Discouraged and depressed, Powell dropped into Solar Dawn Cemetery. The cemetery looked like an English garden… all flagged paths and oak, ash and elm trees with tiny little plots of green grass. Muted music from costumed robot string quartets sawing away in strategic pavilions. Powell began to smile.

There was a faithful reproduction of the Notre Dame Cathedral in the center of the cemetery. It was painstakingly labeled: Ye Wee Kirk O Th’ Glen. From the mouth of one of the gargoyles in the tower, a syrupy voice roared: “SEE THE DRAMA OF THE GODS PORTRAYED IN VIBRANT ROBOT-ACTION IN YE WEE KIRK O TH’ GLEN. MOSES ON MT. SINAI, THE CRUCIFIXION OF CHRIST, MOHAMMED AND THE MOUNTAIN, LAO TSE AND THE MOON, THE REVELATION OF MARY BAKER EDDY, THE ASCENSION OF OUR LORD BUDDHA, THE UNVEILING OF THE TRUE AND ONLY GOD GALAXY…” Pause, and then a little more matter-of-factly: “OWING TO THE SACRED NATURE OF THIS EXHIBIT, ADMISSION IS BY TICKET ONLY. TICKETS MAY BE PURCHASED FROM THE BAILIFF.” Pause. Then another voice, injured and pleading: “ATTENTION ALL WORSHIPERS. ATTENTION ALL WORSHIPERS. NO LOUD TALKING OR LAUGHTER… PLEASE!” A click, and another gargoyle began in another language. Powell burst out laughing.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” a girl said behind him.

Without turning, Powell replied: “I’m sorry. ‘No Loud Talking or Laughter.’ But don’t you think this is the most ludicrous—” Then the pattern of her psyche hit him and he spun around. He was face to face with Duffy Wyg&.

“Well, Duffy!” he said.

Her frown changed to a look of perplexity, then to a quick smile. “Mr. Powell,” she exclaimed. “The boy-sleuth. You still owe me a dance.”

“I owe you an apology,” Powell said.

“Delighted. Can’t have enough of them. What’s this one for?”

“Underestimating you.”

“The story of my life.” She linked arms and drew him along the path. “Tell me how reason has finally prevailed. You took another look at me, and—?”

“I realized you’re the cleverest person Ben Reich has working for him.”

“I am clever. I did do some work for Ben… but your compliment seems to have deep brooding undertones. Is there something?”

“The tail we had on Hassop.”

“Just a little more accent on the down-beat, please.”

“You took out our tail, Duffy. Congratulations.”

“Ah-ha! Hassop is your pet horse. A childhood accident robbed him of a horse’s crowning glory. You substituted an artificial one which—”

“Clever-up, Duffy. That isn’t going to travel far.”

“Then, boy-wonder, will you ream your tubes?”

Her pert face looked up at him, half serious, half amused. “What in hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll spell it out. We had a tail on Hassop. A tail is a shadow, a spy, a secret agent assigned to the duty of following and watching a suspect…”

“Contents noted. What’s a Hassop?”

“A man who works for Ben Reich. His Code Chief.”

“And what did I do to your spy?”

“Following instructions from Ben Reich, you captivated the man, enravished him, turned him into a derelict from duty, kept him at a piano all day, day after day, and—”