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discovered he had been
so
anxious to get good shots of Margle's face that he had missed all the damning action they had been involved in. The camera had been trained only on their heads, catching only hints of the fight with the fake Taguster. The threatening face of the last few feet of film lost all force when the words and their harsh tone were absent It was almost a friendly smile without the words behind it.
    The film stuttered, slipped, was gone. "Not much," Modigliani said. When Timothy weakly began to argue, the detective interrupted. "Faces. You could have filmed Mr. Margle almost anywhere."
    "But the tear gas—"
    "And I didn't see him killing anyone. I still think we should be concerned with an invasion of privacy here, rather than murder."
    Timothy saw the futility of disagreement, but he felt bound to argue. In the end, he could manage only to persuade Modigliani to call Taguster's house. Either the receiver would be broken, giving credence to his story, or they would meet Klaus Margle and his men. But, to Ti's horror and surprise, Leonard Taguster's face popped onto the comscreen, smiling. "Yes?" he asked.
    Modigliani turned and gave Timothy an I-told-you-so look of infuriating cheerfulness.
    "It's the simulacrum," Timothy hissed.
    Modigliani turned to the fake Taguster, explained the details of the situation. The mechanical Taguster laughed heartily at the notion he might be dead and agreed to allow the detective to inspect his house through the Mindlink receivers there, fully confident nothing would be found.
    Five minutes later, Modigliani had been there through Mindlink and had examined the place in detail. "Nothing," he told Timothy as he removed the normal helmet which Ti kept for the convenience of guests who couldn't very well use the one specially formed for his misshapen skull.
    "The kitchen receiver—"
    "Was in fine working order. I don't know what you wish to prove—"
    "They had the services of a technician, an electronics expert In an hour and a half, it could just have been done."
    "And Taguster?"
    "That was not Taguster! It was his simulacrum, damn it!"
    "Sims will do nothing to harm their masters; Leonard Taguster's sim would never protect his owner's murderers. Besides, the Idllers would have to be among those whose voices the robot was programmed to obey. You've told me that only Taguster, his manager, and you have that ability."
    "They could have reprogrammed the machine," Timothy said.
    "That takes a real expert," Modigliani said, feigning obviously phony surprise at such a suggestion.
    "You know as well as I that they could afford it. And they could have had just enough time to fix that bent nose, too."
    Modigliani's seeming stupidity was beginning to annoy Timothy until he wasn't able
to
suppress his rage any longer. His twisted face flushed and his servos danced nervously. Then Modigliani gave him the name of the game. "Sir, I must caution you to refrain from slander. Mr. Klaus Margle is nothing more sinister than the owner of several garages and restaurants. A hotel too, I think. He is a respectable businessman who should not have to suffer abuse that—"
    Ti interrupted. "You know damn well that Klaus Margle is—"
    "This
is
being recorded and you must be informed of that if you intend making actionable statements." He parted the halves of his coat to reveal the mini-recorder strapped to his chest.
    It was obvious now why Modigliani was being hard-headed. He'd been bought. When he had learned that the accused was Klaus Margle, he had seen where his duty had lain—and it wasn't with truth or the police department. Ti realized his own rage would be interpreted as the inane prattling of a misfit when the
time
came for Modigliani
to
prove him an unreliable witness. Any jury, hearing the tape, seeing the twisted form it had issued from, would declare Margle innocent.
    He had never felt more isolated and alone.
    "I'll have the film and be going," Modigliani said, returning to the