times without serving any time whatsoever."
    Modigliani shifted forward a little at the waist, as if the stone sculpture was cracking. "What are you suggesting?" Again, he had the look of a bird—a predatory bird.
    Ti restrained himself. "Nothing. Nothing. But would you like to see the films? That's what I asked you here for."
    Modigliani nodded his interest, and Timothy led the way into the library, where the projector and screen were prepared. He dimmed the room lights. The projector hummed, and the screen was filled with images out of a surreal fantasy. Eddying clouds of smoke, then three dark figures with small breathers clamped in their nostrils. The picture zoomed in on the leader of the raiding party, and there was Klaus Margle. Ti shivered at the cruel, delicate yet scarred face of the underworld Don.
    But there was
only
his face. As the film progressed, Ti